Dark Alchemy (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 5)

by Sarah Lovett

  "Try the simple version."

  "That was the simple version." Palmer offered a cool smile. "Do you like to cook?"

  "I make a mean enchilada. My meatballs are decent."

  "Cooking is one of my passions. If I wasn't doing what I do now, I'd be a chef." Palmer picked up a knife from the place setting and used it as a miniature pointer to illustrate key points on the tabletop as she spoke.

  She said, "Basically, PCR—polymerase chain reaction—is cooking. Except everything's done on a small scale. Most of the work is invisible to the naked eye. We put a few drops, one-hundredth of a milliliter, in a tube; we put in the basic template, an enzyme, a few other chemicals, equal parts DNA, and our two primers. We put all that into a machine and—we cook. It's all about breaking the DNA apart because amplification happens in single strands."

  As Palmer caught sight of the waitress, she raised her hand, signaling for more coffee. "Does what I said make any sense?"

  Sylvia nodded. "It's interesting."

  "I'm glad. Most people tune out when I try to explain. I've learned to limit my interactions."

  "That's too bad."

  "Is it?" Palmer shrugged, then stretched back casually in the chair. Her gaze settled on the woman with the ponytail who was dressed in running gear; she refocused on two busboys as they swept bright orange and yellow leaves from the steps; finally, her eyes followed the waitress, who arrived, two-fisted, with a pot of coffee and a pitcher of iced tea.

  When Sylvia tasted tea from the newly refilled glass, it was so cold it felt hot against her throat. She reminded herself to stay away from liquid until the meeting was finished; she kept her mind off the Chinese courtesan who died of a burst bladder three or four thousand years ago.

  Christine Palmer drank some of her coffee, then set the mug on the table and reached into her jacket pocket to produce a small paper packet. She opened the packet and tipped it over her coffee until a stream of white power spilled out.

  Sylvia's eyes widened.

  "Clarity formula," Palmer said. "A homeopathic remedy. It actually helps me stay focused. Considering your morning, maybe you should try it." She dipped her spoon into the cup and stirred.

  A nervous laugh escaped Sylvia's mouth. She watched the dark swirling liquid as it created a tiny vortex. "I've had my share of Santa Fe remedies. I've tried accupuncture, herbs, even magnets."

  "Magnets?" Palmer sounded amused. "For what?"

  "Headaches—and the answer is no. As far as I could tell, the magnets didn't help."

  "Are they migraines?"

  "Yes." A shiver crawled from the back of Sylvia's neck along her scalp.

  "I used to get them when I was on the pill," Palmer said. "I went off, the headaches stopped."

  "You were lucky."

  "I was smart." Palmer lifted her cup and sipped. "You definitely need to make changes in your life."

  "Did you see that?" Special Agent Hoopai asked, surprised. "The Target just spiked her own coffee."

  "I saw it." Sweetheart stared at the monitors; cameras were part of the van's standard equipment. At the moment they were picking up Sylvia and Palmer, and the wire was transmitting audio: Palmer was further explaining DNA amplification.

  "What's in that packet?" Hoopai mumbled.

  Sweetheart's eyes narrowed. As he studied Palmer's face in the center monitor, he felt as if he were looking at someone he'd known in another life—but the sense of detachment he'd expected did not materialize internally.

  He kept his breathing normal, slowing it slightly to match his heartbeat, allowing his mind to process data. He pictured the files in his mind, scanning mentally through facts, dates, statements from witnesses.

  She never touches anything from a pharmacy, no drugs, not even aspirin.

  She's too smart to try anything so obvious, he thought. Still . . . gyoji matta. Keep your eyes open, Sylvia.

  "What's she up to?" Hoopai wondered aloud.

  Clearly, Sylvia was wondering the same thing. Her glance swept the patio, taking in Special Agent Simmons and two elderly men in dungarees who were now waiting for the hostess, and then she returned her attention to Christine Palmer.

  "Careful." Sweetheart found himself breathing. "Palmer hasn't done anything yet. Don't break out of the gate—not yet. Just stay calm." His whispered words were meant both for Sylvia and for himself.

  "Are you allowed to talk about the types of organisms you're dealing with?" Sylvia asked.

