J. Robb - Portrait In Death

He stepped back, studied the stage he was setting. "It shouldn't have happened. It's wrong for someone so selfless and bright to have a shadow take her. They call them shadows, the medicals call tumors shadows. She had shadows in her brain. We did everything right, everything they said. But she didn't get better. More shadows, deeper ones. It's just wrong."

He nodded. "Just about ready here. Sorry to take so long, but I want this to be perfect. It's the last one. You're the one who'll finish the work, so I don't want to make a mistake. Light is so important to image. You can finesse it on the computer, and that's an art, too, but thereal art is in getting it right in the first place. I've studied for years, in school, on my own. Couldn't get a showing in New York. It's a tough town."

He didn't sound resentful. But patient. As Trueheart struggled to make his fingers work, he watched Gerry step back to study his own work, the work that lined his walls.

Rachel Howard. Kenby Sulu. Alicia Dilbert. All posed and perfected. All dead in their thin silver frames.

There were other images of them, Trueheart saw dimly. The candid shots. He'd framed them as well, and grouped them on the wall.

"I had a little showing in Philadelphia a year ago," Gerry went on. "Just a little gallery, but still. It's a good start. I was going places, just as I was meant to. But after Mom got sick, I had to put that on hold. Drop out of grad school, concentrate on her. She didn't want me to, but how could I worry about fame and fortune when she was sick? What kind of a son would that make me?

"I watched her die," he said softly. "I watched the light go out of her. I couldn't stop it. I didn't know how. Then. But I figured it out. I wish… I only wish I'd known before it was too late for her."

He turned back, smiled kindly. "Well, we need to get started."

As he crossed the room, sweat ran down Trueheart's face from the effort to key in his homer.

"Where's the van?" Despite the storm, Baxter had the window open, his head stuck through as he scanned the streets. "Where's the goddamn van?" He swiped his dripping hair out of his face. "Every cop in the city out looking, and we can't find one stinking van?"

He could have taken it underground, Eve thought. Into another port. But she didn't think so. Not from the scene she'd heard through her communicator. Street parking, first level. They hadn't clanged down steps.

She was close. Sheknew she was close. But if they were even a block off…

"Greenwich Street. 207, apartment 5-B." Roarke lifted his head now, and his eyes were no longer cool. "Javert Stevens."

"All units," Eve began, and ignoring all traffic codes, swung her vehicle into a hard, sliding U-turn. Cars parted for her like the Red Sea as she bulleted the wrong way up a one-way street.

"Homer's engaged!" Peabody lurched in her seat, grabbing Baxter's arm. "He did it! We're two blocks away."

Beside her, Baxter pulled his head in. Even as he began to pray, he checked his weapon.

He wasn't sure he'd managed it, couldn't be sure, but Trueheart let the communicator slide into the cushions on the sofa where Gerry had laid him.

He tried to push the hands away as they reached for him, but only flailed once before his arms dropped weakly.

"It's going to be all right, I promise. It's not going to hurt. I'm going to take care of that. Then you'll see. It's the most amazing thing. I want you posed standing. Very straight. Like a soldier. That's what I see in you, a soldier-brave and true. But not stiff, so we have to work that a little."

He leaned Trueheart against a waist-high stand, drew wires he'd already attached around his ankles. "You want music? I'll put some on in just a minute. I think I'm going to try this as-what do they call it? Parade rest? Let's see how it looks."

He brought Trueheart's arms back, hooking them by more wire to the post.

"This is going to look good. See, I'll take the post and wires out of the image with the computer. Maybe I should tuck your shirt in."

Another line of sweat dribbled down Trueheart's back. If he found the weapon, it would all be over. Maybe it was over anyway.

But Gerry stepped back, angled his head. "No, you know I like it out. Shows you're relaxed, a little casual, but still on alert. You struck me as being on alert in the club. Looking around, watching people. That's why I thought of the solider pose."

He picked up a pressure syringe. "I'm going to give you a little more now, so you won't be afraid, so you won't feel any discomfort. And when I'm finished. When I have the image, you'll understand everything. You'll be part of everything."

"Don't." Trueheart's head lolled on his neck.

"Ssh. Ssh, don't worry."

He felt the light push against his arm, felt himself going under-soft waves, gentle breezes. Lights out.

Eve roared up to the curb, and over it as her tires fought to find purchase on the wet street. The black van was parked just ahead.

Even as the car shimmied, Baxter was out. Eve was steps behind him. "Hold it together," she ordered.

"I'm together. I'm so fucking together there are two of me in here."

He yanked out his master.

"Palm plate-this is faster." Roarke shoved him aside, and went quickly to work with illegal tools.

"You didn't see this," Eve snapped out.

"I don't see a damn thing."

"You listen to me. Detective Baxter, you listen to me now. I am in command." She nodded briskly when Feeney and McNab, then a trio of black-and-whites braked in front of the building. "We go in fast, but we go in organized."

She shoved through the door Roarke opened. "Stairs. Uniforms, elevator. Peabody with me." She continued to toss orders as she pounded up. "Baxter, Trueheart is your priority."

"You don't have to tell me that."

"You will find and safely secure Officer Trueheart. I want a medic up here," she barked into her communicator. "I want a medi-van on site. Now. Leave the suspect to me unless directly engaged. Is that clear?"

"I got it."

"He's put music on, Lieutenant," Peabody reported, huffing a bit as they hit the fourth level. "I can't hear anything else now."

"Roarke, on the door. Give me two units on emergency evac. He isn't going to rabbit on us. Get this building surrounded. Two men stationed on each floor at stairway. Disengage the elevators."

The next boom of thunder shook the floor under her feet as she rushed to 5-B.

Her weapon was in her hand, her blood cold, her head clear.

"I go in low," she stated, rocking onto her toes as Roarke finessed the locks.

He worked fast, elegant fingers flying. She kept her eyes on them, focused, focused, and watched them lift clear.

"Go."

She kicked it open, surged through, and had her weapon trained dead between Gerry's startled eyes.

"Police. Drop it. Drop it now and step back, or I will shut your lights down permanently."

"You don't understand." His voice remained reasonable as he clutched the long, thin knife. "I'm going to make him live forever."

"Drop your weapon," she repeated, and refused to let herself be distracted by the sight of Trueheart, shirt open, as he stood unconscious, at parade rest.

"But-"

"Screw this." Baxter was already rushing across the room. To save them all the trouble, Eve lowered her weapon. And shot a stunning stream into Gerry, mid-body.

The knife hit the floor seconds before he did. The clever lights and shadows streamed over him on the white floor.

"Okay, kid, okay." Baxter's hands trembled visibly as he pressed his fingers to the pulse in Trueheart's throat. "He's breathing. We're going to get you down from here." His voice thickened as he fought with the wires. "I need some wire clippers. Goddamn it-"