by J. D. Robb
"I still fumbled." She smiled thinly. "How's that for sports?"
"The fat lady has yet to sing," he said and laughed at her confused stare. "Meaning the game isn't over. But tonight is. You're going to bed."
She'd been about to say the same, but it was always hard to resist arguing. "Says who?"
"The man you married for sex."
She ran her tongue around her teeth, hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. "I just said that to needle a sexually repressed, homicidal maniac."
"I see. So you didn't marry me for sex."
"The sex is an entertaining element."
"An element you're too tired to explore tonight."
Because her eyes were drooping, she narrowed them. "Says who?"
He had to laugh, slipping an arm around her waist to walk with her to the elevator so she wouldn't have to climb stairs. "Darling Eve, you would argue with the devil himself."
"I thought I was." She yawned, let herself lean on him a little. In the bedroom, she stripped, let her clothes lay where they fell. "They're doing a full scan on the car he left in front of the hotel," she murmured as she crawled into bed. "It's a rental—charged to Summerset's secondary credit account."
"I've shifted all my accounts and numbers." He lay beside her. "I'll see that the same is done with Summerset's in the morning. He won't find it as easy to access now."
"No latents on the scan so far. Gloves. Swept some strands of hair. Might be his. Couple foreign carpet fibers. Coulda come off his shoes. Running them."
"That's fine." He stroked her hair. "Turn it off now."
"He'll shift targets. Didn't get his points today." When her voice thickened, he turned so she could curl against him. "It's gonna be soon."
Roarke thought she was right. But the target wouldn't be her, not for now. For now she was curled up warm against him, and asleep.
• • •
Patrick Murray was drunker than usual. In the normal scheme of things, he avoided sobriety but didn't care to stumble or piss on his hands. But tonight, when the Mermaid Club closed its doors at three in the morning, he had done both, more than once.
His wife had left him. Again.
He loved his Loretta with a rare passion, but could admit he too often loved a cozy bottle of Jamison's more. He'd met his darling at that very club five years before. She'd been naked as the wind and swimming like a fish in the aquatic floor show the club was renowned for, but it had been—for Pat—love at first sight.
He thought of it now as he tripped over the chair he'd been about to upend on the table directly in front of him. Too many pulls of whiskey blurred his vision and hampered him in his maintenance duties. It was his lot in life to mop up the spilled liquor and bodily fluids, to scour the toilets and sinks, to be sure the privacy rooms were aired so they didn't smell like someone else's come the following day.
He'd hired on at the club to do just that five years and two months before, and had been struck by Cupid's arrow when he'd seen Loretta execute a watery pirouette in the show tank.
Her skin, the color of barrel-aged scotch, had gleamed so wet. Her twisty curls of ebony hair had flowed through the virulently dyed blue water. Her eyes behind their protective lenses had gleamed a brilliant lavender.
Pat righted himself, and the chair, before reaching in his pocket for the mini bottle of whiskey. He drained it in a swallow, and though he wobbled, he tucked it neatly in the nearest recycle slot.
He'd been twenty-seven when he'd first set eyes on the magnificent Loretta, and it had been only his second day in America. He'd been forced to leave Ireland in a hurry, due to a bit of a brushup with the law and a certain disagreement over some gambling debts. But he'd found his destiny in the city of New York.
Five years later, he was scraping the same floor clean of unmentionable substances, pocketing the loose credits dropped by patrons who were often more drunk than Pat himself, and mourning, once again, the loss of his Loretta.
He had to admit she didn't have much tolerance for a man who liked his liquor by the quart.
She was what some would call the giant economy size. At five-ten and two hundred fiery pounds, she made nearly two of Patrick Murray. He was a compact man who'd once had dreams of jockeying thoroughbreds on the flat, but he'd tended to miss too many morning exercise rounds due to the inconvenience of a splitting head. He was barely five-five, no more than a hundred and twenty pounds even after a dip in the aquatic show floor tank.
His hair was orange as a fresh carrot, his face splattered with a sandblast of freckles of the same hue. And Loretta had often told him it was his sad and boyish blue eyes that had won over her heart.
