Dark Alchemy (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 5)

by Sarah Lovett

  Silently, he agreed with his S.A.C.: there was no excuse.

  But whose fault was it ultimately? They'd tried repeatedly to contact LANL's deputy director of security—by the time their message was received, the Target was already inside.

  How had Palmer sweet-talked her way past protocol security? And why hadn't protocol security notified internal security?

  If LANL was sloppy . . .

  But it was S.A. Hoopai who was taking the brunt of the heat. As the special agent paced, he shook his head and the transmitter moved like some alien appendage. "Three hundred yards from the Nest," he said, "we have clear skies."

  The cul-de-sac—deserted except for a convention of feral cats, and surrounded by twenty-five-foot pines—gave them an uninterrupted view of the two-story home where the Target resided. Lights were on in several rooms, and the Target's vehicle was parked in the driveway. Agents Hoopai and Weaver had followed her home, put her to bed from a distance.

  The house was situated in a Los Alamos neighborhood that was a few miles north of the lab's hospital and administration buildings. A number of homes in this area had been destroyed by the Cerro Grande fire (the wildfire had prowled like a ravenous beast, taking bites from forest and town); most homes had been rebuilt, but a few lots remained empty.

  "The diner, that's a roger," S.A. Hoopai said slowly, responding to a question. The Target had ordered takeout. "We attempted to establish audio contact regarding ETA with Pest Control—transmission unsuccessful."

  S.A. Hoopai liked the whisper of wind through the trees, liked the scent of pine and wood smoke—unlike his friends and fellow agents who'd been born in cities. They'd never gotten used to space that wasn't covered in concrete.

  "The Target is stable in the Nest," Hoopai said in response to a query. He nodded. "Oh-eight-hundred in your office, roger that." Terminating the transmission, he made a long, doleful face.

  He walked over to the van and retrieved the single can of Diet Coke he'd been saving. He swirled it, held it to his ear, and slowly put pressure on the punch lid. The can opened, and air escaped with a satisfying belch.

  After he finished off a third of the Diet Coke, Special Agent Hoopai directed his surveillance glasses at the two-story house, the Nest.

  The Target—clearly visible through her office window—was seated at her desk, posture rigid, eyes on the open book in front of her. She was writing, her hand tracing a continuous scrawl across the page. This could go on for hours. It often did. Until she stopped abruptly at 0100 hours—her bedtime.

  Hoopai settled in for a long night.

  But tonight she wrote for thirty minutes—and then she flung the book across the room, bolted from the table, and disappeared inside her bathroom. When she reappeared a few minutes later, she was naked.

  Hoopai whistled. He kept his voice low and spoke to his coagent via the transmitter: "Big Daddy to Little Daddy—she's doing that thing."

  S.A. Weaver's voice was faint and scratchy. "Again?"

  "Take a look." Hoopai adjusted his own glasses, catching the bare breasts of Dr. Christine Palmer—the Target—squarely in both eyes. As he stared across the distance, she began pacing the length of the room—arms at her sides, back straight, eyes forward—only to turn and retrace her steps again and again and again.

  At one point she stopped on a dime, pivoting to face the plate glass windows.

  Hoopai shrunk back unconsciously, even though he would not be visible from this distance, in this darkness.

  The Target pivoted again, as neatly as a dancer. She stooped down to retrieve something from the floor.

  "Whoa," Weaver breathed, his voice traveling the distance.

  But it was Hoopai who got the benefit of the perfect moon shot—full, milky white ass.

  Another thought crossed S.A. Hoopai's mind—just for an instant: We've been made. But then the thought evaporated, gone.

  She was back to her pacing.

  It could go on until dawn.

  "Come on, Sweetheart," Sylvia snapped. "Do we have to rehash this all night? What the hell did you want me to do? Palmer found me trespassing in her level three lab."

  "And you gave her your business card? One or two phone calls, five minutes of her time, and she knows you're lying."

  "Are you afraid she'll connect me with you and blow your cover?"

  He shot her a dark look, and Sylvia wondered if her words had hit the mark.

