by J. D. Robb
"She had a job to do."
"We need search and rescue. Maybe…" She knew better. Anne would have been all but on top of the bomb when it went off. "We need to look. We need to be sure."
"I'll get it started. You ought to see a med-tech, Dallas."
"It's nothing." She drew in a breath, blew it out. "I need her address."
"We'll get done what needs to be done here, then I'll go with you."
She turned away, scanned over the huddles of people, the wrecks of cars that had been too close to the building, the mangled hunks of steel.
And below the streets, she thought, in the transpo station, it would be worse. Unimaginably worse.
For money, she thought as the heat rose in her like a geyser. For money, she was sure of it, and for the memory of a fanatic without a clear cause.
Someone, she swore it, would pay.
It was an hour before she got back to Roarke. He stood, his coat rippling in the wind, as he helped MTs load wounded into transports.
"The kid okay?" Eve asked him.
"He will be. We found his father. The man was terrified." Roarke reached out, wiped a smear off her cheek. "The talk is casualties are light. Most were killed in the panic to get out. Most got out, Eve. What could have been a death toll in the thousands is, at this point, less than four hundred."
"I can't count lives that way."
"Sometimes it's all you can do."
"I lost a friend tonight."
"I know that." His hands lifted to frame her face. "I'm sorry for that."
"She had a husband and two children." She looked away, into the night. "She was pregnant."
"Ah, God." When he would have drawn her to him, she shook her head and stepped back.
"I can't. I'll fall apart, and I can't. I have to go tell her family."
"I'll go with you."
"No, it's a cop thing." She lifted her hands, pressed them to her eyes, and just held them there a moment. "Feeney and I will do it. I don't know when I'll be home."
"I'll be here awhile yet. They can use extra hands."
She nodded, started to turn.
"Eve?"
"Yeah."
"Come home. You'll need it."
"Yeah. Yeah, I will." She walked off to find Feeney and prepared to deliver news that crushed lives.
Roarke worked another two hours with the wounded and the weeping. He sent for oceans of coffee and soup—one of the comforts money could buy. As bodies were transferred to the already overburdened morgue, he thought of Eve and how she faced the demands of the dead every day.
The blood. The waste. The stink of both seemed to crawl over his skin and under it. This is what she lived with.
He looked at the building, the scars and the ruin. This could be mended. It was stone, steel, glass, and such things could be rebuilt with time, with money, with sweat.
He was driven to own buildings like this. Symbols and structures. For profit, certainly, he thought, reaching down to pick up a chunk of concrete. For business, for pleasure. But it didn't take a session with Mira to understand why a man who'd spent his childhood in dirty little rooms with leaking roofs and broken windows was compelled to own, to possess. To preserve and to build.
A human weakness to compensate, he supposed, that had become power.
He had the power to see that this was rebuilt, that it was put back as it had been. He could put his money and his energies into that and see it as a kind of justice.
And Eve would look to the dead.
He walked away, and went home to wait for his wife.
• • •
She drove home in the damp, frigid chill of predawn. Billboards flashed and jittered around her as she headed uptown. Buy this and be happy. See that and be thrilled. Come here and be amazed. New York wasn't about to stop its dance.
Steam spilled out of glida grills, belched out of street vents, pumped out of the maxibus that creaked to a halt to pick up a scatter of drones who'd worked the graveyard shift.
A few obviously desperate street LCs strutted their stuff and called out to the drones.
"I'll give you a ride, buddy. Twenty, cash or credit'll buy you a hell of a ride."
The drones shuffled on the bus, too tired for cheap sex.
Eve watched a drunk stumble along the sidewalk, swinging his bottle of brew like a baton. And a huddle of teenagers pooling money for soy dogs. The lower the temperatures fell, the higher the price.
Free enterprise.
Abruptly, she pulled over to the curb, leaned over the wheel. She was well beyond exhausted and into the tightly strung stage of brittle energy and racing thoughts.
She'd gone to a tidy little home in Westchester and had spoken the words that ripped a family to pieces. She'd told a man his wife was dead, listened to children cry for a mother who was never coming back.
Then she'd gone to her office and written the reports, filed them. Because it needed to be done, she'd cleaned out Anne's locker herself.
And after all that, she thought, she could drive through the city, see the lights, the people, the deals, and the dregs, and feel…alive, she realized.
This was her place, with its dirt and its drama, its brilliance and its streak of nasty. Whores and hustlers, the weary and the wealthy. Every jittery heartbeat pumped in her blood.
This was hers.
"Lady." A grimy fist rapped on her window. "Hey, lady, wanna buy a flower?"
She looked at the face peering through the glass. It was ancient and stupid and if the dirt in its folds were any indication, it hadn't seen a bar of soap in this decade.
She put the window down. "Do I look like I want to buy a flower?"
"It's the last one." He grinned toothlessly and held up a pitiful, ragged bloom she supposed was trying to be a rose. "Give ya a good deal. Five bucks for it."
"Five? Get a handful of reality." She started to brush him off, put the glass between them. Then found herself digging in her pocket. "I got four."
"Okay, good." He snatched the credit chips and pushed the flower at her before heading off in a shambling run.
