Possession in Death (In Death #31.5)(5)

“You gave him justice—earthly justice. From there he needed to find acceptance, and then the faith that Amaryllis is in the hands of God. Or, if not God, the belief that she, too, has moved on to the next phase.”

“If the next phase is so great, why do we work so hard to stay in this one? Why does death seem so useless and hurt so damn much? All those people, just going along, living their lives, until somebody decides to end it for them. We should be pissed off. The dead should be pissed off. Maybe they are, because sometimes they just won’t let go.”

“Murder breaks both God’s law and man’s, and it requires—demands— punishment.”

“So I put them in a cage and the next stop is a fiery hell? Maybe. I don’t know. But what about the murdered? Some of them are innocent, just living their lives. But others? Others are as bad, or nearly, as the one who ended them. In this phase, I have to treat them all the same, do the job, close the case. I can do that. I have to do that. But maybe I wonder, sometimes, if it’s enough for the innocent, and for the ones—like Morris—who get left behind.”

“You’ve had a difficult week,” he murmured.

“And then some.”

“If closing cases was all that mattered to you, if it began and ended there, you would never have suggested your friend meet with me. You and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. And you wouldn’t, couldn’t, maintain your passion for the work I believe you were born to do.”

“Sometimes I wish I could see, or feel… No, I wish I could know, even once, that it’s enough.”

He reached out, touched her hand briefly. “Our work isn’t the same, but some of the questions we ask ourselves are.”

She glanced at him. Out of the side window she caught the movement. For a moment it seemed the streets, the sidewalks, were empty. Except for the old woman who staggered, who lifted an already bloodied hand to her chest an instant before she tumbled off the curb and into the street.

Eve slammed the brakes, flicked on her flashers. Even as she leaped out of the car, she yanked her ‘link from her pocket. “Emergency sequence, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I need MTs, I need a bus, six hundred block of 120 Street. First aid kit in the trunk,” she shouted at Lopez. “Code’s two-five-six-zero-Baker- Zulu. Female victim,” she continued, dropping down beside the woman. “Multiple stab wounds. Hold on,” she muttered. “Hold on.” And dropping the ‘link, she pressed her hands to the chest wound. “Help’s coming.”

“Beata.” The woman’s eyelids flickered, opened to reveal eyes so dark Eve could barely gauge the pupils. “Trapped. The red door. Help her.”

“Help’s coming. Give me your name,” Eve said as Lopez pulled padding from the first aid kit. “What’s your name?”

“She is Beata. My beauty. She can’t get out.”

“Who did this to you?”

“He is the devil.” Those black eyes bore into Eve’s. The words she pushed out held an accent thick as the heat.

Eastern European, Eve thought, filing it in her mind.

“You… you are the warrior. Find Beata. Save Beata.”

“Okay. Don’t worry.” Eve glanced at Lopez, who shook his head. He began to murmur in Latin as he crossed himself and made the sign on the woman’s forehead.

“The devil killed my body. I cannot fight, I cannot find. I cannot free her. You must. You are the one. We speak to the dead.”

Eve heard the sirens, knew they would be too late. The pads, her own hands, the street was soaked with blood. “Okay. Don’t worry about her. I’ll find her. Tell me your name.”

“I am Gizi. I am the promise. You must let me in and keep your promise.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” Hurry, her mind shouted at the sirens. For God’s sake, hurry.

“My blood, your blood.” The woman gripped the hand Eve pressed to her chest wound with surprising strength, scoring the flesh with her fingernails. “My heart, your heart. My soul, your soul. Take me in.”

Eve ignored the quick pain from the little cuts in her palm. “Sure. All right. Here they come.” She looked up as the ambulance screamed around the corner, then back into those fierce, depthless black eyes.

Something burned in her hand, up her arm, until the shocking blow to her chest stole her breath. The light flashed, blinding her, then went to utter dark.

In the dark were voices and deeper shadows and the bright form of a young woman—slim in build, a waterfall of black hair and eyes of deep, velvet brown.

She is Beata. I am the promise, and the promise is in you. You are the warrior, and the warrior holds me. We are together until the promise is kept and the fight is done.

“Eve. Eve. Lieutenant Dallas!”

She jerked, sucked in air like a diver surfacing, and found herself staring at Lopez’s face. “What?”

“Thank God. You’re all right?”

“Yeah.” She raked a bloodied hand through her hair. “What the hell happened?”

“I honestly don’t know.” He glanced over to where, a foot away, two MTs worked on the woman. “She’s gone. There was a light—such a light. I’ve never seen… Then she was gone, and you were…” He struggled for words. “Not unconscious, but blank. Just not there for a moment. I had to pull you away so they could get to her. You saw the light?”