  "I can talk around the restrictions," Palmer said. "Do you know the history at LANL? Up until the past few years, the labs were scaled back to biosafety levels one and two. The biosafety standards were established by the CDC and the WHO." Palmer paused. "If you read The Hot Zone, or if you know about Ebola and hantaviruses, you know about BSL-four—where the most dangerous pathogens are handled under strict safety precautions. In two thousand two, the threat reduction unit at LANL received post-September eleventh fresh-air funding. With the anthrax killings, biosciences hit the limelight. Several labs were upgraded and equipped to handle BSL-three pathogens."

  Palmer took several sips of coffee before she continued. "Remember, in DNA amplification, there's no need to have an active organism in the lab. We're dealing with material that's already been isolated—material for several months' work might look like a tray of ice cubes." Palmer paused, ignoring the waitress who glided past their table.

  When they were alone again, she continued in a lower tone. "Have you been reading about the outbreaks of red tide—I'm using the term loosely because these are not red tides in the strictest sense—off the coast of Cancun, Costa Rica?"

  "Wasn't there one a couple of weeks ago off Corpus Christi?"

  Palmer nodded. "All those coastal waters have something in common. They're warm and they're polluted. And now, let's say, they've got something else in common: a rogue organism seems to be killing fish and making people sick." Palmer cupped her chin in the palms of her hands. With her smooth, perfectly blond hair, her delicate features, her blue-green eyes, she looked like an exotic angel.

  She said, "My specialty is neurotoxins. I've done years of research on dinoflagellates. I'm here, close to the site of the outbreaks. If a neurotoxin needs to be isolated, I'm the one to do it."

  Sylvia frowned. "That would be a whole different process than the DNA amplification, wouldn't it?"

  "It's much more primitive lab work—a simple extraction process to collect toxin, characterize it, and begin to formulate tox screens, even a serum."

  "How do you do that?"

  "To isolate toxins, we mash, we strain, we extract—we're back to cooking metaphors. So it makes sense to fly out fresh samples of whole animals to LANL."

  "Whole animals?" Sylvia said slowly. "What exactly does that mean?"

  "We can't reproduce living organisms from DNA fragments—whole animals are living organisms. Anthrax spores, bacteria, microorganisms. That way I can have blooms of these organisms in the lab for both procedures: DNA and toxin isolation."

  "How dangerous are the organisms?"

  "I'm speaking in hypotheticals, you understand. One is virtually harmless."

  "What about a bloom?" Sylvia tapped her fingers against the table-top.

  "Very dangerous. Once you've extracted the toxin, a tiny amount could contaminate the lab."

  "Was Dr. Thomas working on extraction?"

  Sitting back, crossing her legs, Palmer raised her eyebrows and wagged a finger as if to say the question was too specific to answer. "I did some homework on you. You're famous."

  Sylvia frowned. "You've got the wrong Dr. Strange."

  "I don't think so." Palmer smiled, but it was a small, calculated curve of the lips. "You've gotten a lot of press for someone who works for the New Mexico Health Department—didn't you say that's who you're with?"

  "I've worked with many different agencies on a contractual basis." For an instant, Sylvia saw Paul Lang's face as the MI-6 analyst said, You know Christine Palmer the same way you know a
cobra when you see it.

  Palmer cupped her chin with one hand. "Who were you working with on the Adam Riker case?"

  Sylvia felt the cold spreading out from deep in her belly. She reached for her tea, but she didn't raise the glass from the table. "I was asked to consult with law enforcement."

  "Local law enforcement?"

  "Yes."

  "But if I remember, it was a federal case."

  "You followed the Riker case?"

  "It made the international papers." Palmer's mouth hardened around her words. "A big story. A federal case."

  "That's right."

  "So you were working with the FBI."

  "Answer the question, Brown Eyes." Special Agent Hoopai kept his eyes on the monitor, his knee vibrating, his short-twitch muscles working overtime. He watched Dr. Strange just sitting there at the table. "C'mon, c'mon. I don't feel like a hero today, Doc."

  "She'll handle it," Sweetheart said sharply.

  "Palmer's walking all over her."

