The In Death Collection 06-10

by J. D. Robb

  “Well, damn.”

  “Problem, Dallas? Thought I heard a crash.”

  “Yeah, a couple of brain dead cabbies. Oh yeah, that’s going to help. Now they’re out of their rides and screaming at each other. This’ll get traffic moving, all right.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she saw one of the cabbies reach through his window and pull out a metal bat. “That tears it. Peabody, call for a couple of black-and-white floaters, assault with deadly in progress, Tenth Avenue between Twenty-fifth and -sixth. Tell them to make it fast before we have a riot. Now I’m going to go give these assholes a lesson in driving courtesy.”

  “Dallas, maybe you ought to wait for backup. I’ll have—”

  “Forget it. I’m sick of idiots.” She slammed her door, took three long-legged strides. And the world erupted.

  She felt the hot fist of air punch her in the back, scoop her up like a doll, and fling her forward. Her eardrums sang with the force of the explosion as she flew. Something sharp, twisted, and flaming shot past her head. Someone screamed. She didn’t think it was herself, as she couldn’t seem to draw in air to breathe.

  She bounced headfirst off the hood of a car, dimly saw the shocked, white face of its driver gaping at her, then hit the street hard enough to scrape flesh and rattle bones.

  Something’s burning, something’s burning, she thought, but couldn’t quite place it. Flesh, leather, fuel. Oh God. With wobbly effort, she pushed with her hands, managed to lift her head.

  Behind her, people abandoned their cars like rats running from doomed ships. Someone stepped on her, but she barely felt it. Overhead, the traffic copters zoomed in to shine security beams and blast out cautions.

  But eyes were dazzled by the fierce light, the shooting flames coming from her vehicle.

  She wheezed in a breath, let it out. “Son of a bitch.” And passed out cold.

  chapter thirteen

  Roarke muscled his way through crowds of people, lines of emergency vehicles. Airlifts hovered above, shooting out their streams of lights amid the shriek of sirens. There was a smell of sweat and blood and burning. A child was screaming in long, gulping wails. A woman sat on the ground, surrounded by sparkling, fist-sized diamonds of Duraglass, and wept silently into her hands.

  He saw blackened faces, shocked eyes, but he didn’t see Eve.

  He refused to allow himself to think or to feel or to imagine.

  He’d been in Eve’s office, tinkering with McNab, when the hail for Peabody had come in. He’d continued to work, amusing himself by listening to Eve’s voice, the irritation spiking it, then the disgust when she’d ordered Peabody to call for a floater.

  Then the almost female shriek of the explosion had caused the communicator to jump in Peabody’s hand. He hadn’t waited, not even a heartbeat, but had been out of the room and gone even as Peabody had desperately tried to raise Eve again.

  He’d abandoned his car a full block back, but was making good time on foot. Sheer force of will had people scrambling out of his way. Or perhaps it was the cold rage in his eyes as he scanned faces, forms.

  Then he saw her vehicle—or what was left of it. The twisted hulk of steel and plastic was hulled out and coated with thick white foam. And his heart stopped.

  He’d never know how long he stood there, unable to breathe, his body rocking with shock. Then he broke, started forward, with some wild notion of ripping the ruined car to pieces to find her.

  “Goddamn it, I said I’m not going to any hospital. Just patch me up, for Christ’s sake, and find me a fucking communicator before I kick your sorry ass over to the East Side.”

  He whirled, his head whipping up like a wolf’s scenting its mate. She was sitting on the running board of a medivan, snarling at a harassed medical technician who was struggling to coat her burns.

  She was singed, bleeding, bruised, and furiously alive.

  He didn’t go to her at once. He needed a moment for his hands to stop shaking, for his heart to stop sputtering and beat normally again. Relief was like a drug, a spiked drink to make him giddy. He gulped it down, then found himself grinning like an idiot as she rammed her elbow into the MT’s gut to prevent him from giving her a dose of medication.

  “Keep that thing away from me. Did I tell you to get me a communicator?”

  “I’m doing my job, Lieutenant. If you’d just cooperate—”

  “Cooperate hell. Cooperate with you guys and I’ll end up drooling and strapped to a gurney.”

