But it wasn't true. His face ached from the powder burns, and he was exhausted now that his adrenaline had stopped pumping. And bloody images haunted his mind-all the killing ones from Vietnam.
He heard the faint rhythm first. “Jess is here,” Carey said. Releasing Molly, he bent low over Egon. “The doctor's here, Egon, You hear, brat? The doctor's come.” He thought there was a glimmer of movement beneath his eyelids, but when he looked again there was only quiet and the face of death.
Sylvie was the first one off the chopper. When she came within range, Carey shouted, “If you're not going to help, get the hell away.” He didn't want any scenes or screaming tears or questions. He didn't care why she was here or how she'd arrived. All that mattered was grabbing at the slim chance Egon had at life. “And if you know how to pray,” he added, as she halted in midstride, shocked at his brutal tone, “you'd better start.”
Continuing past her, he helped unload the oxygen and stretcher. He answered the doctor's questions in succinct phrases, and wordlessly aided the doctor when he eased Egon onto the stretcher.
Subdued by Carey's warning and the sight of Egon's grave wounds, Sylvie was remarkably quiet. She only said, “We'll follow you,” when Carey informed her he was bringing Egon to Miami. Her private jet which had landed in Montego Bay, was parked near Carey's.
The flight to Miami was funereal. Carey wouldn't talk, but sat with his elbows propped on his knees and his head in his hands. Mariel had found a rosary somewhere, and the doctor and two nurses who'd joined them at the airport spoke in the hushed tones of a death watch.
Carey seemed remote from the man Molly had loved long years ago in their heated summer of passion. Even the sweet, caring man she'd rediscovered short weeks ago had disappeared. She found herself with a silent, merciless gunslinger, a competent killer who had taken control with quiet efficiency as though he stalked hired assassins every day of his life.
The flying bullets had been too real, as were the deadly tone of Carey's voice and the ice in his eyes. She felt a small shiver of fear travel down her spine. Did she really know him at all?
Their arrival at Jackson Memorial Trauma Center didn't alleviate her feelings of uncertainty and doubt. Carey Fersten, a VIP of the first magnitude, was treated with deference by everyone from the admitting clerk to the head surgeon.
Although Carey was concerned for her comfort, Molly found him curiously detached, as if he found it odd to see her still beside him as they entered the trauma center. And much later, when the team of doctors had stabilized Egon's shocked and damaged body, he'd said in a cool voice, “Would you excuse me for a moment, darling? The doctors want to brief Sylvie and me on Egon's condition.” And he walked away with his beautiful ex-wife. His head was tipped low in conversation, giving every appearance of being deeply attached.
Mariel, who had scarcely said a word or looked up from her rosary, patted Molly's hand in comfort.
Molly silently cautioned herself against reading erroneous interpretations into Carey's tenderness toward Sylvie. Good Lord, she chastised herself, he loved Egon, and the next hours could see his young friend gone forever, could see Sylvie's only family disappear forever. They needed each other now, and she'd be the most unfeeling monster to deny them the solace they found in each other.
At last everyone re-assembled in the waiting room. While Molly, Sylvie, and Mariel sat and listened, Carey asked questions about Egon's condition.
The doctors didn't have much hope. Egon had been given last rites. Even if he survived, there was a possibility his paralysis would be permanent. A bullet had lodged near his spine, and was in too precarious a position to attempt removal. Continued pressure was aggravating the paralysis, but surgery now could be lethal.
“I'm so sorry,” Molly said softly.
Mariel cried without uttering a sound.
And Sylvie threw her arms around Carey's neck and wept.
They stayed at the hospital through the night. Carey arranged rooms for them, but no one could sleep with Egon near death. Carey, Sylvie, and Mariel took turns at his bedside.
When he wasn't with Egon, Carey prowled like a caged tiger. I'll kill him for you, Egon, he silently vowed, his need for revenge terrifying in its violence. And later, when he sat by Egon's bed again, watching him struggle to breathe, all his anger and frustration was directed toward Rifat. “Live, Egon, just live,” he whispered to the still, quiet form attached to all the machines and tubes and tanks. “I'll kill him, I promise.”
