Dark Alchemy (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 5)

by Sarah Lovett

  The director of SFFD's HazMat team had twenty years of experience in the field; as soon as he heard the descriptions of the bodies, he knew this wasn't the usual gang-related deaths or a meth manufacturing accident. They were dealing with what the orange bible of Haz-Mat, the Department of Transportation's emergency response guide, classified as a highly toxic unknown—the stuff a lot of the guys simply dubbed "ethelbutylbadstuff."

  For the next half-dozen hours, the team's mission would be summed up with the ancronym SIN: S for "scene safety"; I for "isolate and deny" (access and egress); N for "notify" (residents and—when appropriate—media).

  HazMat officers were divided into two teams. The first would deal with the crime scene, the second with the kids from the day care center as well as the first police officers on the scene.

  By 7:13 A.M. the order was issued to evacuate the neighborhood within a three-hundred-yard perimeter. Officers would evacuate downwind; the command center was located upwind. The hot zone (demanding maximum-level protective gear) included everything within 150 yards of the building; the warm zone (medium-level protective gear and precautions) included anything within 150 to three hundred yards of the building; beyond three hundred, street clothes were considered safe.

  Meanwhile, the HazMat team was using chem-bio books from the U.S. Army's college in Georgia to make a judgment call on vector. From the obvious crime scene information, it looked like a fast-acting inhaled or ingested chemical or biological agent. From the symptoms, the first guess was an inhaled neurotoxin. Acute exposure.

  By 7:19 A.M., the Los Alamos Fire Department received a call requesting aid. Another call was made to LANL—the lab had its own HazMat team.

  Thirty minutes later a leading expert in neurotoxins, Dr. Christine Palmer, arrived on the scene to offer support. The toxicologist was accompanied by Edmond Sweetheart.

  They were part of the third wave of personnel to enter the premises.

  Christine Palmer was used to the full-body protective suit, Sweetheart less so; he was sweating beneath the weight of the heavy material. The hiss of the breathing apparatus sounded loud to his ears. The mask was fogging, the heat almost unbearable. Two members of LANL's HazMat team entered the building with them. Although fire departments and HazMat teams could be as touchy about turf as the next guys, in this case they welcomed assistance.

  HazMat went first, Palmer and Sweetheart followed, moving slowly, with care.

  The adobe was old, ramshackle, a debris-filled maze of dark rooms. It was obvious from the scene that the small-time meth cookers had had no clue what they were dealing with when they unleased the alkahest.

  The bodies were still in place. Palmer was busy assessing the damage and the symptoms of the dead. Sweetheart was searching for anything connected with the theft of the biotoxin and the missing formula.

  What he found was Paul Lang.

  Or at least he found what he believed were the remains of Paul Lang. This corpse had been pushed into a closet in the last room. Unlike the other victims, this man had been shot. At least two bullets had entered through the front of his skull, leaving the victim's face so damaged that a positive ID would be accomplished only through forensics.

  It wasn't difficult to piece together a probable scenario. Lang had delivered the toxin to the house at some point within the previous thirty-six hours. (A child had confessed to his parents and teacher that he'd seen "sleeping" men in the house just the day before.) Judging from the gunshot wounds, the deal hadn't gone down the way Lang expected. Perhaps he'd been told he could use the address as a safe house. Sweetheart had to guess about Lang's ultimate agenda: trade the toxin for Palmer; use it to create enough publicity so that this time she wouldn't get away with murder.

  But things hadn't gone according to plan.

  Somewhere along the way there'd been a double cross.

  Sweetheart leaned over the dead body; the weight of the suit threw him off balance, and he was forced to use the corpse for support. He looked down, his gaze settling on the dead man's hand. There was a ring, a family crest.

  Hadn't he seen Paul Lang wearing that ring in London?

  Sweetheart mouthed a quick prayer.

  Outside, where it was still raining, he fought claustrophobia as he waited for release from the suit. He was used to death, but from a distance.

