New York to Dallas

by J. D. Robb

  “Is that what frightens you?”

  “It . . . disturbs me to know that’s in me.”

  “In all of us,” Mira said. “Most are never put in a position where they experience, or choose to experience it. Some who understand it become monsters. Others who understand it become the ones who hunt the monsters, and protect the rest of us.”

  “Most times I understand, and accept that. Here, it blurs.

  “I attacked Roarke when I had a nightmare here.”

  “It was nothing,” he began, and she rounded on him.

  “Don’t say that! Don’t protect me. I clawed, and I bit. I drew his blood, for God’s sake. If I’d had a weapon, I’d have used it. I’m afraid to sleep.” It jerked out of her. “I’m afraid I’ll do it again.”

  “Have you?”

  “No, but I looked into my mother’s eyes this morning, and I knew her. I stood over her body this afternoon, and I remembered her. Some. I remember some.”

  “And you’re afraid, with those emerging memories, you’ll become more violent when your defenses are down in sleep.”

  “It follows, doesn’t it?”

  “I can’t promise you there won’t be more nightmares, or that they won’t become violent. But I can tell you what I believe. Your first night here, under such strain, with your past so close to the surface, you . . . overloaded.”

  “Is that a shrink term?”

  “It’s one you understand. You couldn’t hold any more, couldn’t contain any more. You weren’t attacking Roarke, but defending yourself against the person trying to hurt you.”

  “I did hurt her,” Roarke admitted.

  “And with the physical and psychic pain merging, you fought back.”

  “What’s to stop me from doing just that again?” Eve demanded. “How long are either of us supposed to lie down at night and wait for the battle and the blood?”

  “I could give you medications for the short term. Or,” Mira continued, “you could consider something you haven’t yet spoken of. If you recognized your mother, isn’t it possible your subconscious already had when you studied the photos of the woman you suspected was McQueen’s partner?”

  “Yeah. I knew there was something, but I couldn’t get down to it. I couldn’t reach it.”

  “Consciously. You’re not only trained to be observant, Eve, you’re naturally so. Often uncomfortably so. If you recognized her, added the strain of that to the rest, it’s hardly a wonder it manifested in a traumatic and violent nightmare. She was part of what you hadn’t yet come to terms with, what you continued to block out. The mother, the symbol of everything intended to nurture, to tend, to love and protect.”

  “She hated me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I saw it, I felt it. I knew it even when I was—who the hell knows? Three, four, five. She liked to knock me around. She had me because he got the bright idea to breed their own moneymaker. I was less than a dog to her, and the reality of me was more than she’d bargained for. She wanted to sell me, but he wouldn’t. The investment wasn’t ripe enough, not yet. She’d hit me when he wasn’t there, or just shove me in a closet. It’s dark, and there’s nothing to eat. She didn’t even give me a name. I was nothing to her. Less than nothing.”

  She took a shaky swallow of wine. “She didn’t know me. When we were face-to-face again, and she looked right at me. She didn’t know me.”

  “Did that hurt you?”

  “No. I don’t know. I couldn’t think. I just know that for a minute I was nothing again. Like they—she—took everything from me. Roarke, my badge, my life, myself. For a minute it was just gone because she was there. I can’t be nothing again.”

  “You could never be nothing.” Roarke spoke in a voice of barely controlled rage. “You’re what you made yourself against the impossible. Even when you were helpless they couldn’t destroy what you are. You’re a miracle. You’re my miracle, and you’ll never be anything else.”

  “They’re in me.”

  “And what’s in me? You know. You know how I chose to beat it back, and still you’re mine. Of all the choices you could have made, you chose to protect. To stand for the victim. Even her. Now, even her.”

  “I saw what she was, in that hospital bed, where I put her. Hurt and bruised and knocked around.”

  “The way you’d been,” Mira prompted.

  “The way I’d been. And I felt . . . maybe contempt or disgust, studying her like a bug, hoping I’d been wrong, that she wasn’t the one. But I knew she was, and what she was.”