  “You need to go to a hospital or health center. You have a concussion, second-degree burns, contusions, lacerations. You’re shocky.”

  Eve reached up and grabbed him by the band collar of his uniform coat. “One of us is going to be shocky, ace, if you don’t get me a goddamn communicator.”

  “Well, Lieutenant, I see you’re in your usual form.”

  She looked over, up, and, seeing Roarke, wiped the back of her hand over her bruised and sooty face. “Hi. I was just trying to get this jerk to find me a communicator so I could call you. Let you know I’d be late for dinner.”

  “I figured that out for myself when we heard your explosion.” He crouched down until they were eye to eye. There was a nasty scrape on her forehead, still seeping blood. Her jacket was gone, and the shirt she wore was ripped and singed. Blood stained the sleeve of her left arm from a six-inch gash. Her slacks were literally tatters.

  “Darling,” he said mildly, “you’re not looking your best.”

  “If this guy would just patch me up enough so I could—hey, hey, hey!” She jerked, slapped out, but wasn’t quick enough to prevent the pressure syringe from shooting into her arm. “What was that? What’d you give me?”

  “Just a pain blocker. This is going to hurt some.”

  “Ah shit, that’s going to make me goofy. You know that stuff makes me goofy,” she said, appealing to Roarke. “I hate when that happens.”

  “I rather enjoy it myself.” He tipped her chin up as the MT went to work on her arm. “How many devoted husbands do you see?”

  “Just you. I don’t have a concussion.”

  “Yes, she does,” the MT said cheerfully. “This gash is plenty dirty—got lots of street grit in it—but we’ll clean her right up and close it.”

  “Make it snappy then.” She was starting to shiver—part cold, part shock—but didn’t notice. “I’ve got to follow this up with the fire team and the explosive unit. And where the hell’s Peabody, because I . . . shit, shit, shit, it’s happening. My tongue’s getting thick.” Her head lolled, and she shook it back into place. She felt a snort of laughter building and fought to suppress it. “Why don’t they just give you a couple shots of Kentucky bourbon?”

  “It isn’t cost-effective. And you don’t like bourbon.” Roarke sat on the running board beside her, took her free hand to examine the scrapes and burns himself.

  “Yeah well, I don’t like this either. Chemicals make you all otherwise.” She stared dully as the medic guided a suturing wand over her ripped flesh, neatly mending it. “Don’t you take me to the hospital. I’ll be really pissed.”

  He didn’t see her beloved leather jacket anywhere and made a mental note to replace it. For now he stripped his own off and tucked it over her shoulders. “Darling, in about ninety seconds you’re not going to know what I do with you, or where I take you.”

  Her body began a lovely slow float to nowhere. “I will when I come out of it. Why, there she is. Hey, Peabody. And McNab, too. Don’t they make a cute couple?”

  “Adorable. Put your head back, Eve, and let the nice MT bandage it for you.”

  “Okay, sure. Hiya, Peabody, you and McNab out on the town?”

  “He drugged her,” Roarke explained. “Tranqs always do this to her.”

  “How bad are you hurt?” White-faced and shaken, Peabody knelt down. “Dallas, how bad?”

  “Oh.” She gestured widely, and managed to slap the long-suffering MT. “Bumps and stuff. Boy, did I fly. Let me tell you, the up part can be
pretty cool, but those landings suck space waste. Wham!” To demonstrate she attempted to slam her fist on her knee, missed and caught the medic in the crotch. “Oops, sorry,” she said when he folded. “Hey, Peabody, how’s my vehicle?”

  “It’s a dead loss.”

  “Damn. Well, good night.” She wrapped her arms around Roarke, nestled into him, and sighed.

  The MT sucked his breath back then got shakily to his feet. “That’s the best I can do for her here. She’s all yours.”

  “Indeed she is. Come on, darling, let’s go.”

  “Did you save me some pizza? I don’t want you carrying me, okay? It’s embarrassing. I can walk fine.”

  “Of course you can,” he assured her and hefted her into his arms.

