“No, of course not. Listen, I’m just a middleman. The poppies get shipped here from China. I pick them up and send them on.”

Felix leaned in. “Poppies?”

Behind Dante’s back, Whitman placed his forefinger across his lips. Then he said, “Send them on where?”

“To the States.”

“Where, exactly?”

Dante gave them an address in rural Virginia. Whitman indicated to Flix that he keep an eye on their new guest, while he and Charlie stepped away. The stink of heated metal mingled with the greasy animal stench of roasted flesh. They had to move upwind of the helo’s carcass in order not to gag.

“That address sound familiar?” Whitman said in a low voice. When Charlie shook her head, he told her. “It’s the manor house of the old Mirabelle Hunt Club. Not a thousand yards away is the entrance to the Well.”

“So Seiran told us the truth.”

Whitman nodded. “This has nothing to do with Dr. Lindstrom and everything to do with the Alchemists. That’s why St. Vincent engaged with Flix; he wanted him for a guinea pig in the field.”

“But poppies? What the fuck?”

“Excellent question,” he said. “Let’s ask Edmond Dantès, shall we?”

Within minutes, he’d told them all he knew about Papaver laciniatum, which, admittedly, wasn’t much. But it was enough for Whitman to make some basic assumptions, helped along by what he had observed and experienced in Flix.

“An alkaloid—or alkaloids,” he said, “distilled from this particular poppy.”

“What about them?” Charlie asked.

They all had crowded around; even Dante appeared interested.

“That’s what they injected into you, compadre.” He looked into his friend’s face. “You remember how you felt by the time you got here?”

“Don’t remind me,” Flix said.

“But that’s just what I’m doing. You need to remember everything, and tell us, Flix. It’s vital.”

Flix closed his eyes for a moment, trying hard to block out the memories, but there were too many, they were too powerful. They crowded out everything else. He told them how he had felt detached from himself. The first sign was that his shoulder had ceased to ache. The next thing he knew he was mowing down everyone who stood in his way, just as if he had each one on a line. “I couldn’t miss,” he said on an indrawn breath, “even if I’d wanted to.” But that was the thing: he hadn’t wanted to. On the contrary, the bloodlust was running so high inside him he could think of nothing but dealing death and more death. Nothing else in the world existed. The more people he killed the better he felt. He was connected to his weapon as if it were an extension of his arms, body, mind, and heart. “I felt no hesitation, no pity, no remorse, nothing,” he said.