Chapter 1
Death came in dreams. She was a child who was not a child,
facing a ghost who, no matter how often his blood bathed
her hands, would not die.
The room was cold as a grave, hazed by the red light that
blinked, on and off, on and off, against the dirty window
glass. The light spilled over the floor, over the blood,
over his body. Over her as she huddled in the corner with
the knife, covered with gore to the hilt, still in her
hand.
Pain was everywhere, radiating through her in stupefying
waves that had no beginning or end, but circled, endlessly
circled, into every cell. The bone in her arm he'd
snapped, the cheek where he'd backhanded her so
carelessly. The center of her that had torn, again, during
the rape.
She was mothered by the pain, coated with shock. And
washed with his blood. She was eight.
She could see her own breath as she panted. Little ghosts
that told her she was alive.
She could taste the blood inside her mouth, a bright and
terrible flavor, and smelljust under the ripeness of fresh
death-the stink of whiskey.
She was alive, and he was not. She was alive, and he was
not. Again and again she chanted those words in her head,
and her mind tried to make sense of them.
She was alive. He was not.
And his eyes, open and staring, fixed on her.
Smiled.
You can't get rid of me so easy, little girl.
Her breath came faster, in hitching gasps that wanted to
gather into a scream. That wanted to burst out of her
throat. But all that came was a whimper.
Made a mess of things, haven't you? Just can't do what
you're told.
His voice was so pleasant, bright with that grinning humor
she knew was the most dangerous of all. While he laughed,
blood poured out of the holes she'd hacked into him.
What's the matter, little girl? Cat got your tongue?
I'm alive and you're not. I'm alive and you're not.
Think so? He wiggled his fingers, a kind of teasing wave
that made her moan in terror as wet red drops flicked from
the tips.
I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Don't hurt me again. You hurt
me. Why do you have to hurt me?
Because you're stupid. Because you don't listen! Because-
and here's the real secret-I can. 1 can do what 1 want
with you and nobody gives a stinking rat's ass. You're
nothing, you're nobody, and don't you forget it, you
little bitch. She began to cry now, thin cold tears that
tracked through the mask of blood over her face. Go away.
Just go away and leave me alone!
I'm not going to do that. I'm never going to do that.
To her horror, he pushed himself to his knees. Crouched
there like some nightmarish toad, bloody and grinning.
Watching her.
1 got a lot invested in you. Time and money. Who puts a
fucking roof over your head? Who puts food in your belly?
Who takes you traveling all over this great country of
ours? Most kids your age haven't seen shit, but you have.
But do you learn? No, you don't. Do you pull your weight?
No, you don't. But you're gonna. You remember what I told
you? You're gonna start earning your keep.
He got to his feet, a big man with his hands slowly
balling into fists at his side. But now, Daddy has to
punish you. He took a shambling step toward her. You've
been a bad girl. And another. A very bad girl.
Her own screams woke her.
She was drenched in sweat, shuddering with cold. She
fought for breath, wildly struggled to tear away the ropes
of sheets that had wrapped around her as she'd thrashed
through the nightmare.
Sometimes he'd tied her up. Remembering that, she made
small, animal sounds in her throat as she tore at the
sheets.
Freed, she rolled off the bed, crouched beside it in the
dark like a woman prepared to flee or fight.
"Lights! On full. God, oh God:"
They flashed on, chasing even a hint of shadow out of the
huge, beautiful room. Still, she scanned it, every corner,
looking for ghosts as the nasty edge of the dream jabbed
through her gut.
She forced back the tears. They were useless, and they
were weak. Just as it was useless, it was weak, to let
herself be frightened by dreams. By ghosts.
But she continued to shake as she crawled up to sit on the
edge of the big bed.
An empty bed because Roarke was in Ireland and her
experiment of trying to sleep in it without him, without
dreams, had been a crashing failure.
Did that make her pitiful? she wondered. Stupid? Or just
married?
When the fat cat, Galahad, bumped his big head against her
arm, she gathered him up. She sat, Lieutenant Eve Dallas,
eleven years a cop, and comforted herself with the cat as
a child might a teddy bear.
Nausea coated her stomach, and she continued to rock, to
pray she wouldn't be sick and add one more misery to the
night.
"Time display," she ordered, and the dial of the bedside
clock blinked on. One fifteen, she noted. Perfect. She'd
barely made it an hour before she'd screamed herself awake.
She set the cat aside, got to her feet. As carefully as an
old woman she stepped down from the platform, crossed the
room, and walked into the bathroom.
She ran the water cold, as cold as she could stand, then
sluiced it onto her face while Galahad wound himself like
a plump ribbon between her legs.
While he purred into the silence, she lifted her head,
examined her face in the mirror. It was nearly as
colorless as the water that dripped from it. Her eyes were
dark, looked bruised, looked exhausted. Her hair was a
matted brown cap, and her facial bones seemed too sharp,
too close to the surface. Her mouth was too big, her nose
ordinary.
What the hell did Roarke see when he looked at her? she
wondered.
She could call him now. It was after six in the morning in
Ireland, and he was an early riser. Even if he were still
asleep, it wouldn't matter. She could pick up the 'link
and call, and his face would slide on-screen.
