Dantes' Inferno (39 page)

The second thing she noticed was the
hissing
. She felt the adrenaline rush just as she spotted the cat—
not a bomb
.

It was a fat calico, cornered between stove and cupboard, fur erect, teeth bared round a throaty yowl, eyes psychotic.

“Einstein.”

She turned in surprise to see Sweetheart squatting down, hand out.

“I gave her to Jason,” Sweetheart said quietly. “C'mon, kitty, c'mon, cat.”

Using calming tones and
no
motion, he coaxed the
animal forward. Sylvia watched open mouthed as the cat—Einstein—not only allowed herself to be held but began to purr in the professor's arms.

He stood very still, lost for a moment in the beating heart of this small animal, a simple connection to Jason, to Molly.

Sylvia left him, stepping into the bedroom, to find herself gazing into the skewed Crayola eyes of a jack-o'-lantern, a boy's view of a Halloween hobgoblin.

“Nietzsche rules!” a voice screamed out.

She swung around to defend herself—

“God is dead!”

“Fuck,” Sylvia breathed, inches from a parrot in a cage.

“African gray.” Sweetheart was beside her, his body rigid; the cat was anchored to his chest, claws extended. “The feather in the workshop.”

“He almost—oh,
Jesus
.” Abruptly, she'd focused on the surrounding scene. Sheets from the double bed were tangled across the floor. A lamp had been knocked from the bedside table.

She knelt to find her own business card on the floor. A stuffed tiger, threadbare and one-eyed, peered at her from the center of the bed. The note had been pinned to his black button nose.

she knu wy to 7th crcle

whre hrpies fly tres bleed

Beatrice cn't save her

+ sweetie blows it evry tme

2 late

gne to Ishtr gate 2 rest

enemy shl nver pass

u follw to 8th

*  *  *

“He won't kill her right away.” Sweetheart showed no expression.

“She's still alive,” Sylvia insisted softly.

“For now.”

“Sweetheart . . .” For several seconds, her mind went blank. Her throat so dry she could hardly get a word out. She took a breath. “Dante's seventh circle in the
Inferno
 . . . the pilgrim and Virgil have almost reached the nadir of hell.”

“In the seventh circle, the trees bleed because they entrap the souls of those who have damaged their own bodies.”

“Suicides,” Sylvia said, dreading the word.

“Gone to Ishtar's Gate,” Sweetheart said quietly. “My niece is the sacrifice.”

Sylvia ran her hands through tangled hair. The bangle on her arm slipped to her wrist; the red welt embedded around her forearm resembled a shadow bracelet. “You know him, don't you? You know M.”

“So it seems,” Sweetheart said hoarsely, massaging the cat, unaware of its struggle for release.

“Ben Black? Is that possible?”

“A ghost?” Sweetheart closed his eyes.

She was inches from his face, and she could smell the faint scent of sandalwood. She said, “Black's common-law wife and child, eighty other people were killed by U.S. bombs.”

“We had to go on intelligence—reliable intelligence—but we never had his bones—” His voice broke.

“What if he's come back for Dantes—
and
for you?”

“‘The enemy shall never pass.'” Sweetheart didn't react when the cat sank her teeth into his wrist. “Those words were carved on Processional Way, in Babylon, near Ishtar's Gate—”

At the sound of footsteps, they both turned to see Purcell standing in the bedroom doorway. “I've got a forensics team on their way up,” the agent said grimly.

“He's got my niece.”

Purcell had joined them beside the bed. She was silent for thirty seconds as she read the threat message, then she looked up, her dark eyes narrowing. “When I spoke to Luke, he told me he can only guess on coordinates.”

“We're going with the obvious,” Sweetheart said bluntly. “Which puts Ishtar's Gate somewhere in a half-mile radius between Fort Moore and Union Station. Just so you know, we're forced to guess scale, coordinates, international standards—there's nothing scientific about it,
nothing
.”

“M will lead us partway there,” Sylvia said slowly, keeping her eyes on Purcell. “He'll let us get close because he's a sadist.” She turned toward Sweetheart, but he averted his gaze.

He said, “We'll use Union Station as our locus—we'll work with Luke.”

“I'll notify dispatch,” Purcell said brusquely. “It's oh five twenty-nine hours. We'll keep you and Luke on the line—and we'll have agents in the area before you get there.”

“And
underground
,” Sweetheart said. “Alert transit authority and LAPD to possible IEDs.”

Purcell was already punching buttons on her phone. “I'm right behind you. Get going.”

“So you know, Purcell,” Sweetheart said distinctly. “It's possible we're dealing with Ben Black.”

True faith belongs to the skeptics.

5:29
A.M
.
Molly is drunk from the chemicals of pain and fear.

