Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(55)

Her ears rang in a chorus of crazed church bells.

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” Panting, Peabody lifted the kid—its sex undetermined in its bright red hat and coat. “You’re just fine now, little man. Just fine.”

With the pressure somewhat relieved with the lack of the kid’s weight, Eve wheezed in air. “How do you know it’s a male?”

Peabody patted the kid as she crouched down to Eve. “Are you okay? How bad are you hurt?”

“I don’t know. Not bad.” Unless she counted the throbbing in her chest where the kid hit, in her ass where she’d hit, in her head where it had slammed, and some singing in her just healed shoulder. “Fucker.”

Peabody winced, straightened to turn toward the hysterical woman running toward her.

“My baby! My baby! Chuckie!”

The father, eyes glazed, face white but for dribbles of blood, staggered after her as the crowd moved in.

“He’s fine. Just fine. Hey, Chuckie, here’s your mama. Everybody move back!” Peabody ordered.

Mother and son clung to each other, sobbing while Eve pushed herself up. The world did a little shimmer and dance, then righted.

“Move back, please!” Peabody repeated, and took the father’s arm. “Sir, you need to sit down a minute.”

“What happened? What happened?”

“I’m going to call the medicals. Please, just sit down here. Ma’am, I want you and Chuckie to sit right there. I’ll call it in,” she told Eve. “You oughta sit down, too.”

“I’m okay. Just knocked the wind out of me.”

“You caught him.” The mother turned her tear-streaked face to Eve. “You caught him. You saved my baby.”

“Okay, let’s—”

And she had the wind knocked out of her again as the woman grabbed her, digging the kid’s feet into her groin in the desperately grateful embrace.

The singing in her shoulder became an anthem.

“Peabody.”

“Ma’am.” Peabody shifted her tone to croon as she peeled the woman off Eve. “I want you to sit right here. You and your family. I’m going to need to get some information, okay?”

Eve stepped out of the trampled grass, gritted her teeth against the twinges in her ass, her shoulder.

Fucker, she thought again, scanning the High Line.

He was long gone.

• • •

What the hell,” Peabody managed when they’d finally turned the family and the situation over to uniforms and MTs.

“Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch stunned me in the back. Fucking coward ass**le bastard.”

“He stunned you? How did—your magic coat!”

“Yeah.” Eve rubbed a hand over the leather. “It definitely works. I felt the impact, like a thump on the back, a slight burn. Milder and slighter, let me tell you, than you get with standard vests. I caught the whine of it. He had you zeroed in next.”

“So you tackled me. Thanks for that. My coat’s not magic.”

“Bastard could move. Really move. He went up those stairs like they were a glide. I couldn’t fire, not with all those damn people swarming everywhere, but I was gaining on him. A little.”

“I couldn’t keep up with either of you, but I was trying to get some backup while I trailed you. Then, Jesus, all I saw was that kid flying through the air.”

“He didn’t even hesitate. Barely changed his stride. Hit the father—elbow to jaw, grabbed up the kid and hurled him.”

“You made a hell of a catch.”

“Yeah.” She rubbed her chest where the kid had slammed into her. “Fucker,” she repeated.

“Chuckie’s going to grow up on the story of the cop who caught him on the High Line, for a game-winning TD.”

“He also has to live with the name Chuckie for—that’s it! That’s how he moved. Football or Arena Ball. Like a freaking running back. Fast, nimble, hard. I bet he’s put some time in on the field. Goddamn semi-pro.”

“I didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Hat, sunshades, scarf—I didn’t get a good look at his face. But his build, his shape. It’s something.” And now she’d run with it. “Go on and get to those interviews. I want to hit the WIN Group again, then try to find this ass**le.”

“You took a hard hit, Dallas.”

“And I won’t forget it.”

• • •

She didn’t limp into the WIN offices, but that was pride. She wanted to go home, soak her aching body in a hot tub of swirling jets, but had to push on this angle.

That was the job.

Even as she stepped—gingerly—off the elevator, Robinson Newton turned from the reception desk. His eyes widened when he saw her, but before she could judge if the look of stunned surprise equaled guilt, he rushed forward.

“Lieutenant Dallas! I need to shake your hand.”

“Okay.”

“It was amazing! Amazing what you did,” he said as he pumped her hand and made her abused body weep.

“What?”

“Chuckie. You caught him right out of the air, like a high fly. I just—”

“How do you know?” She shifted her feet to a plant, laid a hand on the butt of her weapon.