by Sarah Lovett
He tried again: “I never approved of his mother’s lifestyle. She is an addict. I paid for treatment, once, twice . . . the statistics on rehab are negatively skewed . . .” He let go of his breath with a sigh. “I did the only logical thing—I distanced myself.”
He sat immobile, a palpable tension emanating from his stillness. “Jason no longer exists—neither does his mother.”
Sylvia couldn’t take her eyes from his face; the lack of expression was more disconcerting than any possible affect.
“I need a focus for my anger,” he said, returning her gaze blankly. “I chose John Dantes because he murdered Jason. It’s very simple psychology—from the greatest book: an eye for an eye.”
He pushed open the car door and climbed out. “I’ll see that Dantes goes to hell.”
Numbly, Sylvia watched him walk toward the trees and the embankment. He stood silently for long seconds. Then, just when she expected him to return to the car, he stepped off the edge of the road.
She didn’t move; she wasn’t ready to face him yet. In her years as a psychologist, she’d come across psychopathological attachment countless times—she knew its danger. But it was rare to encounter this level of obsessive pathology in one of the good guys—a man she might have to count on to save lives.
She caught up with Sweetheart at the edge of a chain-link fence and the dead, leaf-filled swimming pool that lay beyond. Carefully, as if she might be scalded, she laid a hand on his arm. Beneath the cotton shirtsleeve, his flesh felt pliable and very human.
For a moment, he didn’t move; then he pointed down the slope. “That must’ve been a hell of an explosion.”
Measured by the visible foundation, Simon Mole’s home had been large, perhaps five-thousand-plus square feet. California Spanish style from the look of the remaining walls, the skeletal fireplaces, and crumbling stucco. A graceful arch still marked the western boundary. Just beyond, wild roses, fruit, bougainvillea, azalea, ice plant—the lushes of this Mediterranean subclimate grew jungle thick.
They walked the perimeter, avoiding bramble growth, wild azaleas, ginger, bird-of-paradise: nature left to take back her own, southern California style. Visible within the foundation of the main living area, a deep crater had further excavated what had already been a basement. Sylvia stepped over the low wall and moved carefully toward the crater; from here she seemed to be staring down into the mouth of a giant burrow. She set her hands on her hips.
“Natural gas blows the hell out of exterior structures,” Sweetheart said. “It pops the roof, explodes the walls.”
“Since when does it leave a ten-by-fifteen-foot crater?” Sylvia asked.
He moved to her side—they were shoulder to shoulder on the spongy terrain. He said, “The family had money, they were visible, and banking on political futures.”
“They would object to an investigation,” Sylvia said. “Especially one that would reveal the fact their son was playing with explosives.”
“Explosives that blew this hole in the earth and killed their only daughter,” Sweetheart said softly. “It’s plausible.”
Sylvia took one more step toward the crater. Over the years, branches, leaves, and trash had gathered in the deep hole. A gleam of light caught her eye. She moved to the edge, identified the lip of a large corrugated pipe, twisted, torn, and penetrating earth and broken concrete. For an instant, she felt herself sway, unsteady, off balance. Water dripped from the rough metal—a rhythmically hypnotic sound. Part of the city’s infrastructure . . . another pipe leading deep underground.
For only in destroying I find ease/To my relentless thoughts.
Abruptly, she cried out as earth gave way and she dropped toward the bottom of the filthy crater. Pain streaked through her muscles, her shoulder burned where her arm was stretched back and up. Sweetheart had caught her, heaved her onto solid ground—all one neat movement. Sylvia stumbled away from the hole.
“Jesus,” she murmured when she’d caught her breath. “Thank you.”
He nodded, remaining silent.
For several minutes they stood at the edge of the lot where the land fell away to blend with the home-studded hillside, the canyons, and the distant—and very vulnerable—city.
Finally, Sylvia said, “Dantes’ guilt is one issue; yours is another. You’re not responsible for Jason’s death.”
Sweetheart swung his head round to stare at her now. His eyes, the color of a storm sky, were accusing. But their focus was internal. The professor—for all his intellect and analytic skill—was a man stricken and turned inside out by grief and rage.
