by Robb, J. D.
“Much, much too easy. You’ll pay five million American dollars?”
“Yes, yes, yes. Please. Anything.”
“Here is anything. Choose one.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“One dies, one lives. You choose. Your son or your daughter? Which little piggie comes home?”
“Maj, dear God, Maj—”
“Five million dollars. I’ll tell you where to send it the next time I talk to you. And you’ll tell me which lives, which dies. Choose, or I kill them both. There can never be two, syster. You know it. Choose, or both are lost.”
“Have you got her, have you got her?” Eve demanded when Borgstrom’s line went dead.
“Got her, already dispatching. Feds, too. She was moving, probably on foot from the speed,” Feeney relayed. “Tagged her at Madison and Sixty-first. Locked on there, and it’s stationary.”
“She tossed the ’link,” Eve said.
“Yeah, my guess, too.”
She grabbed Feeney’s comm since it was handy and open. “I want officers fanned out from the last location, west to Third, north to Sixty-eighth.”
She tossed the comm back, began to pace. “It’s a good plan. A damn good plan. Torment, torture. Pick one or lose both. She won’t do either of them until she contacts again. That buys some time.”
“Those screams were recorded,” Roarke told her. “She could have altered the video, the time stamp.”
Logically yes, Eve thought, but shook her head. “They’re alive. She needs her sister to pick one. She figures she will, she’s sure Tosha will pick one, sacrifice the other. She’ll likely still kill them both, but she’ll have destroyed her sister with the choice. That’s genius. She’s crazy, but she’s brilliant.”
She pulled out her ’link again. “Dallas.”
“We hit,” Baxter told her. “Four Elements, woo-woo shop, Seventy-first, between Lex and Third. She’s a regular. And she was in two days ago, bought some herbs, a sleep aid, candles. She previously purchased a ritual knife. The shopkeeper insists it’s used symbolically, but it’s plenty capable of slicing up a nanny.”
“Do they have an address?”
“No. She always paid cash, but as far as this one knows, was always on foot. We’ve got to be close, Dallas.”
“See if you can dig any more out, then come back in. Walk along Lex, down about six blocks, cross over to Third, walk back up. She made contact. I’ll fill you in. But keep your eyes open.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The minute she was inside, Maj pulled off the gray wig, peeled out of the big, padded coat with its frayed hem and torn pockets. She took the time to remove every trace of the carefully applied makeup, and watched the years fall away. Within ten minutes she transformed from a plump, poor, slightly hunchbacked old woman to young, vital. Beautiful.
She spent some time admiring her face. Her face, she reminded herself. Tosha was nothing but a pale, weak copy—one that had to be completely destroyed.
She herself was The One. There could be no other. Tosha was responsible, by her very existence, for the death of the woman who’d created them. Maj had no doubt that had the mother lived, she would have smothered the weak, pale copy in her crib and lavished love, attention, and power on her true and only daughter.
Tosha was responsible for the death of the father. With her wiles, her lies, her mewling ways, she’d corrupted him, turned him against his true and only daughter. The copy had tried to make her less while she connived to make herself more.
Who else but that pale, weak copy held responsibility for all the years of confinement, of boring, useless, maddening talk, talk, talk, medications, restriction?
Now the reckoning.
Humming to herself, she unlocked the door to the basement, all but floated down the stairs. At the base she unlocked the reinforced door she’d had installed when she’d acquired the property more than six months before.
Inside, the ugly little piggies slept, taken deep into nightmares by the potion she’d mixed into the fizzies she’d made them drink. Yummy, yummy, bubbles and sugar. She’d made them sweet, sweet, sweet, like the frosted cupcakes, the glossy tarts.
Sugar, white and pure, to sweeten their pale blood.
She could poison those cakes and tarts, she considered. Stuff all those sweet sweets down the little piggies’ throats.
But she’d rather slit them. Their blood might be weak, but it would be warm.
