Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

“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.”