Dantes' Inferno by Sarah Lovett Page B

speakers.
    Addressing unknown inquisitors, Dantes said, “You want a conversation, you listen to this: I’ll talk to one person. You get her back in here, you treat her respectfully, and you negotiate through her. Her name is Sylvia Strange. Dr . Strange to you.” The low rumble of his laughter vibrated through the speakers. “We made it easy for you—she’s even got clearance.”
    The sound cut abruptly, but Sylvia took her time. When she turned to face the investigators her true voice got lost. A hoarse impostor said, “He’s crazy.”
    â€œCrazy or not, you’re going in,” Church said.
    â€œIf I don’t?”
    â€œYour life will become unpleasant. Your professional conduct has been questioned recently in New Mexico. If you refuse to cooperate with us, we’ll be wondering why, and we’ll be paying close attention to your every move. We’ll be deciding Dantes must have a special relationship with Sylvia Strange—maybe you belong to his fan club.”
    Church dropped a shiny black object on the table: a pair of sunglasses. “Dantes said these are yours. Armani. You should be more careful where you leave your things.”
    While the silence settled, he looked at her, his expression oddly sympathetic. His posture—broad shoulders inclined in her direction—expressed a certain intimacy.
    He said, “You’d go in without threats. We’ve got a bomber out there. If he means business—and we think he does—you’re in a position to save lives, Dr. Strange.”
    His fingers were on a file about an inch thick, and he opened the cover to reveal a stack of documents and photographs. He held them out—an offering. “Anything and everything about John Dantes.”
    She ran her tongue over parched lips. Seconds ticked away along with the opportunity to turn tail. Finally, she nodded, accepting the file in hands that were less than steady. “What exactly do you need me to do?”

City—as Sodom, Babylon, Athens, New York, or Los Angeles—represents the gravest sins of humanity, the transgressions of man against God. The city Dis must pay for its sins. Boo-hoo.
    Mole’s Manifesto (unpublished)
    Tuesday—7:20 A.M. Welcome to LA, city of his childhood daze.
    Welcome to Los Angeles, where Fat Cats feed off the city, gorging themselves until they swell to bursting.
    Welcome, all ye gluttons for punishment.
    Last night’s haze has cleared; his hunt was successful. He enjoyed his requisite three hours sleep, and now he is alive and well along with the half dozen other working stiffs exiting the Red Line car with the blessings of Ram’khastra, Angel of Rarefied Air, Sui’el, Angel of Earthquakes, and Sut, Angel of Lies.
    Lucky duck; he thinks of his very own Angel Face and how good she made him feel when he returned home early this morning. Summoned from sleep by her lover, she smiled from her dreams, reaching out to caress him . . . skin golden in moonlight off the ocean. Honey-colored hair in wisps around her sweet face; she reminds him of a childexcept for the delicate breasts, the slim waist, the gently flaring hips, and golden fleece between her thighs—the proof she is no child but woman.
    His woman. His Angel Face .
    Riding the escalator, he rises from the depths of the subway tunnel at Union Station. A leather backpack is slung over his left shoulder; although it’s heavy, it’s nothing a workingman from San Pedro wouldn’t carry for a long hot day in the city.
    A pretty redhead passing in the other direction on the escalator turns to send him a mischievous wink. As she moves, her red skirt billows around her long slender legs and a speculative smile plays over her unnaturally scarlet lips. She sees a healthy, attractive male in his late thirties. A man she wishes would stop to talk, flirt a minute, perhaps agree to meet for dinner . . . and rescue her from