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Chapter Four
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jlk
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03 October 2012
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Eve read the notes from the Catholic Laity, entitled Our Lady’s Warriors, Our Lord told St. Gertrude the Great, that the following prayer would release 1,000 souls from Purgatory each time it is said. The prayer was extended to include living sinners which would alleviate the indebtedness accrued to them during their lives.
Eternal Father,
I offer Thee the Most Precious Blood of Thy Divine Son, Jesus,
in union with the Masses said throughout the world today,
for all the Holy Souls in Purgatory,
for sinners everywhere,
for sinners in the Universal Church,
those in my own home and within my family.
Amen
And now, Eve thought, we’re on to something. She sat up in bed, picked up her link and called Father Lopez.
“Eve?” Only when he sounded confused and groggy did she realize it was late. She checked the time. Three seventeen.
“Sorry, Chale. Can I run something by you? I’ve got a Catholic Laity group that says they have a prayer that releases one thousand people from Purgatory every time it’s said. Ring any bells?” Even as she was speaking Eve was heading for her office and the computer to do her own research. Hoping for food, Galahad trotted with her.
Chale was rubbing his eyes, putting on a robe, turning a light on. “Something to do with St. Gertrude the Great, I think,” he yawned. “I’m sorry, Eve, but she was never Canonized. The Vatican takes it more as a good story than religious fact.”
Eve swore silently, started manually typing. It flitted through her mind that Roarke had been a bad influence on her. She’d probably manually used a computer, guided by Feeney, once before he’d entered her life.
“Eve?”
“Look, as long as I have to pretend to believe in this stuff, why can’t I just go with this one? It says right here that if I say it, Roarke’s protected. And a few of his friends get out of jail, too.”
Chale had long practice with those who wanted to make their faith easy, to take the simplest path and expect the greatest rewards. Not that she was really looking for rewards, he thought. This was Lieutenant Eve Dallas, hot on the trail in a case she didn’t know how to win; all bets were off, he thought, smiling fondly. She looked exhausted and valiant as she fought for her husband’s soul. Even over a link. “You can try it, Eve. But I’m not making you any promises.”
“Thanks,” Eve gritted her teeth. “Go back to bed, Chale.”
“Good night, Eve.”
She considered the problem, then decided it was time for blind faith. At least for tonight. Eve stretched out on her sleep chair, comforted when Galahad joined her, soft fur and rumbling purr lulling her to sleep.
Peabody ran through each of the street officers’ reports. As primary, it was her job to know every word in every report. Dallas would tell her that was bullshit, that no one would be expected to know that. Officers were trained to identify the important parts, flag or report them. The rest was just filling. Dallas would say that, then read every word herself. And Peabody had nine dead men and women who needed her to stand for them.
She’d gone to the morgue early this morning, unable to sleep, creeping out of the apartment she shared with McNab. Gone to the morgue to reassure these people that they weren’t alone. That she would find who had done this to them and bring the perpetrator to justice. And somehow, as she’d stood there in the cold brightness, the silence, the smell of antiseptic, it had solidified for her. Whoever had done this had wanted them to kill each other. Had wanted them to eat of either their own or another’s flesh. The sick son of a bitch had planned and watched, most certainly recorded it. And there had been others before these two experiments. Yes, that was the word. No way he’d managed to not leave any clues to himself if he hadn’t practiced, if her wasn’t organized and very controlled. A person didn’t use a room without leaving some evidence of him or her self. Hair, oils, fibers, prints. No, he or she may have had a good time, but not good enough to forget to seal up.
She was missing something, Peabody thought. There was some clue, some detail she was overlooking. And Dallas wasn’t helping. It was more than her shoving Peabody into the primary’s role. Dallas was off her game, focused on something else. Something weird. Peabody had listened to her mumbling what sounded like prayers, curses, and voodoo chants under her breath all day yesterday. Thank the gods and goddesses that Roarke would be home in three more days; Dallas always smoothed out when he was around.
