"Of course. Yes, indeed." He handed back the debit card, then offered the keycode and the guest packet. "Will you need assistance with your luggage?"

"No. See that we're not disturbed, won't you?"

"Of course. Yes. If you need anything, anything at all..." he called after them as they walked to the elevators. "He's wondering if we're going up there for some quick sex," Eve said. "You don't own this place, do you?" "I don't, no, but he's certainly wondering if I'm going to."

The elevator opened and yawned, Eve thought, like a big, greedy mouth. She stepped into it. "I could've used my badge, kept your name out of it." "This was simple enough."

"I guess. Anyway, it took my mind off things, watching you work him.

Another ten seconds of you, and he'd've babbled." The elevator doors opened again. She stood where she was, staring out at the quiet hallway.

"It was dark," she managed. "I think it was dark, and he was pissed off. But there were so many places, I'm not sure if I'm mixing it up with somewhere else. I was only outside the room twice, once when we went in. Once when I went out. I'm sure of that.

It was almost always that way."

"He can't lock you in anymore."

"No." She stiffened her spine and walked out into the hall. "It smelled like wet socks. That's what I thought. Like wet, dirty socks, and I was tired. Hungry. I hoped he'd go out, get us something to eat. But more, I hoped he'd just go out. It's that way." She gestured toward the left.

It was to the left, and five rooms down. "I'm scared stupid. Don't let me run."

"You won't run. Eve." He turned her face to his, touched his mouth to hers. "You were always stronger than him. Always." "Let's see if you're right. Open it."

You just go through the door, she told herself. That's what you do.

How many times had she done just that, knowing death waited on the other side hoping to take her? There was no one on the other side of this door but ghosts.

The roar in her head was nearly a scream when she stepped in.

It was tidy, clean, pleasantly appointed. Viewing discs were fanned out artistically on a low table beside an arrangement of fake flowers. The floor was carpeted in a pale beige.

Was there blood on the floor under it? she wondered. Was his blood still there?

The bed was covered in a spread exploding with what she thought might have been poppies. A work area had been built into a corner and held a small, practical communication center. The kitchenette was separated from the sleeping area by an eating counter. There was a bowl on it holding a display of nubby fruit.

Through the window she could see another building, but there was no sign, no flashing light, no wash of dirty red.

"Looks like they redecorated." The feeble attempt at humor echoed back at her. "We never stayed in places like this-as nice as this-that I remember. Nothing this clean and, well, tended, I guess, as this is now. Sometimes there were two rooms, so I had my own bed. But sometimes I slept on the floor. I slept on the floor."

Her gaze was pulled down, over. She could see herself there, if she let it happen, see herself huddled on the floor under a thin blanket.

"It's cold. Climate control's broken. It's so cold it hurts my bones.

There's no hot water and I hate washing in the cold. But I have to get his smell off me. It's worse than being cold to smell him on me after he's..."

She hugged her arms now, and shuddered.

He watched it come into her, and it tore him to pieces. Lanced through his heart till he could all but feel the blood pouring out of it for her. Her eyes widened and blurred, and her face went more than pale. It went transparent.

"I slept there. Tried to sleep there. There's a light through the window, flashing off and on. Red then black, red then black, but the red stays like a mist. He goes out a lot. Places to go, people to see.

Keep quiet as a mouse, little girl, or the snakes'll get you.

Sometimes they swallow you whole, the snakes do, and you're still alive inside them. Screaming."

"Good Christ." He barely breathed the oath, had to jam his fists into his pockets for there was nothing and no one to fight, to punish for terrorizing the child that was now his wife.

"If someone's coming here, I have to stay in the bathroom. Children aren't to be seen or heard. When he brings women up, he does to them what he does to me. It's safe when he does it to them, and they don't cry or beg him to stop unless he starts hitting them. But I don't like to hear it."

She covered her ears with her hands. "He doesn't bring them back very much. Then it's not safe. Sometimes he's drunk, drunk enough.

But not always. When he's not, he hurts me. He hurts me."

Unconsciously she pressed a hand between her legs and rocked. "If I can't hold it back, if I cry, if I scream, if I beg, he hurts me more.

This is what you're supposed to do. You better learn, little girl.

