by Sarah Lovett
In the middle of the concrete overpass that traversed Highway 1 and allowed access from the cliff park to the beach, she missed her sunglasses. She’d left them on the floor of the visiting room at MDC.
Fine, she thought harshly—let Dantes add another item to his trophy collection; he was eating up shrinks left and right.
She ran for several miles, heading north, parallel with the shore, barely evading the foamy salt water as it licked creamy sand beneath her feet. Here and there she passed other runners, beachcombers, and the yellow all-terrain trucks owned by the state of California.
A hundred yards offshore, surfers bobbed with seals, both species catching modest waves. After the first few miles her muscles loosened up; by the fourth mile she felt herself sprint clear of the chemical cloud induced by the morning’s dose of benzodiazepine. She quickened her pace, sweating, breath fast but regular. The sun warmed her skin, and she knew she’d end up with a slight golden hue to her olive complexion. She set her sights on a small but rugged peninsula ahead—her turnaround point. Time evaporated beneath her legs, and it seemed she reached those volcanic rocks in one minute instead of thirty. She cut to a fast walk, working out a cramp in her left calf, opting for an interval of cooldown before her return. The geologic evidence reminded her she was standing on the continental shelf, on a young and tumultuous formation. This was the meeting place of two tectonic plates; grinding and chewing into the earth beneath her feet, they were ripping fault lines all across California.
Pacing herself as she retraced her own trail back toward the pier, she let her thoughts flow in tandem with her legs. Her encounter with John Dantes had been a failure—no tests, no results, nothing to score or evaluate.
Tomorrow she would flee to the desert—she could catch the early flight on Southwest, go standby if they were booked. She wanted out of LA.
The sprawling metropolis represented her past. The city never failed to catch her in its grip when she returned; it stirred memories of another time, another life, when she was raw, a dangerous shadow of herself.
LA, City of Id, jarred; it seduced in the most threatening ways.
It fueled her drive, heightened her appetites, revved her ambition. It reawakened fantasies and revived nightmares.
She stumbled on a strand of dried seaweed. Catching her balance, she pushed hard for the final sprint.
Fuck it anyway. This morning’s little dance with John Dantes had thrown cold water on her big-city career goals. He’d trespassed psychologically; she’d done no better than her predecessors. So much for tagging along with the Bombers’ Profiling Project.
She cut her stride into a fast, leggy walk, breathing deeply. Her lungs reminded her she’d been smoking too much. The stitch of pain satisfied in a perverse way. Glancing at her watch, she saw she had ninety minutes to walk back to the bungalow, make a few phone calls, shower, dress, and get to the restaurant.
3:20 P.M. “Three strikes you’re out . . .” Sylvia stabbed the fat green olive that was magnified in the bottom of her martini glass, then stuffed it between her lips. Finally, she looked up to focus on Leo Carreras, struck by his tall, slender elegance, his darkly handsome face. There should be a law . . .
He was watching her closely, attentive, trying to read her mood. He slid into the booth, facing her from across the small table.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, checking the Rolex on his wrist, then scanning the Santa Monica Pier restaurant; the noise level had reached a beehive hum. “Last-minute consult—big-time extortion—Kraill Medical’s the target. Forgive me?”
“No way.”
Leo gently fingered the tape cassette that occupied the center of the table. “I gather the session with Dantes wasn’t entirely successful.”
Sylvia snorted. “It sucked. But you be the judge; I recorded everything but the last sixty seconds.”
“That was the good part, right?”
Sylvia shot him a funny look. “Right.” With unsteady hands she pulled a cigarette from her pocket.
Immediately, he whisked it from between her fingers. “You’ll get us arrested if you try to smoke in here.”
“Major felony,” Sylvia said with no venom.
Slipping the tape into his shirt pocket, Leo addressed the waiter who had appeared at the table. “We need a large bowl of your chowder, the tuna very rare, a house salad with the balsamic, some of your sourdough, and a large bottle of sparkling water.” He glanced at Sylvia. “Tomato juice?”
