Dual Image

by Nora Roberts

  time), some headed back out. Responsibilities, families, a hot date pulled them out the door to subways, airtrams, maxibuses, cabs. Those who remained settled back for one more, a little more time with friends and coworkers, a little more of that warm gold light before the bright or the dark.

  Macie Snyder crowded at a plate-sized high-top with her boyfriend of three months and twelve days, Travis, her best work pal, CiCi, and Travis’s friend Bren. Macie had wheedled and finagled for weeks to set CiCi up with Bren with the long view to double dates and shared boy talk. They made a happy, chattering group, with Macie perhaps the happiest of all.

  CiCi and Bren had definitely connected—she could see it in the body language, the eye contact—and since CiCi texted her a couple times under the table, she had it verified.

  By the time they ordered the second round, plans began to evolve to extend the evening with dinner.

  After a quick signal to CiCi, Macie grabbed her purse. “We’ll be right back.”

  She wound her way through tables, muttered when someone at the bar stood up and shoulder bumped her. “Make a hole,” she called out cheerfully, and took CiCi’s hand as they scurried down the narrow steps and queued up for the thankfully short line in the restroom.

  “Told ya!”

  “I know, I know. You said he was adorable, and you showed me his picture, but he’s so much cuter in person. And so funny! Blind dates are usually so lame, but this is just mag.”

  “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll talk them into going to Nino’s. That way, after dinner, we’ll go one way, and you’ll have to go the other to get home. It’ll give Bren a chance to walk you home and you can ask him up.”

  “I don’t know.” Always second-guessing with dates—which was why she didn’t have a boyfriend of three months and twelve days—CiCi chewed at her bottom lip. “I don’t want to rush it.”

  “You don’t have to sleep with him.” Macie rolled her round blue eyes. “Just offer him coffee, or, you know, a nightcap. Maybe fool around a little.”

  She dashed into the next open stall. She really had to pee. “Then text me after he leaves and tell me everything. Full deets.”

  Making a beeline for the adjoining stall, CiCi peed in solidarity. “Maybe. Let’s see how dinner goes. Maybe he won’t want to walk me home.”

  “He will. He’s a total sweetie. I wouldn’t hook you up with a jerkhead, CiCi.” She walked to the sink, sniffed at the peachy-scented foam soap, then beamed a grin at her friend when CiCi joined her. “If it works out, it’ll be so much fun. We can double date.”

  “I really like him. I get a little nervous when I really like a guy.”

  “He really likes you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Abso-poso,” Macie assured her, brushing her short curve of sunny blond hair while CiCi added some shine to her lip dye. Jesus, she thought, suddenly annoyed. Did she have to stroke and soothe all damn night?

  “You’re pretty and smart and fun.” I don’t hang with jerkheads, Macie thought. “Why wouldn’t he like you? God, CiCi, loosen up and stop whining. Stop playing the nervous freaking virgin.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You want to get laid or not?” Macie snapped and had CiCi gaping. “I went to a lot of trouble to set this up, now you’re going to blow it.”

  “I just—”

  “Shit.” Macie rubbed at her temple. “Now I’m getting a headache.”

  A bad one, CiCi assumed. Macie never said mean things. And, well, maybe she was playing the nervous virgin. A little. “Bren’s got the nicest smile.” CiCi’s eyes, a luminous green against her caramel skin, met Macie’s in the narrow mirror. “If he walks me home, I’ll ask him up.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  They walked back. It seemed louder than it had, Macie thought. All the voices, the clattering dishes, the scraping chairs ground against her headache.

  She told herself, with some bitterness, to ease off the next drink.

  Someone blocked her path, just for a moment, as they passed the bar. Annoyed, she rounded, shoved at him, but he was already murmuring an apology and moving toward the door.

  “Asshole,” she muttered, and at least had the chance to snarl as he glanced back, smiled at her before he stepped outside.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing—just a jerkhead.”

  “Are you okay? I probably have a blocker if your head really hurts. I’ve got a little headache, too.”

  “Always about you,” Macie mumbled, then tried to take a calming breath. Good friends, she reminded herself. Good times.

  As she sat again, Travis took her hand the way he did, gave her a wink.

  “We want to go to Nino’s,” she announced.

  “We were just talking about going to Tortilla Flats. We’d need a reservation at Nino’s,” Travis reminded her.

  “We don’t want Mexican crap. We want to go somewhere nice. Jesus, we’ll split the bill if the tab’s a BFD.”

  Travis’s eyebrows drew together, digging a thin line between them, the way they did when she said something stupid. She hated when he did that.

  “Nino’s is twelve blocks away. The Mexican place is practically around the corner.”

  So angry her hands began to shake, she shoved her face toward his. “Are you in a fucking hurry? Why can’t we do something I want for a change?”

