by J. D. Robb
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?”
“No.”
“Then he’s probably sleeping peacefully tonight. I’ll run employees.”
“We’re nearly there,” Roarke told her. “We’ll know soon enough.”
The animated mermaid, naked but for her glossy green tail, was dark and still over the safety grilled window. He pulled up at the all but empty curb. It was rare for people in this ugly little section of town to have personal transportation. Without the auto-shield and security feature on Roarke’s car, it wouldn’t be waiting when he came out.
He caught a glimpse of a couple of street ghosts hovering in a doorway two buildings down. They drifted out in the murky dawn, then faded back at the scream of approaching sirens.
“I’m not waiting for the backup,” she told Roarke, pulling both her weapon and her master code. Then she reached down, tugged a stunner from her boot. “Take my clinch piece—and make sure it disappears when the uniforms get here.” Her eyes held his for one quick moment. “You take the left.”
Wild light and wilder music met them when they went through the door. Eve swung right, sweeping. Then sprinted forward with a shout of warning for the man clinging to the ladder on the side of the show tank.
“Stop! Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“I’ve got to get him out.” Summerset’s knuckles scraped metal as he slid down a rung. “He’s drowning.”
“Get the hell out of my way.” She all but dragged him off the ladder and threw him at Roarke. “Find the drain switch, for God’s sake. Hurry.” Then she was scrambling up, and diving in.
Strings of blood swam in the water like exotic fish. The man who was bolted to the floor of the tank was blue around the lips, his single eye open and staring. She could see both his fingers and ankles were raw from fighting the shackles. She grabbed his battered face, fit her mouth over his, and gave him her breath.
Lungs burning, she pushed off, fought her way to the surface, and sucked in more air. Without wasting the breath on words, she dived again. Her gaze flicked briefly to the face of the Madonna, its carved eyes watching tortured death with absolute serenity.
Eve shuddered once, then fought for life.
On her third trip up, she thought the surface was closer, and swimming down, she turned her head and got a watery view of Roarke coming up the ladder.
He’d taken time to pull off his shoes and jacket. When he reached the floor of the tank, he yanked her arm, jerked a thumb for her to go up. So they worked in tandem, one drawing in air, the other giving it while the water swirled down.
When she could stand, her head above water, she coughed violently. “Summerset,” she managed.
“He won’t go anywhere. For God’s sake, Eve.”
“I haven’t got time to argue about it. Can you pick the locks on the restraints?”
Dripping, still gasping for air, he stared at her. Then he dug in his pocket for his penknife. “Here come your men.”
“I’ll deal with them. See what you can do down there.”
She flipped her wet hair out of her eyes as four uniforms charged inside the club. “Dallas,” she shouted. “Lieutenant Eve. Get some med-techs here, fast. Resuscitation equipment. Drowning victim. I don’t know how long he was under, but there’s no pulse. And someone turn that goddamn music off. Glove up. I want this scene preserved as much as possible.”
The water was down to her knees now, and the air was making her shiver in her wet clothes. Her muscles ached from supporting the dead weight of the victim. She saw Roarke finesse the lock on the first shackle and shifted to adjust.
The minute the second ankle was free, she laid the body down in the few remaining inches of water and, straddling it, began pumping his chest.
“I want a CPR kit in here, some blankets.” The last word echoed as the music shut abruptly off. Now she could hear her ears ringing. “Come on, come on, come back,” she panted, then leaned forward and forced air into his mouth.
“Let me do it.” Roarke knelt beside her. “You’ve got a crime scene to secure.”
“The MTs.” She continued to count the chest pumps in her head. “They’ll be here any minute. You can’t stop until they get here.”
“I won’t stop.”
At her nod, he placed his hands over hers, picked up her rhythm. “Who is he, Roarke?”
“I don’t know.” He glanced up briefly as Eve got to her feet. “I just don’t know.”
It was a great deal harder climbing out of the tank than it had been getting in, Eve realized. She was winded by the time she reached the lip. She took a moment to catch her breath, to draw it into lungs that felt seared and scraped. Then she swung her leg over and started down.
Peabody was waiting at the bottom. “The MTs were right behind me, Dallas.”
