Survivor in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Big duh.”

  “Emotional, physical, time-consuming work. With undoubtedly amazing rewards. That bond you spoke of, we deserve to have it. To make it, when we’re ready. But we’re not, either of us, ready. And we’re not equipped to parent a girl nearly ten. It would be like—for us, anyway—starting a twisty, laborious, fascinating task somewhere in the middle, without any time for that learning curve.”

  He stepped to her again, laid his lips on her brow. “But I want children with you, my lovely Eve. One day.”

  “One day being far, far in the future. Like, I don’t know, say a decade when . . . Hold on. Children is plural.”

  He eased back, grinned. “Why, so it is—nothing slips by my canny cop.”

  “You really think if I ever actually let you plant something in me—they’re like aliens in there, growing little hands and feet.” She shuddered. “Creepy. If I ever did that, popped a kid out—which I think is probably as pleasant a process as having your eyeballs pierced by burning, poisonous sticks, I’d say, ‘Whoopee, let’s do this again?’ Have you recently suffered head trauma?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Could be coming. Any second.”

  He laughed, kissed her. “I do love you, and the rest is all in the vague and misty future. In any case, we’re talking about this child. I think Richard and Beth are a fine thought.”

  She locked the rest away—where hopefully it would stay in some deep, dark mind vault. “They took that kid last year.”

  “Kevin. Yes, they recently finalized the adoption.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned it. Kid had it rough—bouncy for all of that, but he had it rough. Junkie LC of a mother who knocked him around, left him alone. They have to know how to handle kids with baggage, so . . .”

  “They may be a good choice for Nixie. I’ll talk to them, tonight if I can manage it. They’ll need to meet her, and she them.”

  “You could give that a push. With the Dysons bowing out, CPS is going to start squawking about fostering pretty soon. Okay. Let’s get down to it. What’ve you got for me?”

  “Some names I’ve ferreted out that intersect in one way or another with both Kirkendall and Isenberry.” He moved over to his console as he spoke. “Some connect to CIA, some to Homeland Security.” He glanced over at her, and thought this would be one more punch to her psyche. “Are you going to be all right with that?”

  “Are you?”

  “I’ve made my peace there, best I can. They watched an innocent, desperate child suffer for what they deemed a bigger cause. I don’t forget it, but I’ve made my peace with it.”

  “I don’t forget it,” she said quietly. Eve knew it was for love of her that he’d walked away from taking vengeance on the HSO operatives who’d witnessed her abuse those many years ago in Dallas—they’d witnessed a man beating and brutalizing his own daughter, and done nothing to stop it. “I don’t forget what you did for me.”

  “Didn’t do, more accurately. In any case, to nudge this any further, to access the data on these people through these organizations, I’ll need this. Roarke,” he said, laying his hand on a palm plate. “Open operations.”

  Roarke, ID verified, command acknowledged.

  The console came to life, lights flashing on, equipment going to a low, holding hum. She came around the console to stand with him. And saw the framed photo he kept here. The baby, all vivid blue eyes and dark thick hair, held close to the young mother with her bruised face and bandaged hand.

  That was private, too, she thought, and why he kept it here in this room. Something else he was making his peace over.

  “Another thing I found interesting,” he told her. “Take a look.”

  He ordered an image on a wall screen.

  “Clinton, Isaac P., U.S. Army, retired. Sergeant. Looks like Kirkendall,” she commented. “Around the eyes, the mouth. Same coloring.”

  “Yes, that caught me, too. Particularly when I noticed the birth date.” He brought up Kirkendall’s image and data.

  “The same date. Same health center. Son of a bitch. Different parents listed. But if the records were altered. If—”

  “I think someone was naughty, and decided it would be worth a bit of hacking into those health center records.”

  “Illegal adoption? Twins separated at birth. Could it be that strange?”

  “Strange,” Roarke agreed, “but logical for all that.”