A dangerously potent combination—especially under the circumstances.
Sylvia took one more breath, gathering courage as she stepped off the edge of an invisible psychic cliff. “I believe it’s possible that Dantes has chosen psychological blind-ness—perhaps he truly doesn’t possess the ego strength to see the truth.
“But you, Sweetheart . . . you can’t afford not to see. Don’t confuse revenge with justice. Time is running out.”
5th Circle . . .
Two Damned Souls
Each man is born possessing the map to the Holy Land, a territory of the body and the soul to call his own. But oh so quickly heaven turns to hell. I too have loved and lost.
Mole’s Manifesto
1:01 P.M. The bomb is set to detonate at 1:18:30.
M’s truck is idling in the shade of an old eucalyptus. He tears the sanitary paper wrapping from the tip of his straw, and he sips very cold cola. The radio plays oldies.
All morning, he has tagged along with Sweetheart and Strange.
Now he has managed to get ahead of them for a few minutes.
Obviously, they have no idea they are carrying death with them in the green Mercedes. After their detour to Valley Vista Drive, Sweetheart went over his baby with great care; he found no IEDs attached like barnacles; no one had tampered with gas tank or hood; nothing had triggered the silent alarm.
But the truth is, M has been ahead of them since the beginning.
They carry death because Dr. Strange brought it with her—from the trunk of her rented Lincoln to the house on Selma, to the armored Mercedes.
M gazes out at the two-lane road for a sign of the green sedan. Nothing yet.
He spends more time surveying the surroundings. The hill behind him and the canyon across the road both wear the scars of recent wildfires. Each burning season, the Santa Ana winds catch sparks in the California desert, and then they whip those flames into a molecular frenzy until earth’s very skin is burned away and whatever is left is scorched and blackened.
M is grateful for the shade. He has inhabited places in the world where the only relief from the sun is a man’s own shadow; and he has seen grown men—skin blistered, eyes singed, tongues swollen and black—leaping like joyful toddlers, arms stretched wide, legs hopping as they chase their own shadows across endless oceans of sand. He has been among those whose job it is to bury such fools. Wielding rope and shovel while the sun and the mercury dance skyward, he has hurled sand over withered bodies, he has sent souls from this world with curses instead of prayers.
It is reason that bursts into flames, it is sanity that burns hottest, and it is the ember of faith that dies last.
Oh yes, it is faith that prolongs the torment and suffering of men.
He folds back the wax paper from his sandwich, and he carefully removes a thin slice of dill pickle. From his parking place, he has a view of traffic as it traverses the canyon. For at least five hundred yards each vehicle is in full view, even spotlighted by dappled sun.
M waits for his inquisitors, taking advantage of this momentary lull by enjoying a shady lunch hour. This has also given him time to meditate—on life, on death, past and future. On the imminent future of the man and woman who pursue him.
Sweetheart and Strange. They sound like a vaudeville team. He smiles.
But his smile fades.
They are not so funny after all, he thinks to himself as the green Mer
cedes crests a small rise to emerge into plain view.
Dantes has grown much too involved with the woman. He is playing with fire.
And Sweetheart . . ..
After all, the fifth circle is reserved for the angry, the wrathful, the sullen.
He turns the key in the ignition. He fastens his seat belt. He adjusts the rearview mirror, even checks his teeth for remnants of food.
The last of his sandwich rests beside him on the seat of his truck. Quickly, neatly, he collects the scraps of lettuce, ham, and bread and the plastic paper wrap, and he deposits it all into a trash bag.
As he releases the brake and allows the truck to roll forward, gauging his entrance into traffic, he checks to make sure his cell phone is handy.
Timing is everything.
Accelerating Metal with Explosives: This method is used to predict the velocity to which explosives can accelerate materials placed in contact with them.
