He did as ordered. “Yes, sir.”
“Same one's been on us since we left the scene. Not all the time, didn't pick us up until we were about four blocks south, but it keeps sliding in, four, five, six back. Gave them a chance to come at me when I sent you in for refreshing beverages.”
“Sir!”
“They didn't take it. They're just watching awhile. Just watching, maybe trying to catch a transmission, maybe thinking I might lead them to wherever we've got the kid stashed. Careful, careful, careful. Me, I'm getting a little tired of watching.”
“I'll call it in.”
“No! They're close enough, maybe they can monitor transmissions. You don't call anything in until I say different. You strapped in all right and tight, Trueheart?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Hold on to your fizzy.”
She'd gone as far east as Second, and now at an intersection, whipped the wheel, slapped into a steep vertical lift, and executed a rapid and airborne three-sixty.
“Hit the sirens,” she snapped at Trueheart. “Call it in now! Street and air support. Black panel van, New York plates. Abel-Abel-Delta-4-6-1-3. And up they go.”
The van shot into vertical, then blasted like cannon shot down Second. A white light exploded in front of Eve's windshield and shook the air like thunder.
“Shit on a stick. They've got laser rifles. Fricking armed and fricking dangerous, heading south on Second at Seventy-eight. Make that west on Seventy-seven, approaching Park. Look at that bastard move.”
“Juiced up.” Trueheart's voice was even as he spoke, as he gave dispatch a rapid-fire report of their direction. But it had gone up a full octave.
The van shot out another blast, then dropped to street level, punching up speed in a shower of sparks as they streamed onto Fifth and aimed south.
She saw two black-and-whites cut over from the west at Sixty-fifth, move to intercept. Pedestrians scattered, and some of them went airborne as the next blast boomed out. One of the black-and-whites was flung into the air to spiral like a top.
Eve was forced to slap vertical again to avoid collision and panicked civilians. She lost nearly half a block before she could set down and increase speed. Then she screamed downtown after the building-block red squares of the van's taillights.
Another blast knocked her back, had her fighting to keep control. Icy red liquid splattered over the dash. She was gaining. The shops of midtown were a colorful blur as she careened south. Lights and animated billboards were nothing but sparkle.
Overhead, one of the ad blimps boomed out about a buy-one get one half fall sale on winter coats.
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.”
“If there was a debt, it was paid long ago.”
“It can never be paid. I might have lived through that beating, and the next, and whatever came after. But I wouldn't be the man I am, sitting here now. That's a debt I'm not looking to pay, or one you're looking to collect.”
Summerset sipped brandy, two slow sips. “I would have been lost without you, after Marlena. That's another debt that's not looking for payment.”
“There's been a weight inside me,” Roarke said quietly. “Since this began, since I found myself faced with the blood of children I didn't know. I could shift it aside, do whatever I needed to do, but it kept rolling back on me. I think, like grief, it might stay there awhile. But it's less now.”
He drank down the brandy, got to his feet. “Good night.”
“Good night.” When he was alone, Summerset went into his bedroom, opened a drawer, and took out a photograph taken a lifetime ago.
Marlena, fresh and sweet, smiling out at him. Roarke, young and tough, with his arms slung around her shoulder, a cocky grin on his face.
Some children you could save, you could keep, he thought. And some you couldn't.
She got home late enough to consider just going up and dropping fully dressed onto the bed. A headache clamped the back of her neck, digging its hot fingers into the base of her skull. To avoid increasing it with sheer irritation, she pushed Trueheart at Summerset the minute they came in the door.