J. Robb - Conspiracy in Death

"It's never obsolete, Waverly. Not as long as there are people like you. Who will you choose to remake?" she demanded. "There's not enough room, not enough resources for everybody to live forever." She watched his smile turn cagey. "It'll come down to money then, and selection."

"Who needs more aging whores or sidewalk sleepers? We have Waylan in our pocket, and he'll push his influence in East Washington. The politicians will jump right on this. We've found a way to clean up the streets over the next generation, to employ a kind of natural selection, survival of the fittest."

"Of your selection, your choice."

"And why not? Who better to decide than those who've held human hearts in their hands, slid into the brain and gut? Who understands better?"

"That's the mission," she said quietly. "To create and mold and select."

"Admit it, Dallas, the world would be a better place without the dregs that weigh it down."

"You're right. We just have a different definition of dregs."

She shoved the gurney hard to the right and leaped over it.

Roarke crouched at the secured door. His entire world had become that single control panel. There was a raw bruise on his cheekbone, a jagged gash in his shoulder.

The security droid was minus his left arm and head, but it had taken entirely too much time.

He forced his mind to stay focused, his vision to remain clear, and his hands steady. He never flinched when he heard footsteps pounding down the corridor behind him. He could recognize the slap of cheap cop shoes a mile off.

"Jesus, Roarke, was that droid your work?"

"She's in there." He didn't glance back at Feeney, but continued to search for the next bypass. "I know it. Give me room, don't get in my light."

Peabody cleared her throat as the computer warning sounded again. "If you're wrong – "

"I'm not wrong."

She rammed her fist into his face and relished the sting of knuckles meeting flesh. Something ripped as she tackled him and sent them crashing onto the floor.

He wasn't soft, and he was desperate. She tasted her own blood, felt her bones jar, saw one quick burst of stars when her head cracked against the wheels of the gurney.

She didn't use the pain, she didn't need it. She used her rage. Half blind with it, she straddled him, slamming her elbow into his windpipe. He gagged, strained for air. And she twisted the syringe he'd nearly pumped into her side out of his hand.

Wheezing, eyes huge, he went still as she tipped it against his throat. "Scared, you bastard? Different on the other end, isn't it? Move the wrong way, and you're dead. What did you say? Within three minutes? I'll just sit here and watch you die, like you watched all those people die."

"Don't." It was a rusty croak. "I'm choking. Can't get air."

"I could put you out of your misery." She smiled as his eyes wheeled in his head. "But it's just too damn easy. You want to live forever, Waverly? You can live forever in a fucking cage."

She started to climb off him, sighed once. "I just have to," she muttered, and rammed one short-armed jab into his face.

She was just pulling herself to her feet when the doors swung open. "Well." She swiped the back of her hand across her swollen mouth. "The gang's all here." Cautiously, she turned the syringe upside down. "You might want to seal this, Peabody, poison precautions, it's lethal. Hey, Roarke, you're bleeding."

He stepped to her, gently wiped her lip with his thumb. "You, too."

"Good thing we're in a health center, huh? Ruined that fancy coat."

Now he grinned. "You, too."

"Told ya. Feeney, you can interview me when you clean up this mess. Somebody ought to take a look at Louise. He must have sedated her. She slept through this whole thing. And pick up Rosswell, would you? Waverly rolled over on him."

"It'll be a pleasure. Anybody else?"

"Cagney and Vanderhaven, who happen to be in the city, according to Dr. Death here. There'll be more, here and there." She glanced back where Waverly lay unconscious. "He'll give it up. He's got no balls at all." She picked up her clutch piece, stuck it in her back pocket. "We're going home."

"Good work, Dallas."

For a moment, her eyes were absolutely bleak, then she grinned, shrugged. "Yeah. What the hell." Sliding her arm around Roarke, she walked away.

"Peabody."

"Captain?"

"Get Commander Whitney out of bed."

"Sir?"

"Tell him Captain Feeney respectfully requests his administrative ass on-scene here as soon as possible."

Peabody cleared her throat. "Is it okay if I rephrase that slightly?"

"Just get him here." With that, Feeney walked over to take a look at Dallas's good work.

She was dead asleep when the 'link beeped. For perhaps the first time in her life, she simply rolled over and ignored it. When Roarke shook her shoulder, she just grunted and yanked the cover over her head.

"I'm sleeping here."

"You just had a call from Whitney. He wants you in his office at Central in an hour."

"Shit. That can't be good." Resigned, she pushed the covers back, sat up. "The test results and evaluation can't be in yet. It's too early. Goddamn it, Roarke. I'm busted."

"Let's go in and find out."

She shook her head, dragged herself out of bed. "This isn't for you."

"You aren't going in alone. Pull yourself together, Eve."

She bit down on the despair, rolled back her shoulders, and looked at him. He was already in a business suit, his hair shining and sleek. The bruise on his cheekbone had nearly faded away with treatment, but the shadow of it added just a hint of the dangerous.

"How come you already are?"

"Because staying in bed half the morning unless sex is involved is a waste of time. Since you didn't appear to be cooperative in that area, I started my day with coffee instead. Stop stalling and go take your shower."

"Okay, fine, great." She stalked into the bathroom so they could worry in different rooms.

She refused breakfast. He didn't press. But as he drove downtown, she reached for his hand. He held it until he'd parked at Central and turned to her.

"Eve." He cupped her face, relieved that though she was pale, she didn't tremble. "Remember who you are."

"I'm working on it. I'll be all right. You can wait here."

"Not a chance."

"Okay." She took a bracing breath. "Let's do it."

They rode in silence. As cops piled off and on the elevator from floor to floor, gazes flickered toward her, then away. There was nothing to be said, and no way to say it.

Her stomach rolled as she stepped off, but her legs were steady as she approached the outer office of the commander.

The door was open. Whitney stood behind his desk and gestured her inside. His gaze shifted briefly to Roarke.

"Sit down, Dallas."

"I'll stand, sir."

They weren't alone in the room. As before, Tibble stood at the window. Others sat silently: Feeney with his morose face, Peabody with her lips clamped tight, Webster eyeing Roarke specutively. Before Whitney could speak again, Mira hurried in.

"I'm terribly sorry to be late. I was with a patient." She took a seat beside Peabody, folded her hands.

Whitney nodded, then opened the center drawer of his desk. He took out her badge, her weapon, laid them in the center. Her gaze lowered to them, lingered, then lifted without expression.

"Lieutenant Webster."

"Sir." He rose. "The Internal Affairs Bureau finds no cause for sanction or reprimand or for further investigation into the conduct of Lieutenant Dallas."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Detective Baxter is in the field, but his investigative report on the homicide of Officer Ellen Bowers has been written and filed. The case has been closed, and Lieutenant Dallas is cleared of any suspicion or involvement in that matter. This confirms your evaluation, Dr. Mira."