by J. D. Robb
“Why Maplewood, specifically?”
“You believe she was specifically targeted. This wasn’t random?”
“He lay in wait. I’m sure of it.”
“She was alone and unprotected. She had a child, but no husband. This may play a part. She may also represent, by appearance, by lifestyle, by circumstances, the female in his life who influenced him. Sexual homicide with mutilation most often occurs when the perpetrator was abused or humiliated or betrayed in some fashion by a strong female figure. Mother, sister, teacher, spouse or lover. It’s unlikely he has or has been able to maintain a long-term, healthy intimate relationship with a woman.”
“And sometimes they’re just fucking murdering bastards.”
“Yes.” Mira calmly sipped her tea. “Sometimes. But there is a root, Eve. There’s always a root, whether real or fantasized. Rape is about power, more than it’s about violence, certainly more than it’s about sex. Penetration by force, for your own gratification while causing fear and pain. Not just forcing yourself on another person, but into them. Murder takes that power to another level. The ultimate control over another human being. The method, strangulation, is very personal, very intimate.”
“I think he got off on it. He strangled her face-to-face. He watched her die.”
“I’d agree. We can’t know if he ejaculated as there was no semen, but I don’t believe he’s impotent. He may be so without the violence, but if he’d been unable to orgasm, we would see more injuries, pre- and postmortem.”
“Cutting out her eyes is pretty injurious.”
“A symbol again. He enjoys symbols. He blinded her. She has no power against him as she can’t see him—or is allowed to see him only in a manner he directs. This is a powerful symbol to him, and possibly the most important. He took her eyes away from her—not destroying them, which would have been quicker and easier—and more violent—but with some care. Eyes are important to him. They have meaning.”
She’d had blue eyes, Eve thought. Dark bluebell eyes, like her daughter. “Maybe he fixes them. Could be an eye doctor, a tech, a consultant.”
Mira shook her head. “I’d be surprised if he could work with, treat, or interact with women on a day-to-day basis. It’s most likely he lives alone, works at a job where he can work alone, or primarily with men. He’s organized, but he’s also a risk taker. And he’s proud. He not only attacked and killed in a public place, but he left her there, displayed.”
“Look at my work, and be afraid.”
“Yes. If Elisa Maplewood was symbolic rather than target specific, his work isn’t finished. He’s organized enough to have his next victim in mind already. He’d study her habits, her routines, and strategize the best way to take her.”
“Her father looked like a possibility, for about ten seconds. He’s got a sheet, but reports are he’s out of town. Verifying that, but it doesn’t feel like it was personal on that level.”
“Because of the symbols.” Mira nodded. “Yes, I agree, unless you find those symbols relate between father and daughter. Probabilities would be he didn’t know Maplewood on that personal a level, but only what she symbolized to him.”
“I’m going to run probabilities. We’re tracking down the ribbon. It’s a good lead.” But she brooded. “What do you think of psychics?”
“Well, as I have a daughter who’s a sensitive . . .”
“Oh yeah. Right.” She brooded a moment more while Mira waited patiently. “I had a visit this morning,” she began, and told her of Celina.
“Do you have any reason to doubt she was telling the truth?”
“Other than a reluctance to believe in woo-woo, no. She’s checking out. It’s a little annoying to admit that she’s the best lead I’ve got.”
“You’ll speak with her again?”
“Yeah. Personal prejudices and reluctance don’t belong on the job. If she’s a lead, I’ll use her.”
“There was a time you were nearly as reluctant to consult with me.”
Eve flicked a glance up, shrugged. “Maybe for the same reasons. You always saw too damn much to suit me.”
“Maybe I still do. You not only look exhausted, Eve, you look sad.”
There was a time she’d have shrugged that off as well, and walked out. But she and Mira had come a long way. “Turns out Louise Dimatto knows the psychic. Old pals. I needed to talk to her about it. She’s doing duty at Dochas today.”
