Dantes' Inferno (41 page)

Purcell offered an exaggerated sigh. “Any profiling system has its weaknesses, including the human brain.”

Too carefully Sylvia examined the surveillance photographs that decorated the walls. Bank robbers—in the act of threatening, shooting, killing. There were labels attached to various photos:
He's-No-Einstein Bandit, Red-Nosed Bandit, Bully Bandit, Ma and Pa Bandits, Romeo Bandit
. A handwritten standard proclaimed,
LA, BANK ROBBERY CAPITAL OF THE WORLD
. The impact of the photo collection was a low-grade depression, inspired by the frequency, stupidity, and banality of index crimes.

Sylvia took an unsteady breath. “How is Sweetheart?”

“You haven't talked to him?”

He's ignoring me.”

“He's shutting out everyone, if that's any comfort.”

“No particular comfort,” Sylvia said softly.

Purcell hesitated. Once again, she was weighing need to know against closure. She said, “Dantes will be shipped out to Colorado sometime late tomorrow.”

“They're going through with the transfer?”

“It's time to get the Calbomber out of Los Angeles. You didn't hear it from me, but he's been moved to the old holding facility at LA City Detention Facility.” She shook her head, touching one finger to her lips. “The U.S. marshals will handle the actual transport.”

“Get me in there.”

“I can't do that—”

“Purcell.”

“I thought you were going back to New Mexico tonight.”

“I need to see Dantes one more time.” Sylvia kept her voice level. “That's all I ask. I won't be back to bother you.”

“Give me an hour to see what I can do,” Purcell said finally.

As Sylvia turned to leave, she blinked against a sharp blade of sunlight reflecting off glass and metal. An internal voice whispered:
This isn't over yet
.

1:08
P.M
.
The Los Angeles City Detention Facility consisted of several large facilities sprawled over dozens of acres. The luckiest inmates in the main facility rated a view of Sunset where the famous boulevard began its eastward journey under the alias of farm labor reformer Cesar Chavez. Beyond the avenue, downtown's skyscrapers formed the sharp peaks and deep valleys of the urban landscape, fed by a river of railroad tracks.

Those same inmates had enjoyed front-row center seats for the bombing of the MTA tower at Union Station. Now they could kill time with a bird's-eye view of
investigators as they sifted through rubble and searched for bodies.

But Sylvia wasn't stopping at the jail.

She checked in at the kiosk. While a correctional officer verified her destination via radio, she took in the familiar shape of the fortified landscape: the twelve-foot-high perimeter fence topped with razor ribbon, the security towers, the steel-reinforced walls of the housing units. She'd done more than her share of time in prisons.

The CO waved her through with terse directions to go straight, take the first right, then the second left. So that's what she did.

The jail's old holding facility was a rusting green warehouse. An armed officer manned a second kiosk, where access to the inner perimeter fence was controlled. As she passed through the chain-link gate, she could see the silhouette of another officer inside the double doors twenty feet ahead. John Dantes was well guarded.

A landing strip and heliport outside the old holding facility provided a convenient stopover and transfer point for especially high-risk or high-profile criminals.

Inside, a man with skin the shade of black walnuts announced he would accompany Sylvia down a short flight of stairs to what used to be called the Irons.

“Why
the Irons?
” Sylvia asked CO Henry as the clip of their heels hitting smooth concrete echoed off the bare walls.

“Way back, they used to put the escape artists down here,” CO Henry said. “Just to make sure they didn't get itchy feet, they welded them to those old ball and chains.”

LAPD's Officer Jones was seated outside cell number nine. His eyes lit up with recognition when he saw Sylvia. Apparently, he was going to deliver Dantes to the door of the transport helicopter and into the custody of U.S. marshals.

“Hello, Jones,” Sylvia said.

“Hey, Dr. Strange,” the officer said in a soft voice. He stood to unlock the door while CO Henry stood by. Jones asked, “Came back for one last look?”

“When is he shipping out?” she asked. Her question was indiscreet, but Jones didn't hesitate to respond.