  “They have to know. They end up in the same regiment, the same training. Guy’s got your face—or close enough to make people notice—you’re going to ask questions.”

  “I take it you’d like that as first order of business.”

  “Go.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  He sat, began to work by voice command and manual while she paced.

  Brothers, she thought. Teamwork. Twins, pulled apart, then brought back together. By fate? Luck? A higher power’s vicious sense of humor?

  Would the bond be stronger then, somehow? The anger deeper. And the murders even more personal. Denied their rightful family at birth. Denied one’s rightful family by the courts.

  Life’s a bitch, so you kill.

  “Was this Clinton ever married?”

  “Shush,” was Roarke’s response, so she looked for herself.

  “Lot of mirrors here,” she noted. “He was married—the same year as Kirkendall. One kid for him, male. Both son and wife are listed as missing, the year before Kirkendall’s punching bag and kids whiffed. They take off?” she wondered. “Or not get the chance?”

  “Birth mothers on hospital records are the same as on later data,” Roarke said as he worked.

  “Poke around, find others listed for that same day. Twin boys, deceased.”

  “Already there, Lieutenant. Another moment. And here. On-screen. Smith, Jane—original—delivered twin boys, stillbirths. I imagine the health center, and the doctor of record, gained a healthy fee on this.”

  “Sold them. Yeah, betcha that’s what she did. It happened. Happens,” she corrected, “even with the laws coming down on women getting themselves inseminated and incubating fetuses for big, fat fees, it happens.”

  “Target couples—with the finances for it—can outline the physical characteristics they’d like, the ethnicity and so on, bypass mainstream routes with their screenings and regulations.” Roarke nodded. “Yes, healthy newborns are always a hot commodity on the black market.”

  “And this Jane Smith hits the jackpot with twins. The Kirkendalls, the Clintons, walk away with bouncing boys—and their baby broker collects the fees, divvies up the rest of the shares. I’ll pass this data to somebody in Child Protection Services. They’ll want to dig into it, see if they can find the birth mother, the brokers. Long shot since we’re talking fifty years, and I can’t take time out for it unless it leads to Kirkendall. Selling kids. Pretty low.”

  “It could be better to be wanted, even bought and paid for, than to be unwanted, discarded.”

  “There are legitimate agencies to handle this stuff. Even ways to conceive—if that’s what you want—if you have physical limitations. People like this want to cut corners, want to ignore the law and the system in place to protect the child.”

  “I agree with you. And I’d say, in these cases, the ones who were wanted, bought and paid for, when learning of it, reacted badly.”

  She paced. “I had a brother, and you stole him from me. I lived a lie that was beyond my control. I will take charge. So, we’ve got a couple of pissed-off guys who’ve been trained with our tax dollars to kill. Brothers, brotherly loyalty along with semper fi.”

  “I think that’s the marine corps, not the army.”

  “Whatever. They meet up at some point, figure it out. Or one of them figures it out and seeks out the other. You’re going to end up with two halves of one coin kind of deal, and the worse for it. They’ve changed their faces. Not only to avoid detection, but to look more alike, to what, honor their bond? Not just fraternal
twins, identical. Or as close as can be to identical. Two bodies, one mind. That’s how it looks to me.”

  “Both their files, as well as a few others I found, indicate assignments from both CIA and Homeland, as well as Special Ops.”

  I see you now, Eve thought. I know you now. I’ll find you now. “How long will it take you to get in, pull it out?”

  “A bit. You’re restless, Lieutenant.”

  “I need . . .” She rolled her shoulders. “Something physical. A good workout. Haven’t managed one in a few days. More, I just want to pound on something awhile. Something that hits back.”

  “I can help you with that.”

  She lifted her fisted hands. “Want to go a round, ace?”

  “Actually, no, but give me a minute to set this up.” He gave the machines orders, in the e-speak Eve could never fully translate. “It can start without me, then I’ll come back to finish it off. Come with me.”

  “It’d go quicker with you working it.”

