Dark Alchemy (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 5)

by Sarah Lovett

  Sylvia picked up the bottle before Sweetheart could stop her. She opened it, tipping it so that several pearl-shaped pills spilled onto her palm.

  "One pill, three times a day," Palmer said. "The only possible side effect would be slight feelings of anxiety and dry mouth, much like you might expect from a decongestant."

  Sylvia selected one pill. She held it up in the rain and said, "Let's get this straight—you poisoned me. I know it, you know it."

  Palmer extended one hand, and Sylvia dropped the pill into the woman's palm.

  "In the wake of neurotoxic exposure, paranoia is a common symptom," Palmer said calmly, swallowing the pill. "You should be aware of that, but you shouldn't be ashamed if it's difficult to regain your confidence in your own perceptions. Give it time."

  Sylvia pushed herself from the table. "No. Leave me alone."

  She strode twenty paces, stopped, and took a deep breath. Sky, clouds, rain—all held a hallucinatory edge, as if another, deeper level of the material world had become visible. The sensation was acute, extraordinary, but not frightening. In the past few days she'd had other moments such as this. A new level of perception.

  Sweetheart was watching her, she could feel his eyes. And Matt—he was sitting a hundred yards away, in his vehicle, and yet his thoughts seemed tangible. She felt his love, knew he was with her. She looked up, saw the raven in flight, heard the sharp cut of wings through air, heard the message.

  When she took her seat again, she was prepared for whatever came.

  Palmer wasted no time. "When did you feel the first acute symptoms?"

  "The day of your arrest."

  "What happened?"

  "I'd had a headache the night before, then all day. Gradually, I became disoriented. I was confused. Sensitive to light."

  "Did you feel any change in motor response?"

  As Palmer pursued the questions, Sylvia contained her feelings of violation; they were valid, they were real, but they wouldn't serve her in this situation. She needed information. She simply responded yes or no when offered a closed-ended question; but usually Palmer asked open-ended questions that demanded consideration, assessment, evaluation. After about twenty minutes, Palmer changed tack.

  "At some point you were physically blind, Dr. Strange."

  "Yes."

  "You lost your sense of identity, your sense of self."

  "Yes."

  "You reached a point where the experience was so terrifying, so excruciating—" Palmer stopped.

  "So excruciating there was no possible course but surrender," Sylvia finished. "I died. My system shut down. My lungs refused to expand. My heart stopped. The light went out in my mind."

  "And?" Palmer's breath had quickened.

  This is her orgasm, Sylvia thought, this is how she gets off. Even now Palmer exuded a primal energy that was magnetic and horrific at the same time.

  "And there was nothing," Sylvia whispered. "I ceased to exist."

  Palmer, obviously expecting more, looked disappointed.

  "Why did I pose a threat, Dr. Palmer?"

  "You're asking me to speculate about something I'm not party to, but I would assume there was an issue of trust." Palmer looked uncomfortable. "Perhaps even a misreading."

  "You're saying I was poisoned by mistake?"

  "I said it was speculation. Perhaps you represented a false threat."

  "The poisoner miscalculated?"

  "That's not what I said."

  "Then I'm confused. What are you saying?"

  "I don't make mistakes."

  "You don't make mistakes."

  Palmer sat rigid for several seconds before she said, "This is a waste of time. We're playing speculative games. I can't speak for your attacker."

  "I see. I didn't think it was a waste of time. I found it interesting." Sylvia tipped her head, considering her next move. "A minute ago you asked what happened at the point of surrender. I said I ceased to exist—which I did. Except I was completely conscious, hyperaware. I was watching myself. And I experienced a wave of sense memory, a triggering, that can only be described as phenomenal."

  "You felt no pain, no neural sensations?" Christine asked, excitement flushing her cheeks. "You were paralyzed—"

  "Enough," Sweetheart cut in. "You've had your go, Christine. That's enough. You have information. Use it and help this investigation."

  "Edmond." Palmer raised her eyebrows. "You're not in the sumo ring, so stop behaving like a kohai."

