The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [512]
Her eyes rolled back to white, to blind, as he dragged her away from the lights.
He had to slap her several times to bring her around. She had to be awake for it, awake and aware.
He kept his voice down—he was no fool—but he said what he needed to say as he used his fists on her.
How do you like it now, bitch? Who’s the boss now, whore?
And there was both shame and unspeakable delight in ramming his body into hers. She didn’t fight, only lay limp, and that was a disappointment.
She’d struggled before, and sometimes she’d begged. That was better.
Still, when he pulled the cord around her neck, when he yanked it tight and saw her eyes bulge, the pleasure was so keen he thought he, too, might die of it.
Her heels drummed, soft little thumps on the grass. Her body convulsed, and brought his—at last, at last—to completion.
“Go to hell.” He panted it out while he stripped off her clothes. “Go to hell now, where you belong.”
He stuffed her clothes in the bag he’d brought with him, then hooked the strap crossways over his massive chest.
He picked her up as if she weighed nothing. And he reveled in his strength, in the power it gave him.
He carried her to the bench he’d selected, so lovely under the big, shady tree, so close to the dignified fountain. There he laid her out, carefully bringing her hands together, tucking them up between her breasts.
“There now. There now, Mother, don’t you look nice? Would you like to see?”
He was grinning, a mad grin that all but burst through the thick layers of sealant he wore. “Why don’t I help you with that?”
So saying, he took the scalpel from his pocket and set to work.
Chapter 10
When her bedside ’link signaled, Eve rolled toward the sound, said: Shit, crap, damn it, when she fumbled in the dark.
“Lights on, ten percent,” Roarke called out.
Eve dragged a hand through her hair, shook her head to clear sleep. “Block video,” she ordered. “Dallas.”
“He’s killing her. He’s killing her.”
The voice was so thin and breathy, Eve needed the readout to identify. “Celina. Pull yourself together. Pull it together and give me a clear report.”
“I saw . . . I saw like the other. Oh, God. It’s too late. It’s already too late.”
“Where?” She leaped out of bed, tossed her voice toward the ’link as she raced for clothes. “Central Park? Is he in the park?”
“Yes. No. A park. Smaller. Gated. Buildings. Memorial Park!”
“Where are you?”
“I—I’m at home. I’m in bed. I can’t stand what’s in my head.”
“Stay there. Understand me. Stay where you are.”
“Yes. I—”
“End transmission,” Eve snapped, and cut off Celina’s wild weeping.
“Will you call it in?” Roarke asked.
“I’ll check it out myself first. I should say we’ll check it out,” she amended as he was up and dressing as she was.
“Celina?”
“She’ll have to deal.” Eve strapped on her weapon. “We all have to deal with the stuff in our heads. Let’s move.”
She let him drive. It might have irked that he handled a vehicle—any vehicle—with more skill than she, but it wasn’t the time to quibble about it.
It wasn’t the time, she admitted, to quibble about psychics either. She yanked out her communicator and requested a patrol to report to Memorial Park to check out a possible assault.
“Look for a male, between six four and six eight, muscular build. Approximately two-seventy. If found, detain only. Consider said individual armed and dangerous.”
Eve leaned forward, as if to give them more velocity as they streaked toward southern Manhattan. “She could be seeing something that’s going to happen, not that has. It could be—what do you call it?”
“Precognition.”
“Yeah.” But there was a heaviness in her belly that told her otherwise. “I’m close. Goddamn it, I know I’m on the right track.”
“If he’s killed tonight, he didn’t wait two months.”
“Maybe he never has.”
They chose the west entrance, off Memorial Place, and pulled up behind the black-and-white snugged to the curb.
“How many ways in and out of this?” Eve asked. “Three, four?”
“About that, at a guess. I don’t know for sure. It’s only about a block square, I think. One of the