  “See, told you.” Her head dropped on his shoulder like lead. “Mmm. You smell good.” She sniffed at his throat like a puppy. “Isn’t he pretty?” she said to no one in particular. “He’s all mine, too. All mine. Are we going home?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” There was no need to mention the detour he intended to take to the nearest hospital.

  “I need Peabody to stay for . . . I need her to stay for something. Yeah, for follow-up, get those bomb guys to spill it, Peabody.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Dallas. We’ll have a full report for you in the morning.”

  “Tonight. ’S only the shank of the evening.”

  “Tomorrow,” Roarke murmured, shifting his gaze from Peabody to McNab. “I want to know everything there is to know.”

  “You’ll have it,” McNab promised. He waited until Roarke carried Eve through the crowd, then turned to study the car. “If she’d been inside when it went up . . .”

  “She wasn’t,” Peabody snapped. “Let’s get to work.”

  Eve woke to silence. She had a vague recollection of being poked and prodded, and of swearing at someone—at several someones—during a physical examination. So her waking thought was panic, laced with fury.

  No way were they keeping her in the damn hospital another five minutes.

  She shot up in bed, and her head did one long, giddy reel. But it was relief that settled over her when she realized she was in her own bed.

  “Going somewhere?” Roarke rose from the sitting area where he’d been keeping one eye on the scrolling stock reports on the monitor and one eye on his sleeping wife.

  She didn’t lay back. That was a matter of pride. “Maybe. You took me to the hospital.”

  “It’s a little tradition of mine. Whenever my wife’s been in an explosion, I like to make a quick trip to the hospital.” He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes keen on her face, and held up three fingers. “How many do you see?”

  She remembered more now—being awakened half a dozen times through the night and seeing his face looming over her while he asked that same question. “How many times are you going to ask me that?”

  “It’s become a habit now. It’ll take me a while to break it. How many?”

  “Thirty-six.” She smiled thinly when he simply continued to stare. “Okay, three. Now get your fingers out of my face. I’m still mad at you.”

  “Now I’m devastated.” When she started to shift he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Stay.”

  “What do I look like, a cocker spaniel?”

  “Actually, there’s a resemblance around the eyes.” He kept his hand firmly in place. “Eve, you’re staying in bed through the morning.”

  “I am not—”

  “Think of it this way. I can make you.” He reached out, caught her chin in his hand. “Then you’d be humiliated. You really hate that. Think how much easier it would be on your pride and ego if you decided to stay in bed a couple more hours.”

  They were fairly well matched physically, and Eve figured they were about even in takedowns. But there was a look in his eyes that warned he’d make good on his threat. And she wasn’t feeling quite her best.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t mind staying in bed a couple hours, if I had some coffee.”

  The hand on her shoulder slid up to her cheek. “Maybe I’ll get you some.” He leaned forward to kiss her lightly, then found himself holding her tight against him, burying his face in her hair, rocking as every thought and fear he’d held back during the night flooded free. “Oh God.”

  The emotions that poured out of him in those two words swamped her. “I’m all right. Don’t worry. I’m all right.”

  He thought he’d dealt with it, thought that through the long night he’d conquered this sick, shaky sensation in his gut. But it shot back now, overwhelmingly strong. His only defense was to hold her. Just hold.

  “The explosion came through Peabody’s communicator—loud and clear.” As his system began to settle again, he laid his cheek against hers. “There was a long, timeless period of blind terror. Getting there, then getting through the chaos. Blood and glass and smoke.” He ran his hands briskly up and down her arms as he drew back. “Then I heard you, sniping at the MT, and life snapped back into place for me.” He did kiss her now, lightly. “I’ll get your coffee.”

  Eve studied her hands as Roarke walked across the room. The scrapes and abrasions had been treated, and treated well. There was barely a mark left to show for their violent meeting with asphalt. “No one ever loved me before you.” She lifted her gaze to his as he sat on the bed again. “I didn’t think I’d ever get used to it, and maybe I won’t. But I’ve gotten to depend on it.”

  She took the coffee he offered, then his hand. “I was giving the MT grief because he wouldn’t get me a communicator. I had to get one to call you, to tell you I was okay. It was the first thing I thought of when I came to. Roarke. That was the first thing in my head.”