He'd paid her for sex the first time, naturally. After all, it was her living. The second time he'd paid her fee he'd asked if perhaps she might enjoy a piece of pie and a bit of conversation.
She'd charged him for that as well, for the two hours spent, but he hadn't minded. And the third time he'd brought her a two-pound box of near-chocolates and she'd given him the sex for nothing.
A few weeks later they'd been married. He'd stayed almost sober for three months. Then the wagon had tipped, he'd fallen off, and Loretta had lowered the boom.
So it had been, on and off that wagon, for five years. He'd promised her he'd take the cure—the sweat box and shots down at the East Side Substance Abuse Clinic. And he'd meant to. But he'd gotten a little drunk and gone off to the track instead.
He still loved the horses.
Now she was talking divorce, and his heart was broken. Pat leaned on his string mop and sighed at the glinting waters of the empty tank.
Loretta had done two shows tonight. She was a career woman, and he respected that. He'd gotten over his initial discomfort when she'd insisted on keeping her sex license up to date. Sex paid better than sweeping, even better than entertainment, and they sometimes talked of buying a place in the suburbs.
She hadn't spoken to him that evening, no matter how he'd tried to draw her out. When the show ended, she'd climbed down the ladder, wrapped herself in the striped robe he'd given her for her last birthday, and swished off with the other water beauties.
She'd locked him out of their apartment, out of her life, and, he was afraid, out of her heart.
When the buzzer sounded from the delivery entrance, he shook his head sadly. "Where'd the time go?" he wondered. "Morning already."
He made his bleary way into the back, fumbled twice with the code before getting it right, and hauled open the steel-enforced door. He puzzled a moment, standing framed there, with the security light beeping and the black-coated figure smiling in at him.
"It's still dark, isn't it?" Pat said.
"It's always darkest before the dawn, so they say." He stepped forward, offering a gloved hand. "Do you remember me, Paddy?"
"Do I know you? Are you from home?" Pat took the offered hand and never even felt the slight pinch as he pitched forward.
"Oh, I'm from home, Paddy, and I'll be sending you there." He let the unconscious man slide to the floor before turning and carefully resetting the locks.
It was easy enough to drag a man of Pat's size from the back room into the main lounge. Once there, he set his valise on a table, carefully unpacked what he would need.
He tested the laser—one quick shot to the ceiling—and smiled in approval. The shackles were lightweight and fashioned from a material approved by NASA II. The 'link was heavier, loaded as it was with its maxi-battery and interfaced jammer. He found a handy outlet behind the bar and quickly set up his communications.
Humming a little, he turned the tank system to drain. It sounded like one huge and slightly clogged toilet flushing, he thought, amused, then walked back to kick Pat sharply in the ribs.
Not a stir, not a whimper.
With a sigh he bent down, efficiently checking vital signs. The man was stinking drunk, he realized. And he'd used too much of the tranq. Vaguely irritated by the miscalculation, he took a pressure syringe filled with amphetamine
and jabbed it against Pat's limp arm.
There was barely a stir, hardly a whimper.
The anger built quickly, until he shook with it. "Wake up, you bastard." Rearing back, he slapped Pat's face, front handed, then back, over and over. He wanted him awake and aware for all of it. When the slaps didn't work, he used his fists, pummeling until blood spurted and soaked his gloves.
Pat only moaned.
His breathing was ragged now, his eyes beginning to sting with tears. He only had two hours, for God's sake. Was he supposed to work miracles? Was he supposed to think of everything?
Had God abandoned him after all, for his failures?
If it hadn't been for Dallas, he'd have finished with the pig Brian by now, and Pat would have waited another day or two. Another day or two to observe more closely his habits and patterns and he wouldn't have been in such a hurry to put him under.
He heard a crash, blinked dully. He realized he'd thrown a chair and broken the mirror behind the bar.
Well, so what? It was just a filthy sex club in a filthy city. He'd like to destroy it, to smash every glass, set fire to it, watch it burn.
Christ Himself had destroyed the marketplace, hadn't he? In righteous anger at the moneylenders, the harlots and sinners.
