"Man, I could eat," McNab said over Eve's objections.
"There are several other like videos," she continued, turning back to the screen as Roarke rose and strolled into the kitchen area. "He collected them, and print discs such as A Christmas Carol. In addition, we found a large supply of porn, in both print and video, that follow the theme. Run Evidence Disc, Simon, 68-a. For example," she said dryly when the screen behind her filled.
Roarke stepped back just in time to see a woman, wearing nothing but reindeer antlers and a strap-on tail, purr "Just call me Dancer," as she took Santa's waiting dick into her mouth.
"Now, that's entertainment," he commented.
"There are more than a dozen of these, another dozen underground snuff films, also vintage, that aren't quite as cheery. But this one's the award winner. Run Evidence Disc, Simon, 72."
She flicked, a glance at Roarke, then stepped away.
On screen Marianna Hawley struggled against restraints. Her head whipped frantically right and left. She was weeping. Simon stepped into view, still wearing his red suit and beard.
He mugged for the camera, then grinned at the woman in bed. "Have you been naughty or nice, little girl?"
Be quiet, little girl. The smell of candy on his breath with liquor under it. Daddy's going to give you a present.
The voice came into her mind, like a whisper in the ear. But Eve forced her hands steady and kept her eyes on the screen.
"Oh, I think you've been naughty, very, very naughty, but I'm going to give you something nice anyway."
He turned back to the camera, doing a stylish striptease. He left the wig and beard in place as he began to stroke himself.
"It's the first day of Christmas. My true love."
He raped her. It was quick and brutal. While her screams echoed through the room, Eve picked up her coffee. However bitter and foul it felt going down her throat, she swallowed it.
He sodomized her. And she stopped screaming and simply whimpered like a child.
His eyes were glassy when he'd finished, his well-toned chest heaving. He took something out of his enhancement case, swallowed it.
"We believe that he's ingesting an herb and chemical mix, partly Exotica, in order to maintain an erection." Eve's voice was flat, and her eyes stayed on the screen. It was, for her, a responsibility to the dead and a challenge to herself. She would look, she would see. And she would survive it.
Marianna didn't struggle through the next rape. She'd gone away, Eve knew. Away where it couldn't hurt any longer. Deep inside where she was all alone in the dark.
She didn't struggle as Simon began to weep, began to curse her as a whore, wrapping the pretty garland around her neck and yanking it taut until it snapped and he was forced to use his hands.
"Oh sweet Jesus." McNab's choked whisper was full of horror and pity. "Isn't that enough?"
"Now he decorates her," Eve continued in the same empty voice. "Pretties her face, styles her hair, drapes the garland. You can see as he lifts her here, the tattoo is already in place. He lets the camera linger on her. He wants this. Wants to be able to run this over and over again when he's alone. See her as he left her. As he made her."
The screen went blank.
"He didn't need a record of the cleanup. This disc ran thirty-three minutes and twelve seconds. That's how long it took him to accomplish this section of his goal. There are other discs of the subsequent murders. All follow the same pattern. He's a creature of habit and discipline. He'll find a comfortable place in the city he knows to recuperate, to hide. He won't go for a flop, but a good hotel, or another apartment."
"Booking a room this time of year won't be easy," Feeney put in.
"No, but it's where we start looking. Uptown to start. We'll question his friends and co-workers at start of business tomorrow. We might get a handle on where he'd go. Peabody, you'll meet me at the salon at nine hundred, in uniform."
"Yes, sir."
"The best we can do is get some sleep, for what's left of the night."
"Dallas, I can hang with this for another hour. If I could bunk right here, I could get an early roll on it in the morning."
"All right, McNab. Let's pack it in for now."
"I'm for that." Feeney rose. "I'll give you a lift home, Peabody."
"Don't play with my toys, McNab," Eve added as she walked out. "I get really cranky."
"You need a sleep inducement tonight." Roarke took her arm as they started toward the bedroom.
"Don't start on me."
"You don't need dreams tonight. You need to turn it off for a few hours, if not for yourself, for the sake of that woman we watched being brutalized."
"I can do my job." She began to strip the minute she was inside, peeling off her clothes in a rush. She needed a shower, viciously hot water to scrub the stench off her skin.
She left her clothes heaped on the floor, strode directly into the bath, and ordered water at blistering.
He just waited her out. She would, he knew, need to fight it first. Even to fight him and his offer of comfort. That prickly, resistant shell was only one of the aspects of her that fascinated him.
And he knew, as if he'd been inside her head, inside her heart, what she had gone through viewing that disc.
So when she came out, bundled in a robe, her eyes too dark, her cheeks too pale, he simply opened his arms and took her in.
"Oh God, God!" She clung, her fingers digging into his back. "I could smell him on me. I could smell him."
It tore him to pieces to see her break, to feel her shudders and the quake of her heart against his. "He can't ever touch you again."
"He touches me." She buried her face in his shoulder, filled herself with the scent of him. "Every time he comes into my head he touches me. I can't stop it from happening."
"I can." He picked her up, and sat on the bed to cradle her. "Don't think any more tonight, Eve. Just hold onto me."
"I can do my job."
"I know." But at what cost? he wondered and rocked her like a child.
"I don't want drugs. Just you. You're enough."
"Then go to sleep. Let go." He turned his head to kiss her hair. "And sleep."
"Don't go away." She burrowed into him and sighed once, long and deep. "I need you. Too much."
"Not too much. It can't be too much."
She'd put a memory into their box, he thought. Now he put a wish there. One night, or the few hours left in it, she would sleep in peace.
So he held her until she slipped away into dreamless slumber.
And was holding her still when she woke.
They were wrapped around each other, her head nestled into the curve of his shoulder. Sometime during the night he'd undressed and slipped them both into bed.
She lay still a moment, studying his face. It seemed impossibly beautiful in the soft light. Strong lines, long thick lashes, that dreamy poet's mouth. She had an itch to stroke his hair, the silky sweep of it, but her arms were pinned.
She kissed him instead, lightly, as much to thank him as to rouse him enough to allow her to wiggle free. But his hold merely tightened.
"Mmm. Another minute."
Her brows lifted. His voice was thick, slurry, and his eyes stayed closed. "You're tired."
"God, yes."
She pursed her lips. "You're never tired."
"I am now. Quiet down."
It made her chuckle, that edge of sleepy crossness in his tone. "Stay in bed awhile."
"Damn right."
"I have to get up." She pried an arm free and did stroke his hair. "Go back to sleep."
"I would if you'd shut up."
She laughed, then slithered free. "Roarke?"
"Oh Christ!" He rolled in defense and buried his face in the pillow. "What?"
"I love you."
He turned his head, heavy eyes slitting open with a lazy gleam that had her juices flowing. That, she thought, was the magic of him. That he could make her yearn for sex after what she'd seen, what she'd experienced.