  When he was finally free, he watched—grateful for the cold gray drops pelting his skin—while Christine Palmer briefed the HazMat teams on contamination probabilities. He heard her telling them there was a very good chance the site was safe, or soon would be. The window of exposure might be very small depending upon the type of biotoxin. The actual cleanup would be left to the HazMat teams under the watchful eye of LANL.

  In the midst of the emergency, the conflicts flared over turf. The local HazMat people accused LANL of neglecting to inform local authorities that a toxin was missing. The FBI—S.A.C. Hess, S.A. Hoopai, and others—were desperately trying to gain control of the crime scene. Local police were caught between their duty to protect and inadequate training for the current situation.

  Sweetheart stood alone, watching—thinking that they were still missing what might be a disk containing a highly classified manufacturing formula for the alkahest; thinking that no one really knew how much deadly toxin had been stolen from the lab—when the call came in on his cell phone.

  They were also missing Dr. Harris Cray.

  A male voice whispered: "Bring Palmer, leave the feds behind, take 1-25 south. Do what I say, I'll let you know what's next."

  CHAPTER

  31

  Sweetheart's cell rang again as the silver Mercedes was passing the rain-slicked bypass exit on 1-25.

  "Your plane's taking off from the City Different in fifteen minutes. Before you call for backup, think about Fiesta Street, what happened to those people, what can happen again."

  Sweetheart barked out, "We need twenty minutes," but the transmission was dead.

  He accelerated across the interstate divider, tires tearing out mud, chamiso, and scrub juniper, oncoming traffic scattering, drivers cursing the man behind the wheel.

  In the passenger seat Christine Palmer braced herself, sucking in air as a twenty-foot-long U-haul slammed on the brakes, only to skid toward them along wet highway. Sweetheart and the Mercedes cut into the next lane to run a slalom between a pickup truck, a shuttle, a limping Gremlin.

  Palmer released her breath with a curse. Sweetheart took one hand off the wheel and reached for the leather seat.

  "We'll lose him if you call in the feds," she said.

  "No feds, no calls." His fingers gripped seat belts—his, then hers—testing strength before he accelerated. "Hold on tight."

  A small cloud of sparrows dove past the windshield, wings barely escaping wet glass. Water and wind friction created a muffled hiss outside the Mercedes. Ahead, the interstate was clear for a quarter mile, and Sweetheart rode the pedal, speedometer hovering just beyond a hundred miles per hour.

  They'd used up eight minutes by the time they were on the bypass.

  Seven minutes to go.

  Four minutes on the bypass, another twelve seconds idled away before Sweetheart carefully ran a slow red light. (It wasn't the time to pick up a cop escort.)

  A sharp left—only to skid onto the oily airport road—and ninety seconds before they could see a small jet bursting into flight.

  The sky above the Santa Fe airport was a sheet of smoky glass, a reflection of the rain-slicked asphalt below. True nightfall was hours away, but the sun, trapped behind clouds since dawn, had conceded defeat, and the small Spanish Deco terminal glowed against the horizon like an artificial sun highlighting contrived darkness.

  Beyond the terminal a flock of molded steel birds had gathered on the tarmac—private jets and commercial commuters, wings spread, in pecking order, bound for Denver, Albuquerque, Dallas, and other, not so exotic destinations—on schedule or making up time.

  Sweetheart slowed the Mercedes in respon
se to the sudden red glow of taillights twenty feet in front of them on the airport road. He was thinking of Sylvia as he glanced over at Christine Palmer. Her manicured hands rested on the thighs of her black leather pants. (The only sign of nerves—faint streaks in the leather where her tapered nails had clamped down.) A single strand of diamond chips shimmered around her left wrist. It occurred to Sweetheart that diamonds, cold as ice and razor sharp, were exactly right for Christine.

  Neither of them spoke, and he welcomed the silence—he had nothing to say, but he kept needing to touch her visually.

  Christine refused to meet his eyes. Her back was straight, her chin slightly raised, attention focused impatiently on the scene ahead. Her profile was a study in classic composition, a just right balance of shadow and light and line, but her beauty was cold, just like the diamond bracelet. He thought of Sylvia, of her description of Riker as a man who made me touch a place within myself that knows no compassion, no mercy, no humanity.

