He grinned and told her about Molly. “One tough broad, my mom, and the biggest heart, almost as big as her biceps, big mouth, all full of advice.” He gave her more orange juice and another sandwich and watched her eyes begin to close. What she had to tell him about her stepfather and Bathsheba could wait. They had plenty of time. They weren’t going anywhere for the moment. He wanted her strong again.
While she slept, Marcus did too. He wanted both of them to be as close to the top of their form as possible. He awoke to night, and the woman said to him, “You were stupid, Mr. O’Sullivan.”
So she’d gotten bored with her two stooges and herself and she wanted to talk. How long had she been savoring that line?
“Could be,” he said mildly. “Being the brain of the western world ain’t all that easy.”
“You shouldn’t have screwed Mr. Giovanni.”
“That’s interesting. I don’t suppose you’d