Dantes' Inferno (12 page)

They locked eyes. Sylvia didn't look away. Not even when she felt him read her mind; he seemed to possess that ability.

“You misunderstand me,” Dantes said.

“No, I don't. You just threatened my family. Do it again, I'm out of here. Do you understand
me?
”

He let the smoldering cigarette fall from his lips to land on the concrete floor; he ground it out with the heel of his shoe. “When they shook down my cell, they stole
one
card,” he said. “I don't know about anything else.”

“The FBI received another written communication yesterday.”

“Through the mail?”

“Yes.”

“Content?”

“It was a threat.” She'd rehearsed the script with Church and Purcell; so far they hadn't veered off track. “But that doesn't surprise you.”

“No.” He slumped back in his chair. “That doesn't surprise me.”

“The message was inscribed on the back of a photo-graph—a Polaroid of a bomb,” Sylvia said. “Who is he? What does he want?”

Dantes smiled complacently. “I could use another cigarette.”

“Is he your partner? A fan?” She sat down again, reaching for the pack, tapping on plastic. “A copycat, or a sycophant?”

“Don't be petty.”

She held a cigarette to her lips. “The Feds will lose patience before I do.” She clipped the lighter, sparking a blue flame, tipping the cigarette to heat. She inhaled smoke—“Give them something to work with”—then exhaled.

When he didn't respond, she extended her arm, offering the lighted cigarette and intimacy with that one gesture.

He accepted. “I used to dream about my victims,” he whispered. “The surveyor killed in the aqueduct bombing. He had a two-year-old, another baby on the way. The job wasn't scheduled for Thursday; he came early because his wife wanted him to take a long weekend. And the security guard? She was only forty-one.” His face sharpened, and he leaned forward. “I used to dream about them, but I stopped right after the Getty. Why do you think I stopped, Dr. Strange?”

“Because you had new nightmares—new victims.” Anger sparked Sylvia's eyes. “The Getty bombing killed a child, his teacher—”

“I'm not responsible.”

“The evidence—”

“—was circumstantial. You talk to the bomb boys and everything changes. You've switched sides on me.”

“I was never on your side.”

“Oh, but I think you were, Dr. Strange. You just don't want to admit it.” He sighed. “You and I are very much alike. We both want to play God—we both stretch beyond our reach. People get hurt.”

“You're a murderer.”

“You're right,” Dantes whispered. He gazed up at her, that intense sadness—manufactured or real—in his eyes again. He took a breath, physically releasing emotional weight.

He said, “We never really answered the question, Dr. Strange—why
you?
But you've guessed, haven't you?” He smiled. “Let's talk about Mona Carpenter.”

Sylvia stood.

“Her husband must hate you,” he said slowly. Slumping back in the hard chair with a smoky exhale, he shifted his gaze to follow wafting tendrils of smoke. “Mona had a child, a son, didn't she? Nathan? Little Nate?”

She turned, walking straight to the door.

“We both know what it's like to witness the death of someone who counted on you to make the world safe.” Urgency broke through Dantes' words. “My mother counted on me. Mona Carpenter counted on you.”

Sylvia reached her hand up to tap on metal: the signal for release.

Dantes didn't take his eyes from her back. “Have you ever seen what happens when a bomb explodes, the range of destruction?” he asked. “Walk away now, and more innocent people will die—children, mothers, grandmothers.”

Sylvia froze. She didn't trust herself to move. Finally, she turned to face him. “That's why you became a bomber? To
hurt innocent people?” She asked. “I thought John Dantes wanted to save the world.”

“There was a time he believed he could do that . . . save the world.”

“I'm glad you believed in something,” Sylvia said. She walked back to the table.

“My targets were selected to contain damage, to avoid casualties. Obviously that's not always possible. I had a story to tell. I had to make people listen.”

“You actually believe they heard your message?” Sylvia asked harshly. “They've labeled you schizophrenic, psychotic, deranged.” She spit out the words. “You should hear them on the talk shows. It's fifty-fifty—they want to marry you or murder you. That's your legacy.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to insinuate. “Nobody's listening to John Dantes. They call you a coward.”

