J. Robb - Survivor in Death

He smiled at her. “I've wondered if I'd be a good father. I think I would be. I think we'd be good at it, either despite or because of where we came from. Maybe both. But it's not now. It's not this child. It'll be when we know we'll be good at it.”

“That's nothing to feel guilty about.”

“How does it make me any different from Leesa Corday? Swisher's stepsister?”

“Because you tried to make it right. You'll help to make it right.”

“You steady me,” he murmured. “I didn't even know how far off balance I'd been, and here you steady me.” He took her hands, kissed them. “I want children with you, Eve.”

The sound she made brought on a quick and easy grin. “No need for the panic face, darling. I don't mean today, or tomorrow, or nine months down the road. Having Nixie around's been considerable education. Children are a lot of bloody work, aren't they?”

“Big duh.”

“Emotional, physical, time-consuming work. With undoubtedly amazing rewards. That bond you spoke of, we deserve to have it. To make it, when we're ready. But we're not, either of us, ready. And we're not equipped to parent a girl nearly ten. It would be like-for us, anyway-starting a twisty, laborious, fascinating task somewhere in the middle, without any time for that learning curve.”

He stepped to her again, laid his lips on her brow. “But I want children with you, my lovely Eve. One day.”

“One day being far, far in the future. Like, I don't know, say a decade when… Hold on. Children is plural.”

He eased back, grinned. “Why so it is-nothing slips by my canny cop.”

“You really think if I ever actually let you plant something in me- they're like aliens in there, growing little hands and feet.” She shuddered. “Creepy. If I ever did that, popped a kid out-which I think is probably as pleasant a process as having your eyeballs pierced by burning, poisonous sticks, I'd say, 'Whoopee, let's do this again?' Have you recently suffered head trauma?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Could be coming. Any second.”

He laughed, kissed her. “I do love you, and the rest is all in the vague and misty future. In any case, we're talking about this child. I think Richard and Beth are a fine thought.”

She locked the rest away-where hopefully it would stay in some deep, dark mind vault. “They took that kid last year.”

“Kevin. Yes, they recently finalized the adoption.”

“Yeah, you mentioned it. Kid had it rough-bouncy for all of that, but he had it rough. Junkie LC of a mother who knocked him around, left him alone. They have to know how to handle kids with baggage, so…”

“They may be a good choice for Nixie. I'll talk to them, tonight if I can manage it. They'll need to meet her, and she them.”

“You could give that a push. With the Dysons bowing out, GPS is going to start squawking about fostering pretty soon. Okay. Let's get down to it. What've you got for me?”

“Some names I've ferreted out that intersect in one way or another with both Kirkendall and Isenberry.” He moved over to his console as he spoke. “Some connect to CIA, some to Homeland Security.” He glanced over at her, and thought this would be one more punch to her psyche. “Are you going to be all right with that?”

“Are you?”

“I've made my peace there, best I can. They watched an innocent, desperate child suffer for what they deemed a bigger cause. I don't forget it, but I've made my peace with it.”

“I don't forget it,” she said quietly. Eve knew it was for love of her that he'd walked away from taking vengeance on the HSO operatives who'd witnessed her abuse those many years ago inDallas -they'd witnessed a man beating and brutalizing his own daughter, and done nothing to stop it. “I don't forget what you did for me.”

“Didn't do, more accurately. In any case, to nudge this any further, to access the data on these people through these organizations, I'll need this. Roarke,” he said, laying his hand on a palm plate. “Open operations.”

Roarke, IDverified, command acknowledged.

The console came to life, lights flashing on, equipment going to a low, holding hum. She came around the console to stand with him. And saw the framed photo he kept here. The baby, all vivid blue eyes and dark thick hair, held close to the young mother with her bruised face and bandaged hand.

That was private, too, she thought, and why he kept it here in this room. Something else he was making his peace over.

“Another thing I found interesting,” he told her. “Take a look.”

He ordered an image on a wall screen.

“Clinton, Isaac P., U.S. Army, retired. Sergeant. Looks like Kirkendall,” she commented. “Around the eyes, the mouth. Same coloring.”

“Yes, that caught me, too. Particularly when I noticed the birth date.” He brought up Kirkendall's image and data.

“The same date. Same health center. Son of a bitch. Different parents listed. But if the records were altered. If-”

“I think someone was naughty, and decided it would be worth a bit of hacking into those health center records.”

“Illegal adoption? Twins separated at birth. Could it be that strange?”

“Strange,” Roarke agreed, “but logical for all that.”

“They have to know. They end up in the same regiment, the same training. Guy's got your face-or close enough to make people notice-you're going to ask questions.”

“I take it you'd like that as first order of business.”

“Go.”

“This won't take long.”

He sat, began to work by voice command and manual while she paced.

Brothers, she thought. Teamwork. Twins, pulled apart, then brought back together. By fate? Luck? A higher power's vicious sense of humor?

Would the bond be stronger then, somehow? The anger deeper. And the murders even more personal. Denied their rightful family at birth. Denied one's rightful family by the courts.

Life's a bitch, so you kill.

“Was thisClinton ever married?”

“Shush,” was Roarke's response, so she looked for herself.

“Lotof mirrors here,” she noted. “He was married-the same year as Kirkendall. One kid for him, male. Both son and wife are listed as missing, the year before Kirkendall's punching bag and kids whiffed. They take off?” she wondered. “Or not get the chance?”

“Birth mothers on hospital records are the same as on later data,” Roarke said as he worked.

“Poke around, find others listed for that same day. Twin boys, deceased.”

“Already there, Lieutenant. Another moment. And here. Onscreen. Smith, Jane-original-delivered twin boys, stillbirths. I imagine the health center, and the doctor of record, gained a healthy fee on this.”

“Sold them. Yeah, betcha that's what she did. It happened. Happens,” she corrected, “even with the laws coming down on women getting themselves inseminated and incubating fetuses for big, fat fees, it happens.”

“Target couples-with the finances for it-can outline the physical characteristics they'd like, the ethnicity and so on, bypass mainstream routes with their screenings and regulations.” Roarke nodded. “Yes, healthy newborns are always a hot commodity on the black market.”

“And this Jane Smith hits the jackpot with twins. The Kirkendalls, the Clintons, walk away with bouncing boys-and their baby broker collects the fees, divvies up the rest of the shares. I'll pass this data to somebody in Child Protection Services. They'll want to dig into it, see if they can find the birth mother, the brokers. Long shot since we're talking fifty years, and I can't take time out for it unless it leads to Kirkendall. Selling kids. Pretty low.”

“It could be better to be wanted, even bought and paid for, than to be unwanted, discarded.”