Her mind has cut loose, running wild; not just a single crazy horse but an entire herd race through her skull, sharp hooves clipping brain, slicing senses.

Bound—can't move—neck muscles screaming, so tight, hands and feet icy cold. The dark is all around. The air is frighteningly stagnant—and warm. Can't breathe through the gag
.

Can't breathe!

She remembers Michael walking toward her. No expression, that's what's odd, nothing at all in his eyes, blank slate for a face. She'd known it was wrong.

Her own eyes go wide. Somewhere in her soul, she'd been praying he would just kill her, put her out of her misery.

Shame—she feels it coursing hot and fast through her veins. Her son saved her, coming to her side, taking her hand. If Jason was alive, he would fight.

Oh, baby, forgive me
.

She'll make sure the man she's known as Michael doesn't get the chance to hurt another child, another human being. She will fight, and she will do it for her son.

For the first time in a year, inches from death, Molly Redding has found a reason to live.

She opens her eyes, shuts them, opens them again. Does she see some tiny glimmer of light?

There are smells—sharp and sour. Fuel of some kind? Oil? Also the horrible, sweet scent of organic decay. A dead rat or mouse.
Something dead
 . . .

Sounds. The faintest hum. A loud rumble that rattles her bones.

Her heart begins to pound again, threatening to break through her chest.

Keep the heart slow, so I don't waste oxygen
.

This box will not be my grave
.

Ticking . . . ticking . . . she can hear it now.

And then the slow, shuffling footsteps so terrifying in darkness.

A voice speaks to her; she recognizes the man she's known, the man she's
loved
.

He whispers, “Angel Face . . .”

She whimpers—clamping down on the gag to shut off the panic—then pulls back, shivering at the sting of his fingers on her face.

“Scare you, Angel Face?” He is almost visible now, a charcoal outline against the darker background. “I'm just taking away this nasty thing.”

Tape rips skin from her face, tearing bunched fabric from between her teeth. She cries out, then begins to scream. The sound is abruptly severed when he slaps her hard enough to stun.

“No . . . one . . . can . . . hear . . . you . . . Angel Face.” He must be repeating the words until she struggles up to the watery surface of consciousness. “We're the dead. The forsaken.
We're the damned, Angel Face
.”

She cries out when blinding sun sears away the darkness; the harsh artificial light burns holes in her retinas. She
wants to shield her eyes, but her arms are bound. The numb pain steals her breath.

She can't focus on his familiar face because it continues to disappear behind double suns, the scaled shadow on her optic nerve. “Fuck you.”

“Do you know anything about implosion formulas?” He is making polite conversation. “What am I, stupid? I keep forgetting you couldn't even add up your checkbook, Angel Face.”

There is a new sound, wet and spongy—and the pungency of something fresh. The first object her eyes discern: an apple. He is slicing through an apple. And he is smiling at her, shaking his head, chiding. “I bet you're thirsty.”

Oh, God, the dryness in her throat is torture, but she ignores the pain and finds her voice. “You're sick,” she whispers. “You're pathetic.”

“Feeling brave, are we?” He is displeased and sarcastic. “Mustering our gumption, by golly.”

Molly recognizes familiar notes in his voice. They've shared a bed, shared nights, shared their bodies. Why did she think this was love?

I trusted you, she thinks, I
prayed
to God in gratitude.

“I have to introduce you to a friend,” Michael says.

He turns away, turns back, grunting.

She feels the bile turn in her stomach, churning up her throat.

The man is dead, and his eye—

Just like Michael
.

And there's another body
.

She doesn't try to block out the rage. Let it flood every cell; she'll turn his evil back on him.

“You're going to make a phone call for me, darlin'.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, tries to shake her head. “Nnnooo . . .”

But he says something that changes her mind.

He says, “By golly, Miss Molly, if you give me any trouble, I'll blow a hundred Jasons to hell just for the fun of it.”

W(TNT·equivalent) = W
_exp
(P
_cj
/p
₀
)
_exp
/(P
_cj
/p
₀
)
_TNT

Air shock wave equation (Paul Cooper and Stanley

Kurowski,
Technology of Explosives
)

5:57
A.M
.
As if they'd heard a subliminal signal, Sylvia and Sweetheart simultaneously stepped out of the Mercedes to gaze up at the creamy Spanish-style facade and red-tiled roof of Union Station.

Impatient pedestrians—early-morning commuters traveling by subway, train, bus, and light rail—passed by. A distant siren filled the air; to an observant eye, law enforcement was more visible than usual.

Sylvia turned to see Leo Carreras jogging across the closest parking lot. He came to a stop at her side. He was slightly out of breath. “Purcell should—
here
she is.”