The In Death Collection 06-10 (112 page)

“He’ll do it.”

She started to bring up her newest worry. Something in Zeke’s eyes, in his voice, when he spoke of Clarissa Branson. Just a crush, Peabody assured herself. The woman was married, years older than Zeke. Just a little crush, she told herself again, and decided her lieutenant was hardly the person to share foolish sisterly concerns with. Certainly not in the middle of a difficult investigation.

Peabody blew out a breath. “I know this isn’t a great time for socializing. As soon as Zeke’s done, we’ll take off.”

“We’ll feed you. Look, there’s this stuff all ready.” Eve gestured absently to a tray of beautifully arranged canapés. “You might as well eat them.”

“Well, since you insist.” Peabody plucked one up. “No word from the commander?”

“Nothing yet. I don’t expect to hear anything before morning. Which reminds me, I’ll need you to report to Central at oh-six-hundred.”

Peabody swallowed the canapé before she choked. “Six. Great.” She blew out a breath and snagged another canapé. “Looks like it’s going to be a very early evening.”

Dear Comrade,

We are Cassandra.

We are loyal.

It has begun. The preliminary stages of the revolution have proceeded precisely as outlined. Our symbolic destruction of the property of the capitalist Roarke was pitifully simple. The slow-witted police are investigating. The first messages of our mission have been transmitted.

They will not understand. They will not comprehend the magnitude of our power and our plans. Now, they scramble like mice, chasing down the crumbs we’ve left for them.

Our chosen adversary studies the deaths of two pawns, and sees nothing. Today, unless we were mistaken in her, she will go where we have led her. And be blinded to the true path.

He would be proud of what we accomplish here.

After this bloody battle is won, we will take his place. Those who have stood for us, for him, will join us. Comrade, we look forward to the day we raise our
flag over the new capital of the new order. When all those responsible for the death of the martyr die in pain and terror.

They will pay, in fear, in money, in blood, as one by one and city by city, we who are Cassandra destroy what they worship.

Gather the faithful today, Comrade. Watch the screen. I will hear your shouts of triumph across the miles that separate us.

We are Cassandra.

Zeke Peabody was a conscientious man. He believed in doing a job well, in giving it all his time, his attention, and his skill. He’d learned carpentry from his father, and both father and son had been proud when the boy had outdistanced the man.

He’d been raised a Free-Ager, and the tenets of his faith suited Zeke like his skin. He was tolerant of others; part of his beliefs included the simple knowledge that the human race was made up of diverse individuals who had the right to go their own way.

His own sister had gone hers, choosing to become a cop. No true Free-Ager would ever carry a weapon, much less use one against another living thing. But her family was proud of her for following her own path. That, after all, was the foundation of Free-Agism.

One of the sweetest benefits of the job he’d taken here was the chance it gave him to spend time with his sister. It gave him a great deal of pleasure to see her in what had become her milieu, to explore the city she’d made her home. And he knew he amused her by dragging her around to every clichéd tourist attraction he could find on his guide disc.

He was very pleased with her superior. Dee had called and written home countless details about Eve Dallas that Zeke had arranged into a very complex and fascinating woman. But seeing her for himself was better. She had a strong aura. The dark shimmer of violence might have
troubled him a bit, but the heart of it had been bright with compassion and loyalty.

He’d wanted to suggest that she try meditation to dull that shimmer, but he’d been afraid she’d take offense. Some people did. He’d also thought, perhaps, that nimbus of darkness might be necessary for her line of work.

He could accept such things, even if he never fully understood them.

In any case, he was satisfied that when the job was finished, he could return home content that his sister had found her place and was with the people she needed in her life.

As instructed, he went to the service entrance of the Branson brownstone. The servant who admitted him was a tall male with cool eyes and a formal manner. Mrs. Branson—she’d told him to call her Clarissa—had told him that all staff members were droids. Her husband considered them less intrusive and more efficient than their human counterparts.

He was shown to the lower-level workshop, asked if he required anything, then left alone.

And alone, he grinned like a boy.

The shop was nearly as well-equipped and organized as his own back home. Here, though he had no intention of using them, were the additions of a computer and telelink system, a wall screen, VR unit and mood tube, and a droid assistant that was currently disengaged.

