by J. D. Robb
"Whew." McNab let out a huge sigh when the door closed again. "Dodged that beam."
"And if we want to keep this case where it belongs, we're going to work our butts off." Eve smiled at him thinly. "Your social life just went down the sewer, pal. We need that long-range scanner. And I want every arena and sports complex in every borough scanned. New Jersey as well."
"Christ, Dallas, with our equipment and manpower, that'll take a week."
"You've got a day," she told him. "Get in touch with Roarke." She jammed her hands in her pockets. "Odds are, he's got some toy that fits what you're looking for."
"Hot damn." McNab rubbed his hands together and grinned at Anne. "Wait till you see what this guy's got."
"Feeney, is there any way you can block the unit in here? Jam it? Or better yet, come up with a new, unregistered unit with a shield."
His hangdog face brightened as he smiled at Eve. "Guess I could jury-rig something. Not that we ever fiddle with unregistereds over at EDD."
"Of course not. Peabody, you're with me."
"Hey, when are you getting back?" McNab called out.
Eve turned, stared at him, while Peabody wished herself invisible. "When we're finished, Detective. I think you have enough to keep you busy in the meantime."
"Oh sure, I just wondered. Just wondered." He grinned foolishly. "Have a nice trip."
"We're not going for lobster," Eve muttered and, shaking her head, walked out.
"We'll be back before end of shift, don't you think? Sir?"
Eve shrugged into her jacket as she strode to the elevator. "Look, if you've got a hot date, you'll just have to cool your glands."
"No, I didn't mean…Ah, I just want to let Zeke know if I'm going to be on OT, that's all." And it shamed her that she hadn't given her brother a thought.
"It takes as long as it takes. We've got a stop to make before we snag transpo north."
"I don't suppose we'll be taking one of Roarke's private jets?" When Eve merely eyed her balefully, Peabody hunched her shoulders. "Nope, guess not. It's just that they're so much faster than public shuttles."
"And you're just interested in speed, right, Peabody?" Eve stepped onto the elevator, pushed for garage. "It has nothing to do with plush, roomy seats, the fully stocked galley, or the screen selection."
"A comfortable body produces a sharp mind."
"That's lame. You're usually better than that when you try to hose me. You're off today, Peabody."
She thought of that wild interlude with McNab in an empty office. "You're telling me."
• • •
Zeke worked steadily, precisely, doing his best to focus his mind on the wood and his pleasure in it.
He'd known his sister hadn't slept well the night before. He'd heard her stirring and pacing while he'd laid awake on the living room pull-out. He'd wanted to go to her, offer to meditate with her, or to make her one of his organic soothers, but he hadn't been able to face her.
His mind was full of Clarissa, of the way she'd felt snuggled into his arms, of how sweet her lips had tasted. It shamed him. He believed strongly in the sanctity of marriage. One of the reasons he'd never pursued a serious relationship was that he'd promised himself when he took those vows to another, he would keep them throughout his life.
There had been no one he'd loved enough to make promises to.
Until now.
And she belonged to someone else.
Someone who didn't appreciate her, he thought now as he had during the night. Someone who mistreated her, made her unhappy. Vows were meant to be broken when they caused pain.
No, he couldn't talk to Dee when thoughts like that were skimming through his head. When he couldn't get Clarissa out of his mind and offer his own sister comfort.
He'd seen the reports of the bombing on the news the evening before. It had horrified him. He understood that not everyone embraced the cause-no-harm tenets that formed the foundation of the Free-Agers. He knew that even some Free-Agers modified that foundation to suit their lifestyles, and after all, the religion was designed to be fluid.
He knew cruelty existed. That murder was done every day. But he had never seen the kind of terrible disregard for life as he had on the viewing screen at his sister's apartment the evening before.
Those who were capable of it had to be less than human. No one with heart and soul and guts could destroy lives in that way. He believed that, clung to the hope that such a thing was an aberration, a mutation. And that the world had evolved beyond acceptance of wholesale death.