  She said, "If Dexter's own guys didn't stop her, if the feds can't keep track of her—"

  "Either way, you end up as bait."

  They'd begun the argument on the drive down the hill; they'd reworked it on the bypass ten miles later; they'd worn themselves out on the outskirts of Santa Fe, settling into a sulky silence.

  But now the argument resurfaced as they stood in shadow—out of range of the twenty-foot lamps and the slivered moon—in the parking lot across from the Eldorado Hotel.

  "Blame the feds, not me," she said.

  "I blame myself. I'm having second thoughts."

  "About?"

  "Your participation."

  Sylvia's eyes went wide, and thoughts raced through her brain. This was the perfect opportunity to walk away. For the last seven hours she'd been vacillating, simultaneously drawn to and repelled by the case. This split mind wasn't limited to the Palmer case. Since her very first class in abnormal psychology, more than fifteen years ago, she'd been aware of the appeal and the cost of a career in forensic psychology. The years of delving into shattered psyches had taken their toll—and her ambivalence had grown. In fact, it was the Riker case that had pushed her to a new level of misgiving. Nightmares, the brutal nature of the murders, and Riker himself had all overloaded her system to the point where she'd thought of giving up the work completely. Burnout. But she'd never gone that far. Always—without fail—she'd found the strength to pace herself, to go beyond the point of no return, to go all the way to the end.

  "You practically begged me to work on this case, you said you needed my help. I believed you." She shook her head, confused, reproving. "Now, a few hours later, you're over the top, semihysterical because Christine Palmer intimidated the hell out of me in that lab, but I'm a big girl, so—"

  She bit down on her lower lip, going silent as she noticed a woman in flamenco dress emerging from a dark Cadillac. The sharp, impromptu clack of castanets punctuated her next words, which were delivered sotto voce. "Do not ask me to walk away."

  They were standing so close she could feel his breath on her face. In the artificial light cast from overhead, she thought she saw fear in his eyes, but she couldn't tell if he was afraid for her or if the fear belonged to something else. For several seconds, he was silent, then he whispered, "All right."

  And she jumped right in—as if the moment had never happened—saying, "I have no problem envisioning Palmer as an aggressive opponent, a professional I wouldn't want to cross, but I'm standing here in the dark trying to believe she's a serial murderer. Where's the pattern? With her lineage, her brilliance, her career—what does she gain by killing?"

  "You're letting your mind be clouded by those very things: career, brilliance, scientific lineage, which are all irrelevant—"

  They both stood mute while the dancer—heels clicking out sharp notes on asphalt—passed them by. When she walked beneath a lamp, the glow was a spotlight illuminating a scarlet ruffled dress, red lips and black eyes, a coiled snake of black hair.

  "—because what she gains is power. And pleasure."

  "You really believe it's that basic?"

  "Absolutely." Sweetheart's eyes followed the dancer as she disappeared through an alcove. He refocused on Sylvia. "How could you believe it's not that basic?"

  "But you've barely begun to cover even the most obvious aspects of victimology and . . . " Sylvia trailed off, feeling oddly perplexed, as if she'd missed the moment when they'd changed tracks. She frowned. "This is a last-minute scramble to gather data and fill in the blanks, you said so yourself."
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  "Data won't change the primitive schematic. Palmer's a psychopath. Brilliance, privilege, and beauty are part of the package—but at her core you'll find psychopathy. Don't get sidetracked."

  "You know this for a fact already? Let me in on your secret. Please."

  "Don't be stupid." He set his mouth, tightening his body, shutting her out. "I expect you to use your intelligence."

  "Maybe you're right," Sylvia said slowly. "You've got it all figured out, maybe you don't need my participation."

  But when she saw his relief, she knew she didn't want to let him push her away, didn't want to be barred from the investigation, wanted to stay in—most of all because her deepest instinct told her Sweetheart needed her more than he realized.

  So she shoved him verbally into a defensive posture. "You sound like an embittered lover."

  "And you sound like a disappointed fan." He snapped up her bait almost greedily. "A schoolgirl with a crush."