Anyone could see they were monsters, tucked into one bed together like a creature with two heads. Monsters to be destroyed, consumed.
Once consumed, their youth, their energy, the power they didn’t yet understand would be inside her.
Then, finally then, she would spill her sister’s blood and drink of it. Drink deep.
But tonight she needed her beauty sleep. Tomorrow, she thought as she locked the door, Tosha would choose.
Which would it be? she wondered. The girl pig or the boy pig? Whichever the copy chose, Maj decided as she climbed the stairs, she would kill that one first.
THEY WORKED THE MAP, THE DATA, THE PROBABILITIES. They scanned, ears pricked for any sound, with the electronics. They walked, covering the streets, showing the ID photos to any passerby who happened along.
Hours passed with no contact, no movement, no change.
“Eve.” When Roarke found her in the kitchen about to program more coffee, he laid a hand on her arm. “Henry won’t contact us again tonight. You were right before. She’s given them something to make them sleep, and likely did it before she went out to contact her sister. It’s past one in the morning. The children are sleeping, and so is she.”
“I know it.” Her mind circled; her eyes burned with fatigue. “I know it.”
“Your team, including you, needs some sleep as well. Feeney’s fagged out. You can see it. He won’t be sharp unless he has a couple hours down.”
She sat a moment, just sat where she imagined the once happy family gathered for breakfast on sunny mornings. Took a breath.
“You’re right. We need to move to shifts. I was just working it out. I’m going to move half to our place, leave half here, then switch out. Three hours, I think. Three and a half,” she amended. “Okay.” She pushed up, started out.
They’d work all night and through the next, she thought as she scanned the room. Cops would. But they’d work better with the break.
“We’re going to shifts,” she announced. “Feeney, Jenkinson, Reineke, head to my place, grab a bunk. Report back here at oh-five hundred. Roarke and I will head out shortly, do the same. McNab, Callender, stay on the e-work. Peabody, Trueheart, Baxter, work the data and the streets. We’ll switch off at five hundred hours.”
“Summerset will see to your rooms,” Roarke added. “I’ve spoken to him.”
“Move out now, get some sleep. You relieve the first shift at five hundred sharp. Anything comes in, anything, while we’re down, I know when you know.”
“You got that, boss,” Baxter assured her.
“I can bunk here,” Feeney began.
“You won’t sleep if you’re here. Neither would I. Odds of anything breaking before morning are slim. Let’s take a couple hours while we can. I’m going to stop by, check in with Teasdale,” Eve told him. “Then we’re right behind you.”
The night held a deep cold and stillness that felt like waiting. Was she abandoning those kids by taking the time to grab sleep in her own bed? She could be back in ten minutes, but . . .
“Stop,” Roarke ordered, and took the wheel of the car. “You could take a booster and stay on it, but there’s no point. You divided it well—sending the three oldest cops down first, leaving the youngest under Baxter, who you know can deal with it. And you’re taking second shift because that’s when you believe something might break.”
“That’s about right.” And still.
A light burned on the main level in the trim town house where Teasdale had secured the MacDermits. Eve used her ’link first, a
lerting Teasdale so the agent opened the door as Eve and Roarke crossed the sidewalk.
“Nothing since the first contact,” Teasdale told them, leading them through to a living area where equipment covered two tables, and a tall coffeepot stood half full. “Slattery’s grabbing a couple hours’ sleep. He’s the expert on child abductions, so we decided he’d go down now while we expect it to stay quiet.”
“We’re taking shifts. How are the parents holding up?”
“By their fingernails. Tosha melted down after she talked to the sister, and Ross wasn’t much better. Hard to blame them. But Slattery’s good. He settled them down, finally convinced Tosha to take a mild soother and try to sleep. I could hear them pacing up there till about an hour ago, so maybe they’re both down.”
Teasdale gestured toward the wall screen. “I’ve been working with your map. The narrowed area seems most plausible.”