  “We’re doing something you wanted right now.”

  Their voices rose to shouts, clanging with the sharp voices all around them. As her head began to throb, CiCi glanced toward Bren.

  He sat, teeth bared in a snarl, staring into his glass, muttering, muttering.

  He wasn’t adorable. He was horrible, just like Travis. Ugly, ugly. He only wanted to fuck her. He’d rape her if she said no. He’d beat her, rape her, first chance. Macie knew. She knew and she’d laugh about it.

  “Screw both of you,” CiCi said under her breath. “Screw all of you.”

  “Stop looking at me like that,” Macie shouted. “You freak.”

  Travis slammed his fist on the table. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

  “I said stop!” Grabbing a fork from the table, Macie peeled off a scream. And stabbed the prongs through Travis’s eye.

  He howled, the sound tearing through CiCi’s brain as he leaped up, fell on her friend.

  And the bloodbath began.

  Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood in the carnage. Always something new, she thought. Always something just a little more terrible than even a cop could imagine.

  Even for a veteran murder cop swimming in the bubbling stew of New York in the last quarter of the year 2060, there was always something worse.

  Bodies floated on a sea of blood, booze, and vomit. Some draped like rag dolls over the long bar or curled like grisly cats under broken tables. Jagged hunks of glass littered the floor, sparkled like deadly diamonds on what was left of tables and chairs—or jabbed, thick with gore, out of bodies.

  The stench clogged the air and made her think of old photos she’d seen of battlefields where no side could claim clear victory.

  Gouged eyes, torn faces, slit throats, heads bashed in so violently she saw pieces of skull and gray matter only added to the impression of war waged and lost. A few victims were naked, or nearly, the exposed flesh painted with blood like ancient warriors.

  She stood, waiting for the first wave of shock to pass. She’d forgotten she could be shocked. She turned, tall and lean, brown eyes flat, to the beat cop, and first on scene.

  “What do you know?”

  She heard him breathing between his teeth, gave him time.

  “My partner and I were on our break, in the diner across the street. As I came out, I observed a female, late twenties, backing away from the door of the location. She was screaming. She was still screaming when I reached her.”

  “What time was that?”

  “We logged out for the break at seventeen-forty-five. I don’t think we were in there over five minutes
, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay. Continue.”

  “The female was unable to speak coherently, but she pointed to the door. While my partner attempted to calm the female, I opened the door.”

  He paused, cleared his throat. “I’ve got twenty-two years in, Lieutenant, and I’ve never seen anything like this. Bodies, everywhere. Some were still alive. Crawling, crying, moaning. I called it in, called for medicals. There was no way to keep the scene undisturbed, sir. People were dying.”

  “Understood.”

  “We got eight or ten out—the medicals, Lieutenant. I’m sorry, I’m not clear on the number. They were in pretty bad shape. They worked on some of them here, transported all survivors to the Tribeca Health Center. At that time we secured the scene. The medicals were all over it, Lieutenant. We found more in the bathrooms, back in the kitchen.”

  “Were you able to question any of the survivors?”

  “We got some names. The ones able to speak all said basically the same thing. People were trying to kill them.”

  “What people?”

  “Sir? Everybody.”

  “Okay. Let’s keep everybody out of here for now.” She walked with him to the door.

  She spotted her partner. She’d parted ways with Peabody less than an hour before. Eve stayed back at Central to catch up on paperwork. She’d been on her way to the garage, thinking of home when she’d gotten the call.

  At least, for once, she remembered to text her husband, letting Roarke know she’d be later than expected.

  Again.

  She moved forward to block the door and intercept her partner.

  She knew Peabody was sturdy, solid—despite the pink cowgirl boots, rainbow-tinted sunshades and short, flippy ponytail. But what was beyond the door had shaken her, and a beat cop with over twenty on his hard, black shoes.

  “Almost made it,” Peabody said. “I’d stopped by the market on the way home. Thought I’d surprise McNab with a home-cooked.” She shook a small market bag. “Good thing I hadn’t started. What did we catch?”

  “It’s bad.”

  Peabody’s easy expression slid away, leaving her face cold. “How bad?”

  “Pray to God you never see worse. Multiple bodies. Hacked, sliced, bashed, you name it. Seal up.” Eve tossed her a can of Seal-it from the field kit she carried. “Put down that bag and grab your guts. If you need to puke, get outside. There’s already plenty of puke in there, and I don’t want yours mixed in. The crime scene’s fucked. No way around it. MTs and the responding officers had to get the survivors, treat some of them right on scene.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “Record on.” Eve stepped back inside.

  She heard Peabody’s strangled gasp, the jagged hitch of her breath. “Mother of God. Jesus, Jesus.”

  “Strap it down, Peabody.”

