Loyalty In Death Part 41

"Stay away from her." Though fury was bubbling in his gut, Zeke's voice was calm.

"Well, well." Branson turned, stumbled a little, and Zeke caught the stink of whiskey. "Isn't this cozy. The wh.o.r.e and the handyman." He shoved Zeke in the chest. "Get the h.e.l.l out of my house."

"I intend to. With Clarissa."

"Zeke, don't. He doesn't mean anything, B. D." She pushed herself to her knees like a woman praying. "I was...just going out for a walk. That's all."

"Lying b.i.t.c.h. So you were going to help yourself to what's mine, were you?" He shoved Zeke again. "Did she tell you how many others she's wh.o.r.ed with?"

"That's not true." Clarissa's voice broke on a sob. "I never -- " She broke off, cringing when Branson swung back to her.

"Shut the f.u.c.k up, I'm not talking to you. Thought you'd put in a little overtime while I was out of town?" He sneered at Zeke. "Too bad I canceled the trip, but maybe you shoved your d.i.c.k into her already. No." He laughed, knocking Zeke back a step. "If you'd had her, you'd know she's lousy in bed. Beautiful and a waste. But she's mine."

"Not anymore."

"Zeke, don't. I want you to go now." Her teeth were chattering. "I'll be fine.

Just go now."

"We'll go." Zeke said it calmly as he bent down to pick up her coat. He didn't see Branson's fist fly out. He never expected violence. But it connected with his jaw, radiating pain, shooting sparks. Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Clarissa cry out again.

"Don't hurt him. Please, don't hurt him. B. D., I won't go. I swear I -- " Then she screamed again when he grabbed her up by the hair.

It happened fast, in a kind of red mist. Zeke jumped forward, striking out with one hand, grabbing for Clarissa with the other. Branson fell back, feet sliding on the polished floor. He went down hard, and there was a sharp crack as his skull rapped onto the marble hearth.

Frozen, Zeke stood, one arm locked around Clarissa to support her, and stared horrified at the blood that began to seep and pool from Branson's head.

"Sweet G.o.d. Sit down, here, sit down." He all but carried her to a chair, leaving her huddled as he rushed over to Branson. His fingers trembled as he pressed them against Branson's throat.

"There's no pulse." He drew in air sharply, ripped open Branson's s.h.i.+rt, and began to pump the heart. "Call for an ambulance, Clarissa." But he knew it was too late. Open eyes stared up at him, the blood was streaming. When he forced himself to look, he could see no aura.

"He's dead. He's dead, isn't he?" She began to shake, her eyes huge on Zeke's, the pupils contracted to needlepoints of shock. "What will we do, what will we do?"

Nausea churned in Zeke's stomach as he rose. He'd killed a man. He'd left behind every belief and had taken a life. "We have to call an ambulance. The police."

"The police. No, no, no." She began to rock then, her face white and strained.

"They'll lock me away. They'll send me to prison." "Clarissa." He made himself crouch in front of her, take her hands, though his felt soiled and evil.

"You didn't do anything. I killed him." "You -- you -- " Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. "Because of me. It's all because of me."

"No, because of him. You need to be strong now."

"Strong. Yes." Still shaking, she leaned back and her eyes never left his face.

"I will be strong. I will. I need to think. I know, I... But... I feel ill. I -- Could you get me some water?"

"We need to call the police."

"Yes, yes, I will. We will. But I need a minute first, please. Could you get me some water?" "All right. Stay right here."

His legs felt like rubber, but he made them move. His skin felt as slicked with ice as the streets outside. He had killed.

The two servants in the kitchen barely glanced at him when he came in. He had to stand a moment, his hand braced against the door. He couldn't remember why he'd come in, but he could hear, as if it was happening again, the sickening crack of Branson's skull hitting the hearth.

"Water." He managed to get the word out. He could smell meat roasting, sauce simmering. Sickness reared up into his throat. "Mrs. Branson asked me to get her some water."

Without a word, one of the uniformed droids moved to the refrigerator. Zeke watched with a dull fascination as she poured bottled water into a heavy gla.s.s, sliced a fresh lemon, added it and ice.

