Dantes' Inferno by Sarah Lovett Page A

the high ground. “You big on anniversaries, Doc?” he asked quietly.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOne week and we all get to celebrate the anniversary of the Getty bombing,” Church said. “We’d love to skip the fireworks display.”
    Frustrated, Sylvia shook her head. “The timing of my visit to MDC is based on the fact Dantes is about to ship out of state, and because my security clearance washeld up by desk jockeys.” Classified at level six—the Feds’ highest security level—Dantes was en route to Colorado’s Supermax.
    After three beats, Church dipped the small black remote he held in his right hand.
    While the screen went to white, Purcell said, “The information we’re about to share with you is extremely sensitive. The Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico is convinced the threat is real. We’re talking about a volatile situation with an extremely high possibility for loss of life.” Underneath her carefully mowed speech slunk the faintest of Southern accents.
    Nobody said a word. The only sound was the projector.
    Click, whir . A second slide, this one an enlarged photograph.
    â€œThis Polaroid arrived with the second threat communication,” Purcell said.
    Sylvia was staring at a close-up of an improvised explosive device. A time bomb. But not just a utilitarian construction of timer, fuse, primer, and main charge.
    The casing was elaborate: a wooden chest, carved and inlaid with metal and stones. Handles on both ends seemed to be brass or a similar metal. In stark contrast to the ornate container, the wired time-delay device appeared to consist of an ordinary alarm clock with a fat, white face, black numerals, and black hands; these were set at eighteen minutes, thirty seconds past one o’clock.
    It was not unlike bombs attributed to John Dantes.
    â€œDoes anyone know if that’s timed to blow today?” Sylvia asked.
    â€œYou want to stake any money it’s not? ” Church snorted. “Then you got bigger balls than me.”
    â€œYou must have hundreds of bomb threats every day. What makes this one real?”
    â€œObviously the references can be connected to Dantes,” Purcell said slowly. “Less obviously . . . when the paper is exposed to light, a series of figures, possibly numerical, become visible on the page.”
    Whir, click . The third slide revealed a series of small wedge-shaped forms: two angled left to right, nine stacked in horizontal rows of three.
    â€œWe’ve developed several possible theories regarding their significance, but more pertinent to this discussion, we’ve seen something similar on another bomb,” Purcell said.
    â€œThe Getty?” Sylvia asked.
    â€œOn remains of the bomb that blew up the museum twelve months ago.” Purcell nodded. “That information is not public.”
    â€œSo only Dantes should know,” Sylvia said slowly. “And he’s serving a life sentence.”
    â€œThis UNSUB—we’re calling him M,” Purcell said. “We’re dealing with a copycat, a wannabe. Or we’re dealing with a collaborator.”
    â€œApparently he’s a fan of Dantes—and Dante .” Sylvia stared at the slide.
    â€œWhatever the perp’s profile, we’re under the gun,” Detective Church’s deep voice rumbled. “We need information, and Dantes isn’t cooperating. The bastard’s telling us to pound sand.”
    Sylvia felt cold, slightly dizzy, as she stood. She began walking toward the door, hungry for air that wasn’t pumped through ducts, recycled, sanitized.
    None of this has anything to do with me, she thought.
    Behind her, she heard the faint and indecipherable voices of the two investigators. She kept going.
    When she heard the third voice, she stopped in her tracks. John Dantes. It took her a moment to realize thedeep, resonant sound was a high-quality recording issuing from wall