“Ah.”
“That’s a shrink trick. Ah.” She set the tea aside, rising to pace the office, to jingle loose credits in her pockets. “And it works. It’s an amazing thing Roarke’s done, and only more amazing—to me—when you get down to the reasons he did it. Some for himself, sure, seeing as he was kicked around plenty as a kid. Some for me—more, for me—because of what I went through. But altogether more for us. Because of who and what we are now.”
“Together.”
“Jesus, I love him more than . . . it shouldn’t be possible to feel this way about someone. And still, knowing what he’d done there, knowing it was important to him I have some part in it, I’ve avoided going there.”
“Do you think he doesn’t understand why?”
“Another thing that shouldn’t be possible is the way he understands me. It’s a good place, Dr. Mira, and the name is right on target. And I was sick the whole time I was there. Sick in my heart, in my gut. Sick and shaky and scared. I wanted to walk out, away from those women with their bruises, those kids with their helpless faces. One of them had a broken arm. One of the kids. A girl, about six. I’m not good with kids’ ages.”
“Eve.”
“I could feel the bone snap. Could hear it. And it took everything not to just go down to my knees and scream.”
“And you’re ashamed of that?”
Shame? She wasn’t sure. Was it shame she felt, or anger, or some nasty brew of both? “You’ve got to get over it, sometime.”
“Why?”
Stunned, Eve turned back, stared. “Well . . . because.”
“Overcoming and getting over are two very different things.” Mira spoke briskly now because she wanted to get up, to go over, to draw Eve into a hug that wouldn’t be appropriate, or understood. “Yes, you should strive to overcome. To survive, have a life, to be happy, to be productive. You’ve done all that, and a great deal more. But no, you’re not required to get over it. To get over being beaten and abused and raped and tortured. You ask more of yourself, Eve, than you ask of anyone else in the world.”
“It was a good place.”
“And in this good place you saw a child someone had tried to break. It hurt you. But you didn’t walk away.”
She sighed, sat again. “Peabody caught a drift. When we’re out, she does the pal thing, offers to listen if I need to dump. So how do I respond to that?”
“Snap her head off, I imagine,” Mira said with a little smile.
“Yeah. I ream her. Slap her up and down, mind-your-own-business kind of shit, stuff just jumping out of my mouth.”
“You’ll apologize.”
“Already did.”
“You work together, as a unit. And you have a friendship outside of the job. You may want to consider telling her, at least some of it.”
“I don’t see what good it would do either one of us.”
Mira only smiled. “Well, something to think about. Go home, Eve. Get some sleep.”
Chapter 5
Since all Eve wanted was a few hours of oblivion, Mira’s advice wasn’t hard to take. She pulled through the gates of home.
Summer still reigned here, with perfect summer flowers in deep summer colors, with shimmering green grass that seemed to stretch for miles, and the tall leafy trees that spread cool shade.
The house with its towers and peaks and graceful terraces lorded over them: part castle, part fortress, all home.
The best part of it was there was a bed inside, with her name on it.
She left the car at the front steps, and realizing s
he’d neglected to call Requisitions and bitch, she gave the door an irritated boot when she got out. Then she forgot it and dragged up the steps and into the house.
He was lurking. Summerset was the universal champion of lurk. He stood in the foyer, bony in black, his snooty nose in the air and the fat cat at his feet. In Eve’s opinion, Roarke’s majordomo never missed the chance to give her the needle.
“You’re earlier than expected, and appear to have gotten through the day without destroying any article of clothing. I must note this event down on my calendar.”
“Bitch when I’m late, bitch when I’m early. You could go pro on the bitching circuit.”
“Your current offensive mode of transportation has not been properly garaged.”
“Your current offensive face hasn’t yet been beaten to a pulp by my fists either. Mark that on your calendar, Creepshow.”