"To the nearest liquor store," Eve muttered and pulled away from the curb with the window open. His breath had been amazingly foul.
She drove home with the flower across her lap. And saw, as she headed through the gates, the lights he'd left on for her.
After all she'd seen and done that day, the simple welcome of lights in the window had her fighting tears.
She went in quietly, tossing her jacket over the newel post, climbing the stairs. The scents here were quiet, elegant. The wood polished, the floors gleaming.
This, too, she thought, was hers.
And so, she knew, when she saw him waiting for her, was Roarke.
He'd put on a robe and had the screen on low. Nadine Furst was reporting, and looked pale and fierce on the scene of the explosion. She could see he'd been working—checking stock reports, juggling deals, whatever he did—on the bedroom unit.
Feeling foolish, she kept the flower behind her back. "Did you sleep?"
"A bit." He didn't go to her. She looked stretched thin, he decided, as if she might snap at the slightest touch. Her eyes were bruised and fragile. "You need to rest."
"Can't." She managed a half smile. "Wired up. I'm going to go back soon."
"Eve." He stepped toward her, but still didn't touch. "You'll make yourself ill."
"I'm okay. Really. I was punchy for a while, but it passed. When it's over, I'll crash, but I'm okay now. I need to talk to you."
"All right."
She moved around him, shifting the flower out of sight, going to the window, staring at the dark. "I'm trying to figure out where to start. It's been a rotten couple of days."
"It was difficult, telling the Malloys."
"Jesus." She let her brow rest against the glass. "They know. Families of cops know as soon as they see us at the door. That's what they live with, day in and out. They know when they see you, but they block it. You c
an see it in their faces—the knowledge and the denial. Some of them just stand there, others stop you—start talking, making conversation, picking up around the house. It's like if you don't say it, if you just don't say it, it isn't real.
"Then you say it, and it is."
She turned back to him. "You live with that."
"Yes." He kept his eyes on hers. "I suppose I do."
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry about this morning. I—"
"So you've said already." This time when he crossed to her, he touched, just a hand to her cheek. "It doesn't matter."
"It does. It does matter. I've got to get through this, okay?"
"All right. Sit down."
"I can't, I just can't." She lifted her hands in frustration. "I've got all this stuff churning inside me."
"Then get rid of it." He stopped her by putting a hand to hers, lifting the flower. "What's this?"
"I think it's a very sick, mutant rose. I bought it for you."
It was so rare to see Roarke taken by surprise, she nearly laughed. His gaze met hers and she thought—hoped—it might have been baffled pleasure she saw there before he looked down at the rose again. "You brought me a flower."
"I think it's sort of traditional. Fight, flowers, make up."
"Darling Eve." He took the stem. The edges of the bud were blackened and curled from the cold. The color was somewhere between the yellow of a healing bruise and urine. "You fascinate me."
"Pretty pitiful, huh?"
"No." This time his hand cupped her cheek, skimmed into her hair. "It's delightful."
"If it smells anything like the guy who sold it to me, you might want to have it fumigated."
"Don't spoil it," he said mildly, and touched his lips to hers.
"I do that—spoil things." She backed away again before she gave in and grabbed on. "I don't do it on purpose. And I meant what I said this morning, even if it pisses you off. Mostly, I think cops are better off going solo. I don't know, like priests or something, so they don't keep dragging the sin and sorrow home with them."
"I have sin and sorrow of my own," he said evenly. "It's washed over you a time or two."
"I knew it would piss you off."
"It does. And by God, Eve, it hurts me."
Her mouth dropped open, trembled closed again. "I don't mean to do that." Hadn't known she could do that. Part of the problem, she realized. Her problem. "I don't have the words like you do. I don't have them, Roarke, the kind you say to me—or even think, and I see you thinking them and it—my heart just stops."
"Do you think loving you to excess is easy for me?"
"No. I don't. I think it should be impossible. Don't get mad." She hurried on when she saw that dangerous flash in his eyes. "Don't get mad yet. Let me finish."
"Then make it good." He set the flower aside. "Because I'm damn sick and I'm tired of having to justify my feelings to the woman who owns them."
"I can't keep my balance." Oh, she hated to admit it, to say it out loud to the man who wobbled it so often and so easily. "I get it, and I cruise along for a while, realizing this is who I am now, who we are now. And then, sometimes, I just look at you and stumble. And I can't get my breath because all these feelings just rear up and grab me by the throat. I don't know what to do about it, how to handle it. I think, I'm married to him. I've been married to him for almost six months, and there are times he walks into the room and stops my heart."
She let out a shuddering breath. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. In my life, you're what matters most. I love you so much it scares me, and I guess if I had a choice about it, I wouldn't change it. So…now you can get pissed off, because I'm done."
"A fat lot of room you've given me for that." He watched her lips twitch into a smile as he went to her. His hands slipped over her shoulders, down her back. "I've no choice either, Eve. I wouldn't want one."
"We're not going to fight."
"I don't think so."
She kept her eyes on his as she tugged at the belt of his robe. "I stored up this energy in case I needed it to fight with you."