  “An hour or so won’t make much difference.” He drew her into the elevator. “Holo-room.”

  “Holo-room? What for?”

  “A little program I’ve been playing with. I think you’ll like it. Especially considering our recent discussion of Master Lu and our mutual admiration for his skill.”

  He stepped with her into the blank square of the holo-room. “Initiate martial arts program 5A,” he said with a smile whispering around his lips. “Eve Dallas as opponent.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t want to—”

  The room shimmered, swam, and became a dojo, with a wall of weapons and glossy wood floor. She looked down at herself, studied the traditional black gi.

  “Icy” was all she could think of saying.

  “How much of a workout do you want?”

  She rolled to the balls of her feet, back on the heels. “Hard and sweaty.”

  “I’ve got just the thing. Triple threat,” he ordered. “Full cycle. Have fun,” he added to Eve when three figures appeared.

  Two male, Eve noted, one female. The woman was small, with her siren red hair pulled back in a sleek tail to leave her stunning face unframed. One male was black, well over six feet, solid muscle, good long reach. The second was Asian, black eyes like marbles, and the lithe sort of build that told her he’d be quick and agile as a lizard.

  They waited for her to step forward, then with a snap of their gis, bowed. She mirrored the gesture, then shifted smoothly to fighting stance as they began to circle.

  The woman came first, a graceful handspring followed by a scissoring kick that whizzed by Eve’s face. To counter, Eve dived, swept out her legs, and landed the first blow on the Asian. Gained her feet on a roll, blocked with a forearm.

  And felt the smack of flesh to flesh vibrate.

  Testing moves at first, backhand, jump kick, pivot, punch.

  She parried, caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, and spun to meet the woman with a stomp on her instep, a hard elbow jab to the jaw.

  “Nicely done,” Roarke called out, and leaned against the wall to watch.

  She took a blow that knocked her down, used her hands and her quads to flip herself back before the next landed. And the Asian spun in, caught her with a flying kick to the kidneys that sent her skidding over the floor on her belly.

  “Ouch.” Roarke winced. “That one stung a bit.”

  “Woke me up is all.” Breathing through her teeth, she pushed up on her arms, kicked back, and took the black guy down with two hard heels to the groin.

  “That stung more,” Roarke decided, and ordered himself a glass of cabernet from the AutoChef.

  He sipped contemplatively while watching his woman battle. Outnumbered, and in two cases well outweighed. But holding her own. And she needed this, this hard, physical challenge. To help vent some of those hard, emotional fists pummeling inside her.

  Still, he hissed in sympathy as she took a punishing blow to the face.

  Well, he thought, she was more or less holding her own.

  They came at her at once, and she blocked one by flipping him over her back, evaded another with an agile shoulder roll, but the third caught her with a sharp backward kick that sent her down again.

  “Why don’t I tone it down a bit,” Roarke suggested.

  She gained her feet, blood in her eye now. “You do, and I’ll kick your ass when I’m done with these.”

  He shrugged, sipped. “Your call, darling.”

  “Okay.” She shook her arms, circling as they did, noting the female was favoring her left leg now, and the black male was winded. “Let’s finish this up.”

  She went for the black guy. He might’ve been the biggest, but the groin shot had hurt. Using the woman as a decoy, Eve flew into a double spin, a snapping side kick, easily blocked, and used the momentum to carry her around, push her forward so that her upper body, head, and fists all connected with the black man’s crotch.

  This time he went down, and stayed down.

  She blocked blows with her forearms, her shoulders, gauging her ground, taking the defensive and drawing both her opponents in close.

  A short-armed punch to the jaw snapped the female’s head back, and the elbow Eve jabbed into her throat took her out.

  Eve grabbed her falling body and shoved it at her last opponent.

  He had to spin away, but came back at her. They were both puffing now, and the sweat stung her eyes. She doubled over when his foot landed in her gut. And he was fast—but not quite fast enough to snap his leg back before she gripped his ankle and heaved.