What was she missing? Peabody turned to the murder board, sat, and stared.
Eve paced the carpet of the library. It wasn’t here. Whatever was going to happen, it wasn’t going to be here at the mansion, or on the grounds. Why the nightmare had carried her outside into the storm the other night, she didn’t know, but she’d just finished a second look over the grounds and was sure they weren’t the same. Maybe she was taking the wrong view. Her horror was based on Roarke killing without regret. Although her dream made it look like she arrived too late to stop him, she had the belief that she had let him kill that man. Maybe it was more about what she could do to change the event itself. If she could get to the man before Roarke, she could stop Roarke from that fatal act.
Or she could kill first.
++++++++++++++++
Eve sat looking at the murder board. Peabody’s team was in noise and motion around her, an irritating gnat. She didn’t swat it. This was Peabody’s show. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to charge in if she was needed. They were missing something. And it was a procedural step. Something so normally done it was even harder to pin it down now. Eve had a gut feeling on it. So she stared at the board.
Peabody was ready to take a pitcher of cold water to Dallas. Her partner was staring at the three murder boards, sipping coffee, and completely zoned out. Is this how she feels when she’s primary, Peabody wondered. Alone and desperately afraid that even with all the other people helping, that it was balanced on her and her alone to find the killers? Killer. Mira had met with her this morning and her profile said one killer. Male, most likely in his fifth or sixth decade, a loner, unable to make and keep friends, relationships. Likely never married, no cohabs. His fixation with brown eyes seemed to lack any background meaning; he’d simply focused on the fact that both Dallas and Peabody had brown eyes. He may well have found a different song if Dallas had had green eyes. He knew New York well enough to have found and created the two apartments used for his experiments. Owners had had no idea that extensive renovations had occurred, the least being soundproofing. As long as they got the rent on time, there had been no interest. Peabody had two of Sparilou’s Squadron running the owners lives forwards, backwards, top and bottom. Mira was certain the killer would make contact soon. She also felt that the necklace for Dallas and flowers for Peabody wouldn’t be the only gifts.
Peabody felt the press of time on her shoulders. She needed to be out interviewing the families of the victims, the four survivors, if they could be. And instead she had to be in a news conference in ninety minutes. Not enough time to get out of here and be reliably back. She couldn’t hand the job over to Dallas because Dallas wasn’t primary, and because Dallas might start mumbling about Purgatory and forgiveness if she got by a news camera alone. If Whitney didn’t kill her on the spot, Kyung would.
“Detective. Keep working.” Whitney satisfied with the update, bowed out of the room. Peabody felt more stress; she had victims who needed her to stand for them, and survivors and family who needed answers; reporting to Whitney and Tibble and the goddamn Mayor every four hours seemed an added burden. Couldn’t they see she was working on closing the case? She’d let Whitney know if there were any developments he needed to know. Then he could let whoever else know. Hell, call Dallas for updates. Whoa. Wait. Don’t do that.
“I’ll see you both at the conference,” Kyung smiled, left.
“If you need me, call my admin or text me,” Mira told her, giving her a smile Peabody usually saw aimed at Dallas. Understanding, concerned, caring. She gracefully glided from the room.
Baxter and Trueheart bolted out to start the repeat of family interviews. Peabody felt she’d had no choice but to farm out that assignment; there was too much time flying by when those people possibly held necessary information. She could trust David and Troy.
McNab and Callendar had presented her with a handful of possible riddles from the song. Nothing she’d made any sense out of. And the computers from both scenes had been purchased from the same store, loaded with the same program from the same discs, and only used at the sites where they were found. She’d given two more of the SS assignments to check all the details out on the purchase.
One part of Peabody’s mind listened to Dallas take a link call from her husband. Peabody knew it was Roarke because Dallas’ voice had a way of going soft and a little gooey like candy left in the sun, when she spoke with her husband.
