Dark Alchemy (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 5)

by Sarah Lovett

  He'd been working toward this end for a very long time.

  Dr. Harris Cray set the phone down in its cradle and stared blindly at the data on his computer screen:

  . . . relevant toxin samples for the core facility. These samples will be the source for neuropsychologic studies, genetic identification and characterization, molecular genetic studies; monoclonal and axenic cultures, toxin induction and biosynthesis . . .

  It was late. He still wasn't adjusted to this new circadian cycle.

  He was tired and his eyes ached.

  And now he was also frightened.

  He paused, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to still the trembling in his fingers. The news about Palmer's detention had come as a shock. How dare they lay a hand on her? How dare they violate her territory and throw everything off track when they were so close? This wasn't what he'd planned after all these years.

  The FBI had sealed off her office, her lab—they were trespassing, touching what wasn't theirs to touch, interfering with things they couldn't understand. The lab director himself had been down here surpervising the inventory of their section. Every vial, every slide, every fragment of DNA was being accounted for—and suspicion was so thick you could taste it.

  He pulled himself up sharply.

  He couldn't afford to fall into emotional quicksand. His surprise, his rage, over Christine was nothing compared to the news he'd just heard. He had to get out of here—he had to move quickly—and yet he felt paralyzed.

  He shook his head abruptly. He was not a man given to internal reflection. The realm of his emotions might as well have been a remote plateau in Mongolia.

  He heard voices down the hall, someone leaving.

  None of it mattered, he told himself. The important work was already completed.

  He stood quickly, already scanning a mental checklist of items he would need to gather—now or never—before he made his exit.

  And for an instant, in the shadow cast across the monitor, he caught sight of his own reflection.

  Christine Palmer waited with her back straight, her chin high, her shoulders set. She didn't move. On the video monitor in the adjacent room, where an FBI agent monitored her at all times, it seemed as if the film had stopped. The agent actually began to check the system—but then he saw her blink.

  Eerie, the agent thought. To be that self-contained was uncanny.

  Now he heard voices as the door behind him opened, and he turned to see S.A. Hess enter the room. Hess, who was returning from a break of almost an hour, stepped over to the monitor and gazed at it silently for long seconds.

  "What's she been up to?"

  "This." The agent nodded toward the monitor. "And she asked for some paper and a pencil earlier. Said she wanted to make some notes."

  "Where are they?" Hess asked.

  The agent tipped his head, indicating the room she now occupied.

  As if on command, Palmer slid her hands into her lap and began to shred a small sheet of paper.

  An instant later, when Jeff Hess entered the U.S. marshal's office, Palmer greeted him pleasantly, as if she was relaxed and comfortable.

  Apparently she was.

  When he took the torn paper and gazed down at the words, she caught him in the light of her gray-blue eyes and said, "I'm glad you're here. I want to talk about a security breach . . ."

  Paul Lang turned the car in to the vacant lot. Trash and old tires were strewn among overgrown weeds. The sun through thunderclouds cast cool shadows on the parched land.

  He drove with his head and arm out the car window, watching for gulleys and machinery debris that might do serious damage to tires. The gas station—the dusty CLOSED sign visible in the window—featured a public telephone. He hoped it was functional; vandals had left their mark on the concrete embankment behind the station, as well as on various abandoned vehicles that had needed repairs long ago.

  He pulled up next to the battered phone booth and set the brake. The phone was still attached to the wire—good sign—and there was an audible dial tone when he held the receiver to his ear.

  He pulled a small black book from his pocket, opening it to a dog-eared page, dialing the number of the cell phone. As it began to ring, he watched an airborne convention of ravens. At least two dozen of the birds were circling, almost like buzzards. He wondered vaguely what they were up to, why they were flying in such complicated spirals.

  The ringing stopped abruptly as someone picked up.

  "We're on," Lang said.

  "It was stupid to call."

  Lang smiled; his mouth tasted bitter. "You called me, remember? You set it all in motion."

