Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

“Risks are minimal,” he told her as the copter landed gracefully on the lawn. “We’ll engage the privacy shields and the antiscan equipment. Even if they’re watching, they wouldn’t be able to jam—in the amount of time we’ll need—to detect her on board.”

Eve frowned pessimistically at the sky that was beginning to bruise with Peabody’s predicted rain. “Maybe they’ll just blow us out of the air.”

He smiled at her dour tone. “If you thought that a possibility, you wouldn’t be sending her up.”

“Okay, no. I just want this the hell over with.”

“I’ll be doing my own scans. I’ll know if anyone’s trying to track us or jam the equipment. We should be able to do this in thirty minutes. Not an appreciable delay in your schedule.”

“Then let’s do it.” She signalled for Mira to bring Nixie out while Roarke exchanged a quick word with the pilot, then took the controls himself.

“I’ve never been in a copter,” Nixie said. “It’s mag.” But her hand crept over the seat, found Mira’s.

Roarke looked over his shoulder, smiled at her. “Ready?”

When she nodded, he lifted off.

Smoother, Eve noted, than he did when she was the only passenger. He liked to cowboy it, bursts of speed, quick dips—just to make her crazy. But this time, he piloted the copter with the care and grace, despite the speed, of a man hauling precious cargo.

He’d think of that, she realized. The little things. Is that what she lacked, the ability to consider the compassionate, because she was so focused on brutality?

Trueheart played with her, Baxter joked with her. Peabody had no trouble finding the right words, the right tone. Summerset—frog-faced demon from hell—he was handling her overall care and feeding without a single bump.

And there was Roarke being Roarke—no matter what he said about the kid being scary and intimidating. He interacted with her as smoothly as he drove the damn copter.

And, Eve admitted, every time she got within five feet of the kid she wanted to walk the other way. She didn’t know how to deal with the entity of a child. Just didn’t have the instincts.

And just wasn’t able to—bottom line—close out the horror of her own memories the kid pushed into her head.

She glanced down, saw Nixie watching her.

“Mira says they have to be in places that are cold.”

“Yeah.”

“But they don’t feel cold anymore, so it’s okay.”

Eve started to nod, dismiss it. Jesus, she thought, give her something. “Morris—Dr. Morris,” Eve corrected, “has been taking care of them. There’s nobody better than Dr. Morris. So yeah, it’s okay.”

“Tracking us,” Roarke said softly and she swung around to him.

“What?”

“Tracking.” He tapped a gauge bisected with green and red lines. “Or—more accurately—trying. Can’t get a lock. Ah, that must be frustrating.”

She studied the dash gauges, tried to decipher the symbols. “Can you track it back to source?”

“Possibly. I engaged the tracking equipment before we took off, so it’s working on it. It’s mobile, I can tell you that.”

“Ground or air?”

“Ground. Clever. They’re attempting to clone my signal. And yes, detected me doing precisely the same to theirs. They’ve shut it down. We’ll call that one a draw, then.”

Still he detoured, spent a few minutes cruising to see if they’d attempt another trace. His equipment continued to sound the all-clear when he landed on the roof of the morgue.

As arranged, it was Morris himself who opened the by-air delivery doors. Closing and latching them when everyone was inside.

“Nixie.” He offered his hand. “I’m Dr. Morris. I’m very sorry about your family.”