He had a couple more in his pocket, but decided to save them since there were circles of exhaustion under her eyes, and she was already heading up the steps. Hopefully to bed. He glanced down at the cat.
“That should do for the moment.” He wagged a finger toward the stairs, and Galahad trotted up them.
She thought about going to her office first, putting her notes and thoughts into a report, maybe checking in with the lab, running some probabilities.
But her feet took her straight to the bedroom where the cat streaked in just behind her. He bolted up the stairs of the platform, took a running leap, and landed, with considerable grace for a tub of lard, on the bed.
And sat, dual-colored eyes narrowed on Eve’s face.
“Yeah, good idea. I’m right behind you.”
She stripped off her jacket, tossed it on the sofa in the sitting area, peeled off her weapon harness, and dumped it on the jacket. Then she sat on the arm, pried off her boots, and decided that was good enough.
She didn’t leap on the bed; it was more of a crawl. Stretching out on her stomach, ignoring the cat who slithered onto her butt and circled twice before settling, she ordered herself not to think. And dropped into sleep like a stone down a well.
She felt the dream coming. Felt it oozing out of her system like blood from a wound. In sleep she twitched, and her hands balled into fists. But she couldn’t fight it off, and it took her.
Took her back.
It wasn’t the room in Dallas, the place she feared most. It was dark, without the wash of dingy red light, without the icy air. Instead there were shadows and a clammy kind of heat, the heavy smell of flowers going to rot.
She could hear voices, but couldn’t make out the words. She heard weeping, but couldn’t locate the source. It seemed like a maze, sharp corners, dead ends, a hundred doors all closed and locked.
She couldn’t find her way out, or in. Her heart was thundering in her chest. She knew there was something else in the dark, something close behind her, something horrible waiting to strike.
She should turn and fight. It was always better to stand and fight, to face down what came after you and beat it back. But she was afraid, so afraid, and ran instead.
It laughed, low.
Her hand shook when she reached for her weapon, shook so hard she could barely draw it. She would kill it; if it touched her, she would kill it.
But she kept running.
Something stepped out of the shadows, and on a breathy scream she stumbled back and fell to her knees. Sobs clogged her throat as she brought her weapon up, sweaty finger poised to fire.
And saw it was a child.
He broke my arm. The little girl, Abra, held her arm close to her body. My daddy broke my arm. Why did you let him hurt me?
“I didn’t. It wasn’t me. I didn’t know.”
It hurts.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
You’re supposed to make it stop.
More shadows moved, circling her, taking form. She saw where she was now. In the room in the house called Hope, the room full of bruised and battered women, of sad-eyed, broken children.
They stared at her, and their voices filled her head.
He cut me.
He raped me.
He burned me.
Look, look at my face. I used to be pretty.
Where were you when he threw me down the stairs?
Why didn’t you come when I was screaming?
“I can’t. I can’t.”
Elisa Maplewood, blind and bloody, stepped closer. He took my eyes. Why didn’t you help me?
“I am. I will.”
It’s too late. He’s already here.
Alarms rang, lights flashed. The women and the children stepped back, stood like a jury at sentencing. The little girl called Abra shook her head. You’re supposed to protect us. But you can’t.
He strolled in, the big, terrifying smile on his face, the vile and vicious gleam in his eyes. Her father.
Take a look at them, little girl. Plenty of them, and there’s always more. Bitches just beg for it, so what’s a man to do?
“Stay away from me.” On her knees, she lifted the weapon again. But her hands shook. Everything shook. “Stay away from them.”
That’s no way to talk to your father, little girl. He swung out, smashing her face with the back of his hand in a blow that sent her sprawling onto her back.
The women began to hum like bees trapped in a hive.
Gotta teach you a lesson, don’t I? You never learn.
“I’ll kill you. I killed you before.”
Did you? He grinned, and she’d have sworn his teeth were fangs. Then I’ll just have to return the favor. Daddy’s home, you worthless little cunt.
