by J. D. Robb
“You can say whatever you like.”
“What would you do, how would you survive if he fell out of love with you? If you knew you’d become an obligation, a duty he didn’t quite know how to avoid, because being a decent man, he didn’t want to hurt you. To hurt you. How could you stand it?”
“I don’t know.”
“I let him go.” She closed her eyes a moment, and when she opened them again they were clear. Steady. “I tried to let him go, to be reasonable and sophisticated. But it hurt.” She pressed a fist to her heart. “So much. Unbearably. Worse when he fell in love with her. I knew he’d never come back to me, there was no chance he’d love me again as long as he loved her.”
She looked up at Roarke as he brought her the brandy. “Men enslave us, even when they don’t mean to. I sought the first vision. I was grieving, and I sought it out. I don’t know what I intended to do, but I was so unhappy, so angry, so lost, and I opened myself up. And I saw him, as clearly as I see you. John Blue. I saw what he did.”
She swirled brandy, sipped. “It wasn’t his mother. It wasn’t the first. I didn’t know how many before. It was Breen Merriweather. I didn’t see him take her from the city. But I saw him lifting her out of a van. It was dark. Very dark. Her hands and feet were bound and she was gagged. I could see her fear. He took her inside, and all the lights, so many lights came on. So I saw everything he did to her in that horrible room, and I saw him bury her in the backyard.”
“And you started to plan.”
“I don’t know. That’s sterling. I didn’t know what to do, what I would do. I almost went to the police. It was my first instinct, I swear it. But I . . . didn’t, and I wondered who he was and how he could do the things he did.”
“So you watched him,” Roarke finished. “To find out.”
“Yes. I was fascinated and repelled, but I was able to link to him, and I . . . studied him. And I wondered: Why doesn’t he kill Annalisa? Everything would be the way it should be again, if he’d kill Annalisa. I wondered if I could pay him to do it, but that was too risky. And he’s mad, so he might’ve hurt me. And I realized, maybe, there’d be a way for me to do it. Then he killed Elisa Maplewood. Right here in the city, and I knew how it could be done.”
She let her head fall back. “I didn’t just come to you for information,” she said to Eve. “I needed to know how you would handle the investigation, how quickly you would find him, what you thought of me. And a part of me, I swear to you, a part of me hoped you’d find him quickly, before I . . . But you didn’t. I gave you information hoping, in some part of myself, that you’d find him, stop him, before . . .”
“So you could put the blame on the investigation, on me, when you killed her.”
“Maybe. I agreed to the hypnosis before Annalisa,” she reminded Eve. “I volunteered for it. I asked Mira to start it right away, but she was so cautious.”
“Her fault, too.”
“It plays in, certainly. If any one factor had gone differently, it all would be different. I told myself if the information I gave you led you to him quickly, that was what was meant. If she, if Annalisa didn’t walk into the park that night, I’d stop the whole thing. If she didn’t take the shortcut, I’d walk away from her, that I was meant to. I’d tell you everything I saw. But she did. She did, so it seemed that was meant, and I let myself become him, in a way, so I didn’t have to think about what I was doing. I let myself become him so I could stand apart and watch, with a kind of horror. Then it was too late to go back.”
She shuddered, drank more brandy. “She saw me, just for an instant. And she was so confused. But it was too late to go back. I couldn’t stop myself. Well.” She breathed out. “When did you know?”
“When I learned her connection to Lucas Grande.”
“Please.” She waved that away. “You’re a very clever woman, but you had no idea at that point. I read you in Mira’s office, and after the attack on Peabody just to cover myself.”
“You’re not the only one who can block.” Eve angled her head. “I told you Mira has a daughter who’s Wiccan and a sensitive. She gave me a few pointers.”
“You played me.”
“That’s right. But not well enough, not fast enough, or my partner wouldn’t be in the hospital.”
“I didn’t know he’d go after her. By the time I did, it was too late. I tried to contact you. I like Peabody.”
“Me, too. Guess you didn’t have the same sensibilities about the other women he butchered.”
She lifted her shoulders a little, let them fall. “I didn’t know them.”
“I do.”
“I did it for love. Whatever I did, it was for love.”
“Bullshit. You did it for yourself. For control, for power, for selfishness. People don’t kill for love, Celina, they just like to pretty up the mess they’ve made by saying so.”
Eve stood. “On your feet.”
“I’ll make a jury understand. It was a kind of madness, that’s all. And that madness took me over—my gift makes me all the more susceptible—until what he was got inside of me and killed Annalisa.”
