by J. D. Robb
With no choice, no reasonable excuse, Eve stepped into Mira’s sunny, comfortable office.
“You’re very prompt.” Mira stood by her little AutoChef. “I’m just getting tea. Sit down, relax a minute.”
“I’m kind of pressed.”
“I know. I’m going to look over the data you sent me, and your notes, and see if I can be of any more help. But meanwhile …”
In her quiet, easy way, Mira handed Eve floral-scented tea in a delicate china cup, then took her own. She settled in one of her set of blue scoop-chairs, sipped in silence until Eve felt obligated to sit.
Shrinks, she thought, knew the value of silence, just like a cop in Interview.
“You look well,” Mira said conversationally. “How’s your arm?”
“It’s fine.” She rolled her shoulder, got a flash of pain memory. “I heal fast.”
“You’re a physical woman in excellent shape.”
“Meaning the body heals fast.”
Mira merely watched her with those quiet blue eyes. “How do you feel otherwise?”
“I’m good. I’m mostly good. That should be enough. Nobody gets through perfect. There’s always something, some ding, some cloud, some shit. And cops have more of all of that than most. So.”
“But you said this was personal, not work-related.”
“There’s not much distance between the two for me. Sometimes none at all. I’m okay with that, too. I’m good with that.”
Stalling, Mira thought. So reluctant to be here. “You’ve found a way to blend them very well. Will you tell me what’s troubling you?”
“It’s not me. It’s Roarke.”
“I see.”
“Look, I’ve always had vivid dreams.” Eve set the tea aside. She wasn’t in the mood to pretend to drink it. “Ever since I can remember. They’re not always pretty. Why would they be? Where I came from, what I do and see every day now. Maybe they were an escape when I was a kid. I could go somewhere else if I tried hard enough, and even if that place wasn’t all warm and cozy, it was better than the reality. And the nightmares, the flashbacks, with my father, I’d beaten them back. I’d worked through it. I’d finished it.”
Mira just waited her out, waited for the pause. “And now?”
“They’re not as bad as before, but okay, I’m having some issues since Dallas.”
Small wonder, Mira thought, but nodded. “That manifest in nightmares?”
“Not as bad,” Eve insisted. “And I know I’m dreaming. I’m in it, but I know it’s not real. They’re nothing as bad as the one I had when I couldn’t get out, and I hurt Roarke. I won’t ever let that happen again.”
She couldn’t sit. How did people talk about internal horrors sitting down? Pushing up, she let herself move. “Maybe last night was a little more intense, but I’d had a damn vicious day. It’s not surprising I mixed it all together.”
“Mixed what together?”
“The bar, the victims, the whole mess of it.”
She told herself to stay calm, just report. Ordered herself to stay fucking calm.
“I can put myself in a scene. It’s part of being a cop. Seeing what happened, how, and maybe that takes you to why and who. I can see it, smell it, almost touch it. And Jesus, it was on my mind, wasn’t it?”
She heard it, that pissy bite in her tone, worked to smooth it out again. “So I went back to the bar, in my head, in the dream. But they were there, too. Stella, sitting at the bar. Her throat’s open, the way it was when McQueen finished her. When I found her on the floor of his place. She comes back first when I dream now, sometimes without him. She blames me, always blames me, just like she always did.”
“Do you?”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“He’d have killed her eventually. That was pattern for McQueen. Maybe I speeded it up.”
“How?”
“How?” Eve stopped, confused. “I caught her, arrested her. Hell, I put her in the hospital where I put the fear of God in her trying to get her to flip on McQueen.”
“Let me qualify.” With her elegant cup of fragrant tea perfectly balanced, Mira studied Eve. “You caught her and arrested her. Doing so, as she ran, involved a vehicular chase during which she wrecked the van—the van she and McQueen had used in their abduction of Melinda Jones and thirteen-year-old Darlie Morgansten. She put herself in the hospital, where you did your job—again—pressuring her to tell you where McQueen was holding the woman and the child. Is that accurate?”
“Yes.”
“Did you aid in her escape from the hospital? Help her kill the guard, injure the nurse? Did you help her steal a car so she could run to McQueen to warn him you were closing in?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Then how did you speed her death?”
Eve sat again. “It feels like I did. Maybe it’s not accurate. It just feels that way.”
“Do you feel that way, here and now?”
“You mean do I feel guilty or responsible? Not guilty,” Eve said. “Not when I look at it, step by step. Responsible, yeah, to an extent. The same as I’d be if she’d been anyone. I was in charge. I took her in, and I pushed her hard. But she was what she was, did what she did. I’m not responsible for that.”
“She’s not anyone. She was your biological mother.”
“I’m not responsible for that, either.”
“No.” Mira smiled, gently, and for the first time. “You’re not.”
“She didn’t know who I was. In reality. When she was alive and looking right at me, she didn’t know who I was. I was just a fucking cop who’d screwed things up for her. But in the dreams, she knows.”
“Did you want her to recognize you, before she died?”
“No.”
“So sure?”