“Stay back. Stay away.” When she lifted her weapon, it was only a small knife held in a child’s trembling hand. “No. No. Please, no!”
She tried to crawl away, away from him, away from the women. He reached down, as casually as a man might reach for an apple in a bowl. And snapped her arm.
She screamed, a child’s terrified and baffled scream, as the white-hot pain flashed and burned.
There’s always more of them. There’s always more of us.
And he fell on her.
“Eve. Wake up. You wake up now.” Her face was bone white, and her body had gone rigid when he’d rolled her over to gather her in. An instant before she’d screamed.
An icy tongue of panic licked up Roarke’s spine. Her eyes were wide open, blind with shock and pain. He wasn’t completely sure she was breathing. “I said wake up!”
Her body arched, and she sucked in air like a drowning woman. “My arm! He broke my arm, he broke my arm.”
“No. It’s a dream. Oh, baby, it’s a dream. Come back now.”
He trembled as much as she did as he rocked her. Catching a movement, he snapped his head up as Summerset rushed in. “No. I’ve got her.”
“Is she injured?”
He shook his head, stroked her hair as she wept against him. “Nightmare. A bad one. I’ll take care of her.”
Summerset stepped back, then stopped at the door. “Get a soother in her, whatever it takes.”
Nodding, Roarke waited until Summerset went out, shut the door behind him. “You’re all right now. I’m right here.”
“They were all there, all around me in the dark.”
“It’s not dark now. I’ve got the lights on. Do you want them brighter?”
She shook her head, burrowed into him. “I didn’t help them. I didn’t stop him when he came in. Like he always comes in. Her arm was broken, the little girl’s arm was broken, just like mine. And he broke mine again. I felt it.”
“He didn’t.” Roarke kissed the top of her head, eased her back even when she tried to cling. “Look here now. Eve, look here. Your arm’s fine. You see?”
Though she tried to cradle it against her body, he drew it out, ran his hand gently from wrist to shoulder. “It’s not broken. It was a dream.”
“It was so real. I felt . . .” She bent her arm at the elbow, stared at it. Echoes of that phantom pain sti
ll rolled through her. “I felt it.”
“I know.” Hadn’t he heard her scream? Hadn’t he seen the glassy shock in her eyes? He kissed her hand, her wrist, her elbow. “I know. Lie back down now.”
“I’m okay.” Would be. “I just need to sit here a minute.” She looked down as the cat wormed his way between them. Her hand wasn’t quite steady when she stroked along his back. “Guess I scared the shit out of him.”
“Not enough to make him bolt. He was with you, banging his head against your shoulder. Doing what he could, I’d say, to wake you.”
“My hero.” A tear plopped on her hand, but she was beyond being embarrassed by it. “I guess he rates some fancy fish eggs or something.” She breathed deep, looked up into Roarke’s eyes. “You, too.”
“You’re having a soother.” Even as she opened her mouth to argue, he cupped her chin in his hand. “Don’t argue, and for Christ’s sake, don’t make me pour it in you. We’ll compromise this time and split one. I damn well need it as much as you, or close to it.”
She could see it now. He was so pale his eyes were like blue fire against the white of his skin. “Okay. Deal.”
He got up, went over to the AutoChef, and ordered two short glasses. When he came back, she took the one he handed her. Then switched them. “Just in case you got sneaky and tranqed mine. I don’t want to go out again.”
“Fair enough.” He tapped his glass to hers, then downed his portion. After she’d done the same, he set both glasses aside.
“I might point out that I know you, every suspicious and cynical inch. And if I’d tranqed one of the glasses, I’d have held on to it, knowing full well you’d switch them.”
She opened her mouth, shut it again. “Damn it.”
“But I didn’t.” He leaned forward, kissed her nose. “Deal’s a deal.”
“Scared you. Sorry.”
He took her hand again, just held on to it. “Summerset said you got home a bit before five.”