Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

She stayed on him, weaving, dodging, matching maneuver to maneuver as he swung west again. She heard the scream of sirens, her own and others.

She would tell herself later she should have anticipated, should have seen it coming.

The maxibus was lumbering in the right-hand lane. The blast from the van rolled it like a turtle, had it skidding over the street. Even as she switched to a straight lift, the maxi’s spin caught a Rapid Cab, flipped it into the air like a big yellow ball.

On an oath, Eve whipped right, dived down, managed to thread between the bus, the cab, and a pocket of people on the sidewalk who were standing with eyes and mouths wide open at the free show.

“Abort standard safety factors!” she shouted and prayed the computer would act quickly enough. “Abort cushioning gel, goddamn it!” An instant later, she landed with a bone-crunching slap of tires to pavement.

Safety factors aborted. Please reset.

She was too busy swearing, shooting into reverse. But when she pulled out on Seventh, she saw nothing but chaos. And no sign of the van.

She yanked the harness clear, shoved out of the door, and slammed a fist on the roof. “Son of a bitch! Tell me air support’s still got him. Tell me one of the black-and-whites still has him.”

“That’s a negative, sir.”

She studied the overturned bus, the wrecked cars, the still screaming pedestrians. There was going to be hell to pay.

She looked over at Trueheart, and for one moment her heart stopped. His face, his uniform jacket, his hair were covered with red.

Then she let out a breath. “Told you to hold on to that damn fizzy.”

20

SUMMERSET GLANCED UP FROM HIS BOOK WHEN Roarke tapped on the jamb of his open parlor door. It was rare for Roarke to come into his private quarters, so he put the book aside, rose.

“No, don’t get up. I . . . have you got a minute?”

“Of course.” He looked over at the monitor, saw that Nixie was in bed, sleeping. “I was about to get a brandy. Would you like one?”

“Yes. I would, yes.”

As he picked up the decanter, Summerset pondered over the fact that Roarke continued to stand, trouble written on his face. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes. No.” Roarke let out a frustrated laugh. “Well now, I’ve been stepping on my own feet quite a bit the last days. I’ve something I want to say to you, and I’m not sure quite how to start it.”

Stiffly now, Summerset handed Roarke a snifter of brandy. “I realize the lieutenant and I have had a number of difficulties. However—”

“Christ, no, it’s nothing to do with that. If I came around every time the two of you locked horns I’d put in a bleeding revolving door.” He stared down at the brandy a moment, decided maybe it would be better done sitting.

He took a chair, swirled the brandy while Summerset did the same. And the silence dragged on.

“Ah, well.” It annoyed him that he had to clear his throat. “These murders. This child—the children—they’ve made me think about things I’d rather not. Things I make a point of not thinking of. My father, my own early years.”

“I’ve gone back a few times myself.”

“You think of Marlena.” Of the daughter, the young, pretty girl who’d been murdered. Raped, tortured, murdered. “I told Nixie the pain lessens. I think it must. But it never goes completely, does it?”

“Should it?”

“I don’t know. I’m still grieving for my mother. I didn’t even know her, and I’m still grieving when I thought I’d be done. I wonder how long that little girl will grieve for hers.”

“In some part of her, always, but she’ll go on.”

“she’s lost more than I ever had. It’s humbling to think of. I don’t know how . . . You saved my life,” Roarke blurted out. “No, don’t say anything, not until I manage this. I might have lived through that beating, the one he gave me before you found me. I might have survived it, physically. But you saved me that day, and days after. You took me in, and tended to me. You gave me a home when you had no obligation. No one wanted me, and then . . . You did. I’m grateful.”