  "It's under control." Sweetheart kept his eyes on Sylvia. He could tell she was shaky, off-kilter. In sumo, it would be said she was shinitari, losing ground, perhaps unable to recover.

  The tiny surveillance microphone was picking up background noises, and there was slight static in the transmission, but both men clearly heard Christine Palmer rephrase her most recent statement as a question: "Were you working with the FBI on the Riker case, Dr. Strange?"

  Oshidashi, Sylvia, push out.

  On the monitor, Sylvia blinked, and she tipped her head slightly as if returning from some distant place. "My contacts were with local law enforcement," she said, and her voice held a nice edge of impatience that rang true inside the van.

  Yes, thank you.

  But Sylvia was still a million miles away—remembering the day they caught Adam Riker. The FBI profilers had warned law enforcement that Riker would react violently if cornered. The profilers were concerned primarily with suicidal ideation.

  They hadn't really wanted input from a local psychologist, but Sylvia had begun to get a sense of Adam and what made him tick. Even in her dreams she was on a first-name basis with the serial poisoner. Local law enforcement had taken her seriously when she warned them not to go after Riker if his family was around. Somehow the feds didn't get the message. When two agents arrived on his doorstep, he gave himself up peacefully enough—with the request that his pregnant wife and four children might finish their breakfast undisturbed. Within thirty minutes, the arresting officers had six new corpses—five of them under the age of twelve.

  The scenario had replayed itself within an instant in her mind—and now she felt herself pulled back to real time by the sound of Christine Palmer's voice asking, "Are you all right?"

  Again she flashed on the comment from Paul Lang. You know Christine Palmer the way you know a cobra . . .

  Snakes and, serial killers both strike when they're cornered.

  Palmer was losing patience with the charade, the meeting. Sylvia could feel the other woman's restless energy. It was time to make the move they'd discussed in the surveillance briefing that same morning: If the moment arises, leave the table, give Palmer the chance to do something stupid. It's a long shot, but at this point we've got nothing to lose.

  Sylvia blinked, looking slightly embarrassed. She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. "Have you ever heard the story about the Chinese courtesan—it was a few thousand years ago—but she died of a ruptured bladder because back then courtesans weren't allowed to excuse themselves when the emperor was speaking." She stood, smiling apologetically, actually feeling a bit woozy. "Will you excuse me? Too much tea. I'll be right back."

  Hoopai sucked in his breath. Brown Eyes just left the table.

  Sweetheart focused completely on the monitor. Alone, Palmer seemed casually interested in the street scene. Just beyond the patio, a group of children was playing under a massive cottonwood; a stray dog wandered into the street.

  Visible beyond Palmer, Special Agent Simmons kept her eyes carefully from Palmer's table—but her body language had shifted almost imperceptibly; she'd tightened down a notch.

  Christine Palmer picked up her coffee, drained the cup, and set it down just a few inches from Sylvia's glass.

  "She's not going to try anything," Hoopai whispered. "She wouldn't . . ."

  Words ran through Sweetheart's brain—the Dutch researcher describing the aftermath of Palmer's poisoning attempts: She kept asking me how I was feeling . . . kept pushing for details . . . Was I sick to my stomach, was I dizzy? Which symptoms came first?

  Palmer's movements were so casual, none of the agents reacted when she reached into her pocket.

  It was the lack of movement that caught Sweetheart's attention. "What's this, what's going on here?" he murmured.

  Palmer had just pulled out a small packet from her pocket.

  "Can you get a read, do you have clear sight lines?" Sweetheart asked—a query to the second surveillance vehicle, parked twenty feet away.

  They heard Special Agent Weaver's voice through the transmitter: "It's paper—no, foil," the agent said. "Looks homemade—now she's keeping it out of view, too cautious, too careful—but she's unfolding the top."

  "I don't believe it," Sweetheart said sharply.

  Hoopai grunted. "See for yourself, she's opened it up."

  "She hasn't done anything yet," Sweetheart snapped. "Hold position."

  "Hold position," Hoopai repeated into the transmitter.

  Clearly visible on the monitor, Palmer's glance swept the patio, taking in Special Agent Simmons and a trio of cyclists who were waiting for the hostess.