“A celebrity game. And an awards banquet. How marvelous.” Peabody knew Dallas never said marvelous. “Of course I’ll be there. And dragging Summerset.” There was a long pause. Callender was organizing discs. Peabody noticed McNab trying to get her attention, no doubt wanting a meet in the never used conference room on floor twelve. She ignored him. Didn’t he know they had serious work to do? She had a killer to catch. And he did, too. Just because he was with EDD didn’t mean he didn’t have as much duty to catch killers as she did. “I’ll bring Peabody and McNab, too. We can all cheer for you. Yes, I love you, too. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Bye, Roarke.”
Peabody rounded on her partner. “Are you out of your mind? We’ve got a goddamn killer who likes to torture people into eating each other running free on the streets. Nine dead. Four survivors insane. I’m up to my ears in hysterical family, politics and news conferences. Nadine took the entire Sparilou Squad out to dinner last night, pumping them for information. And you’re having some insane religious crisis, refusing to drive and begging for lunch breaks. Get a grip, Dallas. I don’t have time to go to Florida for a stupid assed award banquet for your playboy husband!” From somewhere far away, she heard McNab’s hoarse inhalation. Then the rat bastard ran for the door, Callendar closing it behind them snappily.
The door opened back up before either woman could draw in a breath. Father Chale Lopez stood with an obviously important religious personage, given the robes, golden crucifix the size of a poodle and general aura of holiness, standing slightly behind him.
Dallas took her feet off the conference table, stood up. Her gaze to Peabody was flat, cold, unreadable. “If you’ll excuse me, Detective. My religious crisis is escalating.” And she strode out.
+++++++++++++++++++
My students are prepared for their first study. I was wrong in my previous attempts to engage them. The four who survived my teachings were incapable of being analyzed. I will soon place in their hands a much better book. I had this one prepared to entertain us, my lovely Eve and I. And the suddenness of my success has placed the book into my hands. From my hands, to theirs. Now, these nine lovely pages will be used to lure my two brown eyed girls to me. Besides, I must have one of each. Charming Delia deserves her own servant, just as my Eve. I have already found two. Two to train to my pleasure. To satisfy our wants and needs. Two. Two!
Their gifts will arrive at Cop Central soon. I can hardly wait to see their expressions. The chocolate pearls are exquisite! My only complaint is that I will not be the one to fasten them to Delia’s perfect wrists. I shall order more immediately, knowing it will soon by my hands that offer her treasures. The jewelry for Eve is not discourteous, either. Who would expect poor quality from a mere teacher? All! But they are wrong, of course. I will provide nothing but the best for my girls.
I have my nine now. They surprised me. One was dead when I arrived early this morning. A first! They are balking at the next part, but I have left the words running on the walls. They flicker in the half-light I had given the ten. eat the one to save the nine. I will come back tomorrow to see what has happened.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Chale took Eve’s hand, looking into those brilliant eyes that showed such disquiet. “Is there somewhere private,” he asked quickly. As far as he was aware, this was an unprecedented visit to the NYPSD Cop Central. Any of the police precincts. The trip through the building, up the elevator, the maze of hallways had already garnered massive attention.
Eve nodded, led the way two doors down to an empty meeting room, stood back to let them in. What seemed to be either Secret Service or religious body guards held the hallway against whatever dangers including nosy cops may be lurking. Peabody stuck her head out into the hallway, her horrified eyes sticking to Eve’s. She looked like she was going to boot. Eve smirked and turned to the room.
Chale was giving the tall thin man a look of awed reverence. He turned to her, paused as she held up a hand. “Sound proofing, engaged. Locks, engaged.” Then he continued when she lowered her hand. “Your Eminence, Timothy Cardinal Dolan, Archbishop of New York, I present Lieutenant Eve Dallas, wife of Roarke.” He hoped he had it mostly right. This level of introductions was not covered in his level of training. Then he winced as Eve moved forward and held out her right hand to the Pope’s favorite ear, or so it was rumored.