But there wasn't time. That wasn't his mission.
Pat Murray was his mission tonight.
Resigned, he picked up the laser. He'd just have to remove the eye while Pat was unconscious. It didn't matter, he decided, and bent to his work. There would be plenty of fun after that. More than enough entertainment.
It pleased him that he removed the eye so neatly, so efficiently. Like a surgeon. The first time he'd been sloppy. He could admit that now. His hand had shaken, and nerves had screamed. Still he'd done it, hadn't he, as he'd been bidden. He'd finished what he started. And he would finish it all. Finish them all.
He took a moment to slip the organ into a small bottle of clear fluid. He would have to leave this one behind, of course. He'd accepted that too. If the plan was to move forward, he wouldn't be able to add Pat Murray's eye to his collection.
It was enough to have taken it. An eye for an eye.
Pat began to moan again as he dragged him to the tank. "Ah, now you wake up, you drunken sinner." Sucking in his breath, he heaved Pat over his shoulder and, with the shackles dangling over his arm, climbed the ladder.
He was proud that he was strong enough to do this, carry a grown man on his back. He hadn't always been so fit. He'd been sickly as a child, puny and weak. But he'd been motivated to change that. He'd listened to what he was told, did what was necessary. He'd exercised both body and mind until he was ready. Until he was perfect. Until the time was right.
Inside the empty tank he laid Pat down, took a small diamond bit drill from his pocket. He hummed a favorite hymn as he punched the small holes into the tank floor. He fit the shackles onto clamps, tested them by standing and pulling with all his strength. Satisfied they wouldn't give, he turned to remove Pat's clothing.
"Naked we're born and naked we die," he said cheerfully, then locked the shackles over Pat's thin ankles. He studied the battered face, noted the slight flicker of the eyelid. "How loud will you scream for mercy, I wonder?"
He slipped a token from his pocket, then dropped it with a clink on the floor of the tank. The statue of the Virgin Mother was kissed reverently then affixed to the floor facing the sinner.
"Do you remember me, Paddy?"
There was red-hot pain and stomach cramping nausea as Pat swam toward consciousness. He groaned with it, whimpered, then screamed.
"Oh Jesus, sweet Jesus, what is it?"
"Retribution."
Sobbing, Pat pushed a hand to his face, trying to cover the worse part of the agony. And he found what had been done to him and wailed. "My God, my eye, my God, I've lost my eye."
"It's not lost." Now he laughed, laughed so hard he had to hold his sides. "It's on the table out there."
"What's happening? What's done?" Desperate and cold sober, Pat dragged at the shackles. Pain boiled through him like acid. "You want money, they don't leave anything after closing. I don't have the code for the lock box. I'm just the janitor."
"I don't want money."
"What do you want? What have you done to me? Oh, sweet Mary. What do you want?"
"Don't use her name." Fired again, he struck Pat hard in the face with a balled fist. "I don't want her name in your filthy tongue. Use it again, and I'll cut it out of your sinful mouth."
"I don't understand." Pat wept it. The blow had knocked him to his knees. "What do you want from me?"
"Your life. I want to take your life. I've waited fifteen years and it's tonight."
Tears swam out of the eye he had left and the pain was a hideous thing. But still he swung out, tried to grab a leg. When his fingers swept air, he tried again, cursing now, threatening, weeping.
"This would be fun, but I have a schedule." He moved to the ladder, climbed nimbly while Pat's pleas and threats echoed up to him. "It'll take nearly an hour for the water to cover your head at the speed I'll use. An hour," he repeated, grinning at Pat through the glass wall as he climbed down. "You'll be nearly insane by then. The water will rise, inch by inch. Ankles, knees, waist. You'll be straining against the shackles until your ankles are raw and bleeding and burning but it won't help. Waist, chest, neck."
Still smiling he turned to the controls, adjusting until the water poured through the side channels.
"Why are you doing this, you bloody bastard?"
"You have nearly an hour to think about that."
He knelt, crossed himself, folded his hands, and offered a prayer of celebration and gratitude.
