The In Death Collection Books 26-29 - J.D. Robb [89]
“She was traveling,” he reminded her. “She might have taken them with her.”
“Yeah, I’m going to check on that. And what if—”
“Eve?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember that hammer I said I’d fetch you in the morning?”
She frowned in the dark. “Sort of.”
“Don’t make me get it now and knock you out with it.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Go to sleep.”
She frowned in the dark for another minute, but her eyes began to droop. She felt his arm go around her again, drawing her in, then the muffled thud as Galahad pounced onto the foot of the bed.
As the cat arranged himself over her feet, she dropped into sleep.
15
IN SLEEP, SHE ARRANGED THEM. THOMAS ANDERS at the center with the others fanning out like rays. Ava, Ben, Edmond and Linny Luce, Greta Horowitz, Leopold Walsh, Brigit Plowder, Sasha Bride-West.
But no. She shifted restlessly in sleep. No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t the sun, he wasn’t the center. Not to her. He was only the vehicle, he was only the means.
Expendable, when the time was right. Steady, reliable, not very spectacular, predictable Tommy.
Left with a nice chunk of change. Dirk Bronson lounged in a deck chair behind Ava, sipping a frothy drink. Not a backward glance.
Seed money. The kickoff. The flashy lead-off batter.
Change the lineup.
In the dream, the ball field was summer green and rich brown, the white bases gleaming like marble plates. The players took that field in uniforms black as death. Brigit crouching behind the plate—catcher to Ava’s pitcher—Sasha fussing with her hair at short, Edmond at first, Linny at second, Ben playing the hot corner at third with Leopold and Greta patrolling right and left fields, respectively.
Short a man, Eve thought. They’re short a man at center field.
I’m always the center. Ava smiled, wound up, and winged a high, fast curve. At the plate, Tommy checked his swing.
Ball one.
The crowd, in their black mourning clothes, applauded politely. Nice call, ump. Eve glanced back, scanned the dugout. Even in the dream it seemed strange to see Mira in a ball cap drinking tea out of a china cup. Feeney sat on the bench in his pajamas, sneezing. He’s on the disabled list, she thought, but the rest of the team’s here. Peabody, McNab, Whitney, even Tibble. And Roarke, of course, watching as she watched.
Ava, set, glanced over her shoulder toward third. The pitch missed, low and outside. Ball two.
Ava took a bow, for the crowd, for the field. I can keep this up for years. Slow ball, fast ball, curve ball, slider. It’s not a strike until I’m ready to throw one.
She threw again, high and inside, brushing Tommy back from the plate.
Ball three.
There were mutters from the dugout, restrained hoots from the crowd. As Brigit jogged up to the mound, Ben called over to Eve, We’re playing on the wrong team. Can’t you call the game? Can’t you call it before it’s too late?
Not without more evidence, Whitney said from the dugout. No cause. You need probable cause. There are rules.
Roarke shook his head. Far too many rules, don’t you think? After all, murder doesn’t play by the rules.
Brigit jogged back, gave Tommy a pat on the cheek, then turned to Eve. She’s going to the bullpen. She needs some relief. You have to admit, it’s all a little boring this way, and she’d put in a great deal of time.
I can’t stop it, Eve thought. I can only call them as I see them.
A shadow crossed the field, an indistinct form gliding over the summer grass. No, I can’t stop it, Eve thought again. It had to play out. I can only make the call after the pitch.
I’m sorry, she said to Tommy, there’s nothing I can do.
Oh well. He smiled kindly at her. It’s just a game, isn’t it?
Not anymore, Eve thought as the shadow merged with Ava, as they set, checked, wound up together. Fast ball, dead over the plate.
He lay on the rich brown dirt, the marblelike plate his headstone, and his eyes staring up at the clear blue of the sky.
On the mound, Ava laughed