Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(105)

“You’re right.” And with that came a cool wash of relief. “You’re right,” she said again, taking his face in her hands. “You’re a fine young man, and you love me without restrictions.”

“Well now, there’s various interpretations of fine, and I might hit one or two. But the second part is pure truth.”

“You’re a fine young man,” she repeated. “I have it from a good source. So . . . do you think that thing’s going to work?”

Roarke glanced at the old disc player, the jury-rigged cable. “I do.”

She went to the bank bag, took out the disc in its clear case. “Let’s run it.”

He put the disc in a little pop-out drawer that made a grinding sound that didn’t inspire confidence. Then he played his fingers over the keyboard of her comp, swore under his breath.

“I just need to . . .”

He sat, keyed in something else, checked the connections, keyed in more. And this produced a series of beeps.

“There we are.”

“We are?”

“We are, yes. Just give it a moment.”

She frowned at the screen. The frown deepened when it turned a deep, and blank, blue.

“What—”

“It’s coming,” he insisted, and gave a satisfied nod when the word PLAY appeared in the top right corner.

“See, there we are.” He tapped two keys simultaneously with his thumb and pinkie.

They came on screen, six young men standing in a circle in a room lit with dozens of candles. The glow flickered over their taut, naked bodies.

One of them—William Stevenson, she thought—let out a series of drunken giggles.

“Come on, Billy, cut it out.” Ethan MacNamee, Eve noted, trying to look stern, but managing a glassy grin.

“Sorry, Jesus, doesn’t anybody else think this is weird? Standing here naked. Plus, she’s out, man.” He glanced behind him. “Hot, but out.”

“She’ll wake up.” Young Edward Mira had a glint in his eyes, and not all of it came from whatever they’d ingested. “And she’ll beg for it.”

“Are we really going to do this?” MacNamee swiped a hand over his mouth. “All of us? On camera?”

“Brotherhood.” Betz gave MacNamee a poke in the chest. “This is how we seal our brotherhood, now and forever. We already agreed, we’re all set up. We’ve got the girl.”

“Let’s get started.” Easterday looked off camera, too. “Hey, she was practically humping me at the party, right? We’re giving her what she wants. Is the camera on?”

“I set it up, didn’t I?” Betz looked around, directly into the lens. “It’s on. Let’s quit fucking around and start.”

“We do it right.” Wymann stepped out of range. Music began to beat—something low and tribal. “We are the Brotherhood . . .

“Come on, guys, do it right. This is the first annual Celebration of the Brotherhood. April 12, 2011.”

When he nodded, they spoke in unison.

“We are the Brotherhood. We take what we want. We take who we want. From this day forward. We are bound, we are one. What one brother needs, the brothers give. What one brother desires, all brothers desire. All men envy what we are, what we have, what we do. And none but we, the six, will know. To break the vow of silence is death. Tonight, we seal our unity, our vow, by sharing the chosen. She is ours to do with as we will. The woman is a vessel for the needs of the Brotherhood.”

“Do we speak as one?” Edward Mira demanded.

“As one!” the others responded, though Stevenson ended on a giggle.

“He’s stoned,” Eve said. “Look at his eyes. The others, they’ve had some chemical enhancement, but he had more. Or he’s more susceptible.”

“Hardly an excuse for what they’re obviously about to do.”

“No, but they needed the false courage, this time anyway, to do it.”

“We drew lots,” the future senator announced. “I am the first to take the vessel.”

“Hold on!” Betz rushed the camera. “Let me set it up.”

“Make it fast.”

The image tilted, shook—Eve saw parts of the room—a large area. Sofas, chairs, some game tables, a bar.

“Like a game room, a lounge. No windows I could see. Lower level? A fancy basement maybe. Good size.”

Then the screen showed a woman—young, maybe eighteen or nineteen. A long sweep of blond hair, a pretty face with a rounded chin, wide-set eyes. Eyes closed now.

She, too, was naked. And bound, spread-eagle on a mattress.

“Like a convertible bed? A pullout deal. Leather straps tied to the legs. Fingernails, toenails, painted—pink. That’s girlie. She’s wearing earrings, glittery. Her makeup’s smeared some. Caucasian female, about eighteen, looks like about five-five, maybe one-twenty.”

Then Edward Mira stepped over to her, leaned over. And slapped her. One of the men off camera said, “Hey! Come on, Ed,” but he ignored the protest, slapped her again.

He had big hands. Eve knew how it felt to have a big hand slap you awake.

“Wake up, bitch!”

Her eyelids fluttered. Blue eyes, Eve noted. Glazed and unfocused.