by Sarah Lovett
Dark Alchemy
Sarah Lovett
Copyright © 2003, Sarah Lovett
First published in the U.S. by Simon & Schuster
For my two brothers and three sisters, and for my daughter, Pearl.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to
David Rosenthal
Theresa Park, Alexandra Greene, Rachel Bressler, Peter Knapp and Co. at Park Literary
Aileen Boyle
Loretta Denner
Miriam Sagan
Maggie Griffin
Saul Cohen
Michael Mariano
Mike Gelles
Dr. Reid Meloy
Pat Berssenbrugge
Bruce Mann, M.D.
Barb Curry, M.D.
John Koch
Joe Prezioso
Dr. James Eisenberg
David Doughton, Esq.
Jay Milano, Esq.
Alice Dixon and Stan Cohen
Hank Blackwell
Annie Lingren and Jill Ryan
John Wolcott and Jan Arrington-Wolcott
David and Peggy van Hulsteyn
Jude McNally
Tamara Kessler and March Kessler
Fritz Feltman
Oru Bose
Eve Velie
Rodney Barker
Danny and Laurie Lehman
Layne Vickers-Smith and Rick Smith
Richard H. Miller, Captain U.S. Navy Retired
Marilyn Abraham and Sandy Macgregor
Tim Thompson
Suz and Brianna Johnson
CONTENTS
PART I
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
PART II
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
PART III
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
PART IV
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART I
The Secret Art
PROLOGUE
Doug Thomas fed the cat, walked the dog, and left for work in his two-year-old Subaru Outback. It was business as usual for the thirty-six-year-old molecular toxicologist, except for the headache. A doozy. Gene Krupa playing sticks on his gray matter.
Doug popped two Extra Strength Tylenol and donned his sunglasses. Must be his sinuses acting up again; he'd been having trouble lately. His fingers had been tingling and now his field of vision was blurry around the edges. Bad headaches could do that. When his ex-wife called about the child support check, she always had the same three complaints: men, money, migraines.
Headache or no, Doug couldn't afford to stay home. No rest for the wicked, he thought to himself with a tight smile. Stay on schedule, business as usual, no break with routine. Nothing to tip them to the fact he'd pulled off another extracurricular assignment. Ten minutes' work—only moderately risky—and this time he'd bought himself the chance to erase his debts once and for all.
Keep up appearances—that's all I have to do. Can't afford to miss a minute at the lab.
This was a crucial window for Project Mithradates. The Mith Squad had made a major breakthrough—"Building a better biotoxin," he whispered. They'd developed an entirely new manufacturing process (not to mention quantum improvements in the delivery system) using their quarry.
And a fascinating quarry it was—a relative (third cousin twice removed) of Gymnodinium breve, the dinoflagellate responsible for red tides, and Pfiesteria pisicida. Lethal little bastard. Still, you couldn't help but admire its chameleon nature: opportunistic, unpredictable, changeable.
Got to hand it to their project head, the Ice Queen. For all her bitchiness, she is truly amazing—come to think of it, not unlike their killer tox: opportunistic, unpredictable, lethal.
What was a headache compared to everything he'd been through over the past months? he wondered bitterly. He'd vowed he wouldn't let the petty personality differences affect his concentration. Territorial disputes were part of every research project, federal, state, private—just like they were part of every family. In a field as narrowly focused as his, fellow researchers interacted like some extended clan, complete with feuds and alliances. He'd been down this road before. He told himself it would go no further than disputes over territory; in the end it would all work out. The bastards were always on his case anyway—he'd yet to see eye to eye with his supervisors on any project.
But hell, a little bickering never killed anyone.
In fact, all in all, Dr. Doug Thomas was looking forward to his day. His thirty-five-minute commute—he lived in a sweet little river valley, and the lab was on a mountaintop—allowed him to organize and prepare mentally for the work ahead.
He usually finished his PB&J sandwich before he reached the main highway, and he almost always swallowed the last of the Earl Grey tea in his thermos at the alpine treeline, where the view was awesome. But this morning he'd forgotten to make his sandwich; the jar of Jif was sitting on the counter at home, as was the milk for his tea. And when Doug tried to open the thermos, his fingers felt stiff.
He spilled half of the contents into his lap; the other half tasted like bitter water, and it was cold, not hot. A sudden, fleeting bout of nausea hit—he managed to keep from vomiting. He did not remember that he'd been sick the night before.
In fact, by the time he approached the main highway, Doug Thomas wasn't registering much of anything. He was functioning on autopilot. A faint internal voice warned him that he should take his foot off the gas pedal. The voice was meaningless because Doug could no longer respond to voluntary commands from his brain. He was traveling in a deep fog.
The thermos toppled, spilling the last of the tea onto his thigh, but he didn't feel the liquid contact. Sunglasses couldn't ease the bright, blinding light because it came from behind his eyes, an explosion of illumination. Fear came and went. Terror turned his skin cold—and then that emotion receded, too.
A weary sigh escaped his lips. A heavy calm slowed his body. He moved through molasses. His right foot grew heavy as it pressed down on the accelerator. The dark blue cross-trainer with the white laces seemed to belong to someone else.