  A cold, dark place where nothing lives, he thought.

  He tried to summon a comparison to his own relationship with Christine. But it was different—the places he'd touched with her had been dark and hot and very, very dangerous. In spite of Sylvia's plea, he could never trust Palmer, never turn his back on her. Too much was at stake. He was closing in on the man he'd been pursuing for years. He was closing in on a spy, a traitor.

  "Christine." He didn't know he'd actually spoken her name aloud until she shook her head, a gesture so small he almost didn't catch it.

  When he gave the Mercedes gas—heard the low throb, felt the engine responding, and cut into the left lane to pass a line of traffic—he had an odd sense of going nowhere.

  Minutes earlier, when the second call had come through, he'd worked the calculation in his head: it would take at least twenty minutes before the feds could get here—and when they did, they'd bring disaster.

  Sweetheart didn't intend to play it that way.

  A horn, blaring and indignant, brought him back into his body. He slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a battered Toyota hatchback. In his peripheral vision he saw Christine brace herself against the seat as the Mercedes jolted to a stop. He took a breath as the Toyota completed a turn; behind the rain-marred window, the driver was invisible.

  He thought he heard a whisper, and he glanced over to see if Christine had spoken. This time she met his eyes. He wasn't prepared for what he saw: some private blend of hurt and contempt.

  He accelerated, speeding the last quarter mile to the terminal.

  The rain had begun to fall in heavy threads, drumming against the roof of the Mercedes. Even before he'd cut the engine, Christine thrust the door open, stepping out into the deluge. She jogged across the parking lot and was soaked through by the time she reached the terminal doors. Sweetheart was only a few feet behind her, moving quickly.

  The interior of the terminal, brightly lit and smelling of damp clothes and bodies, was a throwback, something out of the 1940s. Clusters of people loitered on benches and around a small snack bar. A line had formed in front of plate glass; passengers boarding an Eagle Express flight stepped reluctantly from the shelter of the terminal into cold gray rain.

  Sweetheart watched as Christine scanned the small crowd. She moved quickly past families and solitary travelers. He followed.

  There was no place to hide. He walked through the small terminal, winding his way through the crowd, catching a glimpse of a face, a gesture, a smile, hearing a word or a phrase—in English, Spanish, even German.

  He stayed ten feet behind Christine, trailing her toward the glass doors that opened onto the tarmac. And then he saw her freeze.

  Dr. Harris Cray was crossing the terminal, briefcase in hand. Sweetheart caught it the instant it happened—Cray realized he had company. Haggard, haunted, the scientist stared back at Sweetheart, who was ready to launch an assault, whatever it took to close in on his quarry.

  To his shock, Cray began striding, half running, directly his way. Sweetheart glanced over, but Christine had disappeared. He'd lost her.

  Why isn't Cray running away?

  Instead, Harris Cray stumbled past pedestrians, finally lunging desperately for Sweetheart, clutching his sleeve. "I got the message—that you'd be here. She told me you could get me to a safe house—where no one could find me—until this was straightened out." Cray sounded hysterical. "I never stole anything—they can't arrest me, can they?"

  "Who told you?" Sweetheart growled, shaking the man roughly. But he already knew the answer.

  "I thought—wasn't it—" Cray's eyes were wide, his face puzzled. "Dr. Palmer."

  Crisscross—that's what flashed through Sweetheart's mind.

  Special Agent Darrel Hoopai swerved into the parking lot of the Santa Fe Municipal Airport, braking next to Sweetheart's silver Mercedes. He shot from his sedan, not even slowing to slam the door shut. As he raced across the slick asphalt, he told himself his instincts had been right when he made the decision to follow the profiler and Dr. Palmer. He only hoped he wasn't too late.

  Passing pedestrians, Hoopai raced through the terminal doors into bright lights and more people.

  Sweetheart pushed Dr. Cray out of the way. He took a dozen steps, turning instinctively toward the glass and the tarmac.

  Only to catch sight of a ghost seen through rain and glass.

  Shock waves traveled through his body.

  He didn't stop. He kept on moving, and the doors parted, allowing him to pass into darkness and a world of rain.