He ran his hands over the oak he knew would be a joy to work with, then took out his plans. They were on paper rather than disc. He preferred to create his drawings with a pencil as his father had, and his grandfather before him.

It was more personal, Zeke thought, more a part of himself. He spread the diagrams out neatly on the workbench, took his bottle of water from his sack, and sipped contemplatively while he visualized the project, stage by stage.

He offered the work up to the power that had given
him the knowledge and skill to build, then took his first measurements.

When he heard Clarissa’s voice, his pencil faltered. The flush was already working up his neck as he turned. The fact that there was no one there only made the blush deepen. He’d been thinking too much about her, he told himself. And had no right to think about another man’s wife. No matter how lovely she was, no matter if something in her big, troubled eyes called to him.

Especially because of that.

Because he was flustered, it took him a moment to realize the murmur of sound he heard was coming through the old vents. They should be sealed, he mused. He would ask her if she wanted him to take care of that while he was here.

He couldn’t quite make out the words—not that he would have tried, he assured himself. Not that he would ever, ever, intrude on another’s privacy. But he recognized her tone—the smooth flow of it, and his blood moved a little faster.

He laughed at himself, went back to his measuring with the assurance that it was all right to admire a woman because of her beauty and gentle manner. When he heard a voice join hers, he nodded. Her husband. It was good to remember she had a husband.

And a lifestyle, he added, lifting a board with a casual strength his gangly body disguised. A lifestyle that was far removed from his own.

Even as he carried the board to the braces for his first cuts, he heard the tones change. Voices raised in anger now, loud and clear enough for him to catch a few words.

“Stupid bitch. Get the hell out of my way.”

“B. D., please. Just listen.”

“To what? More whining? You make me sick.”

“I only want to—”

There was a thump, a crash that made Zeke wince,
and the sound of Clarissa’s voice, begging now: “Don’t, don’t, don’t.”

“Just remember, you pathetic cunt, who’s in charge.”

Another bullet of sound, a door slamming. Then a woman’s wild and miserable weeping.

He’d had no right, Zeke told himself, no right to listen to the intimacies of a marriage. No right to want to go upstairs and comfort her.

But, my God, how could anyone treat their life partner so callously, so cruelly? She should be cherished.

Despising himself for imagining doing just that, of going upstairs, gathering Clarissa against him, Zeke slipped on his ear protectors and gave her the privacy that was her right.

“I appreciate you changing your schedule and coming here.” Eve scooped her jacket off her ratty chair and tried not to obsess that her tiny, cluttered office was a far cry from the elegant Dr. Mira’s work space.

“I know you’re working against the clock on this one.” Mira glanced around. Odd, she thought, she’d never been in Eve’s office before. She doubted Eve realized just how completely the cramped little room suited her. No fuss, no frills, and very little comfort.

She took the chair Eve offered, crossed her smooth legs, lifted a brow when Eve remained standing.

“I should have come to you. I don’t even have any of that tea you drink in here.”

Mira merely smiled. “Coffee would be fine.”

“That I’ve got.” She turned to the AutoChef, which did little more than spit at her. Eve rammed it with the heel of her hand. “Goddamn budget cuts. One of these days I’m taking every lousy piece of equipment in this room and chucking it out the window. And I hope to God every piss-head in maintenance is down below when I do.”

Mira laughed and glanced at the narrow slit of grimy
glass. “You’d have a hard time fitting anything through that window.”

“Yeah, well, I’d manage. It’s coming up,” she said as the AutoChef gave a coughing hum. “The rest of the team is working in their areas. We’re meeting in an hour. I want to be able to take them something.”

“I wish I had more to give you.” Mira sat back, accepting the mug of coffee Eve offered. It was barely seven
A
.
M
., yet Mira looked as elegant and polished as fine glass. Her sable-toned hair waved gently back from her serene face. She wore one of her trim suits, this one in a quiet sage green she’d accented with a single strand of pearls.

In her tired jeans and bulky sweater, Eve felt scruffy, gritty-eyed, and unkempt.