And he'd see the nightmare in her eyes. What good would
that do either of them?
When a man owned the majority of the known universe, he
had to be able to travel on business without being hounded
by his wife. In this case, it was more than business that
kept him away. He was attending a memorial to a dead
friend, and didn't need more stress and worry heaped on
him from her end.
She knew, though they'd never really discussed it, that
he'd cut his overnight trips down to the bone. The
nightmares rarely came so violently when he was in bed
beside her.
She'd never had one like this, one where her father had
spoken to her after she'd killed him. Said things to her
she thought-was nearly sure-he'd said to her when he'd
been alive.
Eve imagined Dr. Mira, NYPSD's star psychologist and
profiler, would have a field day with the meanings and
symbolism and Christ-all.
That wouldn't do any good either, she decided. So she'd
just keep this little gem to herself. She'd take a shower,
grab the cat, and go upstairs to her office. She and
Galahad would stretch out in her sleep chair and conk out
for the rest of the night.
The dream would have faded away by morning.
You remember what I told you.
She couldn't, Eve thought as she stepped into the shower
and ordered all jets on full at a hundred and one degrees.
She couldn't remember.
And she didn't want to.
She was steadier when she stepped out of the shower, and
however pathetic it was, dragged on one of Roarke's shirts
for comfort. She'd just scooped up the cat when the
bedside 'link beeped.
Roarke, she thought and her spirits lifted considerably.
She rubbed her cheek against Galahad's head as she
answered. "Dallas." Dispatch. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve . . .
Death didn't only come in dreams.
Eve stood over it now, in the balmy early morning air of a
Tuesday n June. The New York City sidewalk was cordoned
off the sensors and blocks squaring around the pavement
and the cheerful tubs of petunias used to spruce up the
building's entrance.
She had a particular fondness for petunias, but she didn't
think they were going to do the job this time. And not for
some time to come.
The woman was facedown on the sidewalk. From the angle of
the body, the splatter and pools of blood, there wasn't
going to be a lot of that face left. Eve looked up at the
dignified gray tower with its semicircle balconies, its
silver ribbon of people glides. Until they identified the
body, they'd have a hard time pinning down the area from
which she'd fallen. Or jumped. Or been pushed.
The one thing Eve was sure of: It had been a very long
drop.
"Get her prints and run them," she ordered.
She glanced down at her aide as Peabody squatted, opened a
field kit. Peabody's uniform cap sat squarely on her ruler-
straight dark hair. She had steady hands, Eve thought, and
a good eye. "Why don't you do time of death:'
"Me?" Peabody asked in surprise.
"Get me an ID, establish time of death. Log in description
of scene and body." Now, despite the grisly circumstance,
it was excitement that moved over Peabody's face. "Yes,
sir. Sir, first officer on-scene has a potential
witness." "A witness from up there, or down here?"
"Down here."
"I'll take it." But Eve stayed where she was a moment
longer, watching Peabody scan the dead woman's
fingerprints. Though Peabody's hands and feet were sealed,
she made no contact with the body and did the scan
quickly, delicately.
After one nod of approval, Eve strode away to question the
uniforms flanking the perimeter.
It might have been nearly three in the morning, but there
were bystanders, gapers, and they had to be encouraged
along blocked out. News hawks were already in evidence,
calling out questions, trying to snag a few minutes of
recording to pump into the airwaves before the first
morning commute.
An ambitious glide-cart operator had jumped on the
opportunity and was putting in some overtime selling to
the crowd. His grill pumped out smoke that spewed the
scents of soy dogs and rehydrated onions into the air.
He appeared to be doing brisk business.
In the gorgeous spring of 2059, death continued to draw an
audience from the living, and those who knew how to make a
quick buck out of the deal.
A cab winged by, didn't bother to so much as tap the
brakes. From somewhere farther downtown, a siren screamed.
Eve blocked it out, turned to the uniform. "Rumor is we've
got eyes:' "Yes, sir. Officer Young's got her in the squad
car keeping her away from the ghouls."
"Good." Eve scanned the faces behind the barrier. In them
she saw horror, excitement, curiosity, and a kind of
relief.
I'm alive, and you're not.
Shaking it off, she hunted down Young and the witness.
Given the neighborhood-for in spite of the dignity and the
petunias, the apartment building was right on the border
of midtown bustle and downtown sleaze-Eve was expecting a
licensed companion, maybe a jonesing chemi-head or a
dealer on the way to a mark. She certainly hadn't expected
the tiny, snappily dressed blonde with the pretty and
familiar face.
"Dr. Dimatto."
"Lieutenant Dallas?" Louise Dimatto angled her head, and
the ruby clusters at her ears gleamed like glassy
blood. "Do you come in, or do I come out?" Eve jerked a
thumb, held the car door wider. "Come on out."
They'd me the previous winter, at the Canal Street Clinic
where Louise fought against the tide to heal the homeless
an the hopeless. She came from money, and her bloodline
was blue, but Eve had good reason to know Louise didn't
quibble about getting her hands dirty.
She'd nearly died helping Eve fight an ugly war during
that bitter winter....
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