  When he offered no opposition, no fight, she nodded, apparently satisfied. "I'm perfectly willing to change topics and discuss my innamorato."

  "Your what?" Sylvia asked.

  "My fan."

  "He sent me the first e-mail after Dr. Thomas died." Palmer dipped her head, smoothing one hand across her slender neck. "Since then he's been remarkably faithful. In all, I'd say there are roughly a dozen communications."

  "Certainly you reported the fact that someone was writing to you," Sweetheart pressed.

  "No."

  "According to policy and procedure at any secure facility—"

  "I ignored policy and procedure. Spank me, I've been bad." Palmer stared hard at Sweetheart—seconds passed. She took a slow breath and spoke softly: "I've had stalkers, death threats, marriage proposals, other fanatics who wrote to me. It can happen to anyone who publishes, especially when the area of research is controversial."

  "Did you try to track him down?" Sweetheart asked.

  "I did some probing." Palmer paused. "I've worked before with an agency that specializes in computer security—but he uses Internet cafés, aliases, false log-ons, always covering his trail. The investigator said he was very skilled." She shrugged. "At first I was vaguely intrigued. I wondered if it was someone I knew." Her eyes had been focused on the bracelet she was fingering, but now she gazed up into Sweetheart's face. "I wondered if it was someone who knew me. He said he did. I had the feeling we'd met before. Perhaps we'd even . . ." Her voice faded. She shrugged. "Ultimately, he began to bore me. I am his Alchemist. He believes I can transform his life," she said, smiling maliciously, "and make gold from shit metal."

  "What did you say to him when you wrote back?" Sweetheart asked.

  "I played him along."

  "How?"

  "The usual way—I'm sure you've had occasion to play someone along, Edmond."

  Sweetheart inclined his body toward hers. "What makes you believe it's Paul Lang?"

  "Paul Lang, Harris Cray, I don't know who it is," Palmer answered. "That's your job—with your psycholinguistic talent show, where you compare signatures, a dotted i, a curly y."

  "For the moment let's assume it's Lang," Sweetheart snapped. "How do you get from fan letters to a stolen hard drive?"

  "He told me he had access to the alkahest—the power of transmutation. When things started to unravel, I took a best guess he was after the manufacturing formula." She raised her eyebrows, aware of the effect she'd caused. "Keep in mind, he's a cryptic fellow—not unlike you, Edmond."

  "When did you receive the most recent message?"

  "The day I was released from custody, a message was waiting." She widened her eyes. "He warned me to be careful. You can see for yourselves—I've kept a file on my computer, at my house."

  Sylvia felt the world begin to shimmer, and she spoke from a distance. "He warned you about me, didn't he, Christine? He sicced you on my trail."

  Was it possible Christine Palmer hadn't poisoned her? What if Palmer had colluded with this spy, this thief, allowing him to do her dirty work?

  She saw them staring at her, saw their confusion. She ignored it, focusing on Palmer. "Did he tell you I was a target? Did he poison me?"

  She saw Sweetheart try to catch her attention, and she heard Palmer's husky voice: "You're not making sense, Sylvia."

  Then the world shifted on its axis.

  Palmer spoke calmly, clearly, loud enough for all to hear. "I poisoned you, Dr. Strange. Do you think I'd trust someone else to do my
dirty work?"

  Sylvia reached out for Sweetheart's arm. "Did you hear her?"

  But he kept his back to her, walking ahead—he didn't turn.

  Christine Palmer lived in a two-story white-shingled alpine-style home. It occupied a cul-de-sac, backed by a private forest of forty-foot pines that had been spared by the Cerro Grande fire.

  Palmer led the way up five steps to the landing, through a doorway encased by plate glass windows, and into a hallway and living room. Sylvia followed, trailed by Sweetheart.

  When Palmer had refused to let anyone else inside her house, Sylvia convinced Matt to wait with S.A. Hoopai in the FBI's van. After an initial stalemate, he'd agreed. Special Agent Simmons had remained behind in Santa Fe to follow up a possible tip on Paul Lang's whereabouts.

  It was going to be a very long night.