She already felt the buzz from the martini, yet she couldn’t resist the chance to be obstinate. She tapped the stem of the martini glass. “I’ll have another one of these.”
Leo shook his head at the waiter, nixing the second cocktail. “Make that one mineral water, one tomato juice.” He drank a sip from Sylvia’s water glass, stalling until the aspiring actor in the crisp white apron was out of earshot.
He said, “Syl . . . talk to me.”
She set her chin in her hands, elbows resting on the table. “Why did you ask me to be part of the project, Leo? You wasted my time and your resources.”
He eyed her suspiciously, crossing his arms high on his chest, leaning back in the booth. “Okay, let’s have it.”
“I hear Peter Marshall’s an excellent psychologist.” She brushed dense dark hair away from her shoulder, tucking the same loose strands behind her ear; they refused to stay put. “So is Christine Tanner.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point . . .” Sylvia spread her hands wide, palms up, almost knocking the water glass to the floor. She sighed, lowering her voice. “I did some homework this afternoon.” She sat back in the booth, crossing her long legs. “Peter Marshall and Christine Tanner both tried to administer the tests to Dantes. Marshall was ridiculed, verbally assaulted, threatened. Tanner lasted two minutes, then walked.”
“That’s correct,” Leo said, looking unnervingly calm and cool in his gray summer suit. “You knew you wouldn’t be the only evaluator.” He shrugged. “Christine works for Rand; she’s competent, but she’s too straitlaced, too rigid for Dantes’ taste. Peter Marshall actually lives most of the year in Virginia, close to Quantico.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“No. I want to know all about Dantes—your impressions.” He slid her empty martini glass to the center of the white tablecloth; the stem looked fragile caught between his slim tanned fingers. “Behavioral observations, affect, responses, and presentation—was he initially cooperative? Functional? Oppositional? What, if anything, set him off? It’s all relevant to the profiling project. I need your hit on all this.”
“I’ll fax you my written summary from Santa Fe.” She shrugged, spinning one finger around the funneled rim of the martini glass. “I don’t do hits.”
“You don’t do what?” Leo repeated dumbly, struggling to keep his tone intimate. “Listen, you were the right choice for Dantes. I truly believed you’d pull it off where Tanner and Marshall failed. That didn’t happen. Too bad. Now I just need you to talk to me. All information is still relevant.”
“You want my professional hit on Dantes.” Her voice shook when she spoke. “He’s a manipulative, arrogant, coldblooded asshole, so, basically, I told him to go to hell.” She pulled herself up stiffly, shrugging. “That part isn’t on the tape.”
Leo opened his mouth, closing it again when the waiter appeared with soup.
“Eat,” Leo said quietly.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“After you get something in your stomach.”
Sylvia started to protest, but Leo ignored her, and eventually she acquiesced. While he sat, watching, fingers in constant motion, she forced herself to swallow a few spoonfuls of soup. She knew it was good—but the flavors hardly registered. It was the same with the tuna; for all the delicate spices, the skill of the chef, she might as well have been eating paper.
But Leo had been correct—she’d needed food. After ten minutes, she felt full, and more clearheaded. She
finished the last of her water and caught Leo’s eye. “Can we go now?”
Leo left a fifty-dollar bill on the table, neatly pocketing a wad of cash between the jaws of a sterling money clip as he stood to leave. He draped his coat over one shoulder; the creamy raw silk made a soft sound.
Sylvia followed, gathering her baseball cap, reaching for her jacket at the last minute.
Leo pressed his index finger firmly against her spine, trying to guide her toward the exit. When she didn’t budge, he eyed her curiously, and said, “Help me out here. What do you think is going on?”
“Six weeks ago, you called to ask me if I’d test Dantes. You said you had a hunch he’d respond to me.”
“That’s right.” Nodding slowly, Leo donned gold-rimmed sunglasses. He pushed the door wide, and ocean air rushed in like a wave. “What are you getting at?”
