Dantes' Inferno (32 page)

“Right. I'll ask his niece. What's Molly Redding's number?”

2:02
P.M
.
Beverly Hot Springs was an exotic cave buried deep in Hollywood's seedy heart.

A woman with a pleasant smile admitted Sylvia, leading the way to the wood-finished locker room. The dressing area was empty.

Sylvia left her new clothes in a locker, sliding the key band over her wrist. Draping the thick terry towel over her bare shoulder, she passed through the wooden door. At first she thought she was alone in the baths. In semidarkness steam swirled and settled over a small, free-form swimming pool. Glass doors to private stalls lined one wall.

Then, through the dim light of artificial dusk and mist, Sylvia saw a child.

A ghostly child-woman.

Molly Redding was so delicate she looked prepubescent. Her skin was pale, her hair a dark wispy fringe surrounding her pretty face. She reminded Sylvia of one of Modigliani's nudes: wide eyed; long, slender neck; slight bones; small hips and breasts. She was resting on a towel next to the pool.

But her voice belonged to a woman. It was soft and low.

“Sylvia?”

“Thanks for agreeing to see me.” Sylvia set her towel down on the warm tiles. She sat easily, sliding her bare legs into warm water that was laced with the scent of minerals. Dark bruises stood out on her knees. “This is one of my favorites places in LA. How do you like it?”

“It's pretty nice.” Molly blinked, working her mouth into a small frown. “On the phone, you said you're working for my uncle. I don't really understand why you want to talk to me.”

“The work we're doing is—sensitive,” Sylvia said. “I think your uncle is under a lot of strain. Maybe you can help me figure out why.” In the subdued light, steam beaded on her skin; it ran from her neck and her breasts. A small droplet of water glistened in her belly button; a tiny rivulet disappeared in the dark tuft between her legs.

“What did he tell you about me?” Up close, Molly's expression was serious, her eyes somber.

“Very little,” Sylvia answered truthfully. “I know you're estranged.”

“You could say that. He stopped returning my calls after Jason.”

“But yesterday you tried anyway,” Sylvia said.

“It was—I . . .” Molly lay back on the warm stones and closed her eyes. Her ribs were defined by light and shadow; it seemed as if they were all that kept her from disappearing. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

Sylvia lowered her body into the silky mineralized water. Elbows on tile, she rested her head on her arms. The lazy drip of water from the cavelike roof, the hush of their breathing, the faintest strains of violin music were the sounds layered in the steamy air. The silver bangle on her arm bit into her cheek, and she readjusted herself just enough to relax to yet another level. Molly Redding was a bad liar; she was also skittish, and likely to bolt if pushed too far or too fast.

Molly's voice drifted through Sylvia's thoughts. “My uncle and I lost contact long before Jason died.”

“Would you mind telling me why?”

“I used to do drugs. At least, that's what he'd say.”

“What do you say?” Sylvia asked gently.

Molly sighed. “Have you ever gone crazy?”

“Talking-to-myself crazy, seeing-things-on-the-wall crazy—does that count?”

“Ever wanted to die?”

“I've had my moments.” Sylvia studied Molly. “Are you feeling that way now?”

Silently, Molly skimmed her hand across steaming water. She let the liquid dribble through her fingers. Another scoop, and another. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Did my uncle tell you he was my guardian? My parents
died when I was twelve. But Sweetheart was busy with his terrorists—his
demons
—bin Laden, Ben Black, Abu Mohammed . . .” Molly laughed wearily. “He pretends to be so evolved. Did you know he was born in Hawaii, but he lived in Japan for years? He even studied sumo.”

“I didn't know that,” Sylvia said. “Does he still—”

“He gave it up to become a
scientist
, so he could measure the world in millimeters or something. Don't let him fool you,” Molly said. “I used to be afraid of him, how smart he is; but when it comes to people, he doesn't even understand the basics.”

“Maybe he spends too much time with his computers.”

“Machines don't ask for love, they don't go crazy or make demands, they don't get strung out on meth, they don't get pregnant.”

Molly's face belonged to a guileless child, and her voice was soft. She slid into the water and buoyed herself with gentle strokes. “Do you have children?”

“A foster daughter,” Sylvia said. Eyes closed, she found herself absorbing the blue air of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Like a marble on a tilted surface, her thoughts kept drifting back to New Mexico. She imagined Serena and her father, Cash Wheeler, doing the simple things of family. At that moment she felt the separation as a physical pain. What would it be like to lose a child forever?

She said, “Serena's eleven.”

“Jason's age.” Sorrow flooded Molly's face. “You can't hold on to them,” she whispered. “No matter how hard you try, how often you check the weather, walk them to school, tuck them into bed. You can't keep them safe.”

“No,” Sylvia agreed softly.

“I used to think God punished me because I was a bad mother . . . the drugs . . . everything.” Molly dipped underwater, returning to the surface to shake water from
her head. “But I know that's not true. God is forgiveness.”

“Do you blame Sweetheart for Jason's death?”

“No . . .” Molly's voice was barely audible. “Why would I do that?” She shook her head. Then, suddenly, she smiled and a light transformed her features; her face came alive, her eyes took on a glittery spark. “You can tell my uncle I'm healing.”

