"You weren't living with him at the time of his death."
"Doesn't make me less of his wife, does it?"
"No, ma'am, it doesn't. Can you tell me why you were separated from him, and your children?"
"That's my private marital business." Monica's arms tightened on her chest. "Jamie had a lot on his mind. He was a great man. It's a wife's duty to give way to her husband's needs and wishes."
Eve only lifted a brow at that. "And your children? Did you take their needs and wishes into account?"
"He needed the children with him. Jamie adored them."
But he didn't think so much of you, did he? Eve mused. "And you, Ms. Rowan, did you adore your children?"
It wasn't a question she needed to ask, and Eve was annoyed with herself the moment it was out.
"I gave birth to them, didn't I?" Monica stretched her head forward aggressively on her scrawny neck. "I carried each one of them inside me for nine months, gave birth to them in pain and blood. I did my duty by them, kept them clean, kept them fed, and the government gave me a pittance for my trouble. A damn cop made more than a professional mother back then. Who do you think got up in the middle of the night with them when they were squalling? Who cleaned up after them? Nothing dirtier than children. You work your hands to the bone to keep a clean house when there's children in it."
So much for mother love, Eve thought, and reminded herself that wasn't the issue.
"You were aware of your husband's activities. His association with the terrorist group Apollo?"
"Propaganda and lies. Government lies." She all but spat it out. "Jamie was a great man. A hero. If he'd been president, this country wouldn't be in the mess it's in with whores and filth in the streets."
"Did you work with him?"
"A woman's place is to keep a clean house, to provide decent meals, and to bear children." She folded her lips into a sneer. "The two of you might want to be men, but I knew what God had put women on Earth to do."
"Did he talk to you about his work?"
"No."
"Did you meet any of his associates?"
"I was his wife. I provided a clean home for him and for the people who believed in him."
"William Henson believed in him."
"William Henson was a loyal and brilliant man."
"Do you know where I might find this loyal and brilliant man?"
Monica smiled, thin and sly. "The government dogs hunted him down and killed him, just the way they killed all the loyal."
"Really? I have no data that confirms his death."
"A plot. Conspiracy. Cover-ups." Thin beads of spittie flew out of her mouth. "They dragged honest people out of their homes, locked them in cages, starved and tortured them. Executions."
"Were you dragged out of your home, Mrs. Rowan? Locked up, tortured?"
Monica's eyes slitted. "I had nothing they wanted."
"Can you give me names of people who believed in him who are still alive?"
"It was thirty years ago and more. They came and they went."
"What about their wives? Their children? You must have met their families. Socialized."
"I had a house to run. I didn't have time to socialize."
Eve flicked a glance around the room. There was no view screen in evidence. "Do you keep up with the news, Ms. Rowan? Current events."
"I mind my own business. I don't need to know what other people are up to."
"Then you might not be aware that yesterday a terrorist group calling themselves Cassandra bombed the Plaza Hotel in New York. Hundreds of people were killed. Among them, women and children."
The gray eyes flickered, then leveled again. "They should have been in their own homes where they belonged."
"It doesn't concern you that a group of terrorists is killing innocent people? That it's believed this group is connected to your dead husband?"
"No one's innocent."
"Not even you, Mrs. Rowan?" Before she could answer, Eve moved on. "Has anyone from Cassandra contacted you?"
"I keep to myself. I don't know anything about your bombed hotel, but if you ask me, the country'd be better off if that whole city was blown to hell. I've given you all the time I'm going to give. I want you out of my house, or I'm calling my public representative."
Eve gave it one more shot. "Your husband and his group never asked for money, Mrs. Rowan. Whatever they did, they did for their beliefs. Cassandra is holding the city hostage for money. Would James Rowan have approved?"
"I don't know anything about it. I'm telling you to leave."
Eve took a memo card out of her pocket, set it on the table in front of a figure of a laughing woman. "If and when you remember or think of anything that might help, I'd appreciate it if you contacted me. Thanks for your time."
They headed out, with Monica dogging their heels. Outside, Eve sucked in air. "Let's get back to the whores and filth in the streets, Peabody."
"Oh, you bet." She shuddered for effect. "I'd rather have been raised by rabid wolves than a woman like that."
Eve glanced back to see that dingy gray eye peering through the chink in the drapes. "What's the difference?"
Monica watched them go, waited until the car had pulled away. She went back, picked up the memo card. Could be a bug, she thought. Jamie had taught her well. She hurried into the kitchen with it, dumped it in the recycler, and turned the whining machine on.
Satisfied, she went to the wall 'link. Could be bugged, could be bugged, too. Everything could be. Dirty cops. Lips peeled back, she slipped a small jammer out of a drawer, slid it onto the 'link.
She'd done her duty, hadn't she? Done it without complaint. It was long past time for compensation. She programmed the number.
"I want my share," she said in a hiss when she heard the voice answer. "The police were just here, asking questions. I didn't tell them anything. But I might next time. I might just have a few things to say to Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD that would perk her ears up. I want my share, Cassandra," she repeated, attacking a faint smudge on the counter with a tattered disinfectant rag. "I earned it."