“You also told me Dantes didn’t agree to my involvement at first—he kept stalling—until one day he changed his mind, just like that.” Sylvia followed Leo outside.
“It took him about two weeks to decide. Why does it matter?”
“It matters.” Sylvia touched Leo’s arm. “I looked up my notes, Leo. Dantes changed his mind three days after my client’s suicide.”
“What did he say to you today?” Leo’s eyes were hard.
“He knew the details—he knew about the board of inquiry—the phone call, the method.” Sylvia struggled to control her voice. “I called his lawyer this afternoon. I managed to learn something from one of the paralegals—she investigates prospective shrinks.” Sylvia shook her head. “Leo, Dantes ran a fucking background check on me. He was looking for my jugular.”
“I’m sorry, Sylvia. I didn’t know.”
“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Sylvia said. “You warned me Dantes was good.” She took off, striding ahead.
Leo let her go, following, picking up his pace to close the distance. With twenty feet separating them, they passed the merry-go-round and curio shops. The arcade was filled with tourists, drifters and grifters, and guys with military crew cuts. The pier had been attracting a diverse assortment of visitors ever since the first decade of 1900, when gambling ships anchored offshore and the wealthy couldn’t wait to be ferried out past the legal line to lose a bundle of moola.
Sylvia cut across the flow of pedestrians and stopped to lean against the railing. Fifty feet below, the surf snuggled frantically around the massive barnacle-encrusted pilings. She watched while a leathery man pulled a skate up from the tidal zone. The animal’s angel wings drooped pathetically.
Leo found her just beyond the amusement rides in the middle of the pier. There was something so weary about her posture; her voice was barely audible above the sound of the waves.
“Come on in, the water’s fine.” She was peering down into the roiling waters of the Pacific, and her hair swirled around her face. “Just me, the seals, and the sharks.”
For almost a minute Leo stood next to her without speaking. Then he said, “You’re scaring me.”
“I’m scaring myself.”
“Syl . . .” He reached out to touch her, but she pulled away as if his skin scalded, walking rapidly toward the far corner of the pier.
When Leo caught up with her again, she was another woman—composed, withdrawn, tensely contained. She’d rested her forearms on the railing, and with the wind blowing her hair away from her face she looked more like a troubled adolescent than a woman in her mid-thirties.
She said, “I’m going to catch a flight back to Santa Fe as soon as I can shift my reservations.”
“How’s Serena doing these days?” He kept his voice neutral. “And how’s Matt?”
“Good. They’re both fine,” she said too sharply.
“You don’t have to run away from me.” Leo’s gaze was steady, unblinking. “I’ve seen you like this before.”
“You’ve seen me like what? Out of control? Is that what you’ve seen?” She shook her head. “I can’t trust myself,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to say to my clients, my patients. I’m running back to New Mexico, but that’s the last place I want to be.” Her shoulders hunched forward and she took a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t trust my instincts.”
Leo gripped her shoulders. “This has got to be about more than losing a client.”
Sylvia wheeled around, her eyes black with barely controlled rage. “You make it sound like she went on vacation or switched therapists. But she killed herself, Leo. On my watch. It was my call, and I let her check out of the hospital. You can’t prescribe meds and make all that disappear.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Tell that to her baby.” Sylvia turned away, walking fast.
Leo followed until she came to a stop in the middle of the promenade. People were passing them on either side, part of a steady stream of foot traffic. Music blared from the Ferris wheel. The sun peeked around a gray cloud and warmth flooded the pier.
“You want my hit on Dantes?” she asked, turning. “He’s playing with the Feds, with you, with me—he’s never going to take those fucking tests. And you’re right, Leo. This is about more than losing a client. It’s about being in this city. It’s filled with ghosts.”
She began walking backward, pointing a finger at her own heart. “Today, in that room with John Dantes, I felt nothing. No connection whatsoever. As far as I’m concerned, he might as well be the living dead.” She pivoted, disappearing into the crowd.