Sylvia was watching the other woman intently—she saw a dangerous edge. This wasn't the slow return to balance after catastrophic grief; this was the manic swing from depression, the hydraulic lift effected by extreme chemistry, natural or otherwise.

“I have a message you can deliver,” Molly Redding said, pulling back physically and mentally. “Tell my uncle I'm getting well.” She took quick breaths; beneath taut skin her ribs expanded again and again—the rhythm of a desperately wounded creature struggling to maintain a fragile hold on life.

“Tell him I don't need him anymore. I've moved on.”

5:21
P.M
.
Sylvia left the new rental car with the valet, and she entered the lobby of the hotel. It was a busy Thursday afternoon, and a line had formed at the registration desk. She was almost to the elevators when she felt someone grab her arm roughly. She swung around ready to defend herself.

“How dare you talk to my niece without my permission.” Sweetheart loomed over her, his face an angry mask, tension emanating from his body like electricity. “What you did was wrong.” Abruptly, he released his grip.

“I tried to talk to you,” Sylvia said, ignoring the stares of people passing by. “Come up to the room.”

“No.”

“Look at yourself,” Sylvia said sharply. “You're so
invested in the empirical equation, you can't see what's in front of your face. Molly's on the edge. She needs you. If she doesn't get help, she might—”

“Kill herself?” He shook his head. “I know my niece; I've seen her go to the edge a dozen times. Aren't you talking to yourself, Dr. Strange?”

“I'm talking about missing pieces to a puzzle—something's wrong.”

“This isn't about Molly. It's Dantes. He's manipulating everyone—you most of all.” Sweetheart spun around and disappeared in the crowded lobby.

Sylvia found Leo and Luke spread wearily on the cream-colored couch. Room service trays with half-eaten meals had been left on the floor.

“You just missed Sweetheart,” Leo said.

“No, I didn't.” Sylvia sighed, glancing at the blinking laptop monitor, where numerical columns lined the screen. “MOSAIK?” she asked, abruptly reenergized.

Leo nodded. “Gretchen sent through her results.”

“It's a match?” She looked from Leo to Luke.
“C'mon, guys.”

“Before you check it out,” Luke cautioned, “remember that MOSAIK aims for a profiling gestalt. We input all the data—forensic, geographic mapping, psycholinguistic, archaeological, as in personal history—and we get a numerical score.”

Sylvia frowned impatiently. “So, theoretically, the scored profile will be unique to the individual profiled.”

“Correct.” Luke pressed a key.

The computer chimed in, dropping to a frenzied hum, sending output to the printer. Leo retrieved it from the printer, handing it to Sylvia. “Simon Mole's broad numerical profile.”

Sylvia studied the string of more than twenty numbers.

“Now take a look at M's data; it should show a close correlation with Simon Mole—assuming they are one and the same person.”

She gazed down to see numerical equations covering both pages.

The lines and graphs were similar—but not identical.

Leo said, “According to MOSAIK, there's a point fifty-seven probability that Simon Mole and M are a match.”

“Is that conclusive?”

“On a really good match, we get point sixty-five or higher. But this is enough to go on.”

“A
good
match. That's why you don't sound happy.” Sylvia closed her eyes. “I think our very own Simon Mole has a unique gift for re-creation; he's restructured himself from the inside out. Psychologically, Simon and M are more like brothers than doubles.

“Be happy, guys.” She faced the two men. “It's like I keep trying to tell Sweetheart—the world's not black-and-white.”

Nothing is more despicable than a coward, except perhaps the man who places his faith in a coward.

Mole's Manifesto

Friday—12:01
A.M
.
In Pershing Square, the earthquake fault line shimmers in the reflecting pond, the grounded constellations catch the moonlight, and minerals burn with lustrous fire among the orange groves and the palm trees. From a rooftop, the faint and achingly magnificent strains of Verdi dance off metal, stone, and glass surfaces.

Urban landscape, urban wind.

These are the highest artistic achievements, the most impressive aesthetic representations of man's supremacy.

But that is
above
. Fifty feet below Pershing Square, M watches the Thief vomit into an already foul puddle of stagnant water, trash, and ruined cans of corrosive acids dumped illegally.

The Thief
. That is a man's name, his identity, here in the bowels of the city.

The Thief is a compact five ten, 170 pounds, dirty blond, and blue eyed.

Both
eyes are blue, but that's okay.

He is filthy, and M has already arranged for a bath and a haircut. Nothing fancy, just get the job done.

The Thief hasn't been a mole long enough to have done irreparable damage to his body. And his body is what M needs.

M has selected the Thief just as this pathetic creature begins his long downhill slide into shit. The fall is slippery, steep—it's a long way down—and the fall is forever. No way back.

The Thief crouches like another kind of animal, shivering in the glow of a small fire, his feet slippery on the slick of ash that glazes the ground. Smoke from a thousand fires has blackened these underground girders, these poured concrete pillars that hold up all that beautiful art on the city's surface. But culture has always lived, fed,
thrived
on the broken backs of peons, the expendable people, the untouchables.

Bombay has nothing on Los Angeles.