by Sarah Lovett
“You can tell him yourself,” Sylvia said, desperate to offer bait.
“I’ll trust you to give him the message. And while you’re at it, tell Sweetheart—no more genetic future.”
“Talk to me—,” Sweetheart interjected.
“Please—” Through the speaker, Molly Redding’s voice cracked with terror. “Don’t let him—”
“Molly!”
But the line was dead.
Simultaneously, Agent Purcell made contact with FBI monitors. “We’ve got him,” she said. “Just northeast of Union Station.”
But Sweetheart was already out of the van. Sylvia followed.
She scanned the surrounding buildings, her gaze lingering on the low arches and soft angles of Union Station.
Sweetheart stood rooted, eyes closed, face tilted upward. He created a still point in the midst of chaos.
She heard him call to her, and a fragment of refracted light drew her eye skyward to the logo MTA.
Three o’clock. North by northeast. She shifted her body to stare up at the elegant tower with its angles of white and gray and blue, building and sky working together in visual harmony.
Ishtar’s Gate. Not Union Station but its closest neighbor, the Metropolitan Transit Authority; MTA. The gateway to a city.
And then Sweetheart stepped forward, just as the molded tower began to crumple in upon itself like wadded paper, echoing the deep reverberating noise of destruction. People screamed, crouching to the ground, their faces turned skyward, displaying astonishment.
Ishtar’s Gate—in the process of meltdown—but standing even as glass skin shattered and half its skeleton was exposed to air. A shimmering aura of fragments forming where solid matter had existed. Positive and negative space shifting in an instant. An atomic bomb, a tornado, a black hole—the clouds rising in mushroom curves.
A large chunk of twisted metal landed on the sidewalk not far from where Sylvia leaned into shelter behind the car. The deafening roar, delayed by physical barriers to sound waves, followed. People were thrown off balance.
For an instant, time stopped. Then sirens split the air.
Through it all, Sweetheart stood staring up at Molly Redding’s tomb. A great roar escaped his throat, and the sound was swallowed by the echo of the explosion, and then it was lifted into the sky like a horrible bird.
Each human is progeny of environment, be that island, savanna, rain forest, or mountain. Echoing the great Sierra chain, Los Angeles has thrust itself violently upward and outward, indelibly shifting landscape and vista, psyche and soul—shaping, molding, testing its offspring; seducing generation after generation—man, woman, and child—to the promise of its urban bosom, a dry teat of steel and glass.
John Dantes
Sunday—10:10 A.M. Sylvia stared out at the western flank of Los Angeles. Viewed from the fourth floor of the FBI’s Los Angeles field office, the city appeared to be functioning as if nothing extraordinary had happened over the past eighteen hours—as if a high-rise in the center of downtown hadn’t been ripped in half by a bomb, as if a miracle hadn’t kept the casualty rate down to a handful. She touched her fingers to the tempered windowpane; one story below, a man dangled from a harness; while she watched, he scraped a squeegee over glass. Below the window washer, on street level, pedestrians flowed in a light but steady stream to and from the parking area.
The FBI’s LA field office (on Wilshire Boulevard) is the third-largest in the nation. With almost six hundred agents, the office handles the work created by an abundance of bank robbers, star stalkers, gangsters—and bombers inspired by the explosive precedent set on October 1, 1910, when activists blew up a corner of the Los Angeles Times building, killing twenty, injuring seventeen.
The same historical crime—unionists versus antiunion forces—motivated the placement of one of John Dantes’ bombs almost a century later.
But Sylvia wasn’t thinking of Dantes or the questions that remained unanswered. For a few minutes, she was hardly aware of Special Agent Purcell, now carrying on a telephone conversation at her desk. Instead, she thought of Molly Redding and her son, Jason. She pictured the delicate, childlike features of the woman, mirrored in the boy, both dead by the hands of the same bomber.
“We’ve got the preliminary forensic report,” Purcell said, as she hung up the telephone. Slow to start, the federal agent seemed reluctant to speak at all, but she ran fingers through her cropped hair and said, “The remains of at least two adults—one male, one female—have been identified. No positive DNA match yet for Molly Redding, but we did find some personal items still fairly intact. They’ve been identified by her uncle. The lab is rushing the PCRDNA, and we should have it within forty-eight hours.” Purcell sighed. “If the building hadn’t been closed for quake renovation, we’d have a casualty rate in the hundreds.”
Sylvia didn’t turn away from the window; she could feel the warmth emanating through tinted glass. It was only four o’clock, and the sun wasn’t giving the city any breaks when it came to heat. “Did you locate any existing samples to match Simon Mole’s DNA?”
“Not yet. Not Simon, not Ben Black.” The agent chewed on her lip; fatigue showed around her eyes, evident in the darker shadows above her cheekbones. “But we’ll stay on it until we have conclusive evidence—I promise you that.”
Sylvia nodded listlessly. She respected Purcell—was even beginning to like the woman—but she didn’t want to be here listening to promises that the FBI had no power to make. She took two steps back toward the window, touched her fingers to glass, but the exterior view didn’t distract from the feeling that she was caged, contained inside a small cubicle. Her mind felt imprisoned—her thoughts kept hitting the wall.
Through the room’s sole interior pane—narrow and vertical—she’d gleaned a limited view of a long carpeted hallway; she’d seen Sweetheart pass by earlier—he hadn’t reacted to her presence.
Sylvia had a pounding headache, but she kept her focus on Purcell; the agent was weighing how much more information her superiors had authorized her to share with a civilian psychologist against what she felt she owed Sylvia out of respect. Respect won out over duty. She offered a photograph.
“A digital cam—an experimental street surveillance project, thanks to LAPD—caught this food service truck, which was packed with ANFO, entering the underground parking lot,” Purcell said at last. “A variation of the Oklahoma City and WTC bombings. You can just see the face of the driver. The camera was mounted on a pole opposite MTA, about a hundred feet away, but our techs enlarged the picture.”
Sylvia stared at the photo. Three quarters of the driver’s face was obscured, allowing only a glimpse of profile. “M would hire a driver for delivery. Exposing himself, taking stupid risks, that’s not his style.” Sylvia shifted, aware of her own uneasiness. “What about the man living with Molly Redding?”
“We’re on it.” Purcell nodded. “But he didn’t leave much of a trail. The neighbors hardly saw him—he came and went at all hours. He drove a truck—it looked like some kind of company truck—but nobody remembers a logo. Everything in the apartment was clean—too clean.”
“Just like the workshop. That sounds like M. An invisible man with an African gray who quotes Nietzsche.” Sylvia picked up a pencil from Purcell’s desk. When she flipped it nervously through her fingers it slipped to the floor. “Do you believe M is dead?”
“Do you?” Purcell asked.
“No. I believe Simon Mole is dead.”
“M and Mole are the same man,” Purcell said warily. “We’re not talking twins or split personality . . .” There was the slightest lift of inflection punctuating her statement.
“No multiple personalities,” Sylvia agreed, pressing her fingers to her aching temples. “But, we can talk about splitting. It’s almost as if Simon Mole died in the Mulholland explosion—but it was a psychic death, not a physical one. That’s why the profile match only came up with a midrange probability.”
Purcell offe
red 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.”