“Word is, sometime tomorrow or the day after. But good thing you got here today—tomorrow he'll be restricted.” He shifted his feet. “You're not supposed to be in there unless he's cuffed.” He rubbed his jaw, shrugging. “You want me inside?”

“Just stay close to the door.”

He stood back while she entered John Dantes' temporary home, a windowless ten-by-ten-foot cell.

Dantes was no longer strapped to a gurney. He wore no bandages. No IV fed chemically laced fluid into his veins. His color was good, he looked rested and very healthy. His prison cottons were clean, he was neatly groomed.

At the moment he occupied one of two chairs, both of which were bolted to the floor. A book rested on the table,
The Count of Monte Cristo
.

Dantes' hands were folded in his lap. He said, “Thank you, Jones,” but his eyes were on Sylvia. “I was hoping I'd see you again. I'm sorry about Sweetheart's niece.”

“I don't think he cares how you feel.” The door closed quietly; she was left alone in the cell with Dantes.

“Do
you
care?” he asked.

She didn't answer. The silence lengthened; she sensed his discomfort.

He reached for the book, held it up. “It's quite good,” he said. “Wrongful imprisonment, escape, romance, revenge. What else is there?” He half smiled. “Have you read it?”

“I've always meant to.” She was driven by restless energy, a dull, free-floating anxiety. She took eight steps,
which brought her in a complete circle around Dantes. As she moved, she noted the copy of his own book that rested on the blanket of the jail bed. She caught a quick view of some notes scrawled on a Big Chief pad. She saw the photograph of his mother, taken in the late 1950s, when Bella was a beautiful young woman.

And she read the title on a faded hardcover:
Hysteria: History of a Disease
. The author was Veith; she was familiar with the text, which covered the historical origins and symptoms of what was now known as conversion disorder.

“I'm glad you came,” he said, studying her, his voice low and smooth. “On my last day in Babylon, you're the only one I cared about seeing.”

“You never know,” she said slowly. “I may surprise you and visit Colorado.”

She had reached her starting point, and she had a clear view of his features—the secret smile on his lips, the gray-green eyes with their unblinking gaze, the delicate definition of bone beneath the skin of his jaw. They gave away nothing of the man.

“You're feeling better,” she said, sitting. Her fingers worried the bangle on her wrist. Now they were no more than four feet from each other.

“Much better.”

“No more seizures?”

He shook his head, unclasping his hands, pressing palms to thighs.

“Headaches?”

“My health—”

“Numbness or paralysis?”

“—is good.” Dantes smiled slightly; his pupils contracted, revealing color.

Sylvia forced herself not to look away; Dantes seemed
curious, engaged, entertained. He was
waiting
for her next move. She realized he believed himself to be in absolute control—but she knew that his level of somatic dysfunction couldn't be faked. Not completely.

Finally, she said, “I found out something about your mother.”

“Really?” Nonchalance was a stretch.

“Did you know she was diagnosed as a schizophrenic?”

“No.”

“She was hospitalized more than once. The last time was just a few weeks before she died.”

Dantes stared at some point in space; but his thoughts had turned back to the past. “My grandparents never told me,” he said finally.

“Some schizophrenics suffer intense mental anguish. Even the people closest to them can't reach through the psychosis.”

He closed his eyes, retreating to a private place. Finally, he took a deep breath, mustering himself. “Why is it so hard to accept the fact I couldn't save her?”

“Children often believe they hold the power of life and death in their emotions.”

“God's power,” he said softly, offering that melancholy smile again. “These days I'm forced to make due with my very temporal powers of manipulation.”

“Charcot's most popular hysterics were the pretty young women,” Sylvia said, following his lead. “They put on quite a floor show for those neurotic neurologists and surgeons.”

“True,” Dantes said. “The audience enjoyed the excitement, the titillation; they wanted to be fooled. That's what magic is about—a dance between performer and audience.”

“Or between doctor and patient?”

“One can't exist without the other. Charcot, Breuer, and
Freud had their own hysterical reaction to their flamboyant patients. But they documented their case studies; they provided valuable information for the fledgling science of psychology.”

