“You’ve been crying.”
“A little meltdown, I guess. Look, what you’re doing there’s really important. I’ll bring you up to date, meltdown included, but I need you to keep doing whatever that is. I’ll get coffee.”
“What you need is sleep.”
“Maybe, but it’s not what I’m going to get. The ground’s still a little shaky under my feet, okay? Give me a chance to steady up.”
“All right.”
He reached for another tool as she went to the kitchen to program a pot of black coffee.
19
She told him all of it, from the time he’d left her that morning until she’d left Dennis Mira.
“I really did assume Mira had told him—like the Marriage Rules take over everything else after—what—three decades. I wouldn’t have . . .” She shook her head. “I wanted to reassure him, I guess, that no matter what, I’d do the job. And I ended up telling him. An abbreviated version, maybe, but all the high points. Or the low ones.”
“There’s no kinder shoulder to lean on, to my thinking.”
“I didn’t go there to lean on him. But I did.” The tears stung her eyes again. “And he was kind. I brought him grief, mine and more of his, and he was kind. I’m going to give him more grief, because everything I do is a step closer to bringing all this out. It’s his family name.”
“A man isn’t a name. Who knows that better than I? It’s he himself makes it. I’ve no worries on that count for Dennis Mira. Nor should you.”
“You’re right.” And with that came a cool wash of relief. “You’re right,” she said again, taking his face in her hands. “You’re a fine young man, and you love me without restrictions.”
“Well now, there’s various interpretations of fine, and I might hit one or two. But the second part is pure truth.”
“You’re a fine young man,” she repeated. “I have it from a good source. So . . . do you think that thing’s going to work?”
Roarke glanced at the old disc player, the jury-rigged cable. “I do.”
She went to the bank bag, took out the disc in its clear case. “Let’s run it.”
He put the disc in a little pop-out drawer that made a grinding sound that didn’t inspire confidence. Then he played his fingers over the keyboard of her comp, swore under his breath.
“I just need to . . .”
He sat, keyed in something else, checked the connections, keyed in more. And this produced a series of beeps.
“There we are.”
“We are?”
“We are, yes. Just give it a moment.”
She frowned at the screen. The frown deepened when it turned a deep, and blank, blue.
“What—”
“It’s coming,” he insisted, and gave a satisfied nod when the word PLAY appeared in the top right corner.
“See, there we are.” He tapped two keys simultaneously with his thumb and pinkie.
They came on screen, six young men standing in a circle in a room lit with dozens of candles. The glow flickered over their taut, naked bodies.
One of them—William Stevenson, she thought—let out a series of drunken giggles.
“Come on, Billy, cut it out.” Ethan MacNamee, Eve noted, trying to look stern, but managing a glassy grin.
“Sorry, Jesus, doesn’t anybody else think this is weird? Standing here naked. Plus, she’s out, man.” He glanced behind him. “Hot, but out.”
“She’ll wake up.” Young Edward Mira had a glint in his eyes, and not all of it came from whatever they’d ingested. “And she’ll beg for it.”
“Are we really going to do this?” MacNamee swiped a hand over his mouth. “All of us? On camera?”
“Brotherhood.” Betz gave MacNamee a poke in the chest. “This is how we seal our brotherhood, now and forever. We already agreed, we’re all set up. We’ve got the girl.”
“Let’s get started.” Easterday looked off camera, too. “Hey, she was practically humping me at the party, right? We’re giving her what she wants. Is the camera on?”
“I set it up, didn’t I?” Betz looked around, directly into the lens. “It’s on. Let’s quit fucking around and start.”
“We do it right.” Wymann stepped out of range. Music began to beat—something low and tribal. “We are the Brotherhood . . .
“Come on, guys, do it right. This is the first annual Celebration of the Brotherhood. April 12, 2011.”
When he nodded, they spoke in unison.
“We are the Brotherhood. We take what we want. We take who we want. From this day forward. We are bound, we are one. What one brother needs, the brothers give. What one brother desires, all brothers desire. All men envy what we are, what we have, what we do. And none but we, the six, will know. To break the vow of silence is death. Tonight, we seal our unity, our vow, by sharing the chosen. She is ours to do with as we will. The woman is a vessel for the needs of the Brotherhood.”
“Do we speak as one?” Edward Mira demanded.
“As one!” the others responded, though Stevenson ended on a giggle.
“He’s stoned,” Eve said. “Look at his eyes. The others, they’ve had some chemical enhancement, but he had more. Or he’s more susceptible.”
“Hardly an excuse for what they’re obviously about to do.”
“No, but they needed the false courage, this time anyway, to do it.”
“We drew lots,” the future senator announced. “I am the first to take the vessel.”
“Hold on!” Betz rushed the camera. “Let me set it up.”
“Make it fast.”
The image tilted, shook—Eve saw parts of the room—a large area. Sofas, chairs, some game tables, a bar.
“Like a game room, a lounge. No windows I could see. Lower level? A fancy basement maybe. Good size.”
Then the screen showed a woman—young, maybe eighteen or nineteen. A long sweep of blond hair, a pretty face with a rounded chin, wide-set eyes. Eyes closed now.
She, too, was naked. And bound, spread-eagle on a mattress.
“Like a convertible bed? A pullout deal. Leather straps tied to the legs. Fingernails, toenails, painted—pink. That’s girlie. She’s wearing earrings, glittery. Her makeup’s smeared some. Caucasian female, about eighteen, looks like about five-five, maybe one-twenty.”
Then Edward Mira stepped over to her, leaned over. And slapped her. One of the men off camera said, “Hey! Come on, Ed,” but he ignored the protest, slapped her again.
He had big hands. Eve knew how it felt to have a big hand slap you awake.
“Wake up, bitch!”
Her eyelids fluttered. Blue eyes, Eve noted. Glazed and unfocused.
“What?” On a moan, she turned her head. “I don’t feel good. What . . .” Hints of fear lit those eyes as she tried to move, found herself bound. The fear exploded as she focused.
On the six men, Eve thought. On the one standing over her.
“No, don’t. Please? What is this?”
“This is the Brotherhood.”
As he straddled her, she wept, begged.
“Let me give her the stuff, Edward. She’ll want it when it kicks in.”
“I don’t care if she wants it or not. I take what I want.”
“Please. Please.”
She wept as Betz fumbled with a syringe, managed to push the needle into her biceps. “Give it a couple minutes.”
Ignoring Betz, he rammed himself into the girl.
She screamed.
When he was done, she turned her face away and said, “Please.” Only, “Please.” Again and again.
“Freddy’s up.”
“I’ll say.” Betz stroked himself. “I got a hell of a boner. Let’s see how the magic juice works.”
He took his turn straddling her, gave her nipple a teasing pinch. “Hey, baby.”
“What? What? It’s hot. It’s so hot.”
“Yeah, magic juice. Gonna get hotter.”
She strained against the bindings, tried to rear up. But instead of fear and shock, now her eyes were glazed and wild.
“Some form, some early form of Whore or Rabbit. Chem major—family business,” Eve stated.
Roarke said nothing, but his hand slipped into his pocket, and his fingers closed over the small gray button he carried there, always.
While Betz raped her Eve heard voices, laughter, the clink of glasses. Getting drunker, she thought, getting higher. Getting off on it, and waiting their turn at her.
When Betz came with a triumphant roar, they actually cheered.