  He used the move to carry himself over into a flip, punched the landing with a grace she admired. Even as she was hurling at him, springing up to a flying kick. Her heel landed on the bridge of his nose, and she heard the satisfying crunch.

  “That’s game,” Roarke said. “End program.”

  The figures faded away, as did the dojo. She stood, in her work clothes now, catching her breath. “Good fight,” she managed.

  “Not bad. You finished them up in . . . twenty-one minutes, forty seconds.”

  “Time flies when you’re . . . ow.” She rubbed her right inner thigh. “What I get for not warming up.”

  “You pull something?”

  “No.” She bent to stretch it out. “Just a little tender.” She blew her hair out of narrowed eyes as she glanced toward Roarke. “Twenty minutes?”

  “Twenty-one forty. Not quite the high score. I did it in nineteen twenty-three.”

  She lifted her head, squinted at him as she pulled the heel of her right foot to her butt in a stretch. “Under twenty first time out?”

  “All right, no, not the first time. That took me twenty and change.”

  “How much change?”

  He laughed. “Fifty-eight.”

  “I’d say the difference is negated as you programmed the game. Gimme a sip of that.”

  He offered her the glass. “Feel better?”

  “Yeah. Nothing like punching your fist into a face to brighten up the day. I don’t know what that says about me either, but I don’t care.”

  “Then we’ll have another game. Recreational hour’s not up,” he said before she could protest. “Initiate Program Island-3.”

  They were on a white sand beach that flowed into water of blue crystal. There were flowers—pink, white, rosy red—strewn along the shoreline. Jewel-colored birds winged into a sky as clear and blue as a glass bowl.

  Floating gently on the sea was a wide white bed.

  “There’s a bed on the water.”

  “I’ve never made love to you on the water. In it, somewhat under it, but never on it. You like the beach.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “I like the idea of floating away with you.”

  She looked at him. He wore a thin white shirt now, unbuttoned so it rippled in the breeze, and loose black pants. His feet were bare, as hers were.

  He’d programmed her for white as well, she noted. Floating white dress with wire-thin straps. Ther
e were flowers in her hair. A long way from a black gi and flying fists. “From combat to romance?”

  “Can you think of anything that suits us more?”

  She laughed. “Guess not. I wouldn’t have been able to step away like this for an hour, not a couple of years ago. I hope I’m better for it, all around.”

  She took his hand, walked with him into the warm, clear water. And laughed as they rolled onto the bed. “It’s like a really sexy raft.”

  “And infinitely more comfortable.” He brushed his lips over hers. “I stepped away whenever I chose. But I was never able to take myself away, as I can with you. I know I’m better for it.”

  In another world there was death and pain, grief and rage. And here was love. The white sand and blue water might have been fantasy, but this world was as real as the other. Because he was real, they were real.

  “Let’s take ourselves away, then. Float away.”

  She drew him to her, mouth to mouth, heart to heart. The bed dipped gently on the blue water, and the restlessness inside her eased.

  She tasted the wine on him, rich, and felt the warm, moist air bathe her skin as he touched her.

  A dreaming time now, she thought. Without the hard brightness of that other world. Without the pain and the blood and the incessant violence of the everyday. Calming and soothing, a kind of easy arousal that steadied the heart and fed the soul.

  When she held him like this, when her mouth was on his in a long, long kiss, she could forget what it was to be hungry and hurting. Being held like this, she knew she could go back to the hurt stronger.

  She slid the shirt from his shoulders, let her hands explore warm skin, tough muscle, let herself float as the bed floated, when he nudged those thin straps down her arms.

  The warrior was his. The woman who had only moments before waged combat, defeated foes with a concentrated and fearsome violence, was soft beneath him, pliant and eager and impossibly sweet.

  She would battle again and again, shed blood and spill it. Yet, miraculously, she would come back to him, again and again. Soft and pliant and eager.