He lowered his head, bit her bottom lip. "It's a shame to waste it."
"I'm not going to." Slowly, she backed him toward the bed, up the short steps to the platform. "I drove through the city tonight. I felt alive." She tugged the robe away, closed her teeth over his shoulder. "I'm going to show you."
She tumbled to the bed on top of him, and her mouth was like a fever. The frantic burst of energy reminded her of the first time they'd come together on this bed, the night she'd thrown all caution and restraint aside and let him take her where they'd needed to go.
Now she would drive him, with fast, rough hands, hot greedy lips. She took exactly what she wanted, and what she took was everything.
The light was gray and weak, trickling through the sky window overhead, filtering down on her. His vision blurred, but he watched her as she destroyed him. Slim, agile, fierce, the bruises from the hideous night blooming on her skin like the medals of a warrior.
Her eyes gleamed as she worked them both toward frenzy.
Then, and then again, skin glowing, breath ragged, she lowered over him, sheathed him, surrounded him.
She arched back, arrowed with pleasure. He gripped her hips, said her name, and let her ride.
Her skin was slick with sweat when she collapsed onto him, melted into him. His arms came around her, holding her there. Her cheek to his heart.
"Sleep awhile," he murmured.
"I can't. I have to go in."
"You haven't slept in twenty-four hours."
"I'm okay," she answered as she sat up. "Almost better than okay. I needed this more than sleep—really, Roarke. And if you think you're going to force a tranq down my throat, think again."
She rolled off him and up. "I need to keep moving. If there's any down time, I'll catch a nap at the crib at Central."
She glanced around for a robe, took his. "I need a favor."
"Now would be an excellent time to ask for one."
She glanced over, grinned. He looked sleek and satisfied. "I bet. Anyway, I don't want Zeke stuck at the station the way he has been, but I need to keep him under wraps awhile longer."
"Send him here."
"Ah…if I took one of your vehicles in, I could leave mine here. Working on it would give him something to do."
Roarke turned his head. Eyed her. "Do you plan to be involved in any wrecks or explosions today?"
"You never know."
"Take anything but the 3X-2000. I've only driven it once."
She made some comment about men and their toys, but he was feeling mellow and let it pass.
*** CHAPTER TWENTY ***
Dear Comrade,
We are Cassandra.
We are loyal.
We are sure you've been watching the bleeding liberal media puppets report on the incidents in New York City. It sickens us to listen to their sobbing, their wailing. While we are nothing but amused by their condemnation of the destruction of their pathetic symbols of the blindly opportunistic society that now holds this country under its rigid thumb, we are angry at their one-dimensional and predictable stand on the issues.
Where is their faith? Where is their comprehension?
They still don't see, still don't understand what we are and what we will mean to them.
Tonight we struck with the fury of the gods. Tonight we watched the scrambling rats. But this is nothing, nothing to what we will do.
Our adversary, the woman that fate and circumstance deemed we face down for our mission, has proven difficult. She is skilled and strong, but we would be satisfied with no less. It is true that through her, we have lost a certain monetary payment, which we understand you had hoped to secure quickly. Do not concern yourself with this matter. Our finances are very solvent, and we will bleed this heedless city to its bones before we are finished.
You must trust that we will finish what he began. You must not falter in your faith and you
r commitment to the cause. Soon, very soon, the most precious symbol of their corrupt and weeping nation will fall. It is all but done.
When this is accomplished, they will pay.
We will see you, face to face, within forty-eight hours. The necessary papers are in order. This next battle to be waged and won in this place, we will complete personally. He would have expected this. He would have demanded it.
Prepare for the next stage, dear comrade. For we will be with you soon to drink to the one who set us on this path. To celebrate our victory and to set the stage for our new republic.
We are Cassandra.
• • •
Peabody strode toward the conference room. She'd just left Zeke and was feeling a little shaky over the conversation they'd had with their parents over the 'link. Both of them had put the pressure on for their parents to stay out west, though each had separate reasons.
Zeke couldn't stand the thought of them seeing him under the current circumstances. He wasn't in a cell, but it was close.
Peabody was determined to clear her brother and put him back on the path of his life in her own way.
But her mother had struggled not to cry, and her father had looked dazed and helpless. She wasn't going to get the image of their faces out of her head any time soon.
Work was the remedy, she decided. Unearthing that lying, murdering bitch Clarissa. Then snapping her skinny neck like a twig.
It was with violence brewing under her starched uniform that she walked into the room and saw McNab.
Oh hell, was all she could think, and she marched straight over for coffee. "You're early."
"I figured you'd be." He'd also figured out what he intended to do, and he took the first step by going over and closing the door. "You're not kicking me out of your way without an explanation."
"I don't need to explain anything to you. We wanted to have sex, we had it. Done and over. The lab reports come up?"
"I say it's not done and over." It should be, he knew it should be. But he'd been thinking about that square, serious face and amazingly lush body for days. Weeks. Jesus, maybe months. He'd damn well say when it was done and over.
"I've got more important things on my mind than your ego, McNab." She took a deliberate sip of coffee. "Like my semiannual dentist appointment."