Creation In Death

She kept her eyes on the screen. “Peabody, contact all officers in the field, relay this description. McNab, go through the comps from BodyWorks, find us Ted. Callendar, do a search on York’s electronics for this name, for any instruction program she might have written that includes body type, age. Anything that coordinates or adds to this data.”

She turned. “Roarke, give me anything you’ve got. You and I will start contacting the women on your list, find out if they’ve been contacted or approached by anyone requesting a home visit. Uniforms, back to canvass, making inquiries about a man of this description. Baxter, Trueheart, you’re back to the club, back to the fitness center. Jog somebody’s memory. I need a station, a d and c. We’ve got a hole. Let’s pull this bastard out of it.”

H e sighed as he stepped back from his worktable. “You’re a disappointment to me Gia. I had such high hopes for you.”

He’d hoped the rousing chorus from Aida would snap her back, at least a bit, but she simply lay there, eyes open and fixed.

Not dead-her heart still beat, her lungs still worked. Catatonic. Which was, he admitted as he moved over to wash and sterilize his tools, interesting. He could slice and burn, gouge and snip without any reaction from her.

And that was the problem, of course. This was a partnership, and his current partner was very much absent from the performance.

“We’ll try again later,” he assured her. “I hate to see you fail this way. Physically you’re one of the best of all my girls, but it appears you lack the mental and emotional wherewithal.”

He glanced at the clock. “Only twenty-six hours. Yes, that’s quite a step back. I don’t believe you’ll be breaking Sarifina’s record.”

He replaced his tools, walked back to the table where his partner lay, bleeding from the fresh cuts, her torso mottled with bruising, crosshatched with thin slices.

“I’ll just leave the music on for you. See if it reaches inside that head of yours.” He tapped her temple. “We’ll see what we see, dear. But I’m expecting a guest shortly. Now, I don’t want you to think of her as a replacement, or even a successor.”

He leaned down, kissed her as yet unmarred cheek as kindly as a father might kiss a child. “You just rest awhile, then we’ll try again.”

It was time-time, time, time-to go upstairs. To cleanse and change. Later he would brew the tea, and set out the pretty cookies. Company was coming.

Company was such a treat!

He unlocked the laboratory door, relocked it behind him. In his office, he glanced at the wall screen, tsked at the image of Gia as she lay comatose. He was afraid he would have to end things very soon.

In his spotless white suit he sat at his desk to enter the most current data. She was simply not responding to any stimuli, he mused as he noted down her vital signs, the methods and music used in the last thirty minutes of their session. He’d believed the dry ice would bring her back, or the laser, the needles, the drugs he’d managed to secure.

But it was time to admit, to accept. Gia’s clock was ru

Ah, well.

When his log was completed, he made his way through the basement labyrinth, past the storage drawers that were no longer in use, past the old work area where his grandfather had forged his art once upon a time.

Family traditions, he thought, were the bedrock of a civilized society. He eschewed the elevator for the stairs. Gia had been quite right, he thought. He would benefit from more regular exercise.

He’d let himself go just a little, he admitted as he patted his plump belly, during his last dormant stage. The wine, the food, the quiet contemplation, and of course, the medication. When this work period was finished, he would take a trip to a spa, concentrate on his physical and mental health. That would be just the ticket.

Perhaps he would travel off planet this time. He’d yet to explore anything beyond his own terra firma. It might be amusing, and certainly beneficial, to spend some time in Roarke’s extra-planetary playground, the Olympus Resort.

Doing so would be a kind of delicious topping after he’d completed his current goal.

Eve Dallas, Lieutenant, NYPSD. She would not disappoint as Gia had, he was sure. Still a few kinks to work out in securing her, he admitted. Yes, yes, that was true. But he would find the way.

He unlocked the steel-core basement door using code and key, stepped into the spacious and spotless kitchen. Relocked it.

He would spend some quality time the next day studying the data he’d accumulated on his final Eve. She wasn’t as predictable as the ones he usually selected. But then again, that was one of the elements that would make her so special.

He was looking forward to getting reacquainted with her, after so many years.

He moved through the lovely old house, glancing around to make certain all was in order. Past the formal dining room, where he always took his meals, and the library, where he would often sit and read or simply listen to music.

The parlor, his favorite, where he had a pretty little fire burning in the rose granite hearth, and Asian lilies, blushed with pink, rising glamorously out of a wide crystal vase.

There was a grand piano in the corner, and he could still see her there, creating, re-creating such beautiful music. He could see her trying to teach his unfortunately stubby fingers to master the keys.

He’d never mastered them, nor had his voice ever mastered the demands and beauty of the notes, but his love for music was deep and true.

The double doors across from the parlor were closed, were locked. As he’d kept them for many years now. Such business as had been done there was carried on in other places.

His home was his home. And hers, he thought. It would always be hers.

He went up the curve of stairs. He still used the room he’d had as a boy. He couldn’t bring himself to use the bedroom where his parents had slept. Where she had slept.

He kept it preserved. He kept it perfect, as she had once been.

Pausing, he studied her portrait, one painted while she had glowed, simply glowed, with the bloom of youth and vibrancy. She wore white-he believed she should always have worn it. For purity. If only she’d remained pure.

The gown swept down her body, that slim and strong body, and the glittery necklace, her symbol of life, lay around her neck. Swept up, her hair was like a crown, and indeed the very first time he’d seen her he’d thought her a princess.

She smiled down at him, so sweetly, so kindly, so lovingly.

Death had been his gift to her, he thought. And death was his homage to her through all the daughters he lay at her feet.

He kissed the silver ring he wore on his finger, one that matched the ring he’d had painted onto the portrait. Symbols of their eternal bond.

He removed his suit. Put the jacket, the vest, the trousers, the shirt in the bin for cleaning. He showered, he always showered. Baths could be relaxing, might be soothing, but how unsanitary was it to lounge in your own dirt?

He scrubbed vigorously, using various brushes on his body, his nails, his feet, his hair. They, too, would be sanitized, then replaced monthly.

He used a drying tube. Towels were, in his opinion, as unsanitary as bathwater.

He cleaned his teeth, applied deodorant, creams.

In his robe he went back to the bedroom to peruse his closet. A dozen white suits, shirts ranged on one side. But he never greeted company in his work clothes.

He chose a dark gray suit, matching it with a pale gray shirt, a tone-on-tone gray tie. He dressed meticulously, carefully brushed his snow-white hair before adding the trim little beard and mustache.

Then he replaced the necklace-her necklace-that he’d removed before his shower.

The symbol of a tree with many branches gleamed in gold. The tree of life.