“I want to recanvass that area in the morning, knock on every door.”
“I can get you some foot soldiers for that.”
“It would help. Did she give you anything else on the sister? Any more details?”
“Not much. I got her talking a little earlier in the evening, just prodding her memories. What was her sister into, what did she like, what didn’t she, and so on. But they haven’t been together since they were twelve, so that was limited to things like dolls, sneaking on makeup, baking cookies and tarts, listening to music.”
Teasdale lowered to the arm of a chair, rubbed at the back of her neck. “That’s the normal. There was plenty of abnormal. Putting bugs in her sister’s bed, locking her in the basement, killing the neighbor’s pet rabbit and cooking it. She never told her father that one because her sister said she’d kill her and cook her next if she did.”
“Nice.”
“And it slides in with Dr. Mira’s assessment of cannibalistic tendencies. She cut Tosha a few times, so it seems she’s always enjoyed knives. And she’d sneak in vids and discs on witchcraft—the dark variety—began practicing rituals as a child.”
“Fits, too.”
“She claimed the birthmark was a sign of power and legitimacy. It proved she was The One—that’s capped, like a title. Overall, Tosha’s memories are general and unpleasant. I don’t know if she can give us any specifics that will help find the children.”
“We work with what we’ve got.” And, Eve thought, wait for the boy and the bread crumbs. “I’ll be back on at oh-five hundred. Baxter’s in charge at the temp HQ, but I’m on if anything happens.”
“She plans to kill them both, but she won’t move forward until she contacts Tosha again, gets her answer.”
“Does she have one?”
“Of course not.” A hint of pity eked through Teasdale’s voice. “So we’d better find the children before the next contact.”
“We hit the streets again, full force, first light.”
“I’ll have men here, ready to assist.”
And that, Eve thought, was the best they could do.
She didn’t speak on the short drive home, and Roarke let her be. The house he’d built stood silhouetted against the black sky, as still as the night around it.
But he took her hand when they got out of the car. “You’re going to find them.”
“We could use some more bread crumbs.”
“We’ll hunt for them as well. He’s a clever boy, Eve, and his sister seems brave and true. You heard her voice when she shouted not to hurt her brother. There was fear there, but fierceness as well.”
She nodded as they went in, started up the stairs. She’d heard Maj Borgstrom’s voice, too, she thought. There she’d heard madness, and a horrible kind of glee.
The fat cat sprawled snoring across the wide bed, and that was a kind of welcome. She’d stretch out, Eve told herself. Clear her mind, and circle back to the beginning. Somewhere from start to now, had to be answers. But when she slid into bed, when Galahad moved his considerable weight to lie across her feet, when Roarke’s arm curled around her, she dropped instantly into sleep.
And quickly into dreams.
THE ROOM IN DALLAS THAT LIVED IN HER NIGHTMARES had windows. She could see out if she wanted, to the dirty red light that flashed on, off, on, off. It was a cold and hungry place, a place of fear and pain.
The children with their bright red hair and pale faces sat at a table full of cookies and cakes and bubbling drinks. And they watched her with frightened eyes.
“Don’t eat any of that,” she told them.
“She makes us. She’ll make you eat, too, before she eats you.”
“We’re going to get out. I’m going to get you out.”
“The door’s locked.”
She tried to break it down, but she was just a child herself, only eight, and cold, hungry, scared.
“We have to have a tea party,” the little girl told her. “She said. And if we don’t eat it all she’ll make us sorry. She made Darcia sorry. She made her dead. See?”
The nanny lay on the floor, soaked in her own blood. “She’s not paying any attention to me.” Darcia sighed and bled. “I’m not important enough.”
“That’s not true. But I can’t help you until I help them.”
“I’m too dead to help. We’ll all be dead soon if you don’t do something.”
“I’m trying. I don’t know where they are. Pigeons must’ve eaten the bread crumbs.”