  "Dr. Strange can stretch out on the couch," Palmer said, tossing her jacket over a white leather armchair. She disappeared into the adjoining kitchen. The faint sounds of cupboard doors opening and closing and the chink of glassware were audible.

  "I don't need to lie down," Sylvia said just as Palmer reappeared. She waved away the offer of a glass of water and a cool towel. "I don't need anything." She closed her eyes, welcoming the blackness.

  Palmer watched her closely, then turned to Sweetheart. "Make yourselves at home. There's a guest bathroom next to my study. I'll take a few minutes to freshen up."

  Sylvia opened her eyes to see Palmer disappearing down the hall.

  The living room was spacious, low-beamed, shades of eggshell, alabaster, ivory. Both the back and front walls were plate glass, offering respective views of pine trees and street, now shrouded in darkness. One interior wall opened into Palmer's study.

  "People who live in glass houses," Sylvia said softly. "Imagine the show she put on for the surveillance teams."

  Sweetheart was examining shelves of books. "Biographies," he said. "Carl Jung, Marcel Duchamp, Wassily Kandinsky."

  Sylvia moved to his side. Glancing over his shoulder, she noticed titles: The New Mysticism, The Transcendent in Art, Sacred Geometry.

  But Sweetheart was reading a dedication in another book—an elegantly bound collection of medieval poetry: For Christine, undefin-able, unforgettable, untouchable. Always, Fielding.

  "Her father," Sylvia said.

  "It's a cruel inscription."

  "Sweetheart . . ." She turned away from him to stare out the window at the shadowy world. Her senses felt sharp as glass. "I'm going to fill in the blanks. You met Palmer in Japan, just like you admitted, but it wasn't by chance. The encounter was intentional, it was part of your investigation." She raised her eyes to meet his. "How am I doing?"

  Sweetheart's face was impassive. "I looked for the opportunity to spend time with Palmer."

  Sylvia let the seconds pass, then spoke in a voice that was too calm, too controlled. "What you couldn't expect was the way she would attract you. You became lovers. How many days did you have together?"

  "Three."

  "Only three days. But when it ended, when you went your separate ways, you couldn't get her out of your mind."

  Sylvia couldn't meet his eyes; anger made her throat ache. "Why the hell did you accept the profiling job?"

  "I know her as well as anyone. I have an advantage."

  "That's pathetic. You're pathetic." She moved past him, then stopped, whispering the words. "She's a killer. That's all you need to know."

  CHAPTER

  29

  Alchemist

  You touched me with your poison–the beginning of transmutation.

  You created the monster–the government released it from its cage.

  I watched you—invisible–knowing you're so much more than they give you credit for.

  You know me through word / thought / action.

  I hold the alkahest.

  My gift? I'll wait until you are ready.

  Sylvia looked up from the printed page. "Who chose your screen name?"

  "I did," Palmer said. She'd positioned herself across the room near French doors that opened onto the rear deck. "I've always been interested in the early alchemical texts. I've used that, how do you say, that handle. I've used it off and on for years."

  "He didn't just write you a fan letter," Sweetheart said. "That's a letter of commitment."

  Palmer didn't blink. A white paper lamp provided backlight; beyond the wall of windows night had fallen, and the starless sky blanketed the shoulders of slender, shadowed pines. She'd changed clothes and was wearing a pale, soft-woven caftan that fell in folds around her bare feet; her hair was loose around her shoulders; she stood out like gold thread against black velvet. "A dark commitment, then," she said softly.

  Sylvia watched them from the couch; a place she'd monopolized off and on for the past hour. Sweetheart—blue-black hair pulled into a braid, exotic eyes now outlined by exhaustion, slash of cheekbones, wrestler's body. He looked like a refugee from another world, another time. Palmer's beauty had a frozen quality that made Sylvia think of the inscription they'd just read.

  "A penny for your thoughts, Dr. Strange."

  Sylvia blinked up at Palmer. She pictured a golden child raised without a mother, a father's daughter. She could see a basic resemblance to Fielding Palmer, could imagine an almost perfect childhood, a close relationship into adulthood. But the pictures stopped cold when she reached the moment when Christine administered poison into her father's body.

