Survivor in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “You can’t think that way. You married a cop, you took the package.”

  “I did, and I do.”

  It wasn’t ice in his eyes, she noted. It was fire, strong and blue. And that was somehow worse. “Then—”

  “Have I asked you to change what you are, what you do? Have I complained when you’re called away in the middle of the night, or when you come home smelling of death?”

  “No. You’re better at this than I am. Media flash.”

  “Bollocks. We’ve both managed to fumble our way through nearly two years of each other, and quite well. But when you give your word to me, I expect you to keep it.”

  The headache had reached behind her eyes now, stabbing fingers gleefully poking. “I guess that cargo ship hasn’t quite finished dumping shit on me today. And you’re right. I broke my word. It wasn’t intentional. It was of the moment. And it was wrong. I let it get to me. The kid, the body in the alley, dead cops, children killed in their beds. I let it ball up in my throat, and I know better.”

  She shoved the heels of her hands into her temples in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure. “It was worth the chance, I believe it was worth the chance, but it turned out to be the wrong call. You’re not the first one to scrape me over about it tonight. Whitney’s already taken off a few layers of skin.”

  Saying nothing, he moved back behind his console, pressed a button. He took a small bottle out of a drawer, tapped two little blue pills into his hand. Then he fetched a small bottle of water out of the friggie behind a panel.

  “Take the blockers. Don’t argue,” he snapped when she opened her mouth. “I can see the fucking headache pounding as I’m standing here.”

  “It’s past headache. It feels like my brains are being squeezed out my ears.” She took the blockers, dropped back into the chair, and dropped her head in her hands. “I fucked up. Goddamn clusterfuck. Cops and civilians in the hospital, private and city property damage up the wazoo. Three murder suspects still at large. Because I made the wrong call.”

  “I guess that’s why they call you lieutenant instead of God. Sit back now, relax a minute.”

  “Don’t baby me. I don’t deserve it. I don’t want it. They were too close. Had to figure they’d stick that close because they were trying to monitor any communications. The vehicle has screens, but they’ve got choice toys, so I had to figure they were within visual for a reason. If they could track me or monitor me, they needed to be close. I didn’t want to risk calling it in.”

  “That seems reasonable. Logical.”

  “Yeah, seems. I call it in, they catch the signal, they poof. So I pulled over, sent Trueheart into the twenty-four/seven so it looked like I had a reason, so it looked casual. To see what they did. They drove by, circled around, and picked me up again. So then I figure I’ll switch it on them. Get behind them, call in support, keep on them until we can box them in, take them down. But Jesus Christ, that van moved. I don’t know how they’ve juiced it up, but I clocked it at one-twenty-six, airborne. Then there were the laser rifles, and God knows. They took out a couple of black-and-whites, a number of civilian vehicles, and a maxibus. And I lost them.”

  “All by yourself?”

  “It was my call. The wrong call. Best I got was make and model of the van. And the plate. Turns out the plate belongs to a black panel van of that make and model, but not that panel van. Dupe plates, and they were smart enough to dupe them from the same type of vehicle. Guy who owns the legal van—which was legally parked at his place of business—is a licensed home handy. He’s clean, and he was home watching screen with his wife.”

  She took a swig of water. “So we got injuries, property destruction, possible—hell, probable—civil suits against the department, and the suspects know I’ve made their ride.”

  “And Whitney dressed you down right and proper.”

  “Ho boy.”

  “I doubt he’d have done differently than you, under the same circumstances.”

  “Maybe not. Probably not. Still a wrong call. And the mayor will chew out the chief, the chief will chew out the commander, and down to me. Nobody below me on this particular feeding chain. The media will have a feeding frenzy.”

  “So, you got your ass kicked a bit. A little ass kicking from time to time builds character.”

  “Hell it does. It results in a sore ass.” She let out a sigh. “I’ve got data on all purchases of that make and model. Popular. I left the color open. Figured it’d be easy to paint. I don’t expect to have bells ring on that angle. If it were me, I’d’ve bought it out of town. Or jacked it off some lot outside New York. There won’t be a record, there won’t be a bill of sale.”