“You only have to look in the right place.” And Darcia turned her head and sightless eyes away.
“The good witch is supposed to fight the bad witch and win. We’re supposed to go home to Mommy and Daddy and live happily ever after. You’re supposed to protect us.”
“I will. I’m going to. I’m trying.”
Something banged on the door. Something huge.
“She’s coming.” Tears running free, both children stuffed their mouths with cakes and cookies. “You have to eat or she’ll hurt us.”
Monster at the door, Eve thought. But which monster? Hers or theirs? And did it matter. Either brought death.
But she stepped forward, shivering in the cold, to shield the other children and make her stand.
“Here now, here, Eve, you’re freezing.”
She shuddered her way out of the dream, into his enfolding arms. “It’s cold in the room. I can never get warm.”
“Just a dream, baby. Only a dream. I’ll get the fire on.”
“No, no, just hold on. I don’t know which. Troy or Borgstrom. I have to fight the monster.”
“Shh. A dream. It’s done now. I’m right here. You’re safe.”
“Not me. The kids. How come I can’t find them when they’re right there?” She gripped him hard. “Hold on to me, will you?”
“Always.”
“I’m not going to be afraid. I can’t be.”
When she lifted her mouth to his, he met the kiss gently while he ran soothing hands up and down her back. And murmured to her words of comfort.
She wouldn’t be afraid, she thought again. She wouldn’t let the torments of her childhood damage what she’d become or stop her from doing what she had to do. What she would do.
And here, with him, she knew the ease of his faith in her, his love, and his unwavering trust.
She warmed, degree by degree, and the room—her prison, the prison of two innocent children—faded away.
She was home.
She needed, he knew, the human touch. His touch. It humbled him that she found strength there. That what they found in each other steadied them both. Soft here, and tender, to reaffirm who they were, what they’d beaten back. And would always beat back together.
She rose to him on a sigh, quiet as the night. He filled her, murmuring of love, of promise.
They held tight, moving in the dark toward solace.
When they were still again, when she could count the beats of his heart against hers, she had no fear of what stood behind the door.
“I only have to look in one place. The nanny said that
, in my dream.”
“True, but not simple.”
“Henry said the walls and floor were like sidewalk. So some sort of concrete? That says basement to me. She couldn’t lock them up anywhere someone else could access, so it takes it back to her having the building, or at least the only access to that area. It’s going to be a smallish building, a limited or no tenant situation.”
He raised his head. “You’re not going back to sleep.”
“Sorry.”
“You’ve more than an hour yet before you need to get ready to take your shift.”
“I need to go back, Roarke. Grab a shower, some coffee, go back, walk around. I want to believe I’ll know the place when I see it. I know that’s stupid, but I want to believe it. So I have to go back, walk around, look for the damn bread crumbs.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
CHAPTER NINE
Streetlamps pooled light on sidewalks, and a single cab rumbled down the street. The rest stayed quiet, with that almost eerie stillness playing along Eve’s skin like a tripped nerve.
“Midnight may be the witching hour,” Roarke said as they got out of the car in front of the MacDermit house, “but I think it’s the hour between three and four—that slice that’s neither day nor night—that’s the darkest and deepest.”
“All I know is she’s had those kids more than twenty-four hours. They’re trapped in the darkest and deepest.”
She stepped inside, into the lights, into the hub of cops at work. Peabody slumped over her computer, and Callender broke from an enormous yawn and stretch to blink.
“Is it change of shift already?”
“We’re early.”
Baxter stepped out of the kitchen area with a large pot of coffee. “What?” he said. “No donuts?”
“That and more on the way,” Roarke told him, then merely lifted his eyebrows at Eve’s puzzled frown. “I took care of it.”
“You’re the man.” Baxter, in wrinkled shirtsleeves, his usually meticulously groomed hair mussed, his eyes shadowed, pulled out a smile.
“Anything break loose?” Eve demanded.