It had been a shock when he'd seen Eve moving through the carnage. Her face had been blank, he remembered, her clothes splattered with blood. He'd thought she'd looked exhausted, and hollow, and somehow courageous. Then it had struck him that his sister must have been there as well, somewhere in the horror of all that.
Eve had only spoken to one reporter, a pretty, foxy-faced woman whose green eyes had mirrored her grief.
"I don't have anything to add to what you see here, Nadine," she'd said. "This isn't the time or place for statements. The dead make their own."
And when his sister had come home, with that same exhausted look on her face, he'd left her alone.
He hoped now that he'd done so for her sake and not his own. He hadn't wanted to talk about what she'd seen and done. Hadn't wanted to think about it. Or about Clarissa. And while he'd been able to control his mind enough to blank out those images of death, he hadn't had the power to do so with the woman.
She would stay away from him now, he thought. They would stay away from each other, and that was best. He would finish the job he'd promised to do, then he would go back to Arizona. He'd fast and he'd meditate and he'd purge his system of her.
Maybe he'd camp in the desert for a few days, until his mind and heart were in balance again.
Then the sounds came through the vent. The angry laugh of the man, the soft pleas of the woman.
"I said I want to fuck. It's all you're good for, anyway."
"Please, B. D., I'm not feeling well this morning."
"I don't give a damn how you feel. It's your job to spread your legs when I tell you to."
There was a thud, then a cry sharply cut off. The crash of glass.
"On your knees. On your knees, you bitch."
"You're hurting me. Please—"
"Use that mouth of yours for something besides whining. Yeah, yeah. Put some effort into it, for Christ's sake. It's a miracle I can get it up with you in the first place. Harder, you whore. You know where I had my cock last night? You know where I had what you've got in your whiny mouth? In that new 'link operator I hired. I got my money's worth there."
He was panting now, grunting like an animal, and Zeke squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for it to stop.
But it didn't, it only changed, with the sounds of Clarissa weeping, then pleading. He was raping her now, there was no way to mistake those sounds.
Zeke caught himself at the foot of the steps, shocked to find his hand curled around the haft of a hammer. The blood was roaring violently in his ears.
My God, dear God, what was he doing?
Even as he set the hammer aside with a shaky hand, the sounds quieted. There was only weeping now. Slowly, Zeke climbed the steps.
It had to stop. Someone had to stop it. But he would face Branson empty-handed, and as a man.
He walked through the kitchen. Neither of the two remote domestics who worked there paid any attention to him. He moved into the wide hallway beyond, past the beautiful rooms and toward the sweep of floating stairs.
Perhaps he had no right to intrude, he thought, but no one, no one had a right to treat another human being as Clarissa was being treated.
He moved down the hallway to the right, judging which room would be directly over the workshop. The door was ajar; he could hear her crying inside. Placing his fingertips against the polished wood, he eased it open. And saw her curled on the bed, her naked body already blooming with bruises.
"Clarissa?"
Her head came up, eyes wide, and her swollen lips trembled. "Oh God. No, no, I don't want you to see me like this. Go away."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. Gone. Oh please, please." She pressed her face to the tangled sheets.
"He can't be. I just came up the front stairs."
"The side entrance. He uses the side. He's gone, already gone. Thank God. If he'd seen you come up…"
"This has to stop." He came to the bed, gently untangled a sheet, and draped it over her. "You can't let him hurt you this way."
"He doesn't mean—He's my husband." She let out a sigh that ripped at Zeke's heart. It was so hopeless. "I have no place to go. No one to go to. He wouldn't have to hurt me if I wasn't so slow and stupid. If I'd just do what he says. If I—"
"Stop that." It came out sharper than he'd intended, and when he laid a hand on her shoulder, she flinched. "What happened here wasn't your fault, it was his."
She needed counseling, he thought. She needed cleansing. A safe place to stay. Both her body and her self-esteem had been battered, and such things harmed the soul. "I want to help you. I can take you away from here. You can stay at my sister's until you decide what to do. There are programs, people you can talk to. The police," he added. "You need to file charges."
