by Sarah Lovett
Sweetheart stopped. Poised between the moment of action and nonaction. He could stop Dexter and Palmer, he could bar their escape, but Dexter still held the winning hand. Sweetheart couldn't risk more innocent deaths.
Sylvia had warned him not to get in between Dexter and his ultimate goal. And she'd warned him about Christine.
Don't let her blind you, Sweetheart. Your test has just begun. But you can't do it alone. You've got to trust Christine Palmer. Trust her. That's your only choice. That's our only way out of this.
But he couldn't play it Sylvia's way. He knew Palmer too well, knew he could never trust her.
"Just tell me where you left the alkahest," Sweetheart called. "Let me make sure no one is hurt—I won't interfere."
Dexter had reached the steps, and he smiled. "Of course you won't."
Christine called to Sweetheart, "You lost. I won. I'm out. It's time to end my career, and this is the graceful way. I simply disappear. Things always turn out in the end, haven't you learned that by now? Ask your friend Dr. Strange. I know what she asked you to do—and she was right. Trust is always a dangerous game." She climbed into the plane.
"Ah, yes, Strange," Dexter said. "I don't know why she survived." He reached up to balance himself on the Citabria's wing. "That was never my intention."
Sweetheart heard those words, the arrogant edge in Dexter's voice, and he started to move, ready to kill the bastard with his bare hands.
He never got the chance.
He heard the sound of running feet, saw the gun in Special Agent Darrel Hoopai's hand—and he threw all his weight at the federal agent. Both men went down, the gun slid onto slick asphalt.
As the Citabria's idling engine roared to life, Sweetheart growled at Hoopai, "Let them go, damn it."
Both men followed the plane's progress to the end of the runway. As Sweetheart watched the red-and-white Citabria cresting sky like the winged creature she was, floating, reaching altitude, touching the clouds—free as a bird—he knew there was nothing left inside him, no air in his lungs, no thought in his mind.
It was Darrel Hoopai who said, "My God, what have you done?"
CHAPTER
32
It arrived in a thick cardboard mailer. No return address.
Two CDs slid out.
Followed by an envelope.
When Sweetheart slit the onionskin—when he gingerly spread both edges—a single news clipping floated to the floor.
A one-column item clipped from the International Herald Tribune.
It was worn, slightly yellowed, dry.
It was dated three weeks earlier.
CARACAS, Venezuela—The death of an American retiree, David Atlas, 46, who was found dead in his hotel room, has been ruled an accidental death at inquest. Atlas, who has no known relatives in Venezuela or America, apparently died from ciguatera toxin ingested from contaminated shellfish. He had been ill for several days before his death. Witnesses from the hotel said his only visitor since his arrival had been a woman who was described as an attractive, middle-aged American. Since her departure a week before the body was found, David Atlas had no more visitors. The case will remain open. Officials from the American embassy were notified. Authorities request anyone with information to come forward.
Printed by hand in the margin:
It's over. No more surprises waiting for you. Yours, C
Sweetheart slipped the newspaper cutting back into the envelope.
For a moment, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he found himself staring out at the Los Angeles landscape, but his mind was traveling across oceans.
He thought of Sylvia—remembered the promised he'd made to her.
The job was done.
EPILOGUE
Weddings are best when the bride and groom both show up, when the ceremony is brief and to the point, when there's plenty of food (including three kinds of cake) and drink and great music.
It was a beautiful late-fall afternoon in La Cieneguilla. Unseasonably warm.
Los Vaqueros warmed up with a Cuban rancheros tune, they served up salsa and two-step for a main course, folk blues for dessert, and finally, for an apertif, they played tango.
Rosie Sanchez—in stocking feet, the ruffles on her tight hot-pink suit sticking out like fresh hibiscus—made the first toast. Her husband, Ray, held ruler-straight by his tuxedo, made the second. Sylvia's mother made the third. Serena made the fourth.
As tradition dictates, Sylvia danced the first dance with Matt. He guided her firmly across the floor, his hand hot against the small of her back. He kept it there—as if now that he'd finally succeeded in coaxing her to the altar, he was afraid to let go.
Sylvia didn't mind. She was in the mood to be held. Warm and mellow from too much wine, punchy from wedding cake, and barefoot like her matron of honor—the future looked good.
She danced with Serena next—Rosie joined in, tugging Sylvia's mother to the dance floor—while Matt, Ray, and a group of men gathered by the edge of the tent to talk about the things men tend to talk about at weddings: sports, women, and sports.
When Sylvia was searching for Serena's tiny beaded handbag somewhere among the presents on the vast, linen-covered table, she noticed a small silver-wrapped package. She knew, even before she read the card, who it would be from.
There are many dangers in this world, Dr. Strange, but as far as you're concerned, I am not one of them. Congratulations, CP
Sylvia opened the package slowly, with great care, and inside she found a tiny pink plastic case.
Familiar. The size of a very small compact.
Like a million similar cases, it contained birth control pills. Like the brand Sylvia had discontinued two months earlier.
She'd never be certain when Drew Dexter had managed to contaminate her own packet—the motel in Los Alamos? But it was also possible he'd done it that first night when they toured the lab.
She shook off the sudden chill of memories, and then she opened the case.
All the pills were in their tiny plastic cases—except for the first three, which were missing.
A perfect place to hide a little bit of poison . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sarah Lovett worked as a researcher at the New Mexico state penitentiary. Her previous novels are Dantes' Inferno, Acquired Motives, Dangerous Attachments, and A Desperate Silence. Raised in California, she now makes her home in Santa Fe.