“You go on believing that. Celina Sanchez, you’re under arrest. Why don’t I give you a rundown of the counts?” She nodded to Roarke who moved to the elevator. “First degree sexual assault, first degree murder, mutilation of Annalisa Sommers, a human being. Accessory to sexual assault, murder, and mutilation, before and after the fact. Fifteen counts.”
“Fifteen . . . You can’t blame me for what he did.” She tried to swing around when Eve snapped on the restraints.
“Oh yeah, we can. We do. And I’ll bet mine against yours we’ll make a jury understand why.” Eve looked over as McNab and Feeney got off the elevator. “Additional counts, accessory before and after the fact, attempted murder, assault and battery on a police officer. Take her in, Detective. Book her.”
McNab took Celina’s arm. “My pleasure.”
“List Detective Peabody as arresting officer, in absentia.”
He opened his mouth, then cleared his throat. “Thank you, sir.”
“Go home, kid,” Feeney told her as he took Celina’s other arm. “We’ve got it from here.”
Eve listened to the elevator start down. “Should get a team in here tonight, see what we can dig up. Add a few bars to her cage.” Then she rubbed her tired eyes. “Screw it, we’ll lock it down. Tomorrow’s soon enough.”
“Music to my ears.” He recalled the elevator. “That was well done, Lieutenant. Giving the collar to Peabody.”
“She earned it. I’m still buzzed.” She rolled her shoulders and stepped into the elevator. “My eyes want to close, but my body’s still jumping.”
“I believe we can fix that when we get home. You can close your eyes.” He leaned down, kissed her, long and deep. “And I’ll jump your body.”
“Sounds like a deal.”
She walked outside, fixed a police seal to the door. “Rain’s stopped,” she commented.
“Still a bit misty yet.”
“I like it.”
“You liked her,” he added.
“I did.” She stood in front of the door, looking out at the street, the wash of puddles as a Rapid Cab slewed through. “I did like her. Still do on some level, even knowing what she is.”
He slung an arm around her shoulders, she hooked hers around his waist. “Do you think she loves him? Lucas?”
“No.” She knew what love was now. “But she thinks she does.”
Eve dropped into the passenger seat this time, yawned comfortably when Roarke took the wheel. She leaned back, closed her eyes, trusting he’d get her home.
Yes, she knew what love was.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide
Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
SURVIVOR IN DEATH
J. D. ROBB
Contents
PROLOGUE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Survivor in Death
A Putnam Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2005 by Nora Roberts
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://us.penguingroup.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0500-6
A PUTNAM BOOK®
Putnam Books first published by The Putnam Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
PUTNAM and the “P” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: February, 2005
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
—LEO NIKOLAEVICH TOLSTOI
PROLOGUE
A LATE-NIGHT URGE FOR AN ORANGE FIZZY SAVED NIXIE’S life. When she woke, she could see by the luminous dial of the jelly-roll wrist unit she was never without that it was after two in the morning.
She wasn’t allowed to snack between meals, except for items on her mother’s approved list. And two in the morning was way between.
But she was dying for an Orange Fizzy.
She rolled over and whispered to her best friend in the entire galaxy, Linnie Dyson. They were having a school-night sleepover because Linnie’s mom and dad were celebrating their anniversary in some fancy hotel.
So they could have sex. Mom and Mrs. Dyson said it was so they could have a fancy dinner and go dancing and crap-o, but it was for sex. Jee-zus, she and Linnie were nine, not two. They knew what was what-o.
Besides, like they gave a woo. The whole deal meant Mom—the Rule Monster—bent the rules about school nights. Even if they’d had to turn the lights out at nine-thirty—were they two?—she and Linnie had the most magolicious time.
And school was still hours away, and she was thirsty. So she poked Linnie and whispered again.
“Wake up!”
“Nuh. Not morning. Still dark.”
“It is morning. It’s two in the morning.” That’s why it was so frosty. “I want an Orange Fizzy. Let’s go down and get one. We can split it.”
Linnie only made grunting, mumbling noises, rolled away, and tugged the covers nearly over her head.
“Well, I’m going,” Nixie said in the same hissy whisper.
It wasn’t as much fun on her own, but she’d never get back to sleep now, thinking of the Fizzy. She had to go all the way down to the kitchen because her mother wouldn’t allow her to have an AutoChef in her room. Might as well be in prison, Nixie thought, as she scooted out of bed. Might as well be in prison in 1950 or something instead of her own house in 2059.
Mom had even put child codes on all the household AutoChefs so the only thing Nixie or her brother, Coyle, could program was health sludge.
Might as well eat mud.
Her father said, “Rules is rules.” He liked to say that a lot. But sometimes he’d wink at her or Coyle when their mother was out and order up some ice cream or potato crispies.
Nixie sort of thought her mom knew and pretended she didn’t.
