J. Robb - Possession in Death

“You're in the basement of the school where you took classes. We'll get into all the details later. We're going to get you out of here now.”

“My family.”

“You can contact them.” Eve laid a hand on Beata's cheek. “Your family is always with you, wherever you are, wherever you go.”

Beata closed a hand around Eve's wrist, let her head rest in Eve's hand. “That's what my grandmother would say to me whenever I was sad or scared.”

I know, Eve thought, and helped Beata to her feet. “I want you to go with these officers now. They'll take you out.”

“Aren't you coming with me?”

“I'll be there soon. There are things I have to do. Beata, did they know, were they part of this? Natalya, Alexi.”

“No. He said it was only us, our secret — that they wanted him to be calm, to accept, to live without me. Her, Arial, the one whose name he called me. But that he never would. He wouldn't share me with them or the world. He wouldn't lose me this time. He told me often.”

“Okay, go ahead now. Go outside. Go breathe the air.”

Eve knew what it was to be locked up, to be trapped and helpless. And to want to breathe free.

Eve shut off her recorder, looked at Roarke. “It's not done. I hoped, when we found her . . . I have to find the others. I know where they are,” she said before Roarke answered. “They're pressing on me. The dead. I know where they are, and I think — hope — I know what to do.”

“Then we'll go find them.”

She turned her recorder back on, reengaged her mic. “I need a unit down here with tools. We need to take down a wall. And I'll need Morris. I'm on the move. Key in on my location when I get there, and send a team down to process this goddamn prison.

“Let's go,” she said to Roarke.

She didn't have to ask him to hold her hand, to keep her close as they walked those dim corridors, or to talk to her quietly, soothingly.

“He must've built that place years ago,” she said. “And updated it, maintained it — down here in the bowels of the building. There were tools in that utility room we went through. A sledgehammer and — ”

“I'll get something.” She was pale again, he thought, feverish again. It had to end. “Are you all right alone?”

“I'm not exactly alone, but yeah.”

While Roarke doubled back, she walked straight to the void, the empty room Peabody had reported, stared — her eyes burning dry — at the far wall. Old wood, old brick, so it looked patched and repaired and nondescript. But she felt the misery, the horror, and had to force herself not to attack it with her bare hands.

Morris came in behind her. “I passed Roarke. He told me to bring this.”

She grabbed the pry bar out of his hands, began to drag at the boards, the spikes and nails.

“Dallas — ”

“They're back there. Trapped in there.”

“Who?”

“The others. All the others. They can't get out, can't get to the other side. They need to be seen, need to be shown.” Her muscles trembled with the effort as boards splintered. “They need help.”

“Step back,” Roarke snapped as he strode in. “Eve, step back.”

He slammed the sledgehammer he carried at the brick, exploding dust and shards. As he pounded again, again, she moved in, away from the arc of his swing to rip and pry.

The stench seeped in, one she knew too well. Death entered the room.

“I see her.” Eve grabbed for the flashlight on her belt. “Her — them. Three, I think. Wrapped in plastic.”

As she spoke, Roarke slammed the hammer again. Through the gap he created a skeletal hand reached out, palm up, as if in supplication.

“Careful now.” Morris laid a hand on Eve's shoulder. “We need to go carefully now. This is for my team and forensics.”

“Let me see your light.” Roarke took it from Eve, shone it in the gap. “Christ Jesus. He's stacked them, like berths in a bloody train.”

“And when bricks were too much trouble or he just ran out of them, he switched to boards. Can you see how many?” Eve asked him.

“Five, I think. I can't be sure.”

“Hold off now. It's enough.” She took out her communicator. “Peabody, we've got bodies. Eight, maybe more. I need a recovery team, the sweepers. Morris is calling his people in.”

“Acknowledged. Jesus, Dallas, eight?”

“Maybe more. They're found now. And Peabody, send down the priest.”

She clicked off, said nothing as Roarke picked up the bar and continued to carefully knock away loose bricks. Instead she reached in, laid a hand on the plastic covering the ruined shell of Vanessa Warwich.

You're found now, she thought. You're free now.

She stepped out of the room, just leaned against a wall as she struggled against waves of grief.

And the old woman stepped to her, spoke.

“You found our Beata.”

“I'd have found her my own way. I'd have stopped this my own way.”

“I think perhaps you would. But the child is so precious to me, how could I risk it? I was guided to you, or you to me, when I was between. Who can say?”

“I'd think you could at this point. Death ought to come with a few answers.”

Now Gizi smiled. “Perhaps it will. You didn't kill him.”

“It's not how I work.”

“I would have,” she said simply, “but your way will be enough. You are the warrior. I can leave the gift with you.”

“No. Seriously.”

“Then it goes with me. I had a good, long life, but he didn't have the right to end it. You'll see there is balance.”

“He'll pay, for all of it.” She hesitated, then asked what she had asked Lopez, asked herself. “Is it enough?”

“This time. For others?” Gizi lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “Who can say?”

“This time then. I have to finish. I have to finish my way.”

“Yes. As do I. You've freed them. Now I'll guide them to the other side where there will be light and peace. Until we're called again. Pa chiv tuka, Eve Dallas.”

“Ni eve tuka.” Eve shook her head. “You're welcome,” she corrected.

She saw the light again, not blinding now, but warm. She simply closed her eyes as the heat flowed through her, then out again. When she opened them, there was nothing but the dim corridor and the sound of approaching footsteps.

She pushed away from the wall, moved forward to direct cops and techs. To do her job. “They're in there,” she said to Lopez. “Maybe you can do . . . what you do.”

“Yes. The girl, Beata, she's waiting for you. She won't leave until she speaks to you.”

“I'll go up.”

“A very hard day,” he said. “And yet . . . ”

“Yeah.” She reached over as Roarke came out, brushed mortar and brick dust off his shirt. “Let's go up.”

“Tell me how you are.”

“I'll show you.” She stopped, yanked up her pants leg. Her clutch piece rode on her unmarked ankle. “No more tattoo. It's a lot less crowded in here.” She tapped her head. “Say something in Russian.”

“I only have a few phrases, but this one seems appropriate. Ya liubliu tebia.”

She grinned at him, felt a lightness she hadn't felt in hours. “I have no idea what you said. Thank God.”

He grabbed her, held tight. Then he drew her face up, crushed his mouth with hers.

“On an op,” she murmured but kissed him back before drawing away.

Linking hands, they continued down the corridor. “I said I love you — and it's true in every language.”

“Nice. Let's just keep it all in English for a while. God, I'm starving again.” She pressed her hand to her belly. “Anyway, thanks for the assist. In there and all around.”

“No problem. But next time we have a barbecue, Lieutenant, we both stay the bloody hell home.”