Dantes' Inferno by Sarah Lovett

was there somewhere. She shuddered at the thought of him.
    Just fifty feet beyond MDC, they entered the dimly lit, almost deserted lobby of Roybal Federal Building, passing quickly through the security checkpoint.
    On the fourth floor, Sylvia followed the investigators through a maze of hallways lined with glass cubicles. It was too early for most employees to be at work, but computer monitors glowed green, and the clatter of fingers across a keyboard echoed across the floor.
    Sylvia felt comforted by the human sound. Her stomach hurt, her hands were shaking from caffeine withdrawal; when she glanced down she noticed one shoelace was untied.
    The investigators led the way into a long, narrow conference room. A wall of tinted windows offered a view of downtown. A twelve-foot-by-six-foot aerial map of LA covered the opposite wall. The air was too cold, the overhead lights had been dimmed. At the far end of the room, light emanated from a suspended white screen. Sylvia heard the hum of a projector but couldn’t locate the source; her eyes were still adjusting to artificial twilight.
    There was a soft whir followed by a click .
    An image appeared—two paragraphs of enlarged black type projected starkly against the white screen.
    â€œYesterday while you were with Dantes,” Detective Church began, “a CO discovered a threat communication in his cell. Look at the paragraph on the left.”
    Sylvia studied the message:
    dear friend
    thru me the way into the woeful city
    thru me the way to eternal pain
    sacrifice the children of heathens
    until no innocents lay claim
    first circle broken
    8 circles remain
    I do your bidding faithfully
    M—
    Church cleared his throat and said, “A second communication—apparently written by the same individual—arrived at FBI offices with yesterday’s mail.”
    dear feds
    babbel, babbel, babbel
    no more Limbo
    2nd circle soon complete
    release yr prisoner DaNTes, prophet apocryphal
    or hungry for next
    Vvv
    M—
    â€œYou were close to the money when you said we’ve got ourselves another bomb,” Church said. “We’ve had initial contact from a possible bomber-extortionist.”
    â€œAnd his name is M,” Sylvia said quietly. She almost asked what Quantico’s psycholinguistic experts had to say about the content of the extortion notes: the literary and religious references.
    But she stopped herself.
    Her entire body was mobilized for fight or flight; she ignored the juvenile urge to cover her ears with her hands. “Why are you showing me this?”
    â€œYour credentials checked out for BPP, or, trust me, you wouldn’t be sitting here,” Purcell said.
    â€œThat still doesn’t answer my question,” Sylvia said warily. “I’m not FBI or behavioral sciences, not ATF or bombsquad. And you guys don’t hand out information freebies.” She slowed her speech as if she was addressing someone who barely spoke English. “So why am I here?”
    When no one answered, she stood, abruptly claustrophobic.
    â€œSit down,” Purcell ordered.
    â€œNot until you give me some kind of explanation.” Sylvia remained standing.
    â€œSit down,” Purcell repeated, enunciating for a disobedient child.
    â€œNo.”
    As threat posture stiffened Purcell’s compact body, Church thrust an arm between the women. “Hey, come on, let’s all chill out.”
    He leaned toward Sylvia. “Thirsty?” Without waiting for a response, he walked over to a small table that had been equipped with pitcher and plastic cups. He was whistling.
    Reluctantly, Sylvia acquiesced, sinking into a chair. She could feel the first scratchy symptoms of a sore throat; even with full climate control, her skin had broken a sweat. Church set a full cup in front of her on the table. The water soothed her throat, and she finished it in two gulps.
    Now Detective Church perched on the table’s edge, staking out