She tiptoed out of her room, a pretty little girl, just going gangly, with a wavy mass of platinum blonde hair. Her eyes, a pale, pale blue, were already adjusted to the dark.
Still, her parents always kept a low light on in the bathroom at the end of the hall, in case anybody had to get up and pee or whatever.
She held her breath as she walked by her brother’s room. If he woke, he might tell. He could be a complete butt-pain. Then again, sometimes he could be pretty chilly. For a moment, she hesitated, considered sneaking in, waking him, and talking him into keeping her company for the adventure.
Nah. It was sort of juicy to be creeping around the house by herself. She held her breath again as she eased by her parents’ room, hoping she could stay—for once—under her mother’s radar.
Nothing and no one stirred as she crept down the stairs.
But even when she got downstairs, she was mouse quiet. She still had to get by Inga, their housekeeper, who had rooms right off the kitchen. Right off the target. Inga was mostly okay, but she’d never let her get away with an Orange Fizzy in the middle of the night.
Rules is rules.
So she didn’t turn on any lights, and snuck through the rooms, into the big kitchen like a thief. It only added to the thrill. No Orange Fizzy would ever taste as frigid as this one, she thought.
She eased open the refrigerator. It occurred to her, suddenly, that maybe her mother counted stuff like this. Maybe she kept a kind of tally of soft drinks and snack food.
But she was past the point of no return. If she had to pay a price for the prize, she’d worry about paying it later.
With the goal in hand, she shuffled to the far end of the kitchen where she could keep an eye on the door to Inga’s rooms and duck behind the island counter if she had to.
In the shadows, she broke the seal on the tube, took the first forbidden sip.
It pleased her so much, she slipped onto the bench in what her mother called the breakfast area, and prepared to enjoy every drop.
She was just settling in when she heard a noise and dived down to lie on the bench. From beneath it, she saw a movement and thought: Busted!
But the shadow slipped along the far counter, to the door of Inga’s room, and inside.
A man. Nixie had to slap a hand on her mouth to stifle a giggle. Inga had a boogie buddy! And she was so old—had to be at least forty. It looked like Mr. and Mrs. Dyson weren’t the only ones having sex tonight.
Unable to resist, she left the Orange Fizzy on the bench and slid out. She just had to look, just had to see. So she crept over to the open door, eased inside Inga’s little parlor, and toward the open bedroom door. She squatted down on all fours, poked her head in the opening.
Wait until she told Linnie! Linnie would be so jealous.
With her hand over her mouth again, her eyes bright with laughter, Nixie scooted, angled her head.
And saw the man slit Inga’s throat.
She saw the blood, a wild gush of it. Heard a horrible, gurgling grunt. Eyes glazed now, she reared back, her breath hissing and hitching into her palm. Unable to move, she sat, her back pressed to the wall and her heart booming inside her chest.
He came out, walked right by her, and out the open door.
Tears spilled out of her eyes, down her spread fingers. Every part of her shook as she crawled over, using a chair as a shield, and reached up to the table for Inga’s pocket ’link.
She hissed f
or emergency.
“He’s killed her, he’s killed her. You have to come.” She whispered the words, ignoring the questions the voice recited. “Right now. Come right now.” And gave the address.
She left the ’link on the floor, continued to crawl until she’d reached the narrow steps that led from Inga’s parlor to the second level.
She wanted her mommy.
She didn’t run, didn’t dare. She didn’t stand. Her legs felt funny, empty, like the bones in them had melted. She started to belly crawl across the hall, sobs stuck in her throat. And to her horror, she saw the shadow—two shadows now. One went into her room, the other into Coyle’s.
She was whimpering when she dragged her body through her parents’ bedroom doorway. She heard a sound, a kind of thump, and pressed her face into the carpet while her stomach heaved.
She saw the shadows pass the doorway, saw them. Heard them. Though they moved as if that’s what they were. Only shadows.
Shuddering, she continued to crawl, past her mother’s bedroom chair, past the little table with its colorful lamp. And her hand slid through something warm, something wet.
Pulling herself up, she stared at the bed. At her mother, at her father. At the blood that coated them.
1
MURDER WAS ALWAYS AN INSULT, AND HAD been since the first human hand had smashed a stone into the first human skull. But the murder, bloody and brutal, of an entire family in their own home, in their own beds, was a different form of evil.
Eve Dallas, NYPSD Homicide, pondered it as she stood studying Inga Snood, forty-two-year-old female. Domestic, divorced. Dead.
Blood spatter and the scene itself told her how it must have been. Snood’s killer had walked in the door, crossed to the bed, yanked Snood’s head up—probably by the mid-length blonde hair, raked the edge of the blade neatly—left to right—across her throat, severing the jugular.