In Death 20 - Survivor in Death

despite the speed, of a man hauling precious cargo.
    He’d think of that, she realized. The little things. Is that what she lacked, the ability to consider the compassionate, because she was so focused on brutality?
    Trueheart played with her, Baxter joked with her. Peabody had no trouble finding the right words, the right tone. Summerset--frog faced demon from hell--he was handling her overall care and feeding without a single bump.
    And there was Roarke being Roarke--no matter what he said about the kid being scary and intimidating. He interacted with her as smoothly as he drove the damn copter.
    And, Eve admitted, every time she got within five feet of the kid she wanted to walk the other way. She didn’t know how to deal with the entity of a child. Just didn’t have the instincts.
    And just wasn’t able to--bottom line--close out the horror of her own memories the kid pushed into her head.
    She glanced down, saw Nixie watching her.
    “Mira says they have to be in places that are cold.”
    “Yeah.”
    “But they don’t feel cold anymore, so it’s okay.”
    Eve started to nod, dismiss it. Jesus, she thought, give her something. “Morris--Dr. Morris,” Eve corrected, “has been taking care of them. There’s nobody better than Dr. Morris. So yeah, it’s okay.”
    “Tracking us,” Roarke said softly and she swung around to him.
    “What?”
    “Tracking.” He tapped a gauge bisected with green and red lines. “Or--more accurately--trying. Can’t get a lock. Ah, that must be frustrating.”
    She studied the dash gauges, tried to decipher the symbols. “Can you track it back to source?”
    “Possibly. I engaged the tracking equipment before we took off, so it’s working on it. It’s mobile, I can tell you that.”
    “Ground or air?”
    “Ground. Clever. They’re attempting to clone my signal. And yes, detected me doing precisely the same to theirs. They’ve shut it down. We’ll call that one a draw, then.”
    Still he detoured, spent a few minutes cruising to see if they’d attempt another trace. His equipment continued to sound the all-clear when he landed on the roof of the morgue.
    As arranged, it was Morris himself who opened the by-air delivery doors. Closing and latching them when everyone was inside.
    “Nixie.” He offered his hand. “I’m Dr. Morris. I’m very sorry about your family.”
    “You didn’t hurt them.”
    “No, I didn’t. I’ll take you to them now. Level B,” he ordered, and the wide elevator began its descent. “I know Dr. Mira and Lieutenant Dallas have explained some of this to you, but if you have any questions you can ask me.”
    “I watch a show about a man who does work on dead bodies. I’m not really supposed to, but Coyle can, and sometimes I sneak.”
    “Dr. Death? I watch that sometimes myself.” The doors opened into the long, cool white corridor. “It’s a little more entertaining than it is accurate. I don’t chase the bad guys, for instance--I leave that in the capable hands of the police, like Lieutenant Dallas.”
    “You have to cut them open sometimes.”
    “Yes. I try to find something that will help the police.”
    “Did you find something with my mom and dad, with my brother?”
    “Everything Morris has done has helped,” Eve said.
    They stopped by double doors, their small, round observation windows screened now. Nixie reached for Eve’s hand, but they were jammed in pockets. She settled for Mira’s. “Are they in there?”
    “Yes.” Morris paused again. “Are you ready to go in?”
    She only nodded.
    She would smell it, of course, Eve thought. No matter what sterilizer they used, it never quite masked the smell of death, the fluids and liquids and flesh.
    She would smell it, and never forget it.
    “Can I see my daddy first? Please.”
    Her voice trembled a little, and when Eve looked down she saw Nixie was pale, but her face was set with a concentrated determination.
    So nor would she forget it, Eve thought. She wouldn’t forget this kind of courage, the kind it had to take for a child to stand, to wait while her father--not a monster, but a father--was drawn out of a steel drawer.
    Morris had masked the throat wound with the magic of his enhancers. He had draped the body with a clean white sheet. But dead was dead.
    “Can I touch him?”
    “Yes.” Morris set a stool by the drawer, helped her climb onto it, and stood by her, his hand lightly on her shoulder. She brushed her fingers--light as a wish--over her