Dark Alchemy (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 5)
Page 18
"Walk me to my truck," she said when she reached his side.
Much to her relief, he cooperated, steadying her as they covered ground. He didn't speak—he was just as trapped in his thoughts as she was in hers. She was grateful for the silence because it gave her time to process the very recent chain of events. If the rather crude poisoning attempt had caught her completely off guard, the actual arrest had been surprisingly discreet: Christine Palmer offered no resistance. She'd been cooperative and, most unpredictably, passive.
Sylvia couldn't shake the bad feeling that something had gone very wrong. She knew Sweetheart felt the same way—that much was obvious in his demeanor, in his ominous silence.
"Palmer expected it," Sylvia finally said, willing herself to voice her thoughts. "We played right into her hands."
"The evidence will reach Virginia in a matter of hours—top priority. We'll have the preliminary results tomorrow, and we'll use them against Palmer." Sweetheart murmured something else under his breath—something that sounded like gohei. He ignored Sylvia's questioning glance and said, "For better or worse, this investigation's out in the open."
They'd reached the narrow parking lot on the north side of Tesuque Village Market, and he waited while Sylvia dug in her pockets, searching for the keys to her truck. "Will you question her?" she asked as her fingers closed around metal.
"Question her?" he repeated, his voice oddly flat.
Sweetheart had stayed out of sight during the arrest process. There had been no reason to reveal his presence, his involvement—in fact, there was a distinct advantage if a suspect wasn't aware that a profiler was advising her interrogators.
He seemed to pull himself from a trance to say, "Not unless the investigators reach an impasse."
Sylvia nodded. She found his expression a curious mix of aggravation, impatience, disquiet, and nonattendance. Sweetheart wasn't completely present (that fact bothered Sylvia) and she spoke sharply: "Will Palmer break, or hold?"
When he didn't respond immediately, she felt the whisper of her own dark mood. She shrugged as if to shake off the melancholy. She said, "She'll have the best lawyers money and a high profile can buy. Think about Hatfill, his lawyers, his front page headlines. I'm sure the dream team's on its way. And we played right into her hands." She felt queasy, and her fingers trembled as she unlocked her truck.
Over Sweetheart's broad, muscled shoulder she could see Special Agent Hoopai across the road stepping into the van. The door slammed shut, the sound carried. She shuddered slightly, on overload, hyperaware of sensory information.
"There was nothing to do but arrest her," Sweetheart said.
But he didn't look happy. He looked remorseful, which couldn't be right.
"I'm sorry I got you into this," he said in a low voice.
"You didn't." She shook her head. "I knew what was at stake." She worked up a thin smile. "And besides, the Target's in custody. The job's done—at least for now." She was thinking she had to call Matt, tell him she was fine.
But she didn't feel fine. She felt numb.
She forced herself to follow Sweetheart, Hoopai, and the surveillance van on the sixty-mile drive to the federal courthouse in Albuquerque. The normally easy drive felt long and tedious. Sylvia couldn't relax. Repeatedly her truck fell far behind the van—but when she sped up, her foot dogged the accelerator, and more than once she caught herself doing close to a hundred.
Once they reached Albuquerque, both vehicles dodged road construction and snarled traffic. They were forced to detour to reach their destination. Major interstate construction had inspired tributary projects. Red cones and flagmen added to her bad mood. So did the weather: the city air was warm and hazy, and a dusty wind had picked up from the southwest.
The federal courthouse was located at the core of downtown. The U.S. marshal's office was on the second floor.
In an adjacent office, Sylvia found Sweetheart and Hoopai already watching the monitors. Video cameras mounted inside the U.S. marshal's office were transmitting images of the scene: chairs were casually arranged, and Palmer was seated across from S.A.C. Hess and S.A. Simmons. No desks, no harsh lights, no third degree.
"There's something you should know," Sweetheart said, reaching out to grip Sylvia's arm as she stood beside him. His pupils were tiny dark orbs between almost closed lids. "She's waived the right to have an attorney present. She's willing to talk. She says she has nothing to hide."
The first round of questioning lasted two hours. Palmer remained calm and collected; if anything, she appeared bored by the proceedings. She denied that she had poisoned anyone. The agents persisted.
"We caught you on camera, Christine," Hess said. "You were pouring it into her drink."
Christine Palmer smiled innocently at the special agent in charge. "It?"
"What was in the packet?"
"Nux vomica, among other homeopathics. You should try it—great for upset stomach, headache, nausea." She smiled again, glancing around the room, letting her gaze rest on one of the unobtrusively mounted video cameras. "Ask Dr. Strange to come in here. I'd like to hear it from her—is she really so paranoid that she believes I'd try to poison her with a homeopathic remedy? She should get her facts straight."
Sylvia moved closer to the monitor. The sound coming from the marshal's office was thin, with a faint and artificial echo. On the screen, she could see her own ghostly reflection superimposed over Palmer's face—as if she were ephemeral, a haunting spirit.
"Nobody's going to ask you to confront her," Sweetheart said quietly.
Sylvia turned away from the monitor to stare at him. She knew this was the point in the proceedings where she should be fully present, observing body language and speech patterns, watching for ways to get to Palmer, looking for leverage—but it all seemed meaningless. She felt they'd already been defeated.
