J. Robb - Possession in Death

“Right. Behind a red door. Why do people have to be so cryptic?”

Think like a cop, Eve ordered herself. Facts, logic, instinct. “Szabo spends time at the school, with Alexi et al, sniffs it out, suspects, hints around. Maybe trying to get Alexi to make a move. He kills her.” Eve rolled it around. “Awful damn tidy, but sometimes it just is.”

“Well, the old lady told everybody Beata was still alive, so that doesn't ride the train very well.”

“She poofs. She's got a job, her classes, landed a part. Sounds like everything's working out for her, but she poofs. Odds are she didn't poof voluntarily — that's Lloyd's take, and I agree.”

“Three months is a long time,” Peabody put in. “A long time to hold somebody who doesn't want to be held. And for what reason?”

“Szabo didn't want to believe the girl was dead, and who can blame her?” Eve added. “Not only her great-granddaughter, but she overrode the rest of the family so Beata could come to New York.”

“Had to feel sick about it.” Like Eve, Peabody scanned the street, the buildings, the traffic. “What did she say exactly? To you, I mean.”

Eve didn't want to go back there, to kneeling in the street, the woman's hand clasped with hers. Blood to blood.

“She said Beata's name, she said she was trapped, couldn't get out. The below bit, the red door. She asked for help.”

You are the warrior. I am the promise.

Fighting to stay steady, Eve shoved a hand through her hair. “She was dying.”

But her eyes, Eve remembered, had been alert, alive.

“We comb through the alibis, check her other habitats.” Do the work, Eve thought, take the steps. “I'm going to check in with Morris, contact the arresting officers about Alexi, get their take on him.”

“Beata's disappearance and the old woman's murder — if they're not connected, it's another devil of a coincidence.”

“We pursue the investigation as if they are. We figure out one, we've got the other.”

“I could tag McNab, have him meet me, go by the theater where she was supposed to work. Lloyd covered it,” Peabody added, “but we could try fresh eyes on it.”

“Good thinking. Send me whatever you get.”

She needed thinking time, Eve told herself as they split up. A stop at the morgue to confirm TOD — which was just stupid, since she'd been right there at TOD — to see if Morris or the lab had been able to get a handle on the type of blade used, if the sweepers had found any trace evidence.

Deal with the facts first, she thought as she got in her vehicle — then move on to theory. But she sat a moment, suddenly tired, suddenly angry. It felt as if something pushed inside her brain, trying to shove her thoughts into tangents.

Not enough downtime, she decided. No time to take some good, deep breaths between cases. So she took them now, just closing her eyes for a moment, ordering her mind and body to clear.

Alive. Trapped. Help.

Keep your promise!

The voice was so clear in her head she jerked up, had a hand on her weapon as she swiveled to check the seat beside her, behind her. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs, in her throat, in her ears as she lowered her unsteady hand.

“Stop. Just stop,” she ordered herself. “Do what you have to do, then get some sleep.” She pulled away from the curb, but gave in to need and called home.

And her heart slowed, settled a little when Roarke's face flowed on-screen.

“Lieutenant, I was hoping I'd — What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Well, nothing except having some old Hungarian woman bleed out under my hands. Tired,” she admitted. “I've got to head down to the morgue because there was a glitch with the TOD. I need to get it straightened out, then talk to a bunch of cops about a Russian ballet guy. Sorry,” she added. “This one literally fell in my lap.”

“I'll meet you at the morgue.”

“Why?”

“Where else does a man meet his wife — when they're you and me?” She looked pale, he thought, her eyes too dark against her skin.

“Yeah, okay. I'll see you there.”

When she broke transmission, Roarke stared at the blank screen of his 'link. Not even a token protest? More than tired, he thought.

His lieutenant was not herself.

She got lost. She would have deemed it impossible, but she couldn't find her way. The streets seemed too crowded, too confusing, and the blare of horns when she hesitated at a light had her jumping in her seat. Frustration turned to sweaty fear that ran a snaking line down the center of her back. Battling it back, she ordered the dash navigator to plot her route, then gave in and put her vehicle on auto.

Tired, she assured herself and closed her eyes. Just tired. But there was a lingering unease that she was ill — or worse.

Need a boost, she thought, nearly shuddering with relief as she arrived at the morgue. She'd grab a tube of Pepsi at Vending, down some caffeine. Maybe even choke down a PowerBar because, Jesus, she was starving.

What was wrong with the air in here? she wondered as she started down the white tunnel. The lights glaring off the tiles slapped into her eyes and made them ache. It was frigid, an icy blast after the heat of the summer night. Yet under her chilled skin her blood beat hot, like a fever raging.

She headed for Vending, digging into her pockets, her mind on food and caffeine. A woman sat on the floor beside the machines, her face in her hands, weeping.

“I'm scared. I'm scared,” she repeated. “Nobody sees me now.”

“What's the problem?” As Eve crouched down, the woman dropped her hands. Her face, livid with bruising, shone with shock and what might have been hope.

“You can see me?”

“Of course I can see you. You need medical attention. Take it easy. I'm going to get someone, then — ”

“It's too late.” Tears ran down the swollen face as the woman dipped her head again. “Look what he did to me.”

Eve froze as she stared at the gaping wound on the back of the woman's head, at the dried blood matting the hair, soaking the blouse.

“Hold on. Just — ” Eve reached out, and her hand passed through the woman's arm. “Jesus God.”

“It was Rennie.” Sniffling, she pushed the heels of her hands through the tears.

“What are you? What is this?”

“I don't know, but I have to tell somebody. It was Rennie,” she repeated. “The bastard. He was mad at me 'cause I helped Sara get away from him. He must've followed me from work, and when I was in the park, he was just there. And he yelled and he hit me. He kept hitting me, and I couldn't get away. Nobody came to help. Nobody saw, and he hit me and hit me, and I fell. And he picked up a rock and he killed me. It's not right. What am I going to do now? I'm scared to be here. I'm scared to be dead.”

Eve couldn't swallow, could barely breathe. “This has to stop.”

“Rennie killed me.”

The woman — the hallucination — held out her hands. Tore them up, Eve thought in some cold part of her brain. Tore them up when she fell, when she tried to crawl away.

“He killed me, and now I won't ever get married or eat ice cream or buy new shoes and have drinks with Sara. Rennie Foster killed me with a rock in Riverside Park, and maybe he'll kill Sara next. What's going to happen?”

“I don't know.”

“Aren't I supposed to go somewhere? I don't want to stay here. It's cold here. It's too cold and it's too bright. Can you help me? I'm Janna, Janna Dorchester, and I didn't do anything wrong. Is this hell?”

“No.” But she wasn't entirely sure.

Maybe hell was cold and bright. Maybe hell was losing your mind.

“Eve.” Roarke dropped down beside her, took her arms. “Christ, you're burning up. Come on now.”