"No. No police!" She gathered the sheet close and struggled up. Her dark violet eyes were brilliant with fear. "He'd kill me if I did. And he knows people on the force. High-up people. I can never call the police."
She'd begun to tremble, so he soothed. "That's not important now. Let me help you get dressed. Let me take you to a healer—the doctor," he corrected, remembering where he was. "Then we'll talk about what's next."
"Oh, Zeke." Her breath shuddered out as she lay her head on his shoulder. "There is no next. Don't you see this is it for me? He'll never let me go. He's told me. He's told me what he'd do to me if I try to leave. I'm just not strong enough to fight him."
He slipped his arms around her, rocked her. "I am."
"You're so young." She shook her head. "I'm not."
"That's not true. You feel helpless because you've been alone. You're not alone now. I'll help you. My family will."
He brushed at her loose and tangled hair, cloud soft under his hand. "At home, my home," he said, keeping his voice a reassuring murmur. "It's peaceful. Remember how big and open and quiet the desert is? You can heal there."
"I was almost happy for those few days. All that space. The stars. You. If I believed there was a chance—"
"Give me the chance." Gently, he tipped her face back. The bruises on her face nearly broke his heart. "I love you."
Tears swam into her eyes. "You can't. You don't know what I've done."
"Nothing he's made you do counts. And it doesn't matter what I feel, but what you need. You can't stay with him."
"I can't drag you into this, Zeke. It's wrong."
"I won't leave you." He pressed his mouth to her hair. "When you're safe, if you want me to go, I will. But not until you're safe."
"Safe." She barely breathed the word. "I stopped believing I could be safe. If there's a chance…" She drew back, looked into his eyes. "I need time to think."
"Clarissa—"
"I have to be sure I can go through with it. I have to have time. Please, try to understand. Give me today." She closed a hand over his. "He can't hurt me any more than he already has. Give me today to look inside myself and see if there's anything there worth offering you. Or anyone else."
"I'm not asking for anything."
"But I am." Her lips trembled into a smile. "Finally, I am. Will you give me a number where I can reach you? I want you to go home now. B. D. won't be back until tomorrow afternoon, and I need this time alone."
"All right. If you promise that whatever you decide, you'll call."
"I will." She picked up a memo from the bedside table and offered it. "I'll call you by tonight. I promise." When he'd entered the number, she took it from him, slipped it into the drawer. "Please, go now. I need to see how many pieces I can pick up on my own."
"I won't be far away," he told her.
She waited until he reached the door. "Zeke? When I met you in Arizona—when I saw you, looked at you…something inside me I'd thought had died seemed to stir again. I don't know if it's love. I don't know if I have love anymore. But if I do, it's for you."
"I'll take care of you, Clarissa. He'll never hurt you again."
Opening the door and leaving her was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
*** CHAPTER FOURTEEN ***
Eve gave her battered vehicle one long scowl as she strode across the garage. It wasn't that appearance mattered much. Since Zeke and Roarke had played with it, the heap was back in top running condition. But it was, by God, a heap.
"It's goddamn pitiful when a homicide lieutenant has to drive around in a wreck like this while those bozos in Illegals get zoomers." She gave the shiny, streamlined all-terrain two spaces down from hers an avaricious glare.
"Just needs some body work, some paint, a little new shielding." Peabody opened her door.
"It's the principle. Murder cops always get the shaft." Eve slammed in her side, a mistake, as the door popped right back open. "Oh fine, great."
"I noticed that little hitch yesterday when I took it home. What you have to do is lift up some, kind of jiggle it and slide it home. Zeke'll fix it for you first chance he gets. I forgot to mention it to him last night."
Eve held up her hands, took several slow, deep breaths. "Okay, no point in bitching about it."
"But you have such a smooth bitching style, sir."
