by Sarah Lovett
Molly felt the fingers of night close around her weary soul; she lay down beside her sleeping son and snuggled close.
When the hour is very late, you have to shock people out of their fear, their inertia. Yes, I believe that. History makes that point painfully obvious.
Professor John Dantes, radio interview, 1990
4:37 A.M. It was Sweetheart who roused Sylvia from half sleep.
“I need you now.”
“What—”
“Molly. Meet me at the car.”
And then he’d disappeared from the doorway.
She stumbled into jeans and T-shirt, didn’t even stop to pee, just grabbed her high-tops and baseball cap.
Luke was at her side as she half ran down the hall toward the garage. He shoved a page into her hand, relaying news in a breathless, verbal shorthand: “This e-mail came in four minutes ago. Computer’s set to alert us. I tried Molly—no answer, no machine. Fifteen minutes to San Pedro if you burn rubber. On orders, the cops are waiting outside her apartment.”
Luke already had the passenger door open on the newly leased Mercedes, and he shut it firmly when she was inside. “I’ve got the maps up—ready to plug in any new coordinates. Purcell will meet you there,” he called out, as Sweetheart gunned the engine.
Sylvia didn’t read the e-mail until they were pulling out of the iron gates.
hell 4 thse who ignore cry innocents
mke best victims
sweet heart?
yr niece so luvly
read yr map well bet. palace and rivr
we meet agin
M
5:19 A.M. If Los Angeles was a dreaming woman, San Pedro was the crook of her elbow, where she rested her head on the Pacific. Molly Redding lived on a hill overlooking the docks and the choppy blue-gray waters of the harbor, where tankers were lined up along the landing piers.
A squad car was parked on the street outside the modest 1950s-style building where Sweetheart had just entered the single glass door. He was beginning the ascent by stair to the fourth floor.
Sylvia followed on his heels.
They discovered a uniformed cop rooted just outside Molly Redding’s apartment.
Sweetheart flashed his credentials. “Did you go in?” he asked sharply.
“Yes sir, I did. To eliminate the possibility of a 10–45.” The cop nodded. “There aren’t any bombs.”
With a growl, Sweetheart invaded the other man’s space. “You did not locate an explosive device. Doesn’t mean it’s not there. You got that?”
“Sir.”
“If you moved one molecule of evidence—”
“No sir.”
They brushed past the officer into the small apartment, treading very carefully, acutely aware of the possibility of booby-trapped IEDs.
Light was the first thing Sylvia noticed; the small apartment glowed yellow. Dawn’s rays turned the painted walls to melted butter.
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 possibl
e 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.”
8th Circle . . .
And There Was a Great Earthquake
W(TNT·equivalent) = Wexp (Pcj/p0)exp/(Pcj/p0)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.”
A gray-and-brown car zigzagged through traffic. Special Agent Purcell brought the Lincoln to a stop at the curb. As she exited the vehicle, squinting into the glare of the sun, her sunglasses slid down her chocolate nose.
“We’ve alerted LAPD and the transit guys; they’re prepared to evacuate the station. So far, the search teams haven’t turned up a damn thing.” She surveyed their immediate surroundings—parking lots already filled with cars, commuters coming and going, a train pulling up on track B just beyond the main terminal. And buildings—every-where—a million places for a bomber to hide. “We need more than guesswork—” Her phone emitted a sharp bleat, and the air took on an instant electrical charge.
“This is Purcell. Give us ten seconds, then put him through.” She eyed Sweetheart. “M. He wants you. Keep him talking, we’re running the trace.”
At that moment, a gray van pulled up behind the Mercedes, and a man wearing Levi’s and a golf shirt stepped out. Purcell—followed closely by Sweetheart, Sylvia, and Leo—sprinted to the open door, motioning them to climb inside. Sylvia went first, then Sweetheart and Leo, and then Purcell joined them, slamming the door. Another agent was already inside; that made five bodies and assorted surveillance equipment encased behind tinted, bullet-proof windows.
The agent was wearing an almost invisible headphone. “The speaker will pick up everything unless I cut off reception,” he told them. “Keep your mouths shut unless you want him to hear you. Ready?” He extended an index finger in Sweetheart’s direction; with his other hand, he clicked a switch. He nodded—go.
Sweetheart identified himself by name.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then a voice issued from a speaker: “Uncle Sweetheart?”
“I’m here, Molly. Are you all right?”
“He says the missiles killed his family,” Molly Redding said softly.
“Let me speak to him,” Sweetheart said. “I know he can hear me.”
“He killed Jason, and he’s going to kill me, too.”
“M? Why are you always hiding behind women and children?” Sweetheart asked. “Why do you let them take your bullets for you?”
“Are you talking about me? Or you?” This new voice was male, monotone.
“I’m talking about you: Simon Mole—Ben Black—M.”
They waited. Sylvia realized she was holding her breath, and she expelled a soft stream of air reluctantly just as she heard the voice again.
“I
believe in retribution.”
“Let Molly go,” Sweetheart said calmly. “You and I can settle our score. I’ll meet you anywhere you want—I’ll come alone. You have my word.”
“This is my show,” he responded softly through the speaker. “If I say jump, then be ready to jump.” He was silent for several seconds. “If I say die . . .”
“As long as you keep Molly alive, you have my full attention,” Sweetheart said. “Isn’t that what you want? Attention?”
Sylvia bit down on the tip of her thumb—don’t push him too far.
“I want to talk to Strange,” M said impatiently.
All eyes settled on Sylvia—Leo mimed stretch it out—she nodded.
“I’m here,” she said. “What do I call you?”
“Simon works.”
“Bear with me, Simon. I missed some of the basics. How many hostages do you have? What do you need so we can end this without anybody getting hurt?”
“It’s just me and Molly McGee,” Simon said. “Too late for negotiation. I already told you and the Feds what I needed. Nobody pays attention these days.”
“I’m paying attention. I want to understand—”
“No, you don’t. You’re just interested in Dantes.”
Purcell was leaning forward, listening intently to communication from her tiny earphone. She gestured to Sylvia, then she pointed toward the window, toward Union Station, mouthing, Almost got him.
“Simon—,” Sylvia said, nodding at Purcell. The interruption had thrown her, but she didn’t have the time or the room to stumble. “You’ve controlled this show from the beginning.”
“Bullshit!” Now he sounded the way she imagined Simon Mole should sound. Whiny, peevish. “Nobody listened! Not you, not Sweetheart, not even Dantes! But I’ll make you listen.”
“Is this about getting back at Dantes?”
“No . . .” His voice broke. “Yes. I’m tired of the games.”
Sylvia froze when she heard Molly Redding’s scream in the background.
“I’m going to die,” Molly sobbed. “He’s going to blow us up.”
“Molly, where are—”
“Shut up or she’s dead,” Simon said. “It’s all over anyway. Tell Dantes I left him behind to rot in hell.”