“Absolutely.” Saying it, knowing it was true, settled her a little. “I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it while it happened. Everything moved so fast, and it rocked me, I admit, when I saw her face-to-face. And I knew. If she’d known me, somehow, it would have been a living nightmare. She could, and I know would, have done everything to ruin me, to ruin Roarke. To try to extort money. My life would have been hell if she’d known me, and lived.”
She took a breath, a long one, as she understood more fully what traveled in her own head. “But there’s the fact she didn’t. She carried me inside her. Maybe she hated me for it, but she made me inside her, and at least for a few years, she lived with me. She must’ve fed me and changed me, at least sometimes. And she didn’t know me. I don’t know why she would, after so long, and I thank God she didn’t, even for a minute. So, I’m glad she didn’t, but I think she should have. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Of course it makes sense. You have her recognize you, in the dreams, and deal with her blame, her anger, her vitriol.”
“Why? She’s gone. She’s done. She can’t do anything to me now.”
“She abandoned you. You never had the chance to confront her, as the child she abused and left with another abuser. Nor, on that personal level, as the woman who survived it. What would you do, what would you say to her, if you could?”
“I’d want to know where she came from, what made her what she was. Is it just in the blood, or was she made—the way they wanted to make me—into something miserable. I’d want to know how she could feel so much contempt for the child she made, something innocent and defenseless. Her answers don’t matter,” Eve added.
“No?” Mira arched her eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Because everything about her was a lie. Everything about her was self-serving so no matter what I asked, her answers would be shaded with that. Why would I believe her?”
“And still?”
“Okay, and still part of me—maybe a lot of me is sorry I didn’t get a chance to look her in the face, to ask those questions even if the answers didn’t matter. Then to tell her she’s nothing. She’s nothing.”
/> The hell with calm, she decided on a rise of fury. The hell with all of it.
“They tried to make me nothing—no name, no home, no comfort or companions. All fear and pain. All cold and dark. I want to look her in the face and tell her no matter what she did, no matter how she hurt me, how she degraded me, she couldn’t make me nothing. She couldn’t make me her.”
Her breath came out in a shudder, and she felt tears on her cheeks. “Shit.” Impatient, she swiped them away. “It’s stupid. It hurts to think about it. Why think about it?”
“Because when you try to block it out, it comes at you in your dreams where you’re vulnerable.”
She rose again, still restless. “I can live with the nightmares. I can beat them. I did it before, and they were worse. But Roarke … I don’t know why, but I think it’s harder on him now. Harder to deal with them, with me.”
“He couldn’t confront her either. And he lived through this experience in Dallas with you. He loves, Eve, and those who love suffer when who they love suffers.”
“I know it. I see it. I’m here because I know it, I see it. And it pisses me off she’s causing me more trouble dead than she did alive. I have faces of so many dead in my head. I can live with them. I did my best by every one of them when they came to me. I can live with her, too. But I don’t want her to have this power, to make me weak.”
And there, Mira thought. “Do you think having nightmares makes you weak?”
“It does. You said it yourself.”
“I said vulnerable. There’s a difference, a considerable difference. Without vulnerabilities, you’d be brittle, inflexible, cold. You’re not. You’re human.”
“I don’t want to be vulnerable to her.”
“She’s dead, Eve.”
“God.” A little sick, she pressed her hands to her face. “I know it. I know it. I stood over her body. I examined it, determined cause and time of death. I worked it. And yes, she’s still …” She searched for the term. “… viable. Enough so when I dream about her, I’m afraid, and angry. She looks at me, she knows me, and something clutches in my gut.
“I’m part of her. That’s how it works, isn’t it? What a woman eats, whatever she puts in her body goes into what’s growing inside her. What’s in her blood. They’re attached until the cord’s cut. She was broken, so wouldn’t something be broken in me?”
“Do you think every child born inherits all the flaws and virtues of the mother?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Sit a moment. Sit.”
When she did, Mira reached over, took Eve’s hand so their eyes stayed level. “You aren’t broken, Eve. You’re bruised, and still healing, but you’re not broken. I’m a professional. You can trust me.”
Though it made Eve laugh a little, she shook her head.
“They did break you, all those years ago when you were only a child—innocent, as you said, defenseless. And you took what was broken and put it back together, made it strong, gave it purpose. And you let it love. You’re more your own woman than any I’ve ever known—that’s a personal and professional observation.”
“I need to end her. I know I need to end her. I won’t have Stella in my head, and I won’t have her bringing my father back.”
“Coming here? You’ve taken steps to doing just that. Tell me, I asked you once before if you knew why you called her Stella, and him your father. Do you know the answer now?”
“I thought about it, after you said something. I didn’t realize I was doing it. But I think … What he did to me, what he did to a child—his own child? I think he was an evil man. I don’t like using that word because it’s sort of clichéd, but he was. But …”
Because her throat was dry, Eve gave in, picked up the tea, and drank.
“I was hungry a lot, but I never starved. I was cold a lot, but I always had clothes. I learned to walk, to talk—I don’t remember, but he must’ve done that. It wasn’t because he cared. I don’t think he was capable of genuine feelings. But he didn’t hate me. I was a commodity to him, a tool he could use and abuse, one he hoped to train to bring in money. I was with him until I killed him. He raped me and fed me, he beat me and he put clothes on my back. He terrorized me and put a roof, of some sort, over my head. He wasn’t my father the way Leonardo is to Belle, or Mr. Mira is to your children, or Feeney or any normal man is. But he was my father, and I accept that.”