"I can't stay here." Suddenly overwhelmed, she clutched her bag and bolted to the door. "I'm not helping anybody."
Tearing his gaze from the monitors, Sweetheart followed her. "Let's go outside," he said. "Get some air."
"You stay," she began.
"No. Where are you parked?"
He escorted her through the courthouse toward the back exit, where prisoners arrived and the holding cells were located. The hall smelled of alcohol and urine; two officers ushering a young tattooed man in an orange jumpsuit passed them. The prisoner kept his chin low, eyes downcast, shuffling feet and ankle chains.
Outside, Sylvia stood on concrete warmed by late autumn sunlight. The glare was almost unbearable. She felt Sweetheart's arm around her shoulder and heard his voice coming from far away, asking if she was okay.
Of course. But her tongue felt stiff, not interested in pushing the lie from her mouth. "After all that, we blew it." She shook her head. "Palmer's treating this like it's a joke—and she's right."
"I'll get someone to drive you home."
"No. I'm feeling better. The air is helping. I was just upset and tense—and I'm disappointed—but that doesn't matter now. You need to get back inside, do your best to make sure she doesn't walk." She saw the sense of urgency on his face; he was torn, needing to make sure she was safe, needing to watch the interrogation sessions. And she was beginning to feel more grounded, more clearheaded, as if she'd shaken off whatever had spooked her inside the courthouse. "What will they do with her now?"
"Hold her, probably until Monday morning, although it's not going to look good to a judge. We'll have preliminary results from the tox screens by then. Even if we have nothing solid, the best lawyer wouldn't have an easy go of it, getting her out before then, finding a federal judge who'll take time away from weekend worship on the golf course."
Sylvia shaded her eyes with her hand. "The sample's clean. I know it. You do, too." She bit the edge of her lip. "When the feds closed in—" She fell silent for a moment, searching for words. "Palmer looked satisfied."
"Give our guys a chance," Sweetheart said. "They're good at their job."
"No." Already, he was turning to walk back toward the building. "You've done your job. You've more than held up your side of the bargain. You gave me the profile. You gave us this opportunity. I can take it from here."
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
When she pulled into her property, she saw Matt's car. He was finishing his packing for an overnight trip to Las Cruces, the last in a series of meetings.
He took one look at her and said, "I'll cancel."
But she convinced him to go. "I'm going to make myself a bowl of soup and go to bed."
"On top of planning for the wedding, you still haven't caught up from London."
It's more than that, she thought. I could sleep for a week. It's this case, it's exhausting me. The Riker case had done the same thing.
It was almost ten o'clock when Sweetheart finally called. He kept it short: "Palmer's still in custody. She's sticking to her story."
On Sunday, Sylvia woke early with a full-on migraine.
She skipped her morning run; the dogs eyed her dolefully, but her head hurt so badly she couldn't even muster guilt.
She stared at the food on the shelves, then closed the cupboards. She'd burned her mouth on a cup of scalding coffee. The burn wasn't going away. The thought of food made her weak.
There were messages on the machine. Rosie wanted to know if the rental company was going to deliver chairs and tables for the wedding on Friday or Saturday—oh, and did she want the cinnamon or the spruce tablecloths for the caterers—and oh, did she need the rings picked up? Matt called several times, asking her to call and check in because he was worried. Sweetheart tersely requested a callback.
She didn't bother to respond.
Instead, she called in the refill for her migraine medicine, found her purse and keys, and began the drive across town to the pharmacy. By the time she reached the drugstore, the pain from the headache was making her sick to her stomach. The migraine was affecting her eyes; this time the aura was much brighter than usual.
She took the back road home. She'd planned to stop for fresh fruit, milk, and bread at the market, but the headache was intensifying. She hadn't even covered two miles and the back of her neck was numb, her fingers were tingling. The sensation was eerie. She shook off a stab of fear.
I'm fine, just a touch of flu.
She could almost believe it until she reached the intersection of Cerrillos and Rodeo. Just ahead, the traffic light shifted to yellow. The image doubled, then tripled. She cut her eyes from the road and stared down at her feet.
The brake, use the brake.
But her body didn't respond, and the truck went plowing through the intersection just after the light turned red. Three lanes of oncoming traffic skidded to a halt. A car turning left swerved to avoid a collision. Horns blared.
She accelerated.
Burning mouth, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea—all symptoms easily explained without thought of exotic neurotoxins. The flu was going around—variations of stomach and digestive tract ailments, headaches, sensitivity to light and sound.
As she drove, she struggled to see—the world was covered in gray dust or the most delicate netting. She blinked, removing her sunglasses, wiping the lenses.
The driver behind her honked. She saw that the speedometer needle had dropped to fifteen miles per hour.
She seemed to be floating away from the car, the road.
Disorientation, feeling light-headed, floating sensations, disembodiment.
Then, abruptly, she came crashing back into her body.
The world was moving a million miles a minute. She gasped, clamping her fingers on the wheel, her foot on the accelerator. She caught fragments of signs, road marks—but she was traveling so fast she didn't recognize the places and streets she'd passed countless times.