Smoothly, the Archbishop shook the offered hand, a gesture he had not made in perhaps forty years. “My child.” Eyes that had seen much in his one hundred and ten years took in the tall lean woman, seeing the energy not of her body, but her being. “I was told you appreciate conversations that are straight to the point.”
“Yes. You want to sit, Father?” Her lack of guile made him smile at the title.
“Perhaps. When you’ve passed the century mark, sitting is more pleasurable.” He allowed Chale to help him to a very uncomfortable chair, accepted the cup of coffee from this embodiment of challenge and hope. Sipped, frowned. The coffee was worse than … he didn’t know what it tasted worse than.
“Cop coffee. Sorry. What can I do for you, Father?” She sat down across the table from him, dark eyes flat, unreadable, but not cold. Her eyes were worried.
“It’s come to my attention that you are seeking a Papal Dispensation, Eve.” With his years, the Cardinal had also taken advantage of using the familiar forms of address with his flock. She looked blank. “You want a favor from the Church,” he said dryly.
Chale choked.
Eve brightened. “Yes! Can you do that?”
“If it is within my power. And most things are,” he assured her when those glorious eyes narrowed. He’d been informed of her special qualities, including the expressiveness of features when she let down her guard. “But I will need you to be very specific.”
She thought about it for ten seconds, more on how to present her case than if this was feasible. “I’ve been having dreams, which I don’t doubt for some reason, that my husband is going to kill a man, out of anger, not self-defense. I want an indulgence for his soul.” How simple was that? She sent a smile at Chale. She didn’t know how he’d managed this, but Eve would see that she repaid him.
“I would provide a bit more than an Indulgence, my child. And what you are asking, should this event come to happen, needs to be sought by your husband.”
Her eyes went flat. “I’m asking. He doesn’t need to know about it, particularly.”
“I see.” Well versed in the art of politics, the Archbishop leaned back into the chair. “In return for this amazing bending of all holy rules, the Church can expect what in return?” He saw his priest, Father Chale Lopez, blanch, look fearfully toward Heaven.
Without hesitation, this woman who had been described as a “warrior” in his file responded, “Whatever I can give.” She locked her eyes with his, and he saw that she meant her words in a way most … uncomfortable. From her soul to her physical body, she would bargain for the one she loved. He had met Roarke several times in the past ten or so years, Timothy thought, and never seen all that much about the man to reap such protective instincts. And yet … Jesus had had his Mary Magdala. Still, there was the matter of politics to be served.
“We have an interesting issue in which your talents would be helpful,” he began obliquely.
The override on the meeting door sounded sharply, Eve came to her feet and Chief Tibble, followed by Commander Whitney came in. Both immediately approached Dolan, knelt and kissed the man’s ring. Ewww, Eve thought involuntarily, thinking of all the germs that were transferred. She saw the crowd being held back outside in the hallway, closed the doors, reengaged soundproofing. She wasn’t sure what to say. Ask Whitney for the last fifteen minutes personal time? Her link was buzzing silently with incomings and messages, like a dog shaking a bone.
The Archbishop smoothly took care of her problem. “Harrison. And Jack. Such a pleasure to be here. Your Lieutenant Dallas is going to be helping The Church with a small charity event. When the opportunity arose, I felt it applicable to talk with her here. I insist you escort me to my entourage. I noticed you were set up for a press conference when I was arriving. Shall we take advantage of that to announce how the New York Archdiocese has noticed your excellent care of this city and its populace?” He commanded them like the children he thought them as, sweeping them back out of the room with only a look and gesture. Chale joined them, closing the door at his back. Dolan looked into Eve’s eyes, smiled with faded blue that had already seen the Hand of God. “We have an agreement?”