  "Oh God, we're getting perfect video on this," Hoopai breathed. Sweet Jesus.

  "It's too perfect," Sweetheart said. Every fiber in his body was reacting in alarm. "She's trying to flush us out—it's too damn obvious."

  "You said she's narcissistic. What if she's so arrogant she thinks she can get away with anything?" Hoopai countered.

  At that moment, Palmer moved her hand, simultaneously tipping the packet, a minimal gesture, so the contents—this time a very small amount of light gray powder—spilled into the glass of iced tea; Sylvia's glass.

  "Holy shit," Hoopai breathed. "She went for it. I don't believe this."

  "Don't believe it," Sweetheart said. Time seemed to slow into an almost lazy motion—Sweetheart, probably everybody on the team, thinking, This is ridiculous. No one's that stupid. Come on, she didn't—what if she did?

  "How are we going to call it?"

  "Let her walk away," Sweetheart whispered. "Analyze the glass."

  Hoopai's eyes stayed on the monitor. "If we let her walk, we lose our chance to get her into an interrogation room!"

  "We've got her on film," Sweetheart said. "If the screen shows toxin—"

  "What if it's a trace and it disappears before the lab can screen? Then we lose her, we can't pull her in—damn."

  Palmer was already reaching past the glass as if she'd meant to pick up the salt shaker in the first place.

  "What are we doing?" The question, an urgent hiss via transmitter, was originating from Special Agent Weaver in the second van.

  "We don't do anything," Sweetheart said. "She's playing with us."

  "We don't know she didn't put something bad in there. Are you going to risk it?"

  "Hold off until the last minute," Sweetheart said. "I'm telling you it's too damn obvious."

  "I can't take that risk," Hoopai said.

  "Don't be stupid. Hold off sixty seconds, let's see what—"

  "I'm in charge of this surveillance op—"

  "Hold off, damn it!" Sweetheart commanded.

  Sylvia stepped out of the restaurant, heading straight for Palmer and the contaminated glass. She reached the table and sat. "Where were we—" She broke off in surprise.

  A woman had materialized next to her at the table: Special Agent Simmons.

  Sylvia saw Christine Palmer take in Simmons and then turn toward th
e street and the two approaching federal agents, both wearing blue caps and jackets complete with the FBI insignia.

  Gut instinct—they're making the wrong move, Sylvia thought.

  Palmer looked back at Sylvia. Her face registered both disappointment and triumph—her eyes sparked with something more furtive, but she showed absolutely no sign of surprise. No sign of fear.

  "No," Sylvia whispered. "This is a mistake—"

  Palmer raised her hands, reaching out, as if offering to take on some burden.

  But Special Agent Simmons was already at Christine Palmer's side, ready and willing to protect evidence. Calm, cool, and collected, she said, "FBI. Keep your hands on the table, Dr. Palmer."

  CHAPTER

  22

  The FBI was responsible for transporting Christine Palmer to the U.S. marshal's office at the federal courthouse in Albuquerque. Jeff Hess, the special agent in charge, would supervise the interrogation sessions and he would make sure Palmer was afforded due process. Sylvia and Sweetheart would be able to observe via remote video.

  In Tesuque, S.A. Hoopai, Sweetheart, and Sylvia were lagging behind the transport vehicle by ten minutes.

  Hoopai felt good—they'd caught Palmer, damn it. He felt vindicated. "Take a breath," he encouraged Sylvia, removing the surveillance wire from her rib cage.

  She was standing in front of the van, her back to the market, and she swore as he ripped the tape smartly from her skin. "Jesus, you had me taped up for seven-to-ten-day ground delivery." She rubbed at the red patches. "I itch."

  "A lot of people are allergic," the federal agent soothed. He had a rugged, tanned face, and his teeth showed very white when he smiled.

  "To the tape or to the wire?" Sylvia asked wryly.

  She tried to feign some sense of achievement. Instead, what she felt was increasing alarm. It was all wrong—the setup, the arrest.

  "Finished with me? Thanks, Hoopai," she said, as she tugged down her cotton shirt and straightened her shoulders. She heard Sweetheart's voice—was he talking to himself? She turned to see him standing about ten feet from the van.