She sat, thinking Roarke had said basically the same thing to her in the early hours of the morning. He’d continued to search, but he was up against equipment and minds as clever and complex as his own. It could be hours, he’d explained, or days before he broke through the tangled blocks and reached the core of Cassandra.

“Give me what you’ve got,” Eve said shortly to Mira. “And it’ll be more than I have now.”

“This organization is exactly that,” Mira began. “Organized. It would be my supposition that whatever they intend to do has been planned out meticulously. They wanted your attention, and they have it. They wanted the attention of the powers of the city, and have that as well. Their politics, however, elude me. The four people they’re demanding be released are from variable points on the political compass. Therefore, this is a test. Will their demands be met? I don’t believe they think they will.”

“But they’ve given us no mechanism to negotiate.”

“Negotiation isn’t their goal. Capitulation is. The destruction of the building yesterday was merely a show. No one was hurt, they can say. We’re giving you a
chance to keep it that way. Then, they ask for the impossible.”

“I can’t link any of the four on the list together.” Eve rested a booted ankle on her knee when she sat. She’d spent hours the night before trying to find the connection while Roarke had worked on Cassandra. “No political tenet, as you said. No associations, no memberships. Ages, personal and criminal histories. Nothing connects them. I say they picked those four names out of a hat, for the hell of it. They couldn’t care less if those people are back on the street or not. It’s smoke.”

“I agree. Knowing that, however, doesn’t ease the threat of what they’ll do next. This group calls itself Cassandra, links itself to Mount Olympus, so the symbolism is clear. Power and prophecy, of course, but more a distance between them and mere mortals. A belief, an arrogance, that they, or whoever heads them, has the superior knowledge and ability to direct us. Perhaps even to care for us in the ruthlessly cold directives of gods. They’ll use us—as they did Howard Bassi—when we have the potential to be useful. And when they are done, we are rewarded or punished as they see fit.”

“This new republic, new realm?”

“Theirs, of course.” Mira sampled the coffee, delighted to discover it was Roarke’s marvelous blend. “With their tenets, their rules, their people. It’s the tone that troubles me more than the content, Eve. Underlying what is said is a glee in saying it. ‘We are Cassandra,” ’ she added. “Is that the group, or one person who believes himself to be many? If the latter is partially true, you’re dealing with a clever and damaged mind. ‘We are loyal.’ Loyal, we can assume, to the organization, the mission. And to the terrorist group Apollo from which Cassandra was given its prophetic powers.”

“ ‘Our memory is long,” ’ Eve murmured. “It would have to be. Apollo was broken more than thirty years ago.”

“You’ll note the constant use of the plural pronoun,
the short declarative sentences followed by political jargon, propaganda, accusations. There’s nothing new in that part of it, nothing original. It’s recycled, and a great deal older than three decades. But don’t take this to mean they’re not advanced in the ways and means in which they operate. Their foundation may be tired and trite, but I believe their intentions and capabilities are vital.

“They came to you,” she continued, “because they respect you. Possibly admire you—soldier to soldier. Because when they win, as they believe they will, victory will have a more satisfying taste if their opponent was worthy.”

“I need their target.”

“Yes, I know you do.” Mira closed her eyes a moment. “A symbol. Again, it would be something worthy. A place of excess, they said, and foolishness. Where mortals gawk at mortals. Perhaps a theater.”

“Or a club, an arena. It could be anything from Madison Square to a sex joint on Avenue C.”

“More likely the first than the second.” Mira set her coffee aside. “A symbol, Eve, a landmark. Something that would have impact.”

“The first hit was an empty warehouse. Not much impact.”

“It was Roarke’s,” Mira pointed out and watched Eve’s eyes flicker. “It got your attention. They mean to keep your attention.”

“You think they’ll target one of his properties again.” Eve pushed to her feet. “Well, that narrows it down. The man owns most of the damn city.”

“Does that bother you?” Mira began, then caught herself and nearly chuckled. “Sorry, knee-jerk psychologist’s question. I think it’s a good possibility since they’ve targeted you that they may focus on Roarke’s properties. It’s certainly not conclusive, no more, really, than what you’d term a hunch. But you have to look somewhere.”