She’d seen it in an old vid somewhere, sometime. Eve remembered it was the right way to seal a holy bargain. She spit into her right palm, held it out. The man offering her Roarke’s deliverance, after a pause did the same. They slapped their palms together then shook hands to seal the compact. ”Deal” Eve said.
Eternal Father,
I offer Thee the Most Precious Blood of Thy Divine Son, Jesus,
in union with the Masses said throughout the world today,
for all the Holy Souls in Purgatory,
for sinners everywhere,
for sinners in the Universal Church,
those in my own home and within my family.
Amen
And now, Eve thought, we’re on to something. She sat up in bed, picked up her link and called Father Lopez.
“Eve?” Only when he sounded confused and groggy did she realize it was late. She checked the time. Three seventeen.
“Sorry, Chale. Can I run something by you? I’ve got a Catholic Laity group that says they have a prayer that releases one thousand people from Purgatory every time it’s said. Ring any bells?” Even as she was speaking Eve was heading for her office and the computer to do her own research. Hoping for food, Galahad trotted with her.
Chale was rubbing his eyes, putting on a robe, turning a light on. “Something to do with St. Gertrude the Great, I think,” he yawned. “I’m sorry, Eve, but she was never Canonized. The Vatican takes it more as a good story than religious fact.”
Eve swore silently, started manually typing. It flitted through her mind that Roarke had been a bad influence on her. She’d probably manually used a computer, guided by Feeney, once before he’d entered her life.
“Eve?”
“Look, as long as I have to pretend to believe in this stuff, why can’t I just go with this one? It says right here that if I say it, Roarke’s protected. And a few of his friends get out of jail, too.”
Chale had long practice with those who wanted to make their faith easy, to take the simplest path and expect the greatest rewards. Not that she was really looking for rewards, he thought. This was Lieutenant Eve Dallas, hot on the trail in a case she didn’t know how to win; all bets were off, he thought, smiling fondly. She looked exhausted and valiant as she fought for her husband’s soul. Even over a link. “You can try it, Eve. But I’m not making you any promises.”
“Thanks,” Eve gritted her teeth. “Go back to bed, Chale.”
“Good night, Eve.”
She considered the problem, then decided it was time for blind faith. At least for tonight. Eve stretched out on her sleep chair, comforted when Galahad joined her, soft fur and rumbling purr lulling her to sleep.
Peabody ran through each of the street officers’ reports. As primary, it was her job to know every word in every report. Dallas would tell her that was bullshit, that no one would be expected to know that. Officers were trained to identify the important parts, flag or report them. The rest was just filling. Dallas would say that, then read every word herself. And Peabody had nine dead men and women who needed her to stand for them.
She’d gone to the morgue early this morning, unable to sleep, creeping out of the apartment she shared with McNab. Gone to the morgue to reassure these people that they weren’t alone. That she would find who had done this to them and bring the perpetrator to justice. And somehow, as she’d stood there in the cold brightness, the silence, the smell of antiseptic, it had solidified for her. Whoever had done this had wanted them to kill each other. Had wanted them to eat of either their own or another’s flesh. The sick son of a bitch had planned and watched, most certainly recorded it. And there had been others before these two experiments. Yes, that was the word. No way he’d managed to not leave any clues to himself if he hadn’t practiced, if her wasn’t organized and very controlled. A person didn’t use a room without leaving some evidence of him or her self. Hair, oils, fibers, prints. No, he or she may have had a good time, but not good enough to forget to seal up.
She was missing something, Peabody thought. There was some clue, some detail she was overlooking. And Dallas wasn’t helping. It was more than her shoving Peabody into the primary’s role. Dallas was off her game, focused on something else. Something weird. Peabody had listened to her mumbling what sounded like prayers, curses, and voodoo chants under her breath all day yesterday. Thank the gods and goddesses that Roarke would be home in three more days; Dallas always smoothed out when he was around.
What was she missing? Peabody turned to the murder board, sat, and stared.