  “What was she?”

  “Selfish is too easy a word. Selfish and vicious and sly, and still I don’t know how or why.

  “So much blood,” Eve said quietly. “At the end, so much blood, and I thought, what’s in it? What’s in the blood, hers, mine? Our eyes are the same.”

  “No.” Roarke spoke with absolute certainty. “You’re wrong.”

  “She changed the color, but—”

  “No,” he repeated, looking into Eve’s troubled eyes. “Who knows yours—and all their moods—better than I? Do you think I haven’t studied those ID shots?”

  He remembered what his aunt had said to him on their first meeting, and gave it to Eve, in his own words. “Color changes on a whim. The shape of things counts for more. Your eyes are yours, Eve. The color, the shape, and more what’s behind them. You got none of it from her.”

  “I don’t know why that’s important, except I don’t want to look in the mirror and see her. I don’t want you to ever look at me and see—”

  “Never.”

  “It’s stupid to pick at it,” Eve said wearily. “I know, I do know I’m not like her. Melinda and the kid, they were just means to an end to her. Not human, not important. Her next hit, that was important. Fucking with the cops, that was important. Getting back to McQueen, that was the most important. Weak spot. A certain kind of man, that’s a weak spot, makes her do what’s unnatural to her. Have a child, run errands, fix a meal. Because he makes her feel like the drug makes her feel. She lives a lie, but that’s second nature. Like using and exploiting. She stole another woman’s child knowing what he’d do to her. She left me with my father and she had to know what he was, what he’d do. He’d already started doing it. But she left me with him.”

  “As she left Darlie with McQueen,” Mira added.

  “Yeah. I knew what she was, and I felt nothing but that contempt. Then I felt sick, then cold. Then I had to step out of it. Had to, because if we didn’t find them, find Melinda and Darlie, without her help, I’d have to work her again. Go back, knowing who and what she was and work her again. But she went to him. Killed a cop without a second thought to get to him. And when I walked into that place, his place, and saw her on the floor, the blood, the death, I felt . . .”

  “What?” Mira asked her. “What did you feel?”

  “Relief!” It burst out of her. “Relief. She didn’t know me, and now she never would. God, the thought that she might realize . . . I wouldn’t ever have to think of her somewhere in the world. Wouldn’t have to think someday, somehow, she might remember me, might put it together, might know. Use that against me, against Roarke, against everyone I care about. She was dead, and I was relieved.”

  In the silence, she pressed a hand to her mouth, struggling to hold back sobs.

  “You didn’t say you felt joy,” Roarke said quietly.

  She stared at him, eyes wet, shoulders trembling. “What?”

  “You didn’t feel joy.”

  “No! God. He’d slit her throat like a pig for slaughter. Whatever she was, he had no right to take her life.”

  “And that’s who you are, Lieutenant.”

  “I . . .” She swiped at tears, looked at Mira.

  “It’s an exceptional thing to have someone in your life who knows and understands you so well. Who loves who you are. A very exceptional thing. He asks the question, as I was about to do, already knowing the answer. You felt relief beca
use a threat to everything you are, everything you have, and what you love ended. It ended in blood so you’re struggling to treat her like another victim. She’s not.”

  “She was murdered.”

  “And McQueen should pay for it. You need to have a part in that not because of the connection, but because she was murdered. She was murdered here, in Dallas, by a man you see as very like your father. You want to walk away from it, and you can’t. Relief won’t stop you from seeking justice for her. That conflict causes you stress, unhappiness, self-doubt. I hope by admitting what you felt, what you feel, some of that will ease.”

  “I would’ve put her away, built the case to put her away. I thought there’d be some justice. Locking her up, the way she’d done to me.”

  “She chose the monster, again.”

  “She thought he was still alive. Richard Troy. I brought him up, testing, I guess. She thought he was still alive. I let her think he’d given us information on her.”

  “Well played,” Roarke commented, then lifted his eyebrows at her frown. “Sorry, was that cold? Am I supposed to feel otherwise?”

