Dantes' Inferno by Sarah Lovett

two lower floors, to brake smoothly on a third subterranean level.
    â€œDantes isn’t at MDC?” Sylvia asked, fighting back panic. It frightened her to think he wasn’t locked inside a cell.
    â€œWe’ve transported him over here for security considerations,” Purcell said.
    â€œMine or his?” Sylvia asked. She swallowed coffee, spilling some from the Styrofoam cup; a blue pill nestled secretly in the palm of her hand.
    â€œOurs,” Purcell said flatly.
    The elevator doors glided open, admitting stale, warm air. Followed closely by both investigators, Sylvia stepped out into a dimly lit concrete garage. “What is this place?” she asked.
    â€œA basement, with utility access, and tunnel access to MDC,” Purcell said, moving forward briskly. She nodded toward a double door marked No Entry . “The U.S. marshalsuse it for prisoner transport, which is why it’s equipped with a cage.”
    â€œTerrific.” Sylvia took another sip of coffee and tipped her head back slightly, ready to catch the blue pill in her mouth.
    A wide hand gripped her wrist, fingers clamped tight around the tendons in her arm. Slowly—involuntarily—her muscles let go and the pill slipped away.
    â€œYou always eat the breakfast of champions?” Church asked in a very quiet voice. His mouth was almost pressed against her ear, and he hadn’t released her yet.
    She stared up at him. “Only when I’m having a breakdown.”
    â€œWelcome to LA,” he said sharply, with a quick dip of his red head.
    She didn’t answer; instead she took two steps toward the double doors where Purcell and a U.S. marshall waited stiffly.
    â€œHey, Doc?”
    She turned to glance back at Church, catching the faintest wink. He said, “Don’t fumble.” He tossed something in the air—a pack of cigarettes—and she caught them automatically, neatly.
    She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. The palms of her hands hit the cold metal doors of the transport cage. She was pushing a glacier uphill.
    8:13 A.M. The room—about fifteen by twenty—was windowless, hot, designed to hold a dozen maximum security inmates. It could best be described as a mesh-lined metal bunker with built-in benches.
    John Dantes was still wearing his prison colors, still sporting his bullet-proof vest. A chain bracelet courtesy of the state linked arms, waist, ankles—the chains also kepthim from straying more than a few inches from the mesh wall. He was seated behind a narrow table, but his fingers barely reached the edge.
    Sylvia stood in place, conscious of adrenaline, dread, and flowing underneath, a strong current of expectation. She waited, unwilling to be the first to speak.
    â€œDr. Strange. I want to thank you,” he said, oddly formal in speech and posture. His face showed deeper strain than it had twenty-four hours earlier. “I wasn’t sure you’d accept my invitation.”
    â€œThat’s what this is? An invitation?” she asked softly. “It feels like a summons.”
    â€œThen I apologize.” His eyes narrowed, jaw tensing abruptly. “Did they give you a bad time?”
    â€œI’m fine.” She was in motion, crossing the cage, dropping the pack of cigarettes on the table. She sat on a metal folding chair. “I’m here.”
    With careful movements, she tapped the pack until a cigarette protruded from the opening. She held it out, and he strained forward to reach it with his lips. She pulled a lighter from her jacket pocket. Leaning toward him across the table, she flicked the metal lip, extending the flame.
    He drew on the cigarette until the tip flared orange. As he exhaled, smoke hovered on the air around his mouth. “Why not ask the question?”
    She nodded, placing the lighter on the table. Her fingers found the cigarette pack, and she worried the cellophane. “Why me?”
    â€œWe both know