“There is such a thing as true suffering.”

“We're back to Goya's lunatics,” Dantes said.

“Most of Freud's and Breuer's hysterical patients had diagnosable psychopathology.”

“I'm not a sideshow, Dr. Strange.”

For an instant, Sylvia felt the familiar electricity of his gaze; but just as quickly his green eyes turned cold, and his wildness retreated to some dark, closed corner. “No, you're not,” she said softly. “Simon Mole was the sideshow.”

“It was a long time ago,” he said. “We were going to change the world.”

“And Laura?”

“She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What happened?”

“Acetylene becomes unstable at twenty-five pounds; its explosive range is two point six to eighty percent.” He recited the facts, his delivery a throwaway. “It's just a little lighter than air. In a closed space, if someone forgot to close a valve on the acetylene tank, a catastrophic explosion would occur.” For the first time that hour, Dantes looked away. “I was the only one who escaped the blast. It was a revelatory experience. Until that moment, I actually believed I possessed the courage of my convictions.”

“You ran.”

“I damned myself.”

She stood, and walked to the door, where she stopped for one last look back. “M is alive, isn't he?”

“It's all over, Dr. Strange.” Dantes offered her
The Count of Monte Cristo
. “I already know how it comes out,” he said. “Read it one of these days.”

*  *  *

3:55
P.M
.
Behind the wheel of the rental, Sylvia turned west on Sunset.

The famous boulevard ran like a seam through the city. The seedy offices, the fast food mini malls, the restaurants advertising Thai, Korean, Spanish, Indian, sushi, and Kentucky Fried all blurred together into a ribbon of simple commerce that revealed the complex patterns of human migration, cultural exchange, and expansion.

Keep going and narrow high-rises constructed of glass and steel stood shoulder to shoulder, bordering concrete and asphalt. At Doheny, the real estate consisted of trendy shops. Jog west, and the clubs and night joints sat sullen during daylight hours, like floozies waiting to come alive at sunset with that first sip of eighty proof. Traffic formed a constant glimmering ribbon, winding, twisting, mile after mile. The air held the bite of smog.

But she was only aware of the anxious looping thoughts: a boy named Simon Mole was reborn as an international terrorist who called himself Ben Black; when U.S. missiles hit Afghanistan in 2000, Black escaped to reconstruct himself yet again—into M.

A man who had survived bombings, train wrecks, prison, and military attack wasn't going to conveniently commit suicide in downtown LA.

M doesn't die, he transforms
.

So, where was he? What was he waiting for?

She turned south and east, drawn once again to the heart of the city. Downtown, she followed the seam of Main Street, the zero point, the dividing line between east and west. Shadows were coming to life under the glow of neon.

Fifth, east of Broadway, was no-man's-land: skid row.

It was the barrel bonfires center street and the cop cars
rousting drunks that gave the Nickel away. In Los Angeles, the fifty-block row is centered between Main, Third, Alameda, and Seventh. Liquor stores—windows blocked with cardboard—were plentiful, and the multistoried transient hotels showed depressing, dingy facades.

Driving slowly—not stopping—Sylvia recognized the faces of the mentally ill, the addicted, the homeless. She wasn't sure what she expected to find, but she was left with the hangover of misery and poverty.

She turned west, heading for the ocean and one last night in LA. Early this morning, Leo had flown to Arizona to consult on a case. His condo was dark. Inside bungalow number four, the shades were still drawn.

She made phone calls—and she heard the news from Matt: Mona Carpenter's husband was being held in custody, charges pending. He'd violated a restraining order; he'd seen Mona an hour before her suicide.

“Her parents want him charged with assault and attempted murder,” Matt said.

“He didn't force the pills down her throat.”

But Sylvia knew the dark power Bob Carpenter had wielded over Mona. The news brought sadness, but also the beginnings of closure.

She showered, lingering under the hot beads of water; her skin was splotched red when she slathered on cream. Crawling naked between clean white sheets, cradling the pillow, she fell into an almost narcotic sleep to wrestle with dreams that were fitful, nightmarish.