Eve paced the carpet of the library. It wasn’t here. Whatever was going to happen, it wasn’t going to be here at the mansion, or on the grounds. Why the nightmare had carried her outside into the storm the other night, she didn’t know, but she’d just finished a second look over the grounds and was sure they weren’t the same. Maybe she was taking the wrong view. Her horror was based on Roarke killing without regret. Although her dream made it look like she arrived too late to stop him, she had the belief that she had let him kill that man. Maybe it was more about what she could do to change the event itself. If she could get to the man before Roarke, she could stop Roarke from that fatal act.
Or she could kill first.
++++++++++++++++
Eve sat looking at the murder board. Peabody’s team was in noise and motion around her, an irritating gnat. She didn’t swat it. This was Peabody’s show. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to charge in if she was needed. They were missing something. And it was a procedural step. Something so normally done it was even harder to pin it down now. Eve had a gut feeling on it. So she stared at the board.
Peabody was ready to take a pitcher of cold water to Dallas. Her partner was staring at the three murder boards, sipping coffee, and completely zoned out. Is this how she feels when she’s primary, Peabody wondered. Alone and desperately afraid that even with all the other people helping, that it was balanced on her and her alone to find the killers? Killer. Mira had met with her this morning and her profile said one killer. Male, most likely in his fifth or sixth decade, a loner, unable to make and keep friends, relationships. Likely never married, no cohabs. His fixation with brown eyes seemed to lack any background meaning; he’d simply focused on the fact that both Dallas and Peabody had brown eyes. He may well have found a different song if Dallas had had green eyes. He knew New York well enough to have found and created the two apartments used for his experiments. Owners had had no idea that extensive renovations had occurred, the least being soundproofing. As long as they got the rent on time, there had been no interest. Peabody had two of Sparilou’s Squadron running the owners lives forwards, backwards, top and bottom. Mira was certain the killer would make contact soon. She also felt that the necklace for Dallas and flowers for Peabody wouldn’t be the only gifts.
Peabody felt the press of time on her shoulders. She needed to be out interviewing the families of the victims, the four survivors, if they could be. And instead she had to be in a news conference in ninety minutes. Not enough time to get out of here and be reliably back. She couldn’t hand the job over to Dallas because Dallas wasn’t primary, and because Dallas might start mumbling about Purgatory and forgiveness if she got by a news camera alone. If Whitney didn’t kill her on the spot, Kyung would.
“Detective. Keep working.” Whitney satisfied with the update, bowed out of the room. Peabody felt more stress; she had victims who needed her to stand for them, and survivors and family who needed answers; reporting to Whitney and Tibble and the goddamn Mayor every four hours seemed an added burden. Couldn’t they see she was working on closing the case? She’d let Whitney know if there were any developments he needed to know. Then he could let whoever else know. Hell, call Dallas for updates. Whoa. Wait. Don’t do that.
“I’ll see you both at the conference,” Kyung smiled, left.
“If you need me, call my admin or text me,” Mira told her, giving her a smile Peabody usually saw aimed at Dallas. Understanding, concerned, caring. She gracefully glided from the room.
Baxter and Trueheart bolted out to start the repeat of family interviews. Peabody felt she’d had no choice but to farm out that assignment; there was too much time flying by when those people possibly held necessary information. She could trust David and Troy.
McNab and Callendar had presented her with a handful of possible riddles from the song. Nothing she’d made any sense out of. And the computers from both scenes had been purchased from the same store, loaded with the same program from the same discs, and only used at the sites where they were found. She’d given two more of the SS assignments to check all the details out on the purchase.
One part of Peabody’s mind listened to Dallas take a link call from her husband. Peabody knew it was Roarke because Dallas’ voice had a way of going soft and a little gooey like candy left in the sun, when she spoke with her husband.