  “No.” Eve looked down at her wine. “No.”

  “I wish she were alive, that’s the God’s shining truth. So I could imagine her in a cage for the decades to come. But we live with disappointment.”

  “You hate her. I can’t.”

  “I’ve enough for both of us.”

  “I feel disgust, and—God, I wish I had the words. I feel a little shame, and there’s no point getting pissed off because I feel what I feel. I’d rather feel hate. If she’d lived, I might’ve gotten there. So maybe I feel a little cheated as well as relieved. I don’t know what that says.”

  “In my professional opinion?” Mira crossed her fine legs. “It says you have a very healthy reaction to a very unhealthy situation. The two of you have been scraped raw by this, yet here you are. With your cat.”

  Eve let out a weak laugh while Galahad continued to snore at her feet, all four legs in the air.

  “You need sleep. If you want medication, I can arrange it.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “I’ll be here if you change your mind.”

  “It’s good to have a doctor on tap in case I bloody him again.”

  “For now I prescribe food and rest.”

  “I could eat,” Eve realized. “It’s the first time I’ve actually wanted to all day.”

  “That’s a good sign. I’m just next door if you need me.”

  “Stay, have a meal with us,” Roarke began.

  “Another time. I think the two of you should just be together awhile. If anything breaks on the case, I’d like to be informed.”

  “Sure.” Eve stepped forward when Mira rose. “It helped, a lot, you coming. Listening.”

  Mira brushed a hand over Eve’s hair. “Maybe it’s the influence of my daughter—the Wiccan. While I think we have to make the most out of our life while we’re here, I believe we get more than one chance. When we get another chance, there are connections, people, recognition. I recognize you, Eve, and always have. That’s unscientific, and absolute truth. I’ll be right here.”

  Roarke walked her to the door, then, leaning down, kissed Mira softly on the lips. “Thank you.”

  After closing the door, he turned to Eve. “You’re loved. One day, I hope when you think of ‘mother’ you’ll think of her.”

  “When I think of good I think of her. That’s something.”

  “It is.”

  “I’m sorry. I made this harder on you than I needed to.”

  “That goes both ways.”

  “It’ll probably still get screwed up before it’s over.”

  “Oh, almost certainly. So why don’t we eat before it does?”

  “Good idea.” But she walked to him first, wrapped her arms around him. “I’d rather be screwed up with you than smooth with anybody else.”

  “Again, both ways.” He drew her back, traced his finger over the dent in her chin. “What do you say to spaghetti and meatballs?”

  “I say yay.” She hugged him again, then let out a genuine laugh as Galahad wound between their feet. “In a dead sleep he hears you say spaghetti and meatballs.”

  “Three plates, then. If you can’t spoil your cat, who can you spoil?”

  “But no wine for him. He’s a mean drunk.”

  She held on another moment, taking comfort, giving it back. “I want to say just one more thing about it, then set it aside, at least for now.”

  “All right.”

  “When I was a kid—after, I mean. When I was in the system, I used to imagine somebody stole me from my parents. They’d find me, take me home. Somewhere nice, with a yard and toys. And they’d be great, perfect. They’d love me.”

  She closed her eyes when he tightened his grip. “After a while I had to deal with what’s real. Nobody was coming for me. There was no house and yard and toys. I did okay, and one day I did a whole hell of a lot better. I found you.”

  She stepped back, gripping his hands in hers. “I got really lucky because, Roarke, you’re my what’s real.”

  He brought her hands to his lips. “Always.”

  20

  He expected she’d go back to work after dinner, and she didn’t surprise him. But Mira was right. He understood her.

  She needed the work, the forward motion again. She needed to connect with Peabody again, like a touchstone, no matter how brief the conversation.

  “They’re still working on finding his New York hole. But we’ve sussed out his steps from the breakout to Dallas.”