  “What the hell happened here? All these people.”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out. There’s a wit of sorts out in the black-and-white. Get her statement.”

  “I can handle this, Dallas.”

  “You’re going to.” She kept her voice as flat as her eyes. “Get her statement, call in Baxter, Trueheart, Jenkinson, Reineke. We need more hands, more eyes. At a glance, we’ve got more than eighty bodies, and eight to ten survivors at the hospital. I want Morris on scene,” she added, referring to the chief medical examiner. “Hold off the sweepers until we deal with the bodies. Find the owner, and any staff not working tonight. Get a canvass started. Then come back in here and help me work the scene.”

  “If you talked to the wit I can round up the rest.” Not yet sure she had a solid hold on her guts, Peabody let her gaze skim over the room. “You can’t start on this by yourself.”

  “One body at a time. Get started. Move it.”

  Alone, Eve stood in the horrible quiet, in the sick air.

  She was a tall woman wearing boots that showed some wear and a good leather jacket. Her hair, short, choppy, mirrored the golden brown tone of her eyes. Her long mouth firmed now as she took a moment, just a moment, to block off the trickles of pity and horror that wanted to eke through.

  Those she stood over now needed more than her pity and better than her horror.

  “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve,” she began. “Visual estimate of more than eighty victims, multiple and varied injuries. Male and female, multiple races, unknown age span. The scene has been compromised by medical personnel treating and removing survivors. The DBs and survivors were discovered by police at approximately seventeen-fifty. Vic one,” she said and crouched down, opened her kit.

  “Male,” she continued, “severe trauma to the face and head, minor to severe gouges, face, neck, hands, arms, belly.” She pressed his fingers to her pad. “Vic one is identified as Cattery, Joseph, mixed-race male, age thirty-eight. Married, two offspring, male and female. Brooklyn address. Employed as assistant marketing director, Stevenson and Reede. That’s two blocks away. Stop in for a drink, Joe?

  “Skin under his nails.” She took a small sample before sealing them. “He’s wearing a gold wedding ring, a gold wrist unit. Carrying an engraved case—credit cards, some cash, ID. Key cards, pocket ’link.”

  Bagging the contents, sealing, labeling, working precisely, she focused on Joseph Cattery.

  She peeled up his split top lip. “Teeth are broken. Took a hard one to the face. But it’s the head trauma that probably killed him. ME to confirm.” She took out her gauges. “TOD seventeen-forty-five. That’s five before the first on scene.”

  Five minutes? she thought. Five minutes before the beat cop opened the door. What were the odds?

  She had only to shift to continue. “Vic two,” she began.

  She’d identified and examined five when Peabody stepped back.

  “The team’s on the way,” Peabody told her, steady now. “I got the wit’s information. According to her statement she was meeting a couple of friends here, and ran late. Got caught at work. She talked to one of them, a Gwen Talbert, at about five-thirty. I confirmed that with the wit’s ’link. Everything was fine. She got here about twenty minutes later, and found this. It was done when she opened the door, Dallas. She freaked, stumbled back, screamed, and kept screaming until Officers Franks and Riley got to her.”

  “Talbert, Gwenneth, vic three. Broken arm—looks like somebody tromped on it. Slit throat.”

  “How could this happen in twenty minutes? Less. How could the entire population of a bar be attacked and slaughtered in under twenty minutes?”

  Eve pushed to her feet. “Look at the scene, Peabody. I’ve gone over five DBs, and it’s my take every one of them was killed with a weapon of opportunity. Broken glass, a bottle of liquor, kitchen knife, bare hands. There’s a guy over there with a fork sticking out of his left eye, a woman still clutching the gored, broken table leg it appears she beat the man lying beside her to death with.”

  “But—”

  Sometimes the simplest explanation, no matter how terrible, was truth.

  “There are briefcases, purses, jewelry, money all over the scene. There’s good liquor still behind the bar. A gang of chemi-heads gone fucking crazy? They wouldn’t be out in twenty, and they’d take valuables to buy more shit. Gang of spree killers looking for major kicks? They’d lock the door and have a party after they’d finished. Added to it, it would take a damn big gang of anything to massacre over eighty, injure about ten more. Nobody gets out, hides, manages to get to their ’link to call for help?”

  Eve shook her head. “And when you do this kind of damage, you’re covered with it. Franks had blood on his uniform, his shoes, still had some on his hands and he only assisted the medicals.”

  Eve stared into Peabody’s stunned eyes. “These people killed each other, Peabody. They waged war, and they all lost.”

  “But . . . how? Why?”

  “I don’t know.” But she’d damn well find out. “We need a tox on every vic. What they ingested. I want the sweepers to go over every inch. Some
thing in the food, the drink. Product tampering, maybe. We need to check it out.”

  “Everybody wouldn’t have been eating or drinking the same thing.”