The lie worked all the way back to the bungalow. Letting herself inside, she climbed straight up the narrow wooden stairway to the rooftop, where she could catch the last glimpse of sun over the Pacific Ocean. Stretched out in a green-and-white striped chaise, she closed her eyes.
She had felt a connection with John Dantes. They were connected through death, through loss, through desertion. She’d also felt his voyeuristic hunger.
She fell almost instantly into a deep, uneasy sleep. Softly clacking palm fronds marked the passing time. The dense ocean air enveloped her in its clammy arms.
Hours later she awoke, chilled and haunted by dreams: floating images of suicides, of a ghost with a sad smile. As Sylvia stumbled downstairs toward the bedroom, she stopped suddenly. A fragment of the dream came into clear focus: the face of the dead woman hadn’t belonged to Mona Carpenter. The face had been her own.
She detoured into the bathroom, unzipped her cosmetic case with trembling hands, and downed another blue pill.
As she turned to leave, she caught a flash of argentine light coming from one clawed foot of the bathtub. She bent down, fingers closing around a single silver bangle; delicate crosses were etched in the precious metal. A talisman. There was comfort in the thought of magic. She slipped it over her wrist.
Waiting for sleep, she toyed with the idea of working up her report on Dantes for the BPP; but she’d left her laptop in the trunk of the Lincoln. So instead, she went to bed with Dantes’ Inferno: City of Angels in the 21st Century.
Her eyes closed and her mind jumped frequencies to a telephone conversation two weeks earlier.
“This is John Dantes.”
A perfect end to the first day of April.
“You’re calling from Terminal Island?” But Sylvia asked the question only to break the silence; she knew Dantes was locked inside the federal facility on that windswept rock in the Los Angeles Harbor. Even if she’d somehow forgotten, a recorded monotone had reminded her the instant she answered the telephone. She’d had no doubt she would refuse the call—except her finger had pressed one. To accept.
She’d carried the portable handset and her very full glass of wine outside her house into the darkness of that early spring night in Santa Fe. There must have been a million stars scattered over the velvet blanket of sky; the breeze was unseasonably warm and carried the distinct scent of desert rain.
Barefoot, she walked to the edge of the redwood deck. Although her eyes scanned the shadowy ridge that marked the northern boundary of her acreage, he
r thoughts were traveling a thousand miles due west.
“How did you get my number?”
“My lawyer.”
She’d been warned: it was Dantes’ habit to make preliminary contact with all visitors. She said, “I only have a few minutes—”
“And you can’t discuss testing procedure,” he finished. “I won’t keep you long.”
She didn’t respond; she was considering a call to Leo, to refuse the job, to change her mind. She was still in shock after her client’s suicide. Maybe a thousand miles was as close as she wanted to get to John Dantes.
A harsh edge suddenly energized his words. “We may be disconnected. The tone is the thirty-second warning.”
“I know the drill,” Sylvia said. She spilled some wine down her chin.
“Good.” He took a breath, releasing emotion with the exhalation. He had already learned what humans learn when they are monitored twenty-four hours a day: how to communicate in subtext, how to speak beneath the words. It was the responsibility of the listener to learn to translate this secret language.
“They’re transferring me downtown,” Dantes said. “It’s all very hush-hush, but I’m guessing they’ll roust me at two A.M. for the helicopter.” His voice was laced with mockery.
She knew she should hang up. Instead, she swallowed more wine and said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And he laughed.
In the silence that followed, she plunked her butt on the edge of the deck, pressing her bare toes into the moist garden soil below. Inside the house, through the kitchen window, she could see her lover, Matt England, and her eleven-year-old foster daughter, Serena, preparing dinner. The ripple of soft laughter and the scent of savory spices drifted across the dark currents of night. Sylvia felt abruptly grateful for her freedom. And she felt very lonely.
A month ago—if this phone conversation ended back then, she would have walked inside her house to enjoy a good meal; she would’ve joined in the laughter, and after Serena went to sleep, she would’ve made love with Matt.
