Dantes' Inferno by Sarah Lovett Page A

you’ve run through the various possibilities,” he said softly. “Can we just say you’re a free agent?”
    â€œI’m still on their side,” she answered, stretching to pick up an improvised ashtray someone had left on the floor.
    â€œI’m betting you’re on the side of justice and equity.”
    â€œI’m listening.”
    â€œIt’s not that simple.”
    â€œYes, it is,” she said sharply. “You have information they need—”
    â€œMy hands are tied.” He shifted his arms until the chains pulled taut. His smile was mean.
    Sylvia stood, walking away from the table to come to a standstill by the mesh-lined wall. She gripped metal. “They need to know about the extortion letters.”
    â€œI only know about my private correspondence.”
    â€œBullshit.” She pivoted to face him.
    â€œNo,” he said sharply. “We do it my way.”
    â€œOf course we do.” She didn’t try to mask her derision.
    Dantes dipped his head, his face unreadable while he finished his cigarette. “Do you miss Santa Fe, Dr. Strange? Your friends, your family?”
    When Sylvia didn’t answer, he looked up. “A thousand miles is no distance at all.”
    She placed the palms of her hands on the table and leaned toward Dantes. Conscious of audio surveillance, she mouthed four words— Don’t fuck with me .
    They locked eyes. Sylvia didn’t look away. Not even when she felt him read her mind; he seemed to possess that ability.
    â€œYou misunderstand me,” Dantes said.
    â€œNo, I don’t. You just threatened my family. Do it again, I’m out of here. Do you understand me? ”
    He let the smoldering cigarette fall from his lips to land on the concrete floor; he ground it out with the heel of his shoe. “When they shook down my cell, they stole one card,” he said. “I don’t know about anything else.”
    â€œThe FBI received another written communication yesterday.”
    â€œThrough the mail?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œContent?”
    â€œIt was a threat.” She’d rehearsed the script with Church and Purcell; so far they hadn’t veered off track. “But that doesn’t surprise you.”
    â€œNo.” He slumped back in his chair. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
    â€œThe message was inscribed on the back of a photo-graph—a Polaroid of a bomb,” Sylvia said. “Who is he? What does he want?”
    Dantes smiled complacently. “I could use another cigarette.”
    â€œIs he your partner? A fan?” She sat down again, reaching for the pack, tapping on plastic. “A copycat, or a sycophant?”
    â€œDon’t be petty.”
    She held a cigarette to her lips. “The Feds will lose patience before I do.” She clipped the lighter, sparking a blue flame, tipping the cigarette to heat. She inhaled smoke—“Give them something to work with”—then exhaled.
    When he didn’t respond, she extended her arm, offering the lighted cigarette and intimacy with that one gesture.
    He accepted. “I used to dream about my victims,” he whispered. “The surveyor killed in the aqueduct bombing. He had a two-year-old, another baby on the way. The job wasn’t scheduled for Thursday; he came early because his wife wanted him to take a long weekend. And the security guard? She was only forty-one.” His face sharpened, and he leaned forward. “I used to dream about them, but I stopped right after the Getty. Why do you think I stopped, Dr. Strange?”
    â€œBecause you had new nightmares—new victims.” Anger sparked Sylvia’s eyes. “The Getty bombing killed a child, his teacher—”
    â€œI’m not responsible.”
    â€œThe evidence—”
    â€œâ€”was circumstantial. You talk to the bomb boys and everything changes. You’ve switched sides on