  Their eyes met. She knew Sweetheart was driven by a level of obsession that was off the charts. Well, if anybody could match him, she could. But once again, it wasn't ambition or hunger that made her refuse to back off; it was the nagging sense that her friend and colleague was on the edge.

  But on the edge of what? she found herself wondering—and that thought alone seemed melodramatic.

  The stubborn silence was punctuated by the distant sound of a flamenco guitar, and then a Gypsy singer began his melancholy canto. Sylvia shivered, not from cold but from a sense of disturbed equilibrium. She turned away from Sweetheart toward the music, toward the hotel. Lights were on in some of the rooms, a woman strolled past a sliding glass door, a lone figure stood watch from a fifth-story window.

  "It's possible that Palmer got it right," she said in a low voice. "It's possible Doug Thomas committed suicide. Or maybe he was accidentally exposed—we don't even have confirmation it was a toxin. And Dexter gave us nothing." She shook her head, and her volume built. "How are we supposed to sort through classified information and disinformation?"

  "Keep your voice down," Sweetheart hissed. "Dr. Thomas had toxin in his blood." He held up his Palm Pilot, displaying the glowing green alphanumeric remnants of a message. "A reaction on the final blood analysis detection assay. There was enough luminescence to indicate exposure to a neurotoxin."

  "Do we know which one?"

  "No." He paused. "But I pushed for information through my own channels, and I found out what Drew Dexter wouldn't—or couldn't—tell you in the lab. The focus of Palmer's projects over the past eight years has been the study of toxic dinoflagellates."

  "Dinoflagellates—algae?"

  "Single-celled microorganisms, very primitive, with qualities that can be used to identify them as either plant or animal. With few exceptions, dinoflagellates are basic and beneficial to both fresh and saltwater food chains. Palmer's interested in the exceptions: the rogue dinoflagellates, capable of producing highly lethal neurotoxins." His eyebrows dipped together. "These same toxins have been used to produce nerve gas for military research—vomiting, paralysis, psychosis, death—typical symptoms that could explain why a man would drive head-on into a truck."

  Restlessly, Sylvia shifted her weight. This time the horror had hit home. "Jesus, that's what they're playing with on the hill?" She pushed her dark hair from her cheek. A Spanish song, something in a nine-eight rhythm, lingered faintly in the air.

  Along the side streets the traffic signals had begun to blink, a sign it was nearing midnight. She'd have to move soon, go in search of Matt. She'd tried to reach him on his cell phone several times during the past forty minutes—no answer—and she'd left a string of messages flavored by Sweetheart being by her side the whole time: "Hey, it's me, call me back when you get a chance. Tell me where you are. I hope your dinner in Albuquerque went well. Love you."

  Then: "Maybe you're already home in bed, but call me if you check messages."

  And finally: "It's a good thing I'm not stranded by the side of the road or something. Where are you?"

  Thinking about him, about his voice, his laugh, she felt a yearning so sharp it hurt. When they'd first met, several years earlier, the circumstances were anything but romantic—her life had been fractured by a psychotic inmate, a prison riot, and grief over the death of a man who had been her lover, colleague, mentor. Her attraction to Matt had been prompted by his strength, his integrity, his basic goodness. Her great-grandmother would have called him "salt of the earth"—and she would've been right.

  Those thoughts raced through her mind in the time it took to breathe, and she felt herself mobilize—her priority was to let Matt know about the change in their prenuptial game plan. He wasn't going to be thrilled by the news.

  For an instant, she saw herself telling Sweetheart he was right after all—she should forget the case—but even as she felt the instinct, she knew it was too late. She'd already taken her stand. She was on board for the ride.

  "Sylvia, I want to get back to the question of your continued participation."

  "So do I." She was already moving toward her truck, keys in hand. "I refuse to participate in a witch-hunt. As it is, there aren't enough women in Palmer's scientific league. She's brilliant. She could discover the antidote to any number of biological threats, could save thousands of lives. Even a tinge of suspicion—if this ever gets out, and if we're wrong—it will ruin her."

  In contrast to Sylvia's restless motion, Sweetheart stood without moving, without appearing to breathe. "I understand your concerns," he said, "but the evidence points to our target."