“A celebrity game. And an awards banquet. How marvelous.” Peabody knew Dallas never said marvelous. “Of course I’ll be there. And dragging Summerset.” There was a long pause. Callender was organizing discs. Peabody noticed McNab trying to get her attention, no doubt wanting a meet in the never used conference room on floor twelve. She ignored him. Didn’t he know they had serious work to do? She had a killer to catch. And he did, too. Just because he was with EDD didn’t mean he didn’t have as much duty to catch killers as she did. “I’ll bring Peabody and McNab, too. We can all cheer for you. Yes, I love you, too. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Bye, Roarke.”
Peabody rounded on her partner. “Are you out of your mind? We’ve got a goddamn killer who likes to torture people into eating each other running free on the streets. Nine dead. Four survivors insane. I’m up to my ears in hysterical family, politics and news conferences. Nadine took the entire Sparilou Squad out to dinner last night, pumping them for information. And you’re having some insane religious crisis, refusing to drive and begging for lunch breaks. Get a grip, Dallas. I don’t have time to go to Florida for a stupid assed award banquet for your playboy husband!” From somewhere far away, she heard McNab’s hoarse inhalation. Then the rat bastard ran for the door, Callendar closing it behind them snappily.
The door opened back up before either woman could draw in a breath. Father Chale Lopez stood with an obviously important religious personage, given the robes, golden crucifix the size of a poodle and general aura of holiness, standing slightly behind him.
Dallas took her feet off the conference table, stood up. Her gaze to Peabody was flat, cold, unreadable. “If you’ll excuse me, Detective. My religious crisis is escalating.” And she strode out.
+++++++++++++++++++
My students are prepared for their first study. I was wrong in my previous attempts to engage them. The four who survived my teachings were incapable of being analyzed. I will soon place in their hands a much better book. I had this one prepared to entertain us, my lovely Eve and I. And the suddenness of my success has placed the book into my hands. From my hands, to theirs. Now, these nine lovely pages will be used to lure my two brown eyed girls to me. Besides, I must have one of each. Charming Delia deserves her own servant, just as my Eve. I have already found two. Two to train to my pleasure. To satisfy our wants and needs. Two. Two!
Their gifts will arrive at Cop Central soon. I can hardly wait to see their expressions. The chocolate pearls are exquisite! My only complaint is that I will not be the one to fasten them to Delia’s perfect wrists. I shall order more immediately, knowing it will soon by my hands that offer her treasures. The jewelry for Eve is not discourteous, either. Who would expect poor quality from a mere teacher? All! But they are wrong, of course. I will provide nothing but the best for my girls.
I have my nine now. They surprised me. One was dead when I arrived early this morning. A first! They are balking at the next part, but I have left the words running on the walls. They flicker in the half-light I had given the ten. eat the one to save the nine. I will come back tomorrow to see what has happened.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Chale took Eve’s hand, looking into those brilliant eyes that showed such disquiet. “Is there somewhere private,” he asked quickly. As far as he was aware, this was an unprecedented visit to the NYPSD Cop Central. Any of the police precincts. The trip through the building, up the elevator, the maze of hallways had already garnered massive attention.
Eve nodded, led the way two doors down to an empty meeting room, stood back to let them in. What seemed to be either Secret Service or religious body guards held the hallway against whatever dangers including nosy cops may be lurking. Peabody stuck her head out into the hallway, her horrified eyes sticking to Eve’s. She looked like she was going to boot. Eve smirked and turned to the room.
Chale was giving the tall thin man a look of awed reverence. He turned to her, paused as she held up a hand. “Sound proofing, engaged. Locks, engaged.” Then he continued when she lowered her hand. “Your Eminence, Timothy Cardinal Dolan, Archbishop of New York, I present Lieutenant Eve Dallas, wife of Roarke.” He hoped he had it mostly right. This level of introductions was not covered in his level of training. Then he winced as Eve moved forward and held out her right hand to the Pope’s favorite ear, or so it was rumored.