*** CHAPTER FIFTEEN ***
Dear Comrade,
We are Cassandra.
We are loyal.
I trust you have received and are pleased with the latest progress reports transmitted to your location. The next steps of our plan are under way. Much like the chess games we used to play on those long, quiet nights, pawns are sacrificed for the queen.
At this time there is a small matter I would ask you to take care of for us, as our time is limited and our concentration must remain focused on the events unfolding. Timing over the next few days is vital.
Attached is the data you will require to arrange an execution long overdue. This is a matter we had hoped to handle ourselves at a future date, but circumstances require its implementation immediately.
There is no cause for concern.
We must keep this transmission brief. Remember us at tonight's rally. Speak our name.
We are Cassandra.
• • •
Zeke stayed in the apartment all day, afraid if he so much as stepped out to the corner deli for tofu, Clarissa would call, and berating himself for forgetting to give her the number of his pocket 'link.
He kept himself busy. There were a dozen minor chores and repairs around the apartment his sister had neglected. He cleared the kitchen drain, repaired the drip, sanded the bedroom door and window sashes so that they no longer stuck, dealt with the temperamental light switch in the bathroom.
If he'd thought of it, he would have bought a few kits and upgraded her lighting system. He made a note to do so before he returned to Arizona.
If there was time. If he and Clarissa weren't on a transport west that night.
Why didn't she call?
When he caught himself staring at the 'link, he moved into the kitchen and concentrated on the recycler. He took it apart, cleaned it, put it back together again.
Then he s
tared into space, imagining what it would be like when he took Clarissa home.
There was no question his family would welcome her. Even if it hadn't been part of the Free-Age dogma to offer shelter and comfort to any in need, without questions or strings, he knew the hearts of those who had raised him. They were open and generous.
Still, he knew his mother's eyes were sharp, and would see his feelings no matter what he did to hide them. And he knew she wouldn't approve of his romantic involvement with Clarissa.
He could hear his mother's counsel as if she were in the room with him now.
She has to heal, Zeke. She needs the time and space to find what's inside her. No one can know their heart when it's so badly injured. Step aside and be her friend. You've no right to more than that. Neither does she.
He knew his mother would be right to say those things. Just as he knew no matter how hard he might try to follow her advice, he was already too deeply in love to turn around.
But he'd be careful with Clarissa, gentle, treat her the way she should be treated. He'd coax her into therapy so she could find her self-worth again, introduce her to his family so that she could see what family was meant to be.
He would be patient.
And when she was steady again, he would make love with her, sweetly, softly, so she would understand the beauty between a man and a woman and forget the pain and fear.
She was so full of fear. The bruises on the flesh would heal, but he knew those on the heart, on the soul, could spread and fester and ache. For that alone he wanted Branson to pay. It shamed him to crave retribution; it was against everything he'd come to believe. But even as he struggled to concentrate only on Clarissa, on how she would bloom away from the city—like a desert flower—his blood called out for justice.
He wanted to see Branson in a cage, alone, afraid. Wanted to hear him cry out for mercy as Clarissa had cried.
He told himself it was useless to wish it, that Branson's life would mean nothing to Clarissa's happiness and recovery once she was away from him. His Free-Ager's belief that each should move toward their own destiny without interference, that man's insistence on judging and punishing his fellows only hampered their rise to the next plane, was sorely tested.
He knew he'd already judged B. Donald Branson, and that he wanted him punished. A part of himself Zeke hadn't known existed craved to mete out that punishment.
He fought to bury it, to erase it, but his hands were clenched into fists as he looked toward the 'link once again and willed Clarissa to call.
When it beeped, he jolted, stared, then leaped on it. "Yes, hello."
"Zeke." Clarissa's face filled the screen. There were tears drying on her cheeks, but she curved her lips into a trembling smile. "Please come."
His heart sprang to his throat, swelled. "I'm on my way."
• • •
Peabody itched for the final team meeting of the day to be over. The fact was, she admitted, she just itched. Period. McNab sat across the conference table, sending her an occasional wink and bumping his foot against hers as if to remind her of what was going to happen if they could ever get the hell out of Central.
As if she could forget.
She had a couple of bad moments, wondering if she'd lost her mind, if she should call it off. It was torture trying to concentrate on the work:
"If we're lucky," Eve was saying as she paced the room, "Lamont will make a move tonight, try for some contact. We have two tails on him. My impression of Monica Rowan is that she's a basic whack, but I instructed Peabody to put in the request to tap her home and porta-links. Ordinarily, I don't think we'd get it, but the governor's jumpy, and he'll put pressure on the judge."
She paused a moment, dipped her hands into her pockets. It always unnerved her to bring up Roarke's name in official business. "Added to that, I have some hope that Roarke will gather some evidence from inside Autotron, without putting Lamont any more on alert."
"If it's there," Feeney said with a nod, "he'll find it."
"Yeah, well, I'll be checking in with him shortly. McNab?"
"What?" He was caught in the middle of another wink at Peabody, coughed wildly. "Ah, sorry. Yes, sir?"
"You developing a tic or something?"
"Tic?" He looked anywhere but at Peabody, who was struggling to turn a laughing snort into a sneeze. "No, Lieutenant."