As Doug Thomas drove his Subaru across four lanes of oncoming traffic on the highway, he did experience a moment of bewilderment: You'd almost think I was poisoned.
The two-ton truck hit the Subaru broadside and Doug Thomas was killed almost instantly.
CHAPTER
1
redrider: well done! bravo!
alchemist: have we met?
redrider: call me an admirer
alchemist: ?
redrider: I was impressed with the way you handled your associate
alchemist: sorry?
redrider: Dr. T—brilliantly done
alchemist: don't know what you're talking about
redrider: I'm still not sure how you managed the exposure
redrider: hello . . .
redrider: I know you're there
redrider:
take all the time you need I'll be waiting
CHAPTER
2
"One of the most problematic aspects of the case is the longitudinal factor; the deaths have occurred over a span of at least a decade," Edmond Sweetheart said. He was standing by the window of his room at the Eldorado Hotel. Behind him the New Mexico sky was the color of raw turquoise and quartzite, metallic cirrus clouds highlighting a blue-green scrim.
"Why did it take so long to put it together?" Dr. Sylvia Strange had chosen to sit at one end of a cream-colored suede sofa in front of a polished burl table, the room's centerpiece. For the moment, she would keep her distance—from Sweetheart, from this new case. Her slender fingers slid over the black frame of the sunglasses that still shaded her eyes. Her shoulder-length hair was slightly damp from the shower she'd taken after a harder than usual workout at the gym. She studied the simple arrangement of flowers on the table: pale lavender orchids blooming from a slender vase the color of moss. Late-afternoon sun highlighted the moist, fleshlike texture of the blossoms. The air was laced with a heavy, sweet scent. "Why didn't anybody link the deaths?"
"They were written off as accidents." Sweetheart frowned. "Everyone missed the connection—the CID, FBI, Dutch investigators—until a biochem grad assistant was poisoned in London six months ago. Her name was Samantha Grayson. Her fiancé happened to be an analyst with MI-6—the Brits' intelligence service responsible for foreign intelligence. He didn't buy the idea that his girlfriend had accidentally contaminated herself with high doses of an experimental neurotoxin. Samantha Grayson died a bad death, but her fiancé had some consolation—he zeroed in on a suspect."
"But MI-6 chases spies, not serial poisoners." Sylvia stretched both arms along the crest of the couch, settling in. "And this is a criminal matter." She was aware that Sweetheart was impatient. He reminded her of a parent irritated with a sassing child. "So who gets to play Sherlock Holmes, the FBI?"
"As of last week, the case belongs to the FBI, yes."
She nodded. Although the FBI handled most of its investigations on home turf, in complex international criminal cases, the feds were often called upon to head up investigations, to integrate information from all involved local law enforcement agencies—and to ward off the inevitable territorial battles that could destroy any chance of successful closure.
"And the FBI is using you—"
"To gather a profile on the suspect."
Sylvia shrugged. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but the last time I looked, you were a counterterrorism expert. Is there something you're leaving out of your narration?"
"There are unusual facets to this case."
"For instance."
"The suspect deals with particularly lethal neurotoxins classified as biological weapons. As far as we know, at this moment, there's no active terrorist agenda; nevertheless, more than one agency is seeking swift resolution."
Sweetheart settled his full weight on the window ledge, which looked too delicate to support his 280 pounds. "The suspect is female, Caucasian, forty-four, never married, although she's had a series of lovers. She's American, a research toxicologist and molecular biochemist with an IQ that's off the charts."
"You've got my attention."
"She received her B.S. from Harvard, then went on to complete her graduate work at Berkeley, top of her class, then medical school and a one-year fellowship at MIT—by then she was all of twenty-six. She rose swiftly in her career. She cut her teeth on the big shows—Rajneesh, Aum Shinrykyo, the Ventro extortion. She had access to the anthrax samples after nine-eleven—worked for all the big players, including Lawrence Livermore, the CDC, WHO, USAMRID, DOD. As a consultant she's worked in the private sector as well." Sweetheart knew the facts, reciting them succinctly, steadily, until he paused for emphasis. "Two, maybe three people in the world know as much about exotic neurotoxins and their antidotes as this woman. No one knows more."
Sylvia set her sunglasses on the table next to the moss-colored vase. She rubbed the two tiny contact triangles that marked the bridge of her nose. "How many people has she killed? Who were they?"
"It appears the victims were colleagues, fellow researchers, grad assistants. How many? Three? Five? A half dozen?" Sweetheart shrugged. "The investigation has been a challenge. Five days ago the target was put under surveillance. We both know it's a trick to gather forensic evidence in a serial case without tipping off the bad guy. Add to that the fact that she doesn't use mundane, easily detectable compounds like arsenic or cyanide. Bodies still need to be exhumed; after years, compounds degrade, pathologists come up with inconclusive data. Think Donald Harvey: he was convicted of thirty-nine poisonings; his count was eighty-six. We may never know how many people she's poisoned."
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Christine Palmer."
