Survivor In Death (In Death #20)(109)

“All by yourself?”

“It was my call. The wrong call. Best I got was make and model of the van. And the plate. Turns out the plate belongs to a black panel van of that make and model, but not that panel van. Dupe plates, and they were smart enough to dupe them from the same type of vehicle. Guy who owns the legal van--which was legally parked at his place of business--is a licensed home handy. He's clean, and he was home watching screen with his wife.”

She took a swig of water. “So we got injuries, property destruction, possible--hell, probable--civil suits against the department, and the suspects know I've made their ride.”

“And Whitney dressed you down right and proper.”

“Ho boy.”

“I doubt he'd have done differently than you, under the same circumstances.”

“Maybe not. Probably not. Still a wrong call. And the mayor will chew out the chief, the chief will chew out the commander, and down to me. Nobody below me on this particular feeding chain. The media will have a feeding frenzy.”

“So, you got your ass kicked a bit. A little ass kicking from time to time builds character.”

“Hell it does. It results in a sore ass.” She let out a sigh. “I've got data on all purchases of that make and model. Popular. I left the color open. Figured it'd be easy to paint. I don't expect to have bells ring on that angle. If it were me, I'd've bought it out of town. Or jacked it off some lot outside New York. There won't be a record, there won't be a bill of sale.”

“You're discouraged.” And he hated to see it. “You shouldn't be.”

“No, just feeling a little beat up tonight. Sorry for my sorry self.”

“So get some sleep. Start fresh in the morning.”

“You're not.”

“Actually, I will.” He gave commands to save, lock, and shut down.

“You've got your own work tomorrow.”

“I've rescheduled some things.” He walked her out, secured the doors. “I spoke with Richard and Beth. They're coming to meet Nixie tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I'd asked for quick but I didn't expect immediate.”

“Actually, they've been talking about taking another child. Have just put in applications. And Richard tells me Beth hoped for a girl this time. They both see this as a kind of sign.”

He laid his hand on the base of her neck as they walked to the bedroom and rubbed what she thought of as his magic fingers on the dulling ache. “Fate's a fickle and often insensitive bitch, isn't she?” he commented. “And yet, there are moments you see the work. If their daughter hadn't been murdered, they would never have looked to take a child into their home. If a friend of mine hadn't met the same fate, I wouldn't have met that little boy, or paid mind to him, thought of suggesting they might give him a home.”

“If Grant Swisher hadn't helped Dian Kirkendall, he and his family would still be alive.”

“Insensitive, yes. Still, now Nixie will have a chance for a life with Richard and Beth. She'll grow up knowing there are people in the world who try to balance the scales.”

“You don't say if Sharon DeBlass hadn't been murdered, you and I wouldn't have met in the first place.”

“Because we would have. Another time, another place. Every step of my life was bringing me to you.” He turned her, kissed her forehead. “Even the ones on the darkest road.”

“Death brought us here.”

“No. That's discouragement talking. It's love that brought us here.” He unhooked her weapon harness himself. “Come now, you're asleep on your feet. Into bed.”

She stripped, climbed the platform, slid in. And when his arm came around her, she closed her eyes. “I would've found you,” she murmured, “even on the darkest road.”

The nightmare crept in, stealthy feet tiptoeing over her mind. She saw herself, the small, bloody child, packed into a blinding white room with other small, bloody children. Fear and despair, pain and weariness were thick in the room, crowding it like yet more small, bloody children.

No one spoke, no one cried. They only stood, bruised shoulder to bruised shoulder. Waiting for their fate.

One by one they were led away by stone-faced adults with dead eyes. Led away without protest, without a whimper, the way sick dogs are led away by those charged with ending their misery.

She saw this, and waited her turn.

But no one came for her. She stood alone in the white room, with the blood that coated her face, her hands, her arms, dripping almost musically onto the floor.

It didn't surprise her when he walked into the room. He always came, this man she'd killed. The man who'd broken her and ripped her and beaten her down into a quivering animal.

He smiled, and she smelled it on him. The whiskey and candy.

They want the pretty ones, he told her. The good ones, the sweet ones. They leave the ones like you for me. No one will ever want you. Do you wonder where they go when they leave?

She didn't want to know. Tears slid down, mixed with the blood. But she didn't make a sound. If she was quiet, very quiet, maybe he would go and someone else would come. Anyone else.

They take them to the pit, didn't I tell you? Didn't I warn you if you screwed with me, they'd throw you into the pit with the spiders and snakes? They say: Oh, let me help you, little girl. But what they do is eat you alive, bite by chomp by bite. But they don't want you. You're too scrawny for them, too bony. Do you thinly they don't know what you did?