This is exactly what happened to the others.
But the thought raced through her mind before she could catch it—and even begin to comprehend what it meant.
Her pulse sped up, then slowed. She took deep breaths. She tried to ignore her pounding heart—the big muscle was contracting so intensely that each beat hurt.
Again, the world shifted. It slipped back into normal.
If I was poisoned, my muscles would be paralyzed, and I wouldn't be able to breathe.
She saw her road up ahead. Just in time. She slowed, braking for the turn, and executed it perfectly. She felt so relieved to be herself again, she began to cry.
"I'm okay, I'm okay," she whispered again and again. The rearview mirror caught her reflection, and she chided herself: How stupid, you scared yourself half to death.
One by one, she passed the familiar houses of her neighbors in La Cieneguilla.
Turning on to the dirt road that led to her property, the truck bounced over the cattle guard. She inhaled, but her lungs couldn't seem to expand.
Black pupils spread like ink, darkening the hazel of her irises.
The same blackness seemed to cover the world.
She began to laugh—finding it odd, yes, but unable to stop. Her head fell back against the seat.
Time passed in great crashing waves of bright lights, blinding color, deafening noises, excruciating physical sensation—only to slow to a grinding halt, a freeze-frame. Then it began again, this time in slow motion.
A physicist's dream: dense matter where there had been no previous resistance; liquids that should have been solids.
Sylvia was aware of unfamiliar voices. At first she thought she was surrounded by people. It occurred to her to ask for help. But that demanded effort, and she let herself surrender to inertia. After a while, she realized the voices came from inside her own brain.
She was strapped inside her truck. She managed to free herself somehow, to push down on some kind of lever—felt herself fall. After that she lost track of everything but the voices.
When she listened to the part of her mind still attached to sanity, she was aware of the drift, of the madness that blurred the rest of her thoughts and perceptions.
At one point she did cry out for help. But the next instant, the awareness of the utter futility of her efforts was as chilling as anything she had ever experienced in her life.
Mercifully, this black hole of existential oblivion also passed.
Abruptly, she found herself crawling over a rough, rocking field. The night was bright with stars; she could see lights glowing in the distance. She was cold, shivering, but her muscles burned. Agonizing pain.
A day has passed . . .
Frenetic activity alternated with paralysis.
She lay clutching earth, somewhere in the world, dizzy from a spinning planet, unable to move. Thoughts flew by like night birds. A few landed long enough to register: This is a poison world. I've touched poison. No one should have to fight this hard to stay on a planet.
And finally, she closed her eyes to give in to the cool hand of death.
It came as she'd always known it would, like falling off a bridge, like flying, that first moment of This can't be happening, not to me, not now, I'm not ready.
But it was familiar, not unexpected, something she'd imagined countless times in life. Until only the sadness was unbearable. How much she'd miss them all, the people she loved, the child she'd never have. Bitter sadness.
Don't let me die alone.
But the letting go was easier than anything she'd ever known.
PART IV
Chambre Ardente
CHAPTER
23
Alchemist, I can't reach you but I try anyway. is this dying????? night sweats, the monsters come to me. they won't get away with this–keeping you from me. last night a dream–dead and dying everywhere. holocaust a ghost screaming. the alchemist devotes a lifetime to the study of impurity and imperfection and the possibilities of transformation–trans–for–ma–tion–to purit
y to perfection!!!! the quest of transmutation base metals to gold alchemy created chemistry as science. the transmutation of radioactive elements is no more, no less, than alchemy–through death, the Alchemist has discovered the elixir, the grand magistery, the alkahest. Death is the final gift–in the dream a million boys in uniform lined up their eyes blind, bloody foam drips from the corners of their mouths some are crippled others are crying and one reaches out for the Alchemist. he screams I understand what the Alchemist was made of before heat and light and I know what the Alchemist will become in the end. suffering brings understanding, enlightenment, a transmutation of the soul–help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me.........................................................................................................................................................................
CHAPTER
24
Paul Lang stared at the stain on the ceiling of his motel room. The color of weak coffee, it vaguely resembled the shape of Indonesia, islands on a sagging plaster sea. It was the second-best view in the dingy room.
The best view was a small patch of very blue sky visible in the frame of the bathroom window. Desert sky. Española sky.
He was twenty miles from Los Alamos, twenty miles from Santa Fe, twenty miles from Christine Palmer, twenty miles from Edmond Sweetheart. But no one was going to look for him in this back-road grease trap frequented by junkies and slags. All he needed was another day to finish the task he'd set for himself.
He'd already driven up the hill to the lab, but cameras and security had dictated that he return when the event would be less public. The plan had been set. Lang didn't like the directive he'd been given, but this wasn't the moment to be choosy.
A door slammed outside; a woman gave a shrill laugh, then yelped; a man said something in Spanish; a car engine roared to life, settling into a deep throb.
Lang gazed at the watch on his wrist—the gold hands showed that it was midafternoon in the American Southwest. A few more hours. That was all.
He breathed deeply, then expelled air with a shuddering sigh. His eyes returned to Indonesia's shadow on the ceiling.