  "You know what I—Just stay on schedule."

  "Nothing's changed?" Lang was gazing off in the distance where a car and a much larger truck were both cresting the hill. He watched as the car pulled around the truck and flashed its lights. The truck responded, accelerating with a quick flick of headlights, a road game.

  "Nothing's changed."

  The car sped past the station. The truck was still a few lengths behind, and when it finally rumbled past, the driver let loose his horn.

  Lang said, "I just wanted to make sure we're on the same page: it's all in place, moving forward."

  Drew Dexter, deputy director of security, sat behind his desk at LANL. The pencil between the fingers of his left hand was tapping out a staccato beat. His mind wandered around thoughts of Dr. Christine Palmer. He'd been notified that she was in custody.

  He glanced at his watch—almost twenty-four hours now since the arrest.

  Rumors were circulating about the psychologist, about Dr. Strange, a poisoning . . .

  Dexter shifted in his chair, bringing pencil to paper.

  A classified document lay next to the notebook. It concerned a series of medical experiments performed on soldiers years earlier.

  As he began to write, he wondered if he should give Edmond Sweetheart a call. He wondered how much of this information it was advisable to share.

  He didn't like this restless feeling in his gut. There were moments in security and enforcement when everything could turn on a dime. This felt like one of those moments. He picked up the phone to contact lab security. It was time to know exactly what each unit was up to—it was time to be extremely alert.

  Paul Lang waited on a side street, out of range of the light cast by an overhead streetlamp, in sight of the crossroads where he was supposed to meet his contact. In the distance, the traffic signal changed from green to yellow to red and back to green at hypnotic intervals.

  He sat behind the wheel of the car in silence as fevered thoughts raced through his head. Samantha had been haunting his dreams, his waking hours, when he failed to stay alert. Her presence left him restless, edgy, as if he hadn't eaten for weeks and was driven by hunger. In this case, his hunger was revenge. But not an obvious type of revenge, because Christine Palmer wasn't an obvious woman.

  As the image of Palmer's face filled his mind, Lang's breath quickened. He closed his eyes, then opened them again abruptly, shivering. The night sky was cloud-covered, the thin moon invisible. The air, faintly chill, smelled of smoke.

  He'd kept track of the minutes, the hours. If punctual, his contact should be here within the next six minutes. He closed his eyes again, letting his head fall forward and his neck release. His hands shook constantly these days. His stomach hurt. His head ached. Enough to make a man think he was dying. An intense wave of self-pity washed over him. Samantha had been his life, his love—now that she was gone, he was left with the only other obsession he'd ever known in his life: Christine Palmer.

  He sat up straight as a car entered the intersection ahead and turned in his direction. It traveled slowly, headlights bright, until it was fifty feet away; then it pulled to the curb, slowing to a stop. While Paul Lang watched, the car door opened and a shadow stepped out carrying a briefcase.

  His contact had shown up after all.

  CHAPTER

  25

&nbs
p; The walls gave off a glow so sharp it burned through skin. She saw vague shapes. She assumed they were human. They shone with a phosphorescence that obscured edges and sharp features.

  She tried to free herself from the light, the glare, but when she struggled, it only grew brighter until it threatened to shatter consciousness.

  This time the light was slightly less intense.

  There was a new problem. Her body was stored in ice. No one could survive temperatures like this. Fine. She was dead.

  But still her muscles shook, her entire body vibrated with cold. Her brain caught fire.

  Someone said her name.

  She opened her eyes.

  Blackness everywhere; shimmer of light.

  You should learn to mind your own business.

  She saw the face, recognized the voice—Adam Riker. He was surrounded by his dead family. They watched her accusingly. But Riker spoke only to her—he said, It didn't have to turn out this way.

  She cried out, falling back into darkness.

  A woman came to visit. A golden goddess. Must be an old friend, she thought. Someone from years ago, perhaps Yale or MIT.

  Had she gone to MIT? She didn't think so. And what about Yale? She wasn't sure. She was frightened by her own uncertainty.