Smoothly, the Archbishop shook the offered hand, a gesture he had not made in perhaps forty years. “My child.” Eyes that had seen much in his one hundred and ten years took in the tall lean woman, seeing the energy not of her body, but her being. “I was told you appreciate conversations that are straight to the point.”
“Yes. You want to sit, Father?” Her lack of guile made him smile at the title.
“Perhaps. When you’ve passed the century mark, sitting is more pleasurable.” He allowed Chale to help him to a very uncomfortable chair, accepted the cup of coffee from this embodiment of challenge and hope. Sipped, frowned. The coffee was worse than … he didn’t know what it tasted worse than.
“Cop coffee. Sorry. What can I do for you, Father?” She sat down across the table from him, dark eyes flat, unreadable, but not cold. Her eyes were worried.
“It’s come to my attention that you are seeking a Papal Dispensation, Eve.” With his years, the Cardinal had also taken advantage of using the familiar forms of address with his flock. She looked blank. “You want a favor from the Church,” he said dryly.
Chale choked.
Eve brightened. “Yes! Can you do that?”
“If it is within my power. And most things are,” he assured her when those glorious eyes narrowed. He’d been informed of her special qualities, including the expressiveness of features when she let down her guard. “But I will need you to be very specific.”
She thought about it for ten seconds, more on how to present her case than if this was feasible. “I’ve been having dreams, which I don’t doubt for some reason, that my husband is going to kill a man, out of anger, not self-defense. I want an indulgence for his soul.” How simple was that? She sent a smile at Chale. She didn’t know how he’d managed this, but Eve would see that she repaid him.
“I would provide a bit more than an Indulgence, my child. And what you are asking, should this event come to happen, needs to be sought by your husband.”
Her eyes went flat. “I’m asking. He doesn’t need to know about it, particularly.”
“I see.” Well versed in the art of politics, the Archbishop leaned back into the chair. “In return for this amazing bending of all holy rules, the Church can expect what in return?” He saw his priest, Father Chale Lopez, blanch, look fearfully toward Heaven.
Without hesitation, this woman who had been described as a “warrior” in his file responded, “Whatever I can give.” She locked her eyes with his, and he saw that she meant her words in a way most … uncomfortable. From her soul to her physical body, she would bargain for the one she loved. He had met Roarke several times in the past ten or so years, Timothy thought, and never seen all that much about the man to reap such protective instincts. And yet … Jesus had had his Mary Magdala. Still, there was the matter of politics to be served.
“We have an interesting issue in which your talents would be helpful,” he began obliquely.
The override on the meeting door sounded sharply, Eve came to her feet and Chief Tibble, followed by Commander Whitney came in. Both immediately approached Dolan, knelt and kissed the man’s ring. Ewww, Eve thought involuntarily, thinking of all the germs that were transferred. She saw the crowd being held back outside in the hallway, closed the doors, reengaged soundproofing. She wasn’t sure what to say. Ask Whitney for the last fifteen minutes personal time? Her link was buzzing silently with incomings and messages, like a dog shaking a bone.
The Archbishop smoothly took care of her problem. “Harrison. And Jack. Such a pleasure to be here. Your Lieutenant Dallas is going to be helping The Church with a small charity event. When the opportunity arose, I felt it applicable to talk with her here. I insist you escort me to my entourage. I noticed you were set up for a press conference when I was arriving. Shall we take advantage of that to announce how the New York Archdiocese has noticed your excellent care of this city and its populace?” He commanded them like the children he thought them as, sweeping them back out of the room with only a look and gesture. Chale joined them, closing the door at his back. Dolan looked into Eve’s eyes, smiled with faded blue that had already seen the Hand of God. “We have an agreement?”
She’d seen it in an old vid somewhere, sometime. Eve remembered it was the right way to seal a holy bargain. She spit into her right palm, held it out. The man offering her Roarke’s deliverance, after a pause did the same. They slapped their palms together then shook hands to seal the compact. ”Deal” Eve said.