  He'd been wrong—blinded by assumption, missing the obvious.

  Drew Dexter—LANL's deputy director of security—with his Louisiana drawl and his sharp eyes turned now on Sweetheart. Watery red neon light spilled across Dexter's close-cropped hair—the red light seemed to splash onto wet asphalt.

  Christine had played them all perfectly—Cray, Sylvia, himself—as fools.

  Now she walked straight out the double doors and right up to Dexter.

  It took Sweetheart another two seconds to react, even then in slow motion.

  Dexter sidestepped Christine. He stood calmly, almost casually. By the looks of it, he had no obvious physical weapon on his person.

  Sweetheart wasn't surprised. A primitive weapon like a gun wouldn't effect his plan. But Christine Palmer would. A stolen supply of biotoxin would.

  Watch your back, Rikishi—a double cross.

  He'd had the chance to play it another way: close down the airport at the command of the feds and the FAA, risk a hot-shot cop setting Dexter off, risk a hostage situation or worse.

  Dexter's voice echoed again in his head: Before you call for backup, think about Fiesta Street, what happened to those people, what could happen again.

  He saw that Christine had accepted a briefcase from Dexter. She clutched it by her side, watching both men. As three points of a triangle, they were equilateral; a dozen feet separated each from another. A stranger watching from the terminal would never guess anything out of the ordinary was about to happen . . .

  Sweetheart took a step toward Dexter. The rain had let up slightly, and now the drops felt like faint pinpricks. He blinked, clearing his vision.

  "That's as far as you go," Dexter called to him. "We can do this without trouble."

  Palmer managed to gain a few paces in the direction of a small plane, a two-seater, a red-and-white Citabria, parked at the edge of the tarmac.

  Dexter followed; so did Sweetheart.

  One step at a time.

  "You don't want to push me," Dexter warned. "There was more than enough toxin left for another round of Fiesta Street. Only this time, a whole lot more people could die."

  "Just do as he says and it will work out," Christine said. She was still backing toward the airplane.

  Sweetheart shook his head. "I can't let you go."

  She shrugged. "You don't have a choice."

  "She goes with me." Dexter's voice had turned hard. "Once we're out of here, I'll send you a message
on where to find the alkahest."

  Christine took a step in Sweetheart's direction. She stopped and smiled that icy smile at him. "I thought you'd recognize when you're yorikiri."

  "What?" Dexter asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.

  "Sumo. He's been forced out of the ring." She turned quickly, carrying the briefcase to the Citabria's mounted step.

  Dexter backed away from Sweetheart, following in Palmer's wake.

  Again Sweetheart moved with him. It felt like a weird dance, an outdoor performance, rain or shine. At the corner of his consciousness, he realized the rain had stopped and, a jagged sliver of blue sky had appeared high in the distant sky.

  He called out to Dexter, "We know about the years, your dealings with the Chinese."

  Dexter shrugged. "My life as a spy. That's all in the past. It's harder for you to let go than it is for me, Sweetheart." A slight smile crossed Dexter's lips. "You've been after me too long. As for my extracurricular activities, that's easy—my government owes me." He gestured toward Palmer, standing on the step of the airplane, still holding the briefcase. "The disks are my privately negotiated pension. It's that simple. I make sure there are no secrets because the bad guys get the same recipe as the good guys. I'm so fucking sick of government sanctity."

  "What about your family?" Sweetheart called. "Your wife and children?"

  "What about them? They'll be taken care of—I made sure of that. But they've never understood me."

  While Dexter talked, Sweetheart had been gauging the distance. He'd gained some ground—he was barely eight feet from Dexter now. In turn, Dexter was another eight feet from the plane and Christine.

  Sweetheart kept himself talking. "And you think Christine understands you?"

  "Yes."

  "Don't be a fool."

  Dexter laughed. "Speak for yourself."

  Sweetheart knew the most vulnerable moment would be when they climbed into the cockpit—that was when he'd have a chance.

  Dexter read his mind. "Try to stop us and you'll never find out where I left the second load of toxin. You'll have to live with the nightmares."