Pretty soon you're gonna earn your goddamn keep. You remember what I told you."

She looked at Roarke, looked through him, then took a staggering step forward. She didn't see the poppies now, or the pretty flowers, the pale, clean rug.

"I'm so cold. I'm so hungry. Maybe he won't come back. But he always comes back. Something bad could happen to him so he couldn't come back. Then I could get warm. I'm so hungry."

She stepped toward the kitchenette. "Not supposed to touch anything. Not supposed to eat unless he says so. He forgot to feed me again. There's cheese. It's green, but if you cut that off, it's okay.

Maybe he won't know if I have just a little. He'll hit me if he finds out, but he'll hit me anyway, and I'm so hungry. I forget I'm not supposed to eat because I want more. I want more. Oh God, God, he's coming."

The hand she'd fisted opened. She heard the knife hit the floor. What are you doing, little girl?

"Have to think fast, make excuses, but it doesn't help. He knows, and he's not very drunk. He hits me in the face; I taste blood, but I don't cry. Maybe he'll stop. But he doesn't stop, and now it's his fists. He knocks me down." She crumpled to her knees. "And I can't stop myself from begging him. Stop, oh please, don't. Please, please, it hurts. He'll kill me if I fight, but I can't help it. It hurts! And I hurt him back."

She peers down at her hand, remembering using her nails to claw at his face, how he'd howled. She could hear it.

"My arm!" She clutched it. Heard, felt the dry snap of that young bone, and the hideous bright pain. "He's pushing into me, pushing in, panting on my face. Candy breath. Mints," she realized dimly. "Mints over whiskey. Horrible, horrible in my face. I see his face. They call him Rick, or Richie, and his face is bleeding where I scratched him.

He can bleed, too. He can hurt, too."

She was weeping now, the tears pouring down her face. Watching her, knowing he had no choice but to watch her live the nightmare, Roarke broke inside.

"I have the knife in my hand. My hand closes over the knife I dropped on the floor. Then the knife's in him. It punches into him, a little popping sound. And now he screams, and he stops. The knife made him stop, so I push it into him again. Again. Again. He rolls away, but I don't stop. He stopped, but I don't stop. I can't stop. He's staring at me, and I won't stop. Blood, the blood's all over him. All over me. His blood's all over me."

"Eve." She was on her hands and knees, snarling like an animal.

Roarke crouched in front of her, took her arms. She hissed at him, but he tightened his grip. And his hands trembled. "Stay here.

Stay with me. Look at me."

She shook violently, fought for breath. "I'm all right. I can smell it."

She broke, and shattered into his arms. "Oh God, can't you smell it?"

"We're going to leave now. I'm taking you away from this."

"No. Just hold on to me. Just hold on. I remember what it was like.

Like not being human anymore. Like the animal that lives inside us had leaped out. Then I crawled away, over there."

She shivered still as she looked over at the corner, but she made herself see it, see herself, as it had been. "I watched him for a long time, waiting for him to get up and make me sorry. But he didn't.

When it was light, I got up and washed his blood off me in the cold water. And I packed a bag. Imagine thinking of that? I hurt- my arm, where he'd raped me again-but it was buried under the shock. Still, I didn't use the elevator-had enough wit for that. Used the stairs.

Crept down the stairs and went outside. I don't remember a lot of that, except it was bright out and my eyes stung. Lost the bag somewhere and just walked. And walked."

She eased back. "He never called me by a name. Because I didn't have one. I remember that now. They didn't bother to give me a name because I wasn't a child to them. I was a thing. I can't remember her, but I remember him. I remember what he said the first time he touched me. What he told me to remember. That was what he kept me around for, and when I'd learned, that was how I'd earn my keep.

He was going to whore me. Nothing like young pussy, he said, so I'd better learn to take it without the whining and crying. He had a fucking investment in me, and I was going to pay off. We were going to start here. Here in Dallas, because I was eight and that was old enough to start carrying my weight."

"It ended here." He brushed tears from her cheeks. "And what started, darling Eve, was you."

CHAPTER 14

He ignored her request to head straight to the central police station and drove to the hotel, one he did own, and where the owner's suite was prepared for them.