In Death 20 - Survivor in Death

still got him. Tell me one of the black-and-whites still has him.”
    “That’s a negative, sir.”
    She studied the overturned bus, the wrecked cars, the still screaming pedestrians. There was going to be hell to pay.
    She looked over at Trueheart, and for one moment her heart stopped. His face, his uniform jacket, his hair were covered with red.
    Then she let out a breath. “Told you to hold on to that damn fizzy.”

20
    SUMMERSET GLANCED UP FROM HIS BOOK WHEN Roarke tapped on the jamb of his open parlor door. It was rare for Roarke to come into his private quarters, so he put the book aside, rose.
    “No, don’t get up. I ... have you got a minute?”
    “Of course.” He looked over at the monitor, saw that Nixie was in bed, sleeping. “I was about to get a brandy. Would you like one?”
    “Yes. I would, yes.”
    As he picked up the decanter, Summerset pondered over the fact that Roarke continued to stand, trouble written on his face. “Is something wrong?”
    “No. Yes. No.” Roarke let out a frustrated laugh. “Well now, I’ve been stepping on my own feet quite a bit the last days. I’ve something I want to say to you, and I’m not sure quite how to start it.”
    Stiffly now, Summerset handed Roarke a snifter of brandy. “I realize the lieutenant and I have had a number of difficulties. However--”
    “Christ, no, it’s nothing to do with that. If I came around every time the two of you locked horns I’d put in a bleeding revolving door.” He stared down at the brandy a moment, decided maybe it would be better done sitting.
    He took a chair, swirled the brandy while Summerset did the same. And the silence dragged on.
    “Ah, well.” It annoyed him that he had to clear his throat. “These murders. This child--the children--they’ve made me think about things I’d rather not. Things I make a point of not thinking of. My father, my own early years.”
    “I’ve gone back a few times myself.”
    “You think of Marlena.” Of the daughter, the young, pretty girl who’d been murdered. Raped, tortured, murdered. “I told Nixie the pain lessens. I think it must. But it never goes completely, does it?”
    “Should it?”
    “I don’t know. I’m still grieving for my mother. I didn’t even know her, and I’m still grieving when I thought I’d be done. I wonder how long that little girl will grieve for hers.”
    “In some part of her, always, but she’ll go on.”
    She’s lost more than I ever had. It’s humbling to think of. I don’t know how . . . You saved my life,” Roarke blurted out. “No, don’t say anything, not until I manage this. I might have lived through that beating, the one he gave me before you found me. I might have survived it, physically. But you saved me that day, and days after. You took me in, and tended to me. You gave me a home when you had no obligation. No one wanted me, and then . . . You did. I’m grateful.”
    “If there was a debt, it was paid long ago.”
    “It can never be paid. I might have lived through that beating, and the next, and whatever came after. But I wouldn’t be the man I am, sitting here now. That’s a debt I’m not looking to pay, or one you’re looking to collect.”
    Summerset sipped brandy, two slow sips. “I would have been lost without you, after Marlena. That’s another debt that’s not looking for payment.”
    “There’s been a weight inside me,” Roarke said quietly. “Since this began, since I found myself faced with the blood of children I didn’t know. I could shift it aside, do whatever I needed to do, but it kept rolling back on me. I think, like grief, it might stay there awhile. But it’s less now.”
    He drank down the brandy, got to his feet. “Good night.”
    “Good night.” When he was alone, Summerset went into his bedroom, opened a drawer, and took out a photograph taken a lifetime ago.
    Marlena, fresh and sweet, smiling out at him. Roarke, young and tough, with his arms slung around her shoulder, a cocky grin on his face.
    Some children you could save, you could keep, he thought. And some you couldn’t.
    She got home late enough to consider just going up and dropping fully dressed onto the bed. A headache clamped the back of her neck, digging its hot fingers into the base of her skull. To avoid increasing it with sheer irritation, she pushed Trueheart at Summerset the minute they came in the door.
    “Do something with his uniform,” she said, already heading up the stairs. “And put him to