Dantes' Inferno by Sarah Lovett Read Free Book Online Page B

cross-trainers, and her blue Dodgers cap, she stripped off her work clothes—she’d been wearing them since 4 A.M. in New Mexico—and quickly changed into running gear. In the kitchen she poured herself a tall glass of tap water, draining it in seconds. Then she was out the door.
    In the middle of the concrete overpass that traversed Highway 1 and allowed access from the cliff park to the beach, she missed her sunglasses. She’d left them on the floor of the visiting room at MDC.
    Fine, she thought harshly—let Dantes add another item to his trophy collection; he was eating up shrinks left and right.
    She ran for several miles, heading north, parallel with the shore, barely evading the foamy salt water as it licked creamy sand beneath her feet. Here and there she passed other runners, beachcombers, and the yellow all-terrain trucks owned by the state of California.
    A hundred yards offshore, surfers bobbed with seals, both species catching modest waves. After the first few miles her muscles loosened up; by the fourth mile she felt herself sprint clear of the chemical cloud induced by the morning’s dose of benzodiazepine. She quickened her pace, sweating, breath fast but regular. The sun warmed her skin, and she knew she’d end up with a slight golden hue to her olive complexion. She set her sights on a small but rugged peninsula ahead—her turnaround point. Time evaporated beneath her legs, and it seemed she reached those volcanic rocks in one minute instead of thirty. She cut to a fast walk, working out a cramp in her left calf, opting for an interval of cooldown before her return. The geologic evidence reminded her she was standing on the continental shelf, on a young and tumultuous formation. This was the meeting place of two tectonic plates; grinding and chewing into theearth beneath her feet, they were ripping fault lines all across California.
    Pacing herself as she retraced her own trail back toward the pier, she let her thoughts flow in tandem with her legs. Her encounter with John Dantes had been a failure—no tests, no results, nothing to score or evaluate.
    Tomorrow she would flee to the desert—she could catch the early flight on Southwest, go standby if they were booked. She wanted out of LA.
    The sprawling metropolis represented her past. The city never failed to catch her in its grip when she returned; it stirred memories of another time, another life, when she was raw, a dangerous shadow of herself.
    LA, City of Id, jarred; it seduced in the most threatening ways.
    It fueled her drive, heightened her appetites, revved her ambition. It reawakened fantasies and revived nightmares.
    She stumbled on a strand of dried seaweed. Catching her balance, she pushed hard for the final sprint.
    Fuck it anyway . This morning’s little dance with John Dantes had thrown cold water on her big-city career goals. He’d trespassed psychologically; she’d done no better than her predecessors. So much for tagging along with the Bombers’ Profiling Project.
    She cut her stride into a fast, leggy walk, breathing deeply. Her lungs reminded her she’d been smoking too much. The stitch of pain satisfied in a perverse way. Glancing at her watch, she saw she had ninety minutes to walk back to the bungalow, make a few phone calls, shower, dress, and get to the restaurant.
    3:20 P.M . “Three strikes you’re out . . .” Sylvia stabbed the fat green olive that was magnified in the bottom of her martini glass, then stuffed it between her lips. Finally, shelooked up to focus on Leo Carreras, struck by his tall, slender elegance, his darkly handsome face. There should be a law . .  .
    He was watching her closely, attentive, trying to read her mood. He slid into the booth, facing her from across the small table.
    â€œSorry I’m late,” he said, checking the Rolex on his wrist, then scanning the Santa Monica Pier restaurant; the noise level had