Paul W. Cooper and Stanley R. Kurowski, Technology of Explosives
1:03 P.M. To quiet the chaos of his mind, Sweetheart kept his eyes on the tumbling view of the canyon as the Mercedes navigated the twists and turns of Topanga. The environment of dense foliage, thick underbrush, and tall tree canopy represented a simple system compared to the complexities of human interaction.
Sylvia seemed content to focus on scenery, too.
Sweetheart took advantage of the mutual silence to let go of his previous mood. Their exchange at the ruins of Simon Mole’s old residence had bothered him much more than he liked to admit. He didn’t want to think about Jason. Or Molly. He shook off images that threatened to disturb his focus. He concentrated on the mechanics of driving.
The Mercedes was in its element, gliding along, oblivious to the steep drop-offs, the ragged corners, the rock slides of Topanga. For miles, traffic was surprisingly light; they shared the road with a few bikers, assorted commuters, a horse trailer or two. Until they reached the village. As they passed the market, the secondhand store, the restaurant and realty offices, vehicles lined up and the cruising speed slowed to fifteen miles per hour. At this pace it would be tomorrow before they reached the coast.
Two miles outside the village, the Mercedes doubled speed again, hitting thirty, then forty. Still, they were a good ten minutes from the junction of Topanga Canyon Boulevard, Pacific Coast Highway, and the restaurant.
1:14 P.M. Sweetheart watched as Sylvia riffled in her briefcase.
He reached across, placing his cell phone in her lap. “Use mine.”
She punched in a number—Sweetheart thought it must belong to Leo Carreras—then she hugged the handset to her ear. After thirty seconds, she swore under her breath. “His voice mail picked up.”
“In four minutes we’ll be at the restaurant—you can talk to Leo in person.”
“Why didn’t he make it easy and meet us at his house?”
“I’m assuming he had business out this way; a consultation.” He glanced at her. “This isn’t exactly a major detour.”
Sylvia nodded, but Sweetheart saw her jam her hands between her thighs. A sudden awareness, he guessed, that she’d been gnawing on her fingernails for the last five miles. Better fingernails than pills or cigarettes, he thought.
With a big sigh, she closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat. She didn’t open them again until Sweetheart slowed around a curve. They were less than a mile from the coastal highway and the Pacific Ocean. Here, small businesses had worked their way up the canyon, and hodgepodge signs and billboards advertised surfboards, flowers, hamburgers, palm readings.
Hot weather had only intensified the usual seaside crowds.
He shifted into second gear, anticipating the intersection, now three quarters of a mile away.
Sylvia jumped in her seat as the cell phone bleated.
When she offered Sweetheart the phone, he barked: “Yes, Luke?”
“Professor?” Something was wrong—Luke’s voice was thin and tense. “He’s on the other line—he says it’s an emergency.”
“Turn on the recorder, then put him through,” Sweetheart said, his voice flat with urgency. He heard several clicks as Luke made the connections; then a new voice addressed him.
“Furious Phlegyas—you’re just in time for a lesson in the fifth circle. We both know who falls so low . . .”
“Souls ruled by anger.”
“Dantes said you were good, Professor.”
“Get to the point.”
“Stay away from the temple of the sun god.”
“Apollo.” Sweetheart was concentrating on aural information—instantly processing M’s verbal content, tone and phrasing, references. At the same time, he was scanning traffic, pedestrians, the intersection ahead.
“Who’s burning the temple?” Sweetheart caught sight of a low sedan with tinted windows. Then a van parked in the lot of the market across the street caught his eye. He said, “Simon? Is that—”
“Shut up and listen,” M ordered. “Your baby is carrying a special package—and she’s set to blow in . . . one minute, two seconds.”
“What do you—”
“Make that one minute exactly.”
Click. Disconnection.
Sweetheart saw his fear mirrored in Sylvia’s dark eyes.
“Start timing forty-five seconds,” he ordered. “We’ve got a bomb.”
“Oh, shit.” But she was already focusing on her watch.
“Give me every five—out loud,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Forty-five.”
“What did you bring with you in the car?”
“My briefcase—my phone—forty seconds—my laptop—”
Sweetheart saw the laminated plastic case beneath Sylvia’s feet. “It’s in the laptop.”