  “You’re discouraged.” And he hated to see it. “You shouldn’t be.”

  “No, just feeling a little beat up tonight. Sorry for my sorry self.”

  “So get some sleep. Start fresh in the morning.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Actually, I will.” He gave commands to save, lock, and shut down.

  “You’ve got your own work tomorrow.”

  “I’ve rescheduled some things.” He walked her out, secured the doors. “I spoke with Richard and Beth. They’re coming to meet Nixie tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? I’d asked for quick but I didn’t expect immediate.”

  “Actually, they’ve been talking about taking another child. Have just put in applications. And Richard tells me Beth hoped for a girl this time. They both see this as a kind of sign.”

  He laid his hand on the base of her neck as they walked to the bedroom and rubbed what she thought of as his magic fingers on the dulling ache. “Fate’s a fickle and often insensitive bitch, isn’t she?” he commented. “And yet, there are moments you see the work. If their daughter hadn’t been murdered, they would never have looked to take a child into their home. If a friend of mine hadn’t met the same fate, I wouldn’t have met that little boy, or paid mind to him, thought of suggesting they might give him a home.”

  “If Grant Swisher hadn’t helped Dian Kirkendall, he and his family would still be alive.”

  “Insensitive, yes. Still, now Nixie will have a chance for a life with Richard and Beth. She’ll grow up knowing there are people in the world who try to balance the scales.”

  “You don’t say if Sharon DeBlass hadn’t been murdered, you and I wouldn’t have met in the first place.”

  “Because we would have. Another time, another place. Every step of my life was bringing me to you.” He turned her, kissed her forehead. “Even the ones on the darkest road.”

  “Death brought us here.”

  “No. That’s discouragement talking. It’s love that brought us here.” He unhooked her weapon harness himself. “Come now, you’re asleep on your feet. Into bed.”

  She stripped, climbed the platform, slid in. And when his arm came around her, she closed her eyes. “I would’ve found you,” she murmured, “even on the darkest road.”

  The nightmare crept in, stealthy feet tiptoeing over her mind. She saw herself, the small, bloody child, packed into a blinding white room with other small, bloody children. Fear and despair, pain and weariness were thick in the room, crowding it like yet more small, bloody children.

  No one spoke, no one cried. They only stood, bruised shoulder to bruised shoulder. Waiting for their fate.

  One by one they were led away by stone-faced adults with dead eyes. Led away without protest, without a whimper, the way sick dogs are led away by those charged with ending their misery.

  She saw this, and waited her turn.

  But no one came for her. She stood alone in the white room, with the blood that coated her face, her hands, her arms, dripping almost musically onto the floor.

  It didn’t surprise her when he walked into the room. He always came, this man she’d killed. The man who’d broken her and ripped her and beaten her down into a quivering animal.

  He smiled, and she smelled it on him. The whiskey and candy.

  T
hey want the pretty ones, he told her. The good ones, the sweet ones. They leave the ones like you for me. No one will ever want you. Do you wonder where they go when they leave?

  She didn’t want to know. Tears slid down, mixed with the blood. But she didn’t make a sound. If she was quiet, very quiet, maybe he would go and someone else would come. Anyone else.

  They take them to the pit, didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I warn you if you screwed with me, they’d throw you into the pit with the spiders and snakes? They say: Oh, let me help you, little girl. But what they do is eat you alive, bite by chomp by bite. But they don’t want you. You’re too scrawny for them, too bony. Do you think they don’t know what you did?

  He came closer, and now she could smell something else. Rot. And her breath began to hitch even as she fought to hold it in.

  Killer. Murderer. And they leave you to me.

  When he fell on her, she screamed.

  “No. Eve, no. Shhh.”

  Fighting for breath, she locked her arms around him. “Hold on. Just hold on to me. I’ve got you.” He pressed his cheek to hers. “Easy now. I won’t let go.”

  “They left me alone, and he came for me.”