  He brought their joined hands to his lips. “We’ve gone and done it, haven’t we?”

  “Done what?”

  “Become a unit.”

  It made her smile. “I guess we have. Are we okay now?”

  “We’re fine. Clear liquids were recommended as your upon awakening meal, but I imagine we’d like something more substantial.”

  “I could eat the best part of a cow still on the hoof.”

  “I don’t know that we have that particular delicacy in the pantry, but I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  It wasn’t so bad, she decided, this being tended to. Not when it included breakfast in bed. She plowed her way through a mushroom and chive omelette made from eggs laid by pampered brown hens.

  “I just needed fuel,” she managed over a bite of a cinnamon bagel. “I feel fine now.”

  Roarke chose one of the thumb-sized raspberries from her breakfast tray. “You look amazingly well under the circumstances. Have you any idea how a bomb was planted in your official unit?”

  “I’ve got a couple of theories. I need to—” She broke off, frowned a little when a knock sounded on the door.

  “Peabody, I imagine. She’d be prompt.” He went to the door himself to let her in.

  “How is she?” Peabody whispered. “I thought they might have kept her overnight at the hospital.”

  “They might have, but then she’d have hurt me.”

  “No whispering,” Eve called out. “Peabody, I want a report.”

  “Yes, sir.” Peabody crossed over to the bed, then grinned from ear to ear. The woman in a red silk nightie, settled back on a mountain of pillows in a huge bed, a tray loaded with food on fine china settled over her lap, was not the usual image of Eve Dallas. “You look like something out of an old movie,” she began. “You know, like . . . Bette Crawford.”

  “That would be Davis,” Roarke told her, after he’d disguised a chuckle with a cough. “Or Joan Crawford.”

  “Whatever. You look sort of glam, Dallas.”

  Mortified, Eve straightened up. “I don’t believe I asked for a report on my appearance, Officer Peabody.”

  “She’s still a little testy,” Roarke commented. “Would you like some coffee, Peabody, a bit of breakfast?”

  “I had some . . .” Her eyes brigh
tened. “Are those raspberries? Wow.”

  “They’re fresh. I have an agri-dome nearby. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “When you two finish socializing, maybe we could take a moment to discuss . . . oh, I don’t know, how about car bombs?”

  “I have the reports.” Drawn by the raspberries, Peabody sat on the side of the bed. She balanced her shiny black shoe on the knee of her starched uniform pants. “The sweepers and bomb team put it together pretty fast. Thanks, this is great,” she added when Roarke supplied her with a tray of her own. “We used to grow raspberries when I was a kid.” She sampled one and sighed. “Takes me back.”

  “Try to stay in this decade, Peabody.”

  “Yes, sir. I—” She glanced over at the three quick raps on the door. “Must be McNab.”

  McNab poked his head around the door. “All clear. Hey, some bedroom. Outstanding. Is that coffee I smell? Hey, Lieutenant, looking decent. What kind of berries are those?”

  He crossed the room as he spoke, the cat jogging in behind him. When both of them made themselves cozy on the bed, Eve simply gaped.

  “Make yourself right at home, McNab.”

  “Thanks.” He helped himself to her bowl of berries. “You look steady, Lieutenant. Glad to see it.”

  “If someone doesn’t give me a goddamn report, I’m going to look a lot more than steady. You,” she decided, pointing at Peabody. “Because normally you’re not an idiot.”

  “Yes, sir. The explosive device was a homemade boomer, and whoever put it together knew their stuff. It had a short range, classic for car explosives, which is why it took out your vehicle, but had—relatively speaking—little effect on the surrounding area. If you hadn’t been in a jam, cars locked in on all sides, there would have been basically no outside damage to speak of.”

  “Were there any fatalities?”

  “No, sir. The vehicles on your perimeters were affected, and there were about twenty injuries—only three were serious. The rest were treated and released. You sustained serious injuries as you were outside of the vehicle and unprotected at the time of the explosion.”

  Eve remembered the two teenagers who’d boarded by only moments before. If they’d still been in range . . . She ordered herself to shake that image away. “Was it on a timer? How was it cued?”