Sylvia pulled back abruptly, and her fingers dug into leather—but she didn’t lose focus. “Thirty-five seconds,” she said. “Can we throw it—”
She broke off, registering cars, pedestrians, the highway traffic signal—now just a hundred feet ahead—turning yellow. “Thirty!”
“Hold on!” Sweetheart bellowed, bearing down simultaneously on the horn and the accelerator.
The Mercedes shot forward, weaving past a FedEx truck, a yellow school bus, and an open Jeep filled with teenagers, then dodging a dozen oncoming motorcycles. He barely registered the surprise on the faces of the middle-aged bikers.
“Twenty-five seconds,” Sylvia hissed.
“Give me your briefcase!”
She shoved the leather case into his lap.
The Bay View Restaurant, just ahead, was perched on fortified bedrock and pilings, overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
Due to constant shoring of an eroding coast, the parking lot (where it met the cliff edge) was rimmed with a series of five-foot-high metal posts, each embedded in a roughly molded concrete base; orange hazard tape strung from pole to pole was all that alerted drivers of danger—a headfirst dive onto the rocky tidal zone twenty feet below the cliff.
Thank God it was tape instead of the usual seven-foot-high chain-link fence.
Sweetheart downshifted, scanning the area; he saw a young mother pushing a baby in an elaborate stroller. She was midway across the lot.
He prayed the Mercedes had enough metal to contain most of the blast.
“Twenty seconds—”
—and a red light.
But Sweetheart kept going—horn blaring as he plowed the Mercedes through the busy intersection. Oncoming cars skidded left and right. A massive tour bus went into a long, harrowing skid across asphalt. The Mercedes scraped bumpers before it bounced over the curb into the crowded parking lot of the restaurant.
They were headed straight for the cliff.
Now he braked, shouting, “Get ready to jump!” From the corner of his eye, he saw Leo Carreras standing near the door of the restaurant.
“Ten seconds!”
“Do it, now, Sylvia! Jump!”
She pushed open the door, and he shoved her out with his right arm. He
saw a blur of color as she hit the ground.
Just ahead, a narrow parking space with a blue-and-white handicapped insignia would give him access to the ocean—if the Mercedes didn’t blow first.
He pushed open the driver-side door.
Please don’t detonate—
He jammed Sylvia’s briefcase onto the accelerator just as he thrust himself from the vehicle. Pain shot through his body as he collided with earth.
The linen sleeve of his jacket caught on metal as the Mercedes shot forward like a two-ton bullet.
Sweetheart’s feet left the ground, his body torqued, and he was dragged ten feet to the edge of the cliff.
When he was inches from air—inches from jagged tidal rocks and roiling ocean waves—the fabric of his suit gave way like a zipper.
The Mercedes lunged, plunging off the side of the cliff in a perfect suicide dive, but Sweetheart, suddenly free of forward thrust, seemed to float in midair.
Abruptly, he fell to the ground, where gravel bit into his skin as his body came to rest halfway off the precipice. He grabbed for a handhold, catching a bit of exposed root, a few strands of yucca.
He heard the booming explosion of the bomb as it drowned out the softer roar of Pacific breakers. He saw flames, and shooting stars.
His Mercedes crumpled, shattered into fiery bits and pieces.
He thought it like a prayer: Nokotta. You’re still in the match.
You’re still alive.
The disagreements that have arisen over the meaning, significance, and consequences of anarchy—especially with respect to the extent to which the absence of central authority hinders the prospects of inter-state cooperation—is at the center of the latest academic controversy between neorealism and neoliberalism.
Brian C. Schmidt, The Political Discourse of Anarchy
M watches as the car explodes into a vortex of mutating metal, glass, plastic, until it is broken down to its basic, primary car elements.
He shifts into first gear, merging carefully with southbound traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway.
Time to go. The forces of good will arrive any minute. And he has a long drive ahead of him—and an important stop to make, a crucial job to do—before he can return to the apartment in San Pedro.