  "It's fine," the woman said.

  "I can't remember your name." Sylvia smiled, trying to cover embarrassment, explaining that she'd been under the weather lately. Out of sorts.

  "A touch of flu? There's lot's of that going around."

  "It's the hospital food," she said, trying to sit up, shocked by the pain that shot down her spine. Beware the white gowns.

  The woman shook her head, smiling. "I never share my food with strangers." She reached into the pocket of her coat—it had somehow turned from gold to pale lavender—and pulled out a snake. She held it up, letting it bite her face.

  "I have protection," the woman said.

  The world tipped, righted itself, then tipped again.

  She saw the small, dark-haired person seated in a chair next to the bed.

  "Serena," she whispered.

  Serena reached out her arms and draped herself gently over Sylvia.

  The room seem to flood with light, but this time the brightness was soothing. Healing.

  A nurse was changing bags on the IV. Sylvia opened her mouth, trying unsuccessfully to say Hello.

  "Hey . . . " The nurse gazed at her speculatively. "Welcome back."

  Where am I? She thought she asked the question, but she wasn't sure. The nurse answered either way.

  "You're still in isolation, honey."

  Sylvia looked around. Her bed was surrounded by plastic curtains. She could hear voices, although she couldn't see anyone but the nurse. "How long have I been here?"

  "Your doctor will explain all that."

  "I want to see my family."

  "No one's allowed in here but medical staff," the nurse said, readying a blood pressure cuff.

  "Why change the rules now?" Sylvia's throat ached even when she whispered. "I've had visitors before."

  The nurse shook her head, sharp eyes assessing. "No, you haven't, honey," she said softly. "But a lot of people have been worried about you."

  The doctor appeared, a woman with ebony skin and bright red lips. She studied the charts and smiled. "Feeling better?"

  "I'm hungry."

  "That's a good sign. I'm Dr. Casey."

  "What happened?"

  "What do you remember?"

  "Not much. It's all—frag—mixed up." She took time to collect herself. "Poison?"

  "Your symptoms were consistent with a powerful neurotoxin."

  "Which toxin?"

  "I'm sorry. We don't know. Not yet."

  "How long—have I?"

  "You've been here eight days."

  "I missed my wedding."

  They came in shifts.

  The team of doctors would only allow brief visits.

  When Matt and Serena walked into the room, Sylvia saw the fear on their faces. "Was I that sick?" she asked, and her own fear was like a weight behind her ribs.

  Serena watched her with somber black-brown eyes. She hesitated, then said, "Matt thought you were dead."

  "You found me?" Sylvia asked.

  He took her hand in his. "When I couldn't reach you by phone, I came back early."

  "I'm sorry." The edges of the room softened. She felt herself drifting away, felt a fleeting surge of emotion, but that passed, and she was left with a weariness that went clear to the bone.

  "Matt saved your life," Serena said softly.

  "I love you both so much," Sylvia whispered. "Didn't want to hurt you."

  And then she slept.

  She woke an hour later, panicky, with no idea where she was, why she was there—barely hanging on to who she was.

  It took the nurses fifteen minutes to calm her down.

  Matt walked in thirty minutes later.

  He lay beside her on the bed.

  Finally, Sylvia whispered, "When am I going to get better? Each time I wake up, it's like starting all over again. I have to fill in the blanks. And some of them . . . I still can't figure out." She took a deep breath; she was like a frightened child working hard to convince a grown-up that a risky course of action made perfect sense. "Maybe if I went home, if I was in my own home, my own bed, maybe I'd be okay."

  "They want to be sure . . ." Matt trailed off, and he couldn't completely mask the stricken expression on his face.

  "Sure I'm not damaged? If they keep sticking pins and needles into me, I'll never get well." She tried to sound natural, tried to lighten the mood.

  "They can't guarantee they've isolated the compound, the toxin that made you sick. They sent samples to the forensic lab at Lawrence Livermore. They can make some good guesses—those guys are some of the best—but they can't say for certain."