“They'll listen,” he said coldly. “Before it's all over, they'll listen.”

She fixed her gaze on him, as if by simply staring long enough, stubbornly enough, she might penetrate his mind.

Instead she found herself absorbed by his energy, stung by his intensity. Abruptly, she turned her head away. “We need your help.” Once again she was aware of Purcell and Church. Her body betrayed her internal shift; she felt the rift in her concentration, like an actor who breaks the fourth wall.

Dantes didn't miss the trick. “Hello, Church,” he said cordially, tracking her thoughts. He shifted in the chair, an arrow primed. “Is the lovely Ms. Purcell with you today? Please forgive my rudeness, Dr. Strange, but I'm talking to my old pals from the task force.” Dantes' smile was secretive. “My friends are very worried, aren't they?”

He swung his head left, right. His demeanor altered, his calm veneer slipping away. Anxiety had begun to show
through like something raw beneath the skin. Struggling to maintain control, he kept his attention focused on Sylvia. “What's got them worried?”

“Take a wild guess,” she said harshly.

“A bomber? I don't think so.” He straightened in the chair, tensing visibly. “They're worried they fucked up the Getty investigation. They convicted the wrong man.” He tipped his head. “Do you really want help from me? The inmate?” He smiled, those electric eyes reaching their point of convergence. “The lunatic?”

She tried to read the fleeting emotions revealed on his pale face, but he retreated internally.

“Question, Dr. Strange,” he said sharply. “What does it feel like when you create a device, place it in a predetermined spot, detonate it—with the knowledge you will destroy property, perhaps human lives?”

“You tell me, you're the bomb expert,” Sylvia said.

“You're the psychologist. What does the profile suggest?”

“There's no solid profile for bombers—the data from the nineteen ninety-two study is filled with variables,” she said. “You're aware of that fact.”

“But the FBI's working on another little study,” he said. “Like it or not, you're part of the team. You wrote your own book on attachment disorders. It must be psychologically cool to reveal yourself these days. Shrink as confessor. Your missing father was the centerpiece of your literary effort. He walked away, didn't he, Sylvia? You still don't know if he's dead or alive.” He shrugged. “But that's all in the past. Let's look at the present. Over the last eighteen months, you've published papers in
Homicide Studies
, in the APA journal, in the
Journal of Behavioral Sciences
. You authored a chapter on pathological attachment for your imaginary friend, Leo Carreras. You made sense, he was full of shit.”

Dantes thrust his jaw forward like a man begging for a punch, and said, “You're a sucker for a hard case. Rapist, psycho, terrorist—Dr. Strange doesn't walk away. Not like Daddy. Give the pretty lady a shiny quarter.” His mouth was a flat line. “For another twenty-five cents, what is Sinai and Olivet?”

“I don't know.” She shook her head, frustrated and frightened; her gaze slid past the clock; they were out of time; he was playing games. “Mount Sinai?”

“Moses, the ascension, and funny cars at Angels Flight. My mother introduced me to that funicular railway when I was five and the fare was a nickel. Perfect synchrony.”

“You wrote about her—”

“Last ride, ten o'clock,” he cut her off. “The chance to see Bunker Hill in all its glory. Have I told you the story of Prudent Beaudry? Five hundred bucks bought him that chunk of land, and he named it after the battle.” He strained against the chains.

“If you want to know me, go see my city of fallen angels. What have I written about this place?” His smile was humorless. “Do your homework—I did mine.” His body hunched inside the protective vest, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I don't envy you your job.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“You'll use up precious moments of your life
absorbing
John Freeman Dantes. How he thinks and feels, what he loves, what he hates. You'll try to fit his crimes in a context that not only makes sense but also explains the motives, the methods of future bombers. If Dantes bombed the Getty, why did he work so hard to avoid taking lives for fifteen years? Why does he target the city he worships? Why doesn't it all add up into a neat package?”