"Fielding Palmer's daughter?" Sylvia was visibly surprised.
Sweetheart nodded. "What do you know about her?"
"What everybody knows. There was a short profile in Time or Newsweek a year ago—tied to that outbreak of environmental fish toxin and the rumors it was some government plot to cover up research in biological weapons. The slant of the profile was 'daughter follows in famous father's footsteps.'" Sylvia shifted position, settling deeper into the couch, crossing her ankles. She toyed restlessly with the diamond and ruby ring on the third finger of her left hand. "That can't have been easy. Fielding Palmer was amazing. Immunologist, biologist, pioneering AIDS researcher, writer."
"Did you read his book?"
Sylvia nodded. Fielding Palmer had died of brain cancer in the early 1990s, at the height of his fame and just after the publication of his classic, A Life of Small Reflections. The book was a series of essays exploring the ethical complexities, the moral dilemmas, of scientific research at the close of the twentieth century. He'd been a prescient writer, anticipating the ever deepening moral and ethical quicksand of a world that embraced the science of gene therapy, cloning, and the bioengineering of new organisms.
Sylvia frowned. It jarred and disturbed—this idea that his only daughter might be a serial poisoner. The thought had an obscene quality.
She saw that Sweetheart had his eyes on her again—he was reading her, gleaning information like some biochemically sensitive scanner. Well, let him wait; she signaled time-out as she left the couch, heading for the dark oak cabinet that accommodated the room's minibar. She squatted down in front of the cabinet, selecting a miniature of Stolichnaya and a can of tonic from the refrigerator and a bag of Cheetos from the drawer.
"Join me?" she asked as she poured vodka into a tumbler.
"Maybe later."
Sylvia swirled the liquid in the glass, and the tiny bubbles of tonic seemed to bounce off the oily vodka. She turned, holding the glass in front of her face, staring at Sweetheart, her left eye magnified through a watery lens. She said, "That's the beauty of poison—invisibility."
"Toxicology protocol is much more sophisticated than it used to be," Sweetheart said. "But there will always be undetectable poisons. Even water is toxic in the right dose. You have to know what you're looking for—there are new organisms, new compounds discovered all the time. You have to know what to culture, what to analyze, which screens to run."
When Sylvia was settled once more on the couch, she balanced her heels on the table and tore the snack bag open with her teeth. She ate a half dozen of the orange puffs before tossing the bag onto the polished wood. "Okay." She held up her index finger: "Why you?" Her middle finger: "Why me?" Her ring finger, complete with precious stones: "Why now?"
"The FBI has a problem—their strongest tool is a psychological profile, because there are no eyewitnesses; no secret poison cache turned up in Palmer's basement. All the evidence is circumstantial. The purpose of the profile is twofold: to track her patterns, her M.O., to look for a signature—and to prime investigators for the interrogation process. I'm their profiling consultant, I've got carte blanche."
"And you want me because—"
&
nbsp; "Adam Riker."
The answer in a name.
Sylvia nodded, not surprised, but discomfited all the same. Months after the investigation, she still had nightmares about the Riker case. Adam Riker had been a nurse, a hospice specialist, who'd worked at nursing homes and V.A. hospitals in Texas and California, and most recently at an Indian hospital in New Mexico. He'd had another speciality in addition to nursing—serial murder. He'd poisoned at least thirty-five victims, ranging in age from an unborn child to a ninety-nine-year-old war veteran. And Sylvia had been part of the profiling team. In they end they'd brought him down—but not before more victims died.
"The Riker case is fresh in your mind," Sweetheart said, interrupting her thoughts. "You know better than I do that poisoners have their own special tics."
Sylvia didn't respond; she was looking straight at Sweetheart—seeing not his face but the faces of Riker's victims.
"You'll work with me on the psychological profile—that means some intensive travel, interviews, assessment of the data we've already got, and retrieval of new data. It will be down and dirty, no time for anything but down and dirty. We'll stay in close touch with Quantico—running our data past their guys—and our local contacts will be the field agents on surveillance and their S.A.C. It's a short list—intentionally short—to avoid attracting attention. We'll have to give the investigators the tools they need for interrogation. We'll give them her stress points, her soft spots, her jugular. Once they have enough to bring her in, they're going to have to break Christine Palmer."
"A confession?"
"As I said, so far all the evidence is circumstantial."
"They'll need hard evidence."
"What they need is a homicide on U.S. soil."
"Are you certain she's your poisoner?"
He barely hesitated. "Yes."
"So Palmer had the expertise and the access, the method and the means. What about motive?" Sylvia thought Sweetheart's energy belonged to a caged cat—behind steel bars he was pacing a path in concrete.
He turned his head, avoiding her scrutiny, and said, "Before Samantha Grayson's death, she confided in her fiancé—the analyst; his name is Paul Lang. Samantha said she'd been spooked by Palmer. There was an incident where Palmer criticized Grayson's protocol—she flew into a rage and threatened Grayson. At the time Lang encouraged his girlfriend to go to someone with more authority to mediate the dispute. Grayson said nobody had more authority than Palmer."