Eve slanted Peabody a look as she went to work on the door. "That's better. You were starting to worry me. I've hardly heard a single smart-ass remark out of you for two days."
"I'm off my rhythm," Peabody muttered, and pressed her lips together. She could still taste McNab.
Eve secured the door. "Problem?"
"I—" She wanted to tell someone, but it was just too humiliating. "No, no problem. Where's the first stop?"
Eve lifted her brows. It was rare for Peabody not to walk through a door she'd opened. Reminding herself that personal lives were personal lives for a reason, Eve backed out of her slot. "Autotron. Get the address."
"I know it. It's a few blocks west of my place, on Ninth. Ninth and Twelfth. What's there?"
"A guy who likes bombs."
She filled Peabody in on the way.
When she pulled into the garage at Autotron, gate security took one look at her car and strode over snappily to glance at the badge she held up for view.
"You've already been cleared, Lieutenant. Your space is reserved. Slot thirty-six, level A. It's just up on your left."
"Who cleared me?" Though she wondered why she bothered to ask.
"Roarke. Take the first bank of elevators to the eighth floor. You'll be met."
Her eyes flashed once, then she drove in. "He just doesn't know when to step out."
"Well, it speeds things up. Saves time."
She wanted to say she wasn't in any hurry, but it was such a ridiculous lie Eve clamped her mouth shut. And smoldered. "If he's already questioned Lamont, I'm tying his tongue into a knot."
"Can I watch?" Peabody grinned as Eve braked hard in her parking slot. "I'm getting my rhythm back."
"Lose it." Irritated, she slammed the door before she remembered, then cursed roundly when the leading edge of it bounced on the concrete floor. "Son of a bitch." She kicked it, only because it seemed called for, then muscled it back into the frame. "Say nothing," she warned Peabody, then stalked to the elevator.
Peabody stepped into the elevator, folded her hands, and studiously studied the ascending numbers over the door.
The eighth floor was a wide, airy office and reception area filled with clerks and drones and snazzily suited execs. It was done in navys and grays with the startling slap and dash of wild red flowers streaming along under the windows and arou
nd a central console.
She thought that Roarke had a thing about flowers in the businessplace—anyplace, really. His main headquarters in midtown was alive with them.
She'd barely stepped out, had yet to reach for her badge, when a tall man in a severely cut black suit came toward her with a polished smile.
"Lieutenant Dallas. Roarke's expecting you. If you and your aide would follow me?"
A nasty part of her wanted to tell him to inform his boss to keep his pretty nose out of her business, but she sucked it in. She needed to talk to Lamont, and if Roarke had decided to be the line to him, it would take more time and energy than she had to waste to go around him.
She followed him through the cubicles, past snazzier offices, more flowers, and through open double doors to a spacious conference room.
The center table was a thick, clear slab, lined with matching chairs with deep blue cushions, seat and back. A quick glance showed it held all the comforts and over-the-top technology she expected from anything Roarke had his hand in or his name on.
There was a maxi AutoChef and cold box, a fully equipped communications center, a rather jazzy entertainment console, and a wide window with full security and sun shade.
On the enormous wall screen an animated schematic twirled and spun. The man at the head of the table turned his attention from it, lifted a cocky brow, and gave his wife a charming smile.
"Lieutenant, Peabody. Thank you, Gates." He waited until the doors were closed, then gestured. "Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?"
"I don't want a seat or any damn coffee," Eve began.
"I'd like some coffee." Peabody winced under Eve's withering stare. "On the other hand…"
"Sit," Eve ordered. "Quiet."
"Sir." She sat, she was quiet, but sent Roarke a sympathetic glance before she did her best to become blind, deaf, and invisible.
"Did I ask you to have me cleared?" Eve began. "Did I ask you to be here when I came in to interview Lamont? I'm in the middle of an extremely sensitive investigation, one the feds would like to snatch out from under me. I don't want your name in my reports any more often than absolutely necessary. You got that?"
She'd marched to him as she spoke and ended by jabbing a finger at his shoulder.