  "I was thinking about attachments," Sylvia began. Abruptly she stood, shrugging off the vision, her inertia. "I was thinking about the implications of your fan's reference to the alkahest—the alchemical elixir. Does he mean the missing toxin? Or is he referring to something much more ephemeral?"

  "Love?" Palmer said the word quickly, as if it stung.

  "Or as close as he can get to love. It's obsessional, possessive—it's also a threat." Sylvia crossed the room to sit in the chair next to Sweetheart. The images on the monitor blurred, only slowly returning to focus. She said, "The threat is implicit throughout the body of the communication."

  Sweetheart took over, reciting the text: "You know me through word /thought /action. I hold the alkahest . . . I'll wait until you are ready."

  For the past hour, he'd dominated Palmer's desk, computer, study; he was driving the keyboard, entering commands. "The fact that Paul Lang was born in the U.S. but educated in England blurs national syntactical and lexiconal distinctions," he said, barely lifting his eyes from the screen. "That makes it more difficult to eliminate or confirm him as the author of the communications."

  Sylvia frowned. "How do we know he's not ten thousand miles away, making a deal with Iraq or Libya as we speak?"

  "What's your gut instinct tell you?"

  "He's still in the area."

  Sylvia thought, If the missing toxin is in Lang's possession, what does he plan to do with it? Would he use it as a bargaining tool? If so, does he want Palmer in return ?

  Sweetheart grunted. A mind reader. "Our job is to figure out his agenda before it's too late."

  And what about Harris Cray? A man obsessed—but was he infatuated with Christine Palmer or fixated on his own obscurity?

  Again Sweetheart effortlessly picked up the unspoken thread. "Harris Cray has spent years living in America, he's worked all around the world."

  "And now he's gone missing," Sylvia said.

  "Definitely not a point in his favor." Sweetheart flipped screens, cutting between several communications. "The subject's parsimonious loyalty to the alchemy-alkahest theme represents threat . . . analyses concept categories of potency, destruction, order. Under the interpersonal processes we see a system of hostile personal reference." Sweetheart expelled air through tight lips.

  "When do we hear back from Luke?" Sylvia asked.

  "Not soon enough." Thirty minutes earlier, Sweetheart had arranged live feed to his own office in Los Angeles. MI-6 in London had agreed to transmit samples of Paul Lang's written communicat
ions for linguistic comparison, and Luke was working the computers at that end, already running hastily gathered samples of Dr. Harris Cray's papers and memos through MOSAIK.

  The problem: MOSAIK had spit out their feed with editorial criticism—insufficient data for valid content analysis for personality inference.

  But that didn't stop human analysis from continuing in the meantime.

  Sweetheart glanced at Palmer as she approached. He said, "We can run this content through a representative corpus, a threat dictionary, but the gross analyses—"

  He broke off when Christine Palmer placed her hand on his arm, their first physical contact all day.

  She said, "Let Dr. Strange have a go." She turned and walked away, widening the space between them again.

  Sweetheart looked up, caught Sylvia's eye, waiting for her signal.

  For a fraction of a second she balked; then she gave her answer. She took Sweetheart's place in front of the monitor. She studied the communications silently, splitting screens to pull up and highlight earlier sections. All the while she was attempting to compose herself. Her hands trembled, so she kept them moving.

  "If we review multiple communications, issues come to light." She dove in. "Obsessive personality traits, control-related issues expressed in his use of lexicon, syntax, morphology, manipulated to reduce internal anxiety—his obsession with alchemy and the tie-in with your cyberhandle. His theme is transformation—this is a man who desperately feels the need to evolve, to escape." Her voice faded away. She'd been following Sweetheart's analysis, but now she felt herself floundering.

  She tried again. "Taken as a whole, the letters communicate the tension between conflicting goals of possession and destruction."

  "He loves me, he hates me?" Palmer suggested dryly.

  "Something like that." Sylvia swallowed, keeping her eyes on the screen. "He's gotten darker, more fatalistic, with each communication. He has intimate knowledge of you—of your actions."