"Then maybe you'd entertain us with your report."
"My report?" How the hell was a guy supposed to think straight when the blood kept insisting on draining out of his head and into his lap? "After contacting Roarke with your request for a long-range scanner, I took Driscol from E and B to the lab at Trojan Securities. At that time we met with Roarke and his lab manager. They demonstrated a scanner currently in development. Man, oh man, it's a beauty, Lieutenant."
Warming up, he leaned forward. "It can scan, triangulate, and scope through six inches of steel with a range of five hundred yards. Driscol nearly wet his pants."
"We can leave out Driscol's bladder problems," Eve said dryly. "Is the equipment developed enough for use?"
"They haven't done the fine tuning, but yeah. It's more sensitive and powerful than anything we have available through NYPSD. Roarke put a round-the-clock in manufacturing. We can have four of them, maybe five, by tomorrow."
"Anne, will that be enough?"
"If the units are as sensitive as Driscol reported—and I'm pretty sure he did wet his pants—it'll go a long way. I've had teams doing scans on arenas and sports complexes all day. We haven't found anything, but it's slow work. I'm short of men with so many assigned to the Plaza site."
"Our problem is time," Eve put in. "If Cassandra sticks to the timetable used by the Apollo group, we've got a couple of days. But we can't count on that. At this point, we've got everything in place we can have in place. I suggest everyone go home, try to get a decent night's sleep, and be ready to kick back into gear in the morning."
Peabody and McNab sprang up immediately, making Eve eye them balefully. "Bladder problems?"
"I…I need to call my brother," Peabody said.
"Me, too. I mean…" McNab laughed nervously. "I've got a call to make."
"Just remember, you're on call until this is over." She shook her head as they hurried out. "What's with those two lately?"
"I didn't see anything, I don't know anything." Feeney got to his feet. "That warrant comes through, I'll arrange the tap."
"See what anything?" she demanded, but he was already heading out. "Something's weird around here."
"We're all wired." Anne got to her feet. "And, oh joy, it's my turn to put dinner on the table. See you in the morning, Dallas."
"Yeah." Absently, Eve picked up her jacket, and alone, turned to study the boards one last time.
• • •
McNab's apartment was three blocks away. They took it at a fast clip with the wind directly in their faces and the beginnings of an icy rain pricking their skin.
"Here's how it's going to be," Peabody began. She had to take control from the get-go, she'd decided, to avoid any chance of disaster.
"I've got a pretty good idea how it's going to be." Once they were far enough away from Central, he patted a hand on her butt.
"This is a one-time deal." Though she liked his hand where it was, she knocked it aside. "We go to your place, we do it, and it's done. Then that's it, that's all. We get back to the way things were."
"Fine." At that point, he'd have agreed to strip naked and walk on his hands through Times Square just to get her out of that uniform.
"I'm calling my brother." She pulled her palm-link out of her pocket. "To tell him I'll be a little late."
"Tell him you'll be a lot late." With that suggestion, he bit her ear and pulled her into the skinny lobby of his building.
Heat washed through her, nearly as annoying as it was arousing. "He's not home yet. Keep out of range, will you? I don't want my brother knowing I'm stopping off for a bounce on a bony EDD guy."
&nb
sp; Grinning, McNab stepped back. "You've got a real strong romantic streak, She-Body."
"Shut up. Zeke," she continued when her 'link clicked to message. "I'm running a little late. Guess you are, too. I should be home in an hour…"
She trailed off as, still grinning, McNab held up two fingers.
"Or so. We'll go out to this club I think you'll like, if you're up for it. I'll call back when I'm on my way home."
She tucked the 'link away as they stepped into the creaky elevator. "Let's make this quick, McNab. I don't want him wondering where I am."
"Okay. Then let's get started right now." He grabbed her, had her up against the wall and his mouth fused on hers before she could squeak.
"Hey, wait." Her eyes crossed when his teeth closed over the cord in her neck. "Is this a secured elevator?"
"I'm EDD." He had fast hands and they were busy dragging open the buttons of her overcoat. "Would I live in an unsecured building?"
"Then cut it out. Wait. This isn't even legal."
He could feel her heart thudding, feel the frantic beat of it under his hand. "Screw it." He turned, jabbed the controls to stop the car between floors.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"We're about to live out one of my top ten fantasies." From his pocket he took a mini-tool kit, and went to work on the security panel.
"In here? In here?" Just the thought of it had the blood swimming wildly in her head. "Do you know how many city ordinances you're breaking?"
"We'll arrest each other after." God, his hands weren't steady. Who'd have thought it? But he grunted in satisfaction when the light on the security camera overhead went blank. He deactivated the alarm system, tossed the tools in the corner, and swung around to her.
"McNab, this is insane."
"I know." He jerked his coat off, flung it aside.
"I like it."
He grabbed her again, grinned. "I thought you would."
• • •
Ice slicked the streets and sidewalks by the time Zeke finished fighting traffic and arrived at the Branson townhouse. It fell in thin, bitter needles and shimmered in the streetlights.
He thought of the baking heat of home, the strong, clean sunlight. And of how Clarissa would heal there.