“You’ve come to terms with it.”
“I guess. She left me with him, without a thought. And my memories of her are less detailed, less clear. But the ones I have are of her hurting me, in small, sneaky ways. Ugly ways. Slaps and pinches, shoving me into a closet in the dark, not feeding me and saying she had. And her looking at me with naked hate. She was capable of feelings. They might have been selfish and twisted, but she had feelings, emotions. And for me, there was hate.
“If he’d been the one to leave, she’d have killed me. Smothered me or locked me up to starve. She was capable of that, because she had feelings. She was my mother, that’s a fact. But I won’t call her that. Maybe it’s some small way, some little step toward trying to end her.”
“Good,” Mira assured her. “That’s good.”
“I’ve been thinking about them, both of them, a lot the last few days. I should’ve known something was building up. I just wanted to work it out on my own some more first, but I should’ve come to you before.”
“You came when you were ready.”
“Roarke was ready,” Eve replied, and made Mira laugh.
“You might have come for him, but you wouldn’t have talked to me the way you did if you weren’t ready, too.”
“It’s annoying that I feel better. Because he boxed me into this,” she explained. “That makes him right. I have to report to Whitney.”
“You’ve a little time left.”
“I think time’s going to be a problem. I don’t think this maniac’s going to wait until my psyche’s all nice and cozy again.”
“Cozy your psyche’s never been. Whoever’s responsible for all those deaths will find your psyche very formidable. You know you can contact me here or at home, any time, when you need to talk again. You won’t resolve all this in an hour, or a day. But I promise you, you will resolve it.”
“And you’re a professional, so I can trust you.”
“Exactly.”
“Thanks,” Eve said as she got to her feet again.
“I have one suggestion. A kind of experiment.”
“It doesn’t involve pressure syringes or ‘you’re getting sleepy’?”
“No. You have a strong mind, a flexible subconscious. I wonder if the next time you dream of Stella, you’ll think of me.”
“Why?”
“As I said, an experiment.” Mira lifted a hand, briefly brushed Eve’s cheek. “I’d be interested in the results.”
“Okay, I can try. But I’m hoping I vented her out some. I’ve got a mass murderer to catch.”
“I’ll send you my thoughts once I’ve reviewed everything.”
“I appreciate it.” Eve paused at the door, glanced back. “I really do.”
She went to her office first. No point touching base with Morris, she decided after checking her incomings. He’d sent her another batch of reports, and after a quick read she found nothing new, not from him or the reports from the lab.
She did deeper runs to familiarize herself with the Lester brothers before the interviews, then headed up to Whitney’s office.
She hated the media circus, so was relieved, even a little pleased to find Kyung with Whitney. The media liaison, and Chief of Police Tibble’s top spinner, wasn’t—as she’d told him after their first meeting—an asshole.
He wore a dove gray suit with a deeper gray shirt and a flash of red in the tie. Perfectly tailored, she noted, to his tall, fit body. His smile added charm to his smoothly handsome face.
“Lieutenant, a pleasure to see you again. It seems we have another difficult situation.”
/>
“Yeah, upwards of eighty people dead is a situation.”
“One that must be carefully handled with the media. There’s already been speculation regarding a terrorist attack. That we want to deflect and defuse.”
“It might have been one.”
“Might isn’t a word we like to use in conjunction with terrorist and attack.”
“No. Agreed.”
“Commander Whitney will read a statement, and he’ll take questions for a brief period. Chief Tibble has opted not to attend, as by so choosing he was able to convince the mayor to leave this to the NYPSD—for the moment.”
Keep the politics out. “Good.”
“You won’t take questions.”
“Even better.”
“The commander will simply acknowledge that you head an experienced investigative team, all of whom prioritized this incident. You’re already working several leads, conducting interviews, examining evidence—and so forth.”
“What are we telling them about the difficult situation?”
He smiled again, gently. “The NYPSD has recovered and identified a substance which was dispersed by an individual or individuals. Contact with this substance caused violent behavior.”
“That’s pretty straightforward.”
“Too many leaks have already sprung regarding the substance, the aftermath. It will be your job to stick to the statement when and if questioned by any reporter.”
“That’s no problem. Except I’ve already spoken with Nadine Furst, and used my own judgment.”
She noted Kyung’s mild look of pain, plowed on. “She’ll hold the information I told her to hold until I clear it, but with it she’ll be able to gather information that may be relevant regarding the Red Horse cult, and any connection to this investigation.”
“How much did you give her?” Whitney demanded.
“Enough so she’ll dig into—confidentially—the cult, and anyone suspected or confirmed to have been a part of it.”
“I realize you and Nadine have a personal dynamic,” Kyung began.
“It’s not a matter of our dynamics. It’s a matter of her ethics. She agreed not to use the information I gave her until I cleared it. She won’t. There’s a connection,” Eve continued, addressing both men. “She’ll keep digging until she finds it—unless I find it first.”
