Visions in Death (In Death #19)(89)

"Peabody, I want to live. I didn't ditch anything, including your little stuffed bunny."

"Mister Fluffytail and I go back. I'll be there in five. Be prepared for the sloppy one."

"When it comes to sloppy ones, I'm a fricking Youth Scout."

She laughed, stuffed the 'link back in her pocket. Life was really good, she thought. Her life was really good. In fact, just at the moment it was absolutely mag. All the little nerves about moving into a new place, with McNab —signing a lease, blending lives, furniture, styles, sharing a bed with the same guy for... well, possibly forever—were gone.

It felt right. It felt solid.

It wasn't as if he didn't irritate her cross-eyed sometimes. It was that she got he was supposed to. It was part of their thing, their style.

She was in love. She was a detective. She was partnered with the best cop on the NYPSD—possibly the best cop anywhere. She'd actually lost three pounds. Okay, two, but she was working off number three even now.

As she walked, she looked up, smiled at the lights glowing in her apartment—her old apartment, she corrected. McNab would probably come to the window any minute, to look out, wave, or blow her a kiss—a gesture that might've looked silly on another guy, but gave her such a nice little rush when it came from him.

She'd blow one back, and wouldn't feel silly at all.

She slowed her pace, just a bit, to give him time to come to the window, fulfill the fantasy.

She never saw him coming.

There was a blur of movement. He was big—bigger than she'd imagined—and he was fast. She knew, in that finger-snap of time that she saw his face—eyes obscured by black sunshades—that she was in trouble. Terrible trouble.

Instinct had her pivoting, reaching for the weapon she wore at her hip.

Then it was like being rammed by a stampeding bull. She felt the pain—crazy pain—in her chest, in her face. She heard something break, and realized with a kind of sick wonder that the something was inside her.

Her mind stopped working. It was training rather than thought that had her pumping out with her legs, aiming for any part of his mass so she could knock him back far enough to give her room to roll.

She barely budged him.

"Whore."

His face loomed over her, features obscured by the thick layers of sealant, the wide, black shades.

It seemed time dripped, slow as syrup. That her limbs were weighed down like lead. She reared up to kick again—all in slow, painful motion—struggling to suck in air to a chest that burned like fire. Ordering herself to remember details.

"Cop whore. Going to mess you up."

He kicked her, so she doubled up in agony as her fingers fumbled for her weapon. Parts of her, separate parts of her went numb, and still she could feel the violent impact of his feet, his fists. She could smell her own blood.

He plucked her up, as if she were no more than a child's doll. This time she heard—felt—something rip.

Someone screamed. She felt herself hurled into the dark as she fired.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

McNabput on music. She'd sounded tired when she'd called, so he went for some of her Free- Ager fluteyshit. Since he'd finished packing the lot—including sheets—they were going to bunk in her sleepbag. He thought she'd get a bang out of it. Last night in the old place, all cuddled up together on the floor, like kids camping out.

It was just totally frosty.

He poured her a glass of wine. He liked doing it for her, thinking how she'd do it for him when he caught a late night. It was the sort of things cohabs did. He supposed.

It was the first official cohabitation for both of them. They'd live, he decided, and learn.

He was thinking maybe he'd go to the window, toss her out a noisy kiss as she walked up, when he heard the screaming.

He raced out of the kitchen, leaping over packing boxes and across the living area to the window. And his heart stopped dead.

He had his weapon in one hand, his communicator in the other, without any memory of grabbing either, and was running out the door. "Officer needs assistance! All units, all units, officer needs immediate assistance."

He shouted out the address as he bolted down the stairs. Praying. Praying.

She was half on the sidewalk, half on the street. Facedown, with blood, her blood, staining the concrete. A man and a woman were crouched beside her, and another was huffing toward them.

"Get away. Get away." He shoved blindly at the nearest. "I'm a cop. Oh God, oh Jesus God, Dee."

He wanted to scoop her up, gather her in, and knew he didn't dare. Instead he pressed shaking fingers to the pulse in her throat. And felt his heart hitch when he felt the beat.

"Okay. God, okay. Officer down!" He snapped it into his communicator."Officer down. Require immediate medical assistance this location. Hurry, goddamn it. Hurry."

He touched her hand, struggled not to squeeze it. Got his breath back.

"Be on the lookout for a black or dark blue van, late model, heading south from this location at high speed."

He hadn't seen it clearly enough, not enough. He'd only seen her.

When he started to strip off his shirt to cover her, one of the men pulled off his jacket. "Here, cover her with this. We were just coming out, across the street, and we saw..."