  Sylvia struggled to organize her thoughts, to discipline her still-fractured memory—one of the side effects of the toxin.

  "How did Christine Palmer do it? Did I touch something? During the surveillance? The pages she passed to me?"

  "Everything came back clean, Sylvia." Matt shook his head. "The FBI sent a team to search your house, your car, anything that could possibly be used to transmit. They went back to the restaurant, they went to your office. They've sampled shampoo, toothpaste, hair-brush, any possible vehicle of transmission."

  "Nothing?"

  "No trace."

  The numbness traveled from her feet up her legs. The room began to shimmer. She was floating above her own body.

  Matt's voice, distant and small, a collapsing point of energy, giving an order: "Get the doctor. Now."

  Rosie and Ray Sanchez came the next day, when Sylvia was well enough to be cranky.

  "When do I get out of here?"

  "Soon enough, jita." Rosie clucked and fussed and behaved in a manner that was equally cranky. Ray stood like a tree that had somehow planted itself in ICU at the UNM hospital.

  "This room is better," he said, eyeing it critically.

  "Better than what?"

  "Better than that Plexiglas cell they locked you inside—"

  "Raymond." Rosie shot him a stormy look.

  Ray looked at Sylvia and shrugged. "What do I know?" he mumbled.

  "Why are you being hard on Ray?"

  "I'm hard on him because I love him," Rosie said. "And because he's my husband with a big mouth."

  Sylvia frowned. "What did you mean, Plexiglas cell?"

  "You don't remember at all?" Rosie asked. She was fluffing up a pillow, punching it so fiercely Sylvia was afraid the stuffing would explode. "At first they weren't sure if you were contagious, so they kept you in the extra-extra-isolation chamber, or whatever the hell they call it, pardon my French. I call it lockdown."

  Rosie had spent more years than she cared to admit as an investigator at the penitentiary of New Mexico. She knew lockdown when she saw it.

  "You spent a week in that thing,
" she snapped, angry at the world. Her spike heels clicked sharply against the tile floor.

  Ray was fidgeting with the curtains, fighting with cords. He said, "This room's much better. You can see the Sandias if you push your nose into the corner of the window."

  "Great," Sylvia said, smiling sleepily. Her energy was evaporating again. "Something to look forward to," she murmured.

  Rosie took her hand. "One step at a time. Abuelita sends her love. She wants to come and smudge the place, get rid of los demonios."

  "I wish she would smudge for demons," Sylvia said, her eyes closing. "They won't go away."

  "According to Dr. Casey, I'm showing classic signs of acute exposure to a neurotoxin." Sylvia frowned at Matt. "Paresthes—paresthesia, cold-hot reversal, vertigo, orthostatic hy—po—tension. I'm stabilized, out of immediate danger," she said, ignoring the fact she was tripping over words. "That's the good news. The bad news is they don't know the orgic—organic character of the toxin, its chemical profile, can't begin to guess about my long-term prognosis." She took a deep breath. "Damage to kidneys, liver, CMS—I mean CNS—immune system. DNA. Reproductive organs—Could there be permanent genetic damage? They don't have the answers."

  "That's unacceptable."

  "That's what I said. I told the doc to find me someone who could give me answers. Guess what?"

  Matt shook his head.

  "More good news. The leading expert on exotic toxins is in the neighborhood: Dr. Christine Palmer."

  The next best thing, the consultant from Lawrence Livermore via phone conferencing: "We're limited in our ability to screen and identify the full spectrum of cultures, especially exotic cultures. Currently, identification requires in vitro propagation, morphological identification through light and electron scanning microscopy."

  Sylvia tried to follow the stream of words, but she found the task nearly impossible; this was a language she no longer spoke.

  "We do have field detection assays for blood analysis for some toxins, others require standard bioassay of the organism itself for toxicity. If we use a primitive method of identification—specifically via symptoms exhibited—we find that victims of ciguatoxin and maitotoxin, for instance, exhibit—"