Because his hands were shaking, he took the gla.s.s she brought him in both of them, managed a nod of thanks, and walked back to the parlor. Water leaped over the rim of the gla.s.s and onto the back of his hand when he saw Clarissa on her hands and knees frantically wiping up blood. There was no body beside her.

"What have you done? What are you doing?" Panicked, he set the gla.s.s down and ran to her. "What has to be done. I'm being strong and doing what has to be done. Let me finish."

She was fighting him, shoving, weeping, and the smell of fresh blood was strong. "Stop. Stop this. Where is he?"

"He's gone. He's gone, and no one has to know."

"What are you talking about?" Zeke pulled the b.l.o.o.d.y rag from her, tossed it back on the hearth. "For G.o.d's sake, Clarissa, what have you done?"

"I had the droid take him." Her eyes were wild, as with fever. "I had the droid take him out, put him in the car. He'll throw the body into the river. We'll clean up the blood. And we'll run away. We'll just go away and forget this ever happened."

"No, no, we won't."

"I won't let them put you in prison." She reached out, grabbed his s.h.i.+rt. "I won't let them lock you away for this. I couldn't bear it." She lowered her head to his chest, clung. "I couldn't stand it."

"It has to be faced." He gentled his hands on her arms. "If I don't face it, I couldn't live with myself." When she sagged against him, he took her back to the chair."

"You'll call the police," she said dully. "Yes."

They'd finally made it to the bed. Peabody wasn't altogether sure how they'd managed to get from the elevator to his apartment to his bed without killing each other, but that's where they were. The sheets were hot and tangled, and even now when McNab rolled weakly off her, her body pumped heat like a furnace.

"I'm not done yet," he said in the dark with a voice that hitched.

Peabody snorted, then began to laugh like a loon. "Me, neither. What are we, crazy?" "A couple of more times, we'll probably burn it all out of our systems."

"A couple of more times, we'll be dead."

He reached out to stroke her breast. He had long, bony fingers, and she was becoming very fond of them. "Game?" "Looks like."

He rolled over, replaced his fingers with his tongue. "I love your t.i.ts." "Gee, thanks."

"No, I mean... ummm." He began to suck, slowly now, bringing an odd liquid flutter to her belly. "I really love your t.i.ts."

"They're mine." She could have bitten her tongue, and was grateful for the dark that concealed the flush as he chuckled against her. "I mean, I didn't like buy them or anything."

"I know, Dee. Believe me, nothing improves on Mother Nature."

G.o.d, she wished he hadn't called her Dee. It made it all personal, and well, intimate, when it was -- it had to be... otherwise. She started to tell him so, but his hand was sliding, not rus.h.i.+ng this time, just lazily sliding down her rib cage.

"Man, you are so... female." He had an urge to kiss her, long and slow and deep. As he lifted his head, started to order lights so he could see her when he did, a 'link beeped.

"s.h.i.+t. Lights. Yours or mine?"

All at once, they were both cops. She dived for her coat pocket. "Mine, I think.

It shouldn't be from Dispatch, it's my palm-link. Block outgoing video," she ordered, shoving the hair back from her face. "Engage. Peabody."

"Dee." Zeke's face filled the miniscreen. By the time he'd drawn a breath, let it out, her heart had stopped. She'd seen that stunned and glazed look in too many other eyes.

"What's happened? Are you hurt?"

"No. No. Dee, I need you to come. I need you to call Dallas and come to Clarissa Branson's house. I just killed her husband."

Eve finished reading the printout Roarke had given her and sat back in the chair at her desk. "So, Lamont's been stealing material from Autotron, bits and pieces at a time, for the last six months."

"He covered his tracks well." It burned, oh, it burned to know he'd been paying the son of a b.i.t.c.h all along. "He had some autonomy, his requisitions would hardly be questioned. He just ordered a bit more than he required for the work, then obviously smuggled out the extras."

"Which were handed over to Fixer, I'd guess. This is enough to nail him on theft of hazardous material, anyway. And that's enough for me to haul his b.u.t.t into interview and cook him."

Roarke studied the glowing tip of his cigarette. "I don't suppose you could hold off on that long enough for me to fire him. Personally?"

"I think I'll save myself the trouble of getting you out of a.s.sault charges and dump him in a cage out of your reach. I appreciate the help." "Excuse me?"

He turned back to her. "If you'd let me get my memo book, then repeat that for the record."