  She went to her board, started another time line. “He picked up a package at the mail drop he’d arranged with his partner. The IDs, some clothes, the jammers, the ’link. From there, he goes to his old apartment. Secures Schuster and Kopeski, does his particular brand of torture. Has some breakfast, cleans up, takes what he wants. When he’s finished there, he takes a stroll. He checked into the Warfield Hotel, reservation, early check-in secured, under Milo, picks up a package they’re holding for him—which I’d say is the suit. Peabody tracked down the cab that dropped him off, and that’s damn good work. He’d walked five blocks from his old place, hailed one. We’ve got the security disc from check-in.”

  She ordered it on screen. “See, working man—traveling. A duffel, a ball cap, sunshades—Tray Schuster’s—skids, Schuster’s again. He makes contact with me from the hotel room, using the filtered ’link and jammer. He calls for the valet to press his suit, the one she sent him. He orders a hearty meal from room service. Gets suited up.”

  She shifted the screen image, showed him coming out of the elevator, blond hair, sharp suit, briefcase he probably bought in New York. “He used the in-room checkout. He’d arranged for private car service, which picked him up, took him a block from Central, where he ordered it to wait. Breezed by to see me, slipped back into the car, which dropped him off at the shuttle. He had a light snack and two glasses of Cabernet in flight. Stibble spilled he’d helped McQueen purchase a vehicle that was waiting at the transpo station here.”

  She snorted. “Claims, according to Peabody, McQueen told him it was a gift for an old friend.”

  “He’s a poor judge of people for a grifter,” Roarke commented.

  “He wasn’t. Prison’s taken some of the shine off him, and he had a fairly murky pool to fish from. Stibble served his purpose well enough,” Eve added. “McQueen didn’t think we’d fish Stibble out of the pool so fast.”

  “One of a number of miscalculations this time around.”

  “Even miscalculating, he’s killed two people, tortured two more, abducted Melinda, abducted and raped Darlie.”

  “So don’t underestimate him,” Roarke concluded.

  “Never. We lose him once he picks up the car at the transpo center here, but I’ll fill that in. What he did was go to the fancy wine store, run more errands before going to the apartment.”

  She tucked her hands in her pockets as she tried
to put herself in McQueen’s head. “I think he didn’t give Sylvia his ETA. Didn’t want her there to greet him. Had things to set up. He’d want to enjoy his alone time, check the cams, hide whatever he didn’t want her poking into. Plus, she’d want a romantic reunion, wouldn’t she? No time for that. He wants to get Melinda in before the champagne and caviar.”

  She walked around the board. “And maybe, most probably, one of the errands he ran was a stop-off at his second location. Check it out, set up whatever he wanted in the place, assure himself it was adequate when and if, if and when.”

  She glanced over, saw the cat had found the sleep chair, and was putting it to his usual good work. Then she turned, saw Roarke drinking coffee, watching her.

  “No comments?”

  “Just watching my cop work. I like the look of her when she’s on her game.”

  “I feel on game—or close. Better.”

  “I can see it.”

  “Aired out the brain, and the belly. Then filled the belly part with spaghetti and meatballs. McQueen’s toasted.”

  He smiled at her. “And what does all this tell you, his errands and caviar?”

  “It’s pattern, it’s movement. The more you know, the more you know. He’s had to take time to change his hair, subtle changes to the face, eye color. That means supplies. Wigs and rinses, enhancers. We didn’t find anything at the apartment, so he took those with him. Which tells me he means to use them again.”

  She stepped back to study the various photos, the IDs he’d used.

  “You’re always buying me jewelry.”

  “Are you angling for a gift?”

  “Jesus, no, I can’t keep up as it is. She had jewelry at her place. A couple of nice pieces. She was wearing jewelry when I crashed her van. Wouldn’t she have had some at his place? She had clothes, shoes, the face and hair gunk. Wouldn’t she have left some baubles there?”

  He considered. “Yes. She wanted to be with him, hoped to live with him. When a woman’s maneuvering to move in with a man she tends to leave pieces of herself behind. Get him used to it.”

  “Really?”