J. Robb - New York to Dallas

And still he felt caged.

She’d put him in again, that bitch Dallas. Just another run of luck for her. And the total fucking stupidity of Sylvia.

At least she was dead. Her stupidity, her unending neediness wouldn’t be a problem anymore. She’d had her uses, but he’d find another when the time was right. One he could be more sure of, one he wouldn’t have to charm and train and instruct from prison.

That had been the problem. He hadn’t made a mistake with his choice. Because of Dallas he simply hadn’t had the opportunity to correctly train that choice.

Next time, he thought, circling his hand to keep his brandy moving in its snifter.

He was still in control of the situation. He’d planned for the unforeseen, hadn’t he? Of course, without Sylvia’s idiocy, he’d have bad little Darlie to entertain him right now. Nothing kept him more in tune than a bad little girl.

He walked to the window, looked down at the city, sipping his brandy, wondering how many bad little girls walked the streets. He only needed one for now. Just one.

He could find one, of course. He was so very much smarter, better, wilier than the cops. He could take one, just one, and christen his new home.

Better not. No, better not, he reminded himself. He felt too rushed, too upset. Too fucking angry to work properly tonight.

He’d have to make do with the pale, bloodless substitute of the recording.

He mulled it over. He’d watch it and imagine how he’d feel when he forced Dallas to watch it with him. That would perk things up.

He decided to make himself a little snack. For a time he simply wandered the kitchen, unable to choose. So many choices, he thought. Too many choices.

Ridiculous. He brushed off the uneasy sensation, the temporary lapse. He knew exactly what he wanted. He always knew.

He selected a few cheeses, some berries, carefully sliced rounds from a baguette, calming a little itch of panic at the base of his spine with the homey chore.

He did love this kitchen, he thought as he worked, the high sheens, the smooth surfaces. He’d enjoy using it for a week or two.

Really, this was a much better location, better plan. Things had worked out precisely the right way. Precisely.

Then soon enough, with Dallas floating in the river—a real pity he’d been denied that tradition with Sylvia—he’d move on. As much as he wanted New York, for spite if nothing else, he had to consider another venue altogether.

London perhaps, he thought as he carried his tray into the living area. He’d always planned to spend some time in London. He set his tray on the coffee table, unfolded a wide, white linen napkin. Ran his fingers over the spotless and smooth material.

Yes, London. Carnaby Street, Big Ben, Piccadilly Circus.

And all those rosy-cheeked bad girls.

“Screen on,” he ordered, trying out a public school British accent. Pleased with the sound, he laughed, and continued in character. “Play Darlie.”

He swirled brandy, nibbled on cheese and berries. And discovered that the pale substitute worked quite well if he just had the right mind-set.

He decided then and there to make one titled “Eve Dallas.” He imagined the staging, the props, the lighting. He considered writing some dialogue, for both of them.

Wouldn’t it be fun to force her to speak his words?

He could barely wait to produce it, direct it. And view it, over and over after he’d killed her.

Near dawn she dreamed. Trapped in the dark, whispers and whimpers all around her. Cold, so cold, and the bite of the shackles clamped on her wrists and ankles.

He was out there, and the knowing carved a bleeding gash of fear in her belly.

Not like this, she thought as she yanked and strained against the shackles. A thousand ways to die, but not like this, and not at his hand.

Light oozed into the room, slipping dirty red through cracks and fissures to smear the dark like blood.

And she learned it could be worse to see.

They huddled all around her, all the girls, all those hopeless, empty eyes. They sat, staring and shivering in the icy room of her nightmares. All of them had her face. The child’s face.

She fought harder, twisting, dragging against the restraints. She heard—felt—the bone snap. One of the girls shrieked, and each of them clutched her arm.

“It’s not happening, not happening. It’s not real.”

“It’s as real as you make it.” Mira sat in one of the blue scoop chairs from her office, crossed her pretty legs.

“You have to help.”

“Of course. It’s what I do. Now, how does being here like this make you feel?”

“Fuck feelings. We have to get out!”

“Angry then,” Mira said placidly, and sipped tea from a china cup. “But more, I think. What’s under that anger, Eve? Let’s dig it out.”

“Get us out. Can’t you see how scared they are?”

“They?”

“I’m scared. I’m scared.”

“Progress!” With a pleased smile, Mira lifted her teacup in salute. “Now let’s talk about that.”

“There’s no time.” Her head swiveled side to side while panic gnawed at her, belly and bone. “He’ll come back.”

“He’ll only come back if you let him. Well, that’s all the time we have for today.”

“For God’s sake don’t leave us like this. Take the girls. Take them out of here. They don’t deserve to be here.”

“No.” Her voice gentle as a kiss, Mira shook her head. “You don’t.”

“What about me!” The woman, the partner, the mother stood, her throat gaping and wet with blood. “Look what you did to me.”

“I didn’t kill you.” Eve cringed while the girls, all the girls curled into defensive balls.

“Stupid bitch, it’s all your fault.” When she slapped one of the girls aside, Eve felt the blow. “Stupid, ugly, worthless bitch. You should never have been born.”

“But I was. How could you hate what came out of you? How could you hate what needed you? How could you let him touch me?”

“Whine, whine, whine, all you ever did was whine. You’re nothing but a mistake, and now I’m dead because you’re alive.” The face changed, image over image. Stella to Sylvia, Sylvia to Stella. “You deserved everything he did to you, everything he’s going to do.”

“He’s dead! He can’t do anything because he’s dead.”

“Stupid little cunt. Then how did you get here?”

“Boy, nobody lays the guilt on like a mom.”

With a sympathetic smile, Peabody crouched in front of Eve. “How’re you doing?”

“How the hell does it look like I’m doing? Get these kids to safety. Call for backup. Get me a weapon. I need a weapon.”

“Jeez, Dallas, take it easy.”

Incensed, Eve yanked at the shackles. “Take it easy? What the fuck’s wrong with you? Get off your ass and do your job.”

“I am doing my job. We’re all doing the job. See?”

She could, like a dream over a dream, see her bullpen, cops at desks, in cubes. And Feeney in his rumpled suit in the middle of the clashing colors and constant movement of EDD. Above them Whitney stood, his hands clasped behind his back. Watchful.

“Officer needs assistance,” Eve murmured, dizzy.

“You’re getting it, Dallas. Best we got, just like you taught me. Look at my guy.” She grinned and pointed to McNab, who pranced around on wildly striped ankle skids, talking incessantly in e-geek. “That’s how he works. Doesn’t he have the cutest skinny butt? Now your guy, he’s got it rough right now.”

Eve saw Roarke behind a wall of glass. At his desk he worked a comp, two smart screens, a headset. His ’link signaled, and codes and figures whizzed by on the wall screens.