  "The evidence is circumstantial. Don't forget what happened when the FBI was trying to track down the perpetrator of the 'anthrax letters.'" Sylvia unlocked the door of her truck, opened it, and hoisted herself up into the seat. She pointed a finger at Sweetheart. "They burned poisoners during the Inquisition. If you want me along for the ride, no witch-hunts." With a quick toss of her head, she slammed the door shut.

  Sweetheart closed his eyes, and oddly, his entire face seemed to disappear in shadow. "No witch-hunts," he murmured softly.

  From a distance, the old adobe in La Cieneguilla resembled a Moorish castle as much as the ruins of a nineteenth-century coach stop. The thick mud bricks had been patched and replastered countless times over the decades; more than thirty years ago, Sylvia's own father had added a long, sloping portal and an extra bedroom (now used by Serena); within the past six months, Sylvia had supervised the addition of a second-story master bedroom and bath, a walled garden, and a separate studio for writing, research, and seclusion.

  All this change was her version of nesting.

  Shifting into second gear, then third, she guided the truck along the quarter mile of gravel that led to the driveway. She was impatient to see Matt, looking forward to the haven of home.

  The house sat in the middle of a twenty-acre parcel that included pastures, a stream, two small calderas, and a geologic ridge resembling the backbone of a giant Pleistocene creature.

  Sylvia loved the house for its history and its high-desert setting. She and Matt had agreed they would continue to call it home after their marriage. Although he still maintained a trailer in Santa Fe, he spent most of his time in La Cieneguilla.

  The truck bounced over a rut created by the roots of the oldest cottonwood on the property, her "grandfather tree." She passed the red-and-white mailbox, turned in to the driveway, and parked next to Matt's Ford. As she climbed out, she could hear the faintly frantic welcoming cries of her two dogs. She could picture exactly where they were at this moment: dog snouts pressed to the living room picture window, front paws propped on the big jade's ceramic pot.

  She approached the front door; no lights went on inside the house. She knew Matt had driven to Albuquerque for dinner and a meeting with the state's lieutenant governor and Lucia Hernandez, the governor's smart and gorgeous aide-de-camp, the woman who definitely had his ear. A cozy tête-à-tête. Strictly business, of course—on the political and budgetary implicati
ons of a new command center for the state's special operations officers. Matt's bailiwick these days.

  Not that she was jealous.

  She unlocked the door and greeted her dogs in the usual order: Rocko, the scrappy terrier with bad hair, then Nikki, the three-legged Belgian Malinois. Except for the dogs' muffled greetings, the house was silent.

  But clearly not empty.

  She followed the trail of Matt's clothes—jacket tossed over the leather couch, shirt in the kitchen, boots askew in the hallway, socks on the recently built staircase that led up to the new master bedroom.

  With both dogs quietly in tow, she tiptoed up the stairs and into the room.

  He was fast asleep, snoring faintly, his naked body akimbo, filling most of the king-size bed. His eyes were shut, his mouth open. His palms were up, his fingers curled, as if he were holding on to something. A faint illumination from the overhead casement highlighted his torso—the broad, muscular chest, the lightly defined ribs, the dark hair that curled from the hollow of his throat to his groin. His penis was half erect.

  Sylvia thought, not for the first time, that this was any man's most vulnerable moment.

  She stood for a minute or so. Just watching, taking him in. She felt the energy of her own desire—a nice chemical and emotional scramble of love and lust. The dogs had settled on the floor next to the bed. Once or twice, Sylvia thought that she saw Matt open his eyes; but it was her own eyes playing tricks.

  When she had undressed, she stepped forward, shifting her weight carefully onto the bed so her breasts rubbed his belly and her lips touched his skin.

  He moaned, shifting, reaching out instinctively.

  He felt hot to the touch. In an instant he was hard.

  She took her time, lingering for several minutes before she finally began to work her way up his abdomen. She nipped his earlobe and whispered, "I thought you might want a last fling before you get hitched."

  Apparently he did.

  CHAPTER

  6