He shook his head. “You'll strive to find earthshaking truths, but in the end—”

“Please help us,” she pleaded, exhausted and disappointed by impending failure. “There's a bomb out there. We don't have time—”

He interrupted harshly—“We have too much time.”

Sylvia pushed herself away from the table in disgust. “You claim to care about this city, but you won't stop a bomber who's threatening to kill and maim innocent people?”

“They don't have a clue. They don't know who they're dealing with.” Dantes glared past her, through walls, as if he could see his enemies on the other side. Arrogance altered his posture, lengthening his muscles. He shook his head. “Not a fucking clue.”

“Then help them—
help us
—instead of playing some private game.”

He turned his febrile gaze on Sylvia, staring at her for a moment, as if memorizing her features. He spoke in a tired voice. “The interview's over.”

“I'm not leaving.” She stood, both hands gripping the edge of the table, knuckles gone white. She spoke in a low voice. “You write about justice, you speak of compassion—is it all a lie?”

“Did Mona Carpenter promise you she wouldn't kill herself?”

Sylvia closed her eyes. “Yes.”

“Did she lie to you?” Dantes leaned forward, straining against his bonds, until the tendons in his throat were taut. “Or did she lie to herself?”

“I don't know.”

“In your heart—
not your mind
—in your heart do you believe you should have saved her?”

“Yes.”

“You're right,” he whispered. His gaze lingered on her face—forever—until, finally, he closed his eyes. “She needed you.”

Sylvia had the sensation of falling, as if physically he'd released her.

He said, “I don't have the information you need.”

“Goddamn you. I'll tell you why you asked for me—you're afraid. You're human, not a god—you asked for me because you need my help—”

“‘He that violates his oath profanes the divinity of faith itself,'” Dantes intoned, drowning out her words. “It's written in stone, at the source.”

“You can't sleep at night because the nightmares never went away,” she said. “You want absolution.”

“Tell the bomb boys I can't help them.”

“You're
lying
.”

For the first time in this room, this hour, he allowed the depth of his rage to break the surface. A shadow transformed his features, turning his face raw and ugly.

He bolted against the chains and they clanged against the mesh wall. “Don't you fucking tell me what's truth!” As his words echoed in the room, the primordial creature dove again, disappearing deep into a murky psychic sea. Tremors wracked his body.

And then it hit Sylvia—however fleeting and archaic the thought, she was watching a man falling into madness.

What would bring him back?

His muscles were so taut his hands trembled. “Welcome to my humble hell,” he whispered.

9:09
A.M.
Sylvia walked away from the meeting with Dantes knowing he'd lied, knowing he'd told some truths—lie and truth each obscured by the shadow of the other.

The recirculated oxygen she breathed was the same O
₂
that had entered the lungs of John Dantes. The intimate exchange of molecules had allowed no access into a
bomber's mind, his thoughts, into what was fact and what was fabrication.

She stepped from the transport cage just as the U.S. marshal entered; the door clanged shut behind his back. She found herself alone in the dimly lit basement; no sign of Purcell or Church. She stood for a few moments while she regained her bearings.

She hated not having answers—when it came to people and their behavior, the need to know
why
and
how
was embedded deep in her psyche; that need had driven her to become a psychologist. When she was very young she'd believed answers could change the world. Now she accepted the fact that small glimmers of truth were often exceptional.

But even a little bit of truth could save a life.

Sylvia walked quickly to the elevators, rode up to the ground floor of Roybal Federal, and stepped out into what should have been the lobby. Instead, she found herself in a glaringly fluorescent hallway. The service route was unfamiliar—she was trespassing through areas not usually seen by civilians. Passing two U.S. marshals, she pushed open a heavily reinforced door and stepped into the world of bureaucrats. Industrial-weave carpet the color of new grass muted each footfall. The narrow halls were painted blue-green instead of beige, and work by neighboring inmates was framed and carefully displayed.