  “You’re not alone. I won’t leave you alone.”

  “They didn’t want me. No one ever did. He did.”

  “I want you.” He stroked her hair, her back, calming the tremors. “From the first moment I saw you, I wanted you.”

  “There were so many other children.” She loosened her grip, let him lay her back, hold her close. “Then only me, and I knew he’d come. Why won’t he leave me alone?”

  “He won’t come back tonight.” Roarke took her hand, pressed it to his chest so she could feel his heart beating. “He won’t come back because there’s the both of us here, and he’s too much the coward.”

  “Both of us,” she repeated, and left her hand on his heart while she slept.

  He was up and dressed when she woke, and monitoring the stock reports on-screen in the sitting area over a cup of coffee. He turned as she rolled out of bed.

  “How are you?”

  “About half,” she said. “I think I can make three-quarters after a shower.”

  She started to walk toward the bath, then paused, changed directions, and walked to him. She bent, touched her lips to his forehead in a simple gesture of affection that left him moved and puzzled.

  “You’re there with me even when you’re not. So thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She crossed to the bath, glanced over her shoulder. “Sometimes you being there is annoying. But mostly it’s not.”

  The worry in his own mind cleared. With a laugh he turned back to the financial news and drank his coffee.

  Just before seven, Eve opened her own office door to find Baxter at her desk, enjoying what appeared to be a hearty breakfast.

  “Detective Baxter, your ass seems to have somehow ended up in my chair. I’d like it removed immediately so I can kick every inch of it.”

  “Soon as I’m done. This is actual ham in these actual eggs.” He jerked a chin toward the wall screen where updated reports were displayed. “You don’t sleep much, do you, Dallas? Damn busy night. I see you took my boy for a hell of a ride.”

  “Your boy complain?”

  “Hey, Trueheart’s no whiner.”

  His instinctive defense of his aide cooled Eve’s temper. “Oh right. I must’ve mixed him up with you.”

  “Must’ve been some flight.”

  “Yeah, fun while it lasted.” Since he’d been courteous—or greedy—enough to program an entire pot of coffee, she poured herself a cup. “Whitney ripped me a new one over it.”

  “He’s been off the street a long time. You had a call to make and made it.”

  She jerked a shoulder. “Maybe he’d have done the same, and maybe he knows I’d do the same again, given the same circumstances. But it was a hell of a screwup, and a righteous ripping. It won’t come down on Trueheart.”

  “He’d handle it if he had do. Appreciate you seeing it doesn’t. How much of a punch are you going to take?”

  “Written and oral reports to the review board. Fuck. Might get myself a departmental censure in my file. I can back up my actions, justify the call, but they won’t like it, and will like it less when the civil suits start piling up.”

  “You collar three mercenary terrorists responsible for the deaths of twelve people—including cops—the heat gets turned way down.”

  “Yeah. The same way if I don’t get them soon, the heat keeps heading up. I’ll handle it; I’m not a whiner either. But I want these fucking guys, Baxter.”

  She turned to the door as the rest of the team began to arrive. “If you’re going to eat, get it and chow it down fast,” she ordered. “We’ve got a lot to go over in a short amount of time.”

  Briefings and reports, cop chatter and coffee. And the chatter cut off, as if a knife had sliced down, when Don Webster, Internal Affairs Bureau, strolled in.

  “Morning, boys and girls. Dallas, you should’ve sold tickets to that show last night.”

  “I thought this briefing was reserved for real cops.”

  At Baxter’s comment, Eve shook her head in warning. She’d been expecting IAB to poke its sharp nose in. If it had to be IAB, Webster was a mixed bag. She trusted him, as she trusted no one else in that sector. But they had a dicey personal history, and she didn’t need a former lover and Roarke butting heads again.

  “There’s data on this case that’s on a need-to-know basis,” she began.

  “The Tower,” he said, referring to Chief of Police Tibble’s office, “has decided I need to know. You’ve got considerable OT banked on this, multiple injuries civilian and department, property damage. You’ve got multiple dead civilians and two dead cops.”