“He’s pretty far gone. Don’t know if they can bring him back.” She looked through the glass, watched Roarke working steadily. “Take the uniforms. Form two teams and do a search. You won’t find him, but look anyway. Secure all doors. Engage recorders.”
Peabody looked over Eve’s shoulder to where Summerset stood, hands at his sides, watching Roarke from the far end of the tank. “What are you going to do?”
“My job. You do yours. I want this scene secured and a sweep team ordered. Do you have a field kit with you?”
“I don’t have a detective kit, just my street and scene bag.”
“I’ll use that.” She took the bag Peabody offered. “Get started,” she ordered, then signaled the emergency medical team that rushed in. “Inside the tank. Drowning victim, no pulse. CPR in progress for approximately ten minutes.”
She turned away, knowing there was nothing more she could do there. Water squelched in her boots, dripped from her hair and face as she walked over to Summerset. Because her leather jacket weighed on her like a stone, she stripped it off and slammed it on the table.
“Goddamn it, Summerset, you’re under arrest. Suspicion of attempted murder. You have the right to—”
“He was alive when I got here. I’m almost sure he was alive.” His voice sounded thin and thoughtful. Eve recognized the symptoms of shock in it, and in his glassy eyes. “I thought I saw him move.”
“You’d be smart to wait until I’ve told you your rights and obligations before you make any statement.” She lowered her voice. “You’d be real smart to say nothing, not a fucking thing, until Roarke rounds you up his fancy lawyers. Now be smart and shut up.”
But he refused the lawyers. When Eve walked into the interview room where he was being guarded by a uniform, Summerset sat stiffly and continued to stare straight ahead.
“I won’t need you,” she told the guard. She came around the table and sat when the guard left the room. She’d taken time to change into dry clothes, warm up her system with coffee; and she had checked with the medical team that had brought the man identified as Patrick Murray back to life, and the doctors who were fighting to keep him that way.
“It’s still attempted murder,” she said conversationally. “They brought Murray back from the dead, but he’s in a coma, and if he makes it he may be brain damaged.”
“Murray?”
“Patrick Murray, another Dublin boy.”
“I don’t remember a Patrick Murray.” His bony fingers moved through his disordered hair. His eyes looked blindly around the room. “I would—I would like some water.”
“Sure, fine.” She rose to fill a pitcher. “Why aren’t you letting Roarke set up the lawyers?”
“This isn’t his doing. And I have nothing to hide.”
“You’re an idiot.” She slammed the
pitcher in front of him. “You don’t know how bad it can be once I turn the recorder on and start on you. You were at the scene of an attempted murder, caught by the primary investigator climbing out—”
“In,” he snapped. Her tone had torn away the mists that kept closing in on his mind. “I was going into the tank.”
“You’re going to have to prove that. I’m the first one you’re going to have to convince.” She raked both hands through her hair in a gesture of fatigue and frustration that made Summerset frown. Her eyes, he noted, were reddened from the water, and deeply shadowed.
“I can’t hold back with you this time,” she warned him.
“I expect nothing from you.”
“Good. Then we start even. Engage recorder. Interview with subject Summerset, Lawrence Charles, in the matter of the attempted murder of Patrick Murray on this date. Interview conducted by primary, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Commence oh eight fifteen. Subject has been Mirandized and has waived counsel and representation at this time. Is that correct?”
“That is correct.”
“What were you doing in the Mermaid Club at six-thirty in the morning?”
“I received a transmission at about six-fifteen. The caller didn’t identify himself. He told me to go there, immediately and alone.”
“And you always go to sex clubs when some anonymous guy calls you up at dawn and tells you to?”
Summerset sent her a withering look, which cheered her a bit. He wasn’t down yet, she decided.
“I was told that a friend of mine was being held there, and that she would be harmed if I didn’t obey instructions.”
“What friend?”
He poured the water now, drank one small sip. “Audrey Morrell.”
“Yeah, she was your alibi for Brennen’s killing. That didn’t pan out too well for you. Sure you want to use her again?”
“There’s no need for sarcasm, Lieutenant. The transmission came in. It will be on the log.”
“And we’ll check that. So this anonymous caller tells you to get over to the Mermaid Club—you knew where it was?”
“No, I didn’t. I am not in the habit of patronizing such establishments,” he said so primly she had to stifle a snort. “He provided the address.”