"You're praying? You're praying?" Struggling to focus, Pat stared at the statue of the Virgin as the water rose over her robes. "Mother of God," he whispered. "Dear Mother of God." And he prayed himself, as fiercely, as fervently as he ever had in his life. If she would intercede on his behalf, he would swear by her mercy never to lift a bottle to his lips again.
For a silent five minutes, the supplicates, one in the tank, one outside it, mirrored each other.
Then one rose lightly and smiled. "It's too late for prayers. You've been damned since you sold a life to a devil for profit."
"I never did. I don't know you." The water licked slyly at his knees, urging Pat to struggle up. "You've got the wrong man."
"No, you're just one ahead of schedule." Because he had time before he needed to make the necessary calls, he went behind the bar and helped himself to a soft drink as Pat shouted and begged for mercy. No spirits had ever passed his lips.
"I hope you remember me before you're dead, Pat. I hope you remember who I am and who I come from."
He broke the seal on the tube, carried it around the bar. Humming again, he set a chair directly in front of the tank and took his seat. And, sipping, watched the show.
• • •
It was exactly five a.m. when the 'link woke her. She shot up, fully alert, heart roaring in her chest. It took only an instant to realize it wasn't the 'link signal that had her pulse racing, but the dream it had interrupted.
And she knew it was him.
"Block video, set trace." She held a hand behind her to nudge Roarke back. "Dallas."
"You thought you could win by cheating, but you were wrong. All you did was postpone fate. I'll still kill Brian Kelly. A different time, a different place."
"You screwed up, pal. I could see you sweating when you realized we were waiting for you. We knew exactly what you were going to do, and how you planned to do it."
"You didn't stop me. You couldn't get near me."
"We're so close you feel our breath on the back of your neck."
"Not so close. 'Who scream? Who shriek? Who have strife? Who have anxiety? Who have wounds for nothing? Who have black eyes? Those who linger long over wine, those who engage in trails of blended wine.' I'm watching a man die. He's dying now. Do you want to hear who screams and
shrieks?"
Quickly he switched off the filter and opened the 'link to the room.
Screams and sobs exploded through Eve's speaker and iced her blood. "Now who's cheating?" she demanded. "You're going to kill him, then give me a clue. That's what you did with Brennen. What kind of game is it if you don't take any risks?"
"He's not dead yet. I think you have almost, almost enough time."
She was already out of bed and dragging on clothes. "Where's the clue?"
"I'm even going to make this one easy for you. Dine and dance and watch the naked mermaids. It's after hours, but come on in. The water's fine. He's starting to gurgle, Lieutenant. Don't take too long."
Sick of him, she cut the transmission herself. "It's a club," she said to Roarke as she strapped on her weapon harness.
"The Mermaid Club. Naked water dancers."
"Then that's our best shot." She stepped into the elevator with him. "He's going to drown this one." She looked at Roarke as she pulled out her communicator to call in. "You don't own the Mermaid Club, do you?"
"No." His eyes were hard. "But I used to."
*** CHAPTER NINETEEN ***
The sun was breaking over the East River as they shot southward through the still-slumbering uptown. Clouds scooted over the light, moving lazily, making it the thick color of powder.
Roarke chose to keep the car on manual, and avoided Broadway with its never-ending party and unfriendly traffic. He could feel Eve's frustration riding with them like a third passenger crowding the car.
"It isn't possible to outguess a madman."
"He's got a pattern, but it's coming apart. I can't get the threads of it." Think, think, think, she ordered herself as they bulleted through the change-of-shift traffic in midtown. "Do you know who owns the Mermaid Club?"
"Not personally. It was something I picked up years ago. One of my first downtown properties. Actually I won it in a dice game, kept it a couple of years, then sold it off at a tidy profit." Spotting a loaded commuter tram stalled across Seventh, he whipped west and headed crosstown.
"Has to be the owner or someone who works there." Eve pulled out her personal palm computer. Her teeth snapped together when Roarke hit one of the potholes neglected by the city's road and infrastructure teams. "Silas Tikinika? Ring a bell?''