  He waited a moment, scanned the faces in the room. “You’ve been questioning the investigating officers on other cases, one of which is closed. IAB needs to know. And I’m going to say this here and now, to all of you before the record goes on, that I’m not here to bust anybody’s balls for doing what needs to be done to get the bastards responsible for Knight and Preston. I pulled some levers to get this duty. I’ve worked Homicide. I’ve worked with you,” he said to Eve. “It’s me or somebody who hasn’t.”

  “The devil we know,” Eve said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Find a seat. You’ll have to catch up.”

  She continued the briefing, picking her way carefully now through data Roarke had gained. “We believe Kirkendall, Clinton, and Isenberry executed individuals on a freelance basis for various covert agencies. We have reason to believe they were connected to the terrorist group Cassandra.”

  “How do you come by that?” Webster asked.

  She’d barely hesitated when Feeney spoke up. “It’s data we were able to extrapolate from the military files provided,” he said smoothly. “EDD knows how to do its job, and this team knows how to put a case together.”

  “With the Cassandra connection,” Eve continued, “these individuals had access to weaponry, electronics, and funds. The philosophy of this group—a world order in their image—correlates to the personal philosophy displayed by Kirkendall. His family was made to perform according to his specifications, his orders, or was disciplined accordingly. We know, through the statement given to Detectives Peabody and McNab by Roxanne Turnbill, that she was abducted and tortured by Kirkendall after his wife’s disappearance. The time elapsed makes it likely she was taken to a location in or near the city. Cassandra operated and had a base in New York last year.”

  “The current murders don’t seem to be part of a terrorist threat,” Webster put in.

  “No, they’re personal. Screw with me, I don’t just screw with you—I kill you and your whole family. It’s not revenge. It’s pride. Who insulted his pride?”

  “Everyone he’s killed had a part in it,” Peabody commented.

  “No, not everyone.”

 
“Well, the kid.” McNab glanced toward the door as if she might be listening on the other side.

  “No. He wants her dead because his mission isn’t complete until that time. His wife. It’s his wife who dared to oppose him, dared to not only walk out with his kids, but who took him through the embarrassment of a custody trial. Who won. And who got away clean.”

  “He can’t find her.” Peabody spread her hands. “Neither can we.”

  Eve thought of Roarke. He could, given the time, he could. But she wasn’t going to endanger another family. “We can make him think we have her. It’ll take a while to set up. Find a female cop who can handle it, one close to her build. We can use some enhancements, but she doesn’t have to look identical. If he can have facial sculpting, he’d buy she could, too. We’d have to leak it so he didn’t suspect it’s a leak. And we’ve been pretty damn careful so far, so we’d need to trickle it.”

  “Need a location.” Feeney pulled on his lip as he took up the thought. “Secure, so he’d buy we were holding her. Lure him in, box him in, shut him down. With the equipment and know-how he’s got, you’ve got a hell of a trick on your hands, Dallas.”

  “We put it together. I want it together within thirty-six hours, another twelve for sims. When we lay this trap out, I want it to spring shut right on their necks. Feeney, you and McNab take the computer lab.”

  “We’ll get on it.”

  “The rest of you, give me five minutes with Lieutenant Webster.”

  She waited until the room emptied and the door clicked closed. “This investigation, and last night’s events, are my responsibility. The chief, IAB, or God Himself wants to file a complaint, it’s on me.”

  “So noted. I said I wasn’t here to bust balls, and I meant it. The Duberry case, I’ve had a look at the files. While I wouldn’t call the investigation sloppy, I’d call it narrow. Brenegan? It looked like a righteous bust that resulted in a righteous conviction. But this data calls that into question.”

  “The cops on those cases complained to IAB?”

  “Cops don’t complain to IAB,” he returned with the slightest of sneers. “You avoid us like a case of the clap. But we get wind. Fact is, Dallas, if the primary on Duberry had done a more thorough job, scratched out that connection to Moss, then back to Brenegan, this hunt might’ve started a year ago.”