Dantes' Inferno by Sarah Lovett Page B

me.”
    â€œI was never on your side.”
    â€œOh, but I think you were, Dr. Strange. You just don’t want to admit it.” He sighed. “You and I are very much alike. We both want to play God—we both stretch beyond our reach. People get hurt.”
    â€œYou’re a murderer.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Dantes whispered. He gazed up at her, that intense sadness—manufactured or real—in his eyes again. He took a breath, physically releasing emotional weight.
    He said, “We never really answered the question, Dr. Strange—why you? But you’ve guessed, haven’t you?” He smiled. “Let’s talk about Mona Carpenter.”
    Sylvia stood.
    â€œHer husband must hate you,” he said slowly. Slumping back in the hard chair with a smoky exhale, he shifted his gaze to follow wafting tendrils of smoke. “Mona had a child, a son, didn’t she? Nathan? Little Nate?”
    She turned, walking straight to the door.
    â€œWe both know what it’s like to witness the death of someone who counted on you to make the world safe.” Urgency broke through Dantes’ words. “My mother counted on me. Mona Carpenter counted on you.”
    Sylvia reached her hand up to tap on metal: the signal for release.
    Dantes didn’t take his eyes from her back. “Have you ever seen what happens when a bomb explodes, the range of destruction?” he asked. “Walk away now, and more innocent people will die—children, mothers, grandmothers.”
    Sylvia froze. She didn’t trust herself to move. Finally, she turned to face him. “That’s why you became a bomber? Tohurt innocent people?” She asked. “I thought John Dantes wanted to save the world.”
    â€œThere was a time he believed he could do that . . . save the world.”
    â€œI’m glad you believed in something,” Sylvia said. She walked back to the table.
    â€œMy targets were selected to contain damage, to avoid casualties. Obviously that’s not always possible. I had a story to tell. I had to make people listen.”
    â€œYou actually believe they heard your message?” Sylvia asked harshly. “They’ve labeled you schizophrenic, psychotic, deranged.” She spit out the words. “You should hear them on the talk shows. It’s fifty-fifty—they want to marry you or murder you. That’s your legacy.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to insinuate. “Nobody’s listening to John Dantes. They call you a coward.”
    â€œThey’ll listen,” he said coldly. “Before it’s all over, they’ll listen.”
    She fixed her gaze on him, as if by simply staring long enough, stubbornly enough, she might penetrate his mind.
    Instead she found herself absorbed by his energy, stung by his intensity. Abruptly, she turned her head away. “We need your help.” Once again she was aware of Purcell and Church. Her body betrayed her internal shift; she felt the rift in her concentration, like an actor who breaks the fourth wall.
    Dantes didn’t miss the trick. “Hello, Church,” he said cordially, tracking her thoughts. He shifted in the chair, an arrow primed. “Is the lovely Ms. Purcell with you today? Please forgive my rudeness, Dr. Strange, but I’m talking to my old pals from the task force.” Dantes’ smile was secretive. “My friends are very worried, aren’t they?”
    He swung his head left, right. His demeanor altered, his calm veneer slipping away. Anxiety had begun to showthrough like something raw beneath the skin. Struggling to maintain control, he kept his attention focused on Sylvia. “What’s got them worried?”
    â€œTake a wild guess,” she said harshly.
    â€œA bomber? I don’t think so.” He straightened in the chair, tensing visibly. “They’re worried they fucked up the Getty investigation.