Rifat's greed had to be stopped, his senseless brutality brought to an end. Carey had never considered himself a crusader; he avoided politics and causes, always contributed anonymously to charities, not wanting the publicity. Even his impulse for soldiering in Vietnam had been inspired by family tradition, rather than patriotic zeal.
But now a black and savage vengeance overcame Carey, a murderous rage that demanded retribution for what Rifat had done to Egon. People like Rifat preyed on weakness and fear. They didn't take the chances themselves. They only gave the orders, detached from the human suffering, the unmitigated terror their greed imposed on other human beings.
For the first time in his life, Carey was a zealot. All he could think of as he sat at Egon's bedside was the retribution he would exact. Nothing else distracted his thoughts, no room existed in his mind for other emotions. His urge to kill was the only positive energy he felt.
The doctors held no hope for Egon.
As he waited, Carey planned every move: what he'd need, how he'd enter Rifat's house, the equipment necessary to avoid detection. “Come on, Egon,” he softly pleaded, bending near so Egon might hear him, “keep breathing.” Like an older brother promising to fight the playground bully, Carey said, “I'll kill Rifat for you.”
And he smiled when he saw a tiny flicker of Egon's eyelid. “Hold on, brat. I need you to make my life interesting.”
That afternoon the doctors made a cautious prognosis. Egon's kidneys had begun functioning, an improvement that moved him into the everyday miracle stage.
It was near midnight when he opened his eyes-only once, but he focused on Carey.
“Welcome back,” Carey said softly.
A dozen times Molly had begun to say, “I'm going back home.” But her declaration would seem tactless and disrespectful when Egon lay dying, so she stayed and watched Carey withdraw into himself.
Molly had had her taste of adventure. Now, in the shrouded gloom of Egon's death vigil, her swift journey into near extinction was enough to last her ten lifetimes. No longer exhilarated or impelled by a need for self-reliance, she only experienced an enormous despair. Disillusion had set in, and all she wanted to do was crawl into her sheltered cocoon and pretend men didn't kill other men over drugs and guns and money. She wanted to go back to Carrie and bring her home. Just before dinner, she told Carey her wishes.
“You can't,” he said bluntly. “Not until Rifat's terminated.”
“Terminated?” A sharp criticism was delivered with the single word. “Why don't you say what you mean?” They were standing in the hall near the windows overlooking the parking lot, where waves of heat rose from the asphalt in transparent vapor.
“Okay, killed. Better? I'm going to kill the mother-fucker,” he said with ruthlessness, his eyes black with hate.
She took a reflexive step backward. “I don't know you like this,” she whispered.
“The war was over when I met you,” he curtly replied.
“Have you…” she hesitated, not knowing why she felt impelled to ask, thinking maybe there was a simple answer to understanding this stranger standing before her. “Have you killed many people?”
“Lots,” he said in a voice devoid of warmth.
That wasn't the simple answer she wanted to hear. It was exactly opposite of the answer she wished for. She felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. “I want to go back home,” she said. This time, he didn't argue.
“Fine,” he said, his voice level and empty. “I'll take you
to my father's.”
“When can I go home?” Her words were determined.
“Afterward.”
“After what?”
“After Rifat's dead.”
CHAPTER 38
T hey left late that night, after Sylvie had been sufficiently placated and Mariel settled into the room next to Egon. They drove to the airport like two silent strangers, and once they boarded the plane Carey excused himself to join Jess in the cockpit. Egon was alive; at least their mission had been partially successful, though the extent of his injuries was grievous. Molly wasn't so sure her relationship with Carey hadn't suffered an equally unfortunate mutilation; he was not the man she thought she knew. He was disturbing and unfamiliar, and she was forced to face the very real possibility she had fallen in love with a memory, not the existing Carey Fersten.
Although Carey knew better, he couldn't make himself give Molly all the necessary explanations and assurances. He wasn't up to the argument of whom or what was more important. He was going to kill Rifat or die trying. That was just the way he felt, and he didn't want to have it analyzed or examined or negated.
Their arrival at Bernadotte's was subdued. Molly didn't argue when Carey suggested she go to sleep while he filled his dad in on the events in Jamaica.
Bernadotte was concerned for Egon's life, but more apprehensive about his son's intractable obsession with Rifat's death. Once he realized Carey wouldn't be deterred, sensible man that he was, Bernadotte took it upon himself to offer whatever help he could. The two men sat up that night planning the operation.
“He must be cordoned off from the world,” Bernadotte said. “He hasn't survived this long without the most sensitive security system, and he may be expecting you if one of his men got away.”
“I can't be certain if the man survived. There wasn't time to follow him. It's possible the third man is dead.”
“Nevertheless, Rifat will be alerted as well if his men don't return.”
“Fucker's always alert. You know what my first instinct was when Egon got mixed-up with the bastard? I thought: maybe a small missile through his bedroom window or a bomb under his chair in his favorite restaurant. But no, I'm too damned civilized now. A dozen years away from Vietnam and you begin acting normal. Your first impulse is no longer shoot first and check out the corpse's identity later.”
Bernadotte heard the anger in his son's voice, and was reminded of the glimpses he'd seen of that same white-hot rage when Carey had first come home. He'd been mostly silent and uncommunicative, but on rare occasions a television newscast or a newspaper article would set him off, and an explosion of words would come tumbling out, words of tragedy and loss, of the horror that passed for war. “A car bomb might be effective. And safe.”
“His vehicles are checked before he steps foot in them.”
“Maybe a woman could carry something into his bedroom, or say, at a restaurant and leave it.”
“That's been tried. The woman's body or what was left of it turned up in the Tiber two days later. Besides… I want to see the fear in his eyes before I kill him.”
“I felt that way about the Russian artillery crew that bombarded us and killed Kirsti. I understand how you feel.”
“I don't know if I can do it-manage to get to him,” Carey said, “but I have to try. Do I sound deranged?” He smiled then, in a rueful grimace, and drained the glass of tea his father had brewed for him.
“You can't be perfectly normal with your mother and me for parents,” Bernadotte replied with his own smile, aware of the idiosyncracies in their personalities. “All I ask is that you take all the possible precautions. The image of the lone, heroic gunslinger is a literary device. In the real world, a well-devised plan with a team to implement it is more effective.”
“I'm going to ask Ant and Luger for help with the logistics. If they can supply me with some interesting weapons, I'll be in good shape.”
“Are they coming here?”
“No, not with Molly and Carrie… and Lucy. I'm flying out west tomorrow morning.” He sighed then, and recrossed his legs. “Molly doesn't understand,” he said.
“Why should she?” Bernadotte quietly replied.
“I know.” Carey slid lower on his spine, his expression disgruntled. “She wants to go home.”
“And what did you say?”
“No, of course. She'd be completely vulnerable to Rifat.”
“Does she understand?”
“Not emotionally.”
“But logically she does.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“So there's trouble in paradise.”
“You bet.” He raked his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Would you make it as pleasant for her as possible? Try to explain-oh hell, I should do that, but dammit, I'm not up to it right now.” He sighed again. “After Rifat, I'll explain.”
“I'll do what I can,” Bernadotte promised, “and if it's any consolation, Carrie and Lucy are happy as clams here. It won't be difficult to convince them to enjoy a few more days of vacation on the farm.”
“Great.” And Carey's eyes glimmered with hope. “Tell me what they've been doing. I'll bet Leon is pleased to have another Fersten under his tutelage. Isn't she wonderful?”
The night passed swiftly as Bernadotte filled Carey in on the activities at the farm. Then the two men began to plan the mission against Rifat.
They were having breakfast when Molly joined them.
“You didn't come to bed,” she said, surveying the weariness on Carey's face and the golden stubble beginning to show along his jaw.
“Papa and I couldn't sleep. Did you rest well?”
“Yes, thank you,” Molly replied. In fact, she had hardly slept, waiting for Carey to come, wanting to talk to him, wanting assurance against the doubts assailing her. When he didn't appear, the old uncertainties held sway.
“I'm flying out this morning but Papa will keep you company,” Carey told her at the breakfast table. She couldn't scream or make a scene or even ask for an explanation with Bernadotte there. Now she knew why he hadn't come to bed.
Carey Fersten didn't want to argue or offer any more explanations. He also didn't love her enough, she thought, to care how she felt. She replied in as pleasant a tone as his, “Have a good trip. Will you be long?”
There was an infinitesimal pause before he answered, “I don't think so.”
“I was hoping to go home soon,” she said.
“Could I call and let you know on that?”
“I'd appreciate it.”
They could have been debating the condition of the lawns at Wimbledon, Molly thought with resentment, they were all so damned civilized.
Carrie and Lucy came bounding into the breakfast room a moment later, easing the tension. The girls were dressed for their riding lessons, and so absorbed in their excitement over learning to jump that the topic took precedence over eating.
“Do we have to?” Carrie complained when Molly said, “Now sit down and eat,” and she looked to her father for support.
“Do what your mom says,” Carey directed, “and I'll go with you.”
“Will you? Wow! Grandpa said you and Tarrytown can do five feet. Will you take me over?”
“Let's start a little lower,” her father cautioned. “I didn't jump five feet my first week.”
“You will though, won't you? I mean later-maybe when I'm lots better-take me over that high?”
“Sure, Pooh, I promise.”
After the girls had bolted their breakfast, Molly was invited to accompany them, but declined, saying she'd follow along later. Her mood was still acrimonious enough to make polite conversation a trial, and she didn't care to risk even a mild scene in front of the girls. After some calming moments in her bedroom in which she counseled herself into a functional courtesy if not a sincere one, she walked down to the small jumps Bernadotte had set up near the stable.
But as she approached the jump area, it was empty. Leaning on the white, paint
ed fence that wound for miles over Bernadotte's land, she searched the rolling hills. Several of the green pastures were occupied by grazing horses, but no riders were in evidence.
Just as she was moving away to return to the house, a wild, exhilarated cry carried faintly to her ears, the sound vaguely reminiscent of her daughter's voice. And when she turned back to investigate the direction of the high-pitched scream, she saw the horses in the distant pasture lift their heads in curiosity. A moment later, two horsemen jumped the farthest fence into their pasture, and shot toward them.
The horsemen broke through the maddened scuttle of the herd, making for the opposite fence. They cleared the three-rail fence as though it didn't exist, and galloped toward the stableyard. As they drew closer, Molly saw the two girls seated in front of the men, their hair streaming behind them, their little legs bouncing wildly, their hands clutching the saddle pommels. Carey was holding Pooh with one hand, his reins with the other, and she could see their smiles even from her distance. Lucy was equally cheerful in Bernadotte's care, and she saw the youngsters wave to each other in joyful excitement.
The horses came up the rise at enormous speed, digging in with long racing strides. When Molly realized the men were going to attempt the high fence into the riding ring, her hands went unconsciously to her mouth in horror. They're fools, she thought, petrified and appalled. Mad, mad fools… and they were jeopardizing the lives of two young girls. No wonder Carey was so impossibly heedless and wild-his father was exactly the same.
As they careened toward the high fence, she shut her eyes, unable to watch the bloody carnage.
“We won! We won!” she heard her daughter crow a moment later in lieu of the crashing noise she'd expected. Her eyes snapped open to observe her daughter twist around in the saddle and throw her arms around her father in jubilant victory.
“Tarrytown's fresher,” Carey modestly said, “or Lucy and Grandpa might have beat us. But you were great. I hardly had to hold on to you at all.”
“Nice riding,” Bernadotte said to his son, pride in his voice. Carey had managed to get two strides ahead at the last fence and held it up the hill.
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