Survivor in Death

“I wanted to tell him, to tell him and Mom. I wanted Mom. But they were dead.”

“You saw the man again, and someone else,” Eve prompted, “when you went upstairs. You went up the back way.”

“The man who killed Inga was going into Coyle's room.”

“How do you know? Nixie, how do you know it was the man from Inga's room who went into Coyle's?”

“Because…” She looked up again, blinking against the tears. “The light. The green light. The other didn't have one.”

“Okay. What else was different?”

“The one who killed Inga was bigger.”

“Taller?”

“A little bit, but bigger.” She flexed her arms, indicating muscle.

“Did they talk to each other?”

“They didn't say anything. They didn't make any noise. I couldn't hear anything. I wanted Mom.”

Her eyes went dull again, and a tremor shook her voice. “I knew what they were going to do and I wanted Mom and Dad, but… And there was blood, and it got on me. I hid in the bathroom, and I didn't come out. I heard people come in, but I didn't come out. You came.”

“Okay. Do you remember, before any of this happened, if your parents said anything about being concerned, about anybody who was mad at them, or if they'd seen somebody hanging around who shouldn't be?”

“Dad said Dave said he was going to beat him unconscious with his nine iron because he won the golf game.”

“Did they fight a lot, your dad and Dave?”

“Nuh-uh, not for real.” She knuckled her eyes. “Just ripping.”

“Was there anybody he did fight with? Not just ripping?”

“No. I don't know.”

“Or your mom?” When Nixie shook her head, Eve eased into a dicey area. “Did your mom and dad fight, with each other?”

“Sometimes, but not like bad. Gemmie's mom and dad used to yell at each other all the time, and Gemmie said they threw things. And they got divorced because her dad couldn't keep his pants zipped. That means he screwed around.”

“Got that. But your parents didn't fight like that.”

“They didn't, and they didn't screw around either. They danced on the beach.”

“Sorry?”

“In the summer, when we went to the beach and got the house. Sometimes they went out to walk at night, and I could see them from my window. They'd dance on the beach. They weren't going to get divorced.”

“It's good to have a memory like that,” Mira said. “When you start to feel too sad, or scared, you can try to see them dancing on the beach. You did very well. I'd like to come back and talk to you again some time.”

“I guess it's okay. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now.”

“I think you should have some lunch. I have to go soon, but Lieutenant Dallas will be here, working upstairs in her office. Do you know where the kitchen is?”

“No, the house is too big.”

“Tell me about it,” Eve muttered.

Mira rose, held out a hand. “I'll take you back, and maybe you can help Summerset for a little while. I'll be back in a minute,” she said to Eve.

Alone, Eve paced to the windows, to the fireplace, back to the windows. She wanted to get to it, start the process. She needed to set up her board, do the runs, write her report and file it. Calls to make, people to see, she thought, jingling loose credits in her pocket.

Shit, how was she going to deal with this kid?

She wondered if the cops who'd had to interview her all those years ago had been equally unsure of their footing.

“She's coping very well.” Mira came back into the room. “Better than most would. But you should expect mood swings, tears, anger, difficulty sleeping. She's going to require counseling.”

“Can you handle that?”

“For the moment, and we'll see how it goes. She may require a specialist, someone trained primarily in children. I'll look into it.”

“Thanks. I was thinking I should check the department, Youth Services, find a couple of officers who I can assign to her.”

“Take it slow. She's dealing with a lot of strangers at once.” She touched Eve's arm, then picked up her bag. “You'll handle it.”

Maybe, Eve thought when Mira left. Hopefully. But at the moment, she had plenty of doubts. She headed upstairs, detoured into Roarke's office.

He was at his desk, with three of his wall screens scrolling various data, and his desk unit humming. “Pause operations,” he said, and smiled. “Lieutenant, you look beat up.”

“Feel that way. Listen, I didn't have a chance to really run all this by you. I know I just more or less dumped some strange kid on you and blew.”

“Is she awake?”

“Yeah. She's with Summerset. I did a second interview with her, with Mira in attendance. She holds up pretty well. The kid, I mean.”

“I've had the news on. The names haven't been released yet.”

“I've got that blocked-for the moment. It's going to break soon.”

Knowing his wife, he went to the AutoChef, programmed two coffees, black. “Why don't you run it for me now?”

“Quick version, because I'm behind.”

She gave him the details, brief and stark.

“Poor child. No evidence, as yet, that anyone in the household was into something that could bring down this kind of payback?”

“Not yet. But it's early.”

“Professional, as I'm sure you've already concluded. Someone trained in wet work. The green light she saw was most likely the jammer- green for go-as the security had been bypassed.”

“Figured. On the surface, these people seem ordinary, ordinary family. Straight arrows. But we haven't done much scratching on that surface yet.”

“Sophisticated electronics, special forces-type invasion, quick, clean hits.” Sipping coffee, he ignored the beep of his laser fax. “In and out… in, what, ten or fifteen minutes? It's not something for nothing. Home terrorism would have left a mark, and the targets would have been higher profile. On the surface,” he added.

“You still have some contacts in organized crime.”

A smile ghosted around his mouth. “Do I?”

“You know people who know people who know scum of the earth.”

He tapped a fingertip on the dent in her chin. “Is that any way to talk of my friends and business associates? Former.”

“Damn straight. You could make some inquiries.”

“I can, and I will. But I can tell you I never associated with child killers. Or anyone who would slaughter a family in their sleep.”

“Not saying. I mean that. But I need every angle on this. The little girl? The one he killed in place of the kid downstairs? She was wearing a little pink nightgown with-what do you call it-frills around the neck. I could see it was pink from the bottom. The rest was red, soaked through with blood. He'd slit her throat open like it was an apple.”

He set his coffee down, walked to her. He put his hands on her hips, laid his brow on her brow. “Anything I can do, I will.”

“It makes you think. You and me, we had the worst most kids can get. Abuse, neglect, rape, beatings, hate. These kids, they had what it's supposed to be, in a perfect world: nice homes, parents who loved them, took care of them.”

“We survived,” he finished. “They didn't. Except for the one downstairs.”

“One day, when she looks back on this, I want her to know the people who did this are in a cage. That's the best I can do. That's all I can do.”

She eased back. “So, I'd better get to work.”