did, probably shortly after you left. She’s sedated her routinely so Eloise wouldn’t know what she was doing in the basement.”
“What was she doing in the basement?”
“Killing men.”
Donnalou took a staggering step back. “That can’t be true.”
“Tell that to the man currently being treated by MTs down there because we were in time to save him. I’m going to need to talk with Eloise.”
“I need to check on her. I need to—” She stopped, seemed to draw herself together layer by layer. “Do you know what she was given?”
“No, but I imagine she kept the drugs downstairs. I’ll let you know.”
Donnalou went up, Eve went down. And found all the e-geeks huddled around workstations, gadgets, and droids.
“Peabody?” she asked, and Callendar pointed left. Before she headed in that direction, Eve walked over to Brinkman and the MTs.
“Mr. Brinkman.”
“He’s a little loopy,” one of the MTs told her. “We had to give him something. We’ll take him in, probably they’ll keep him tonight, treat these burns, the lacerations. You’re gonna get more out of him once he settles down.”
“Okay, it can wait.”
She went toward Peabody’s direction just as Peabody started in hers. “Dallas, you need to see this.”
“Did you find Brinkman’s clothes, the rest of his things?”
“Yeah, she’s got a damn warehouse. I started flagging what looks like the previous victims’ clothes, ’links, wallets, and all that, then I got curious, and looked around more. The place is huge.”
Peabody stopped, pointed. “Warehouse. Vic stuff organized over there, and her, well, wardrobe over there. It’s like a costume department.”
Wigs, about a dozen in various styles, displayed on a counter. The counter with a lighted triple mirror, a chair, dozens of drawers, held, Eve saw, facial enhancements, eye dyes, implants, face putty, temp tats, temp skin coloring. An array of clothes from business suits to evening wear, shoes, bags, hung neatly on rods and posts. Jewelry glittered in clear drawers in a clear stand.
Another full-length triple mirror, a board holding photos showing Darla in various outfits—no, Eve thought, costumes. Another board matched those costumes, those personas with victims—those she’d killed, more already targeted.
“Why don’t you go up, get the sweepers in here? I need to find where she kept the drugs.”
“Then you better come through here. I sort of don’t want to go in again, but…”
Peabody led the way into another area. A comp—more house monitors. A glass friggie holding bottles of medication, clear drawers of syringes.
A ceremonial blade, as Morris had hypothesized, lay waiting on a counter—its hilt carried the same inscription as the breastplate.
LJ
And, above, the reason for Peabody’s reluctance.
A shelf held jars of liquid preserving the genitals she’d removed from her victims—all carefully labeled.
“Barking mad,” Eve mumbled.
A long night, she thought yet again as she finally made her way to the third floor. Donnalou sat beside Eloise’s bedside.
“It’s going to take some time to finish processing the basement, and any areas Darla might have used. It would be better if Eloise stayed elsewhere for the next few days at least.”
“I don’t understand any of this.”
“Can you wake her up?”
“It would be better if she woke naturally. The sedative your partner brought up is mild, but—”
“She’s going to need an explanation. I have to leave shortly, and she deserves an explanation. And I think she’s going to need you to stay with her.”
“I will stay with her, as long as she needs me. I’ll wake her. Please be gentle. This is going to break her heart.”
Donnalou took a little vial out of her nurse’s bag, waved it under Eloise’s nose.
Her eyes fluttered; she gave a little sigh. When she started to roll over, Donnalou took her hand. “Miss Eloise? Miss Eloise, it’s time to wake up now. It’s Donnalou.”
“Oh, did I fall asleep again? Donnalou, I’m getting so old and lazy.” She sighed again, opened her eyes. And saw Eve.
“Lieutenant Dallas?” Eloise pushed herself up to sitting while Donnalou fussed, arranging pillows at her back. “My goodness, did I have a relapse?”
“No.” Eve pulled a chair to the side of the bed to make it easier for Eloise to see her face.
“Oh God, oh God, something happened to Darla.”
“She’s not hurt. She’s in custody.”
“I— What?”
“Eloise, I’m going to say something I think you already know or suspect. Darla is and has been ill, mentally and emotionally. There were probably signs. You took her into your home because you love her, and maybe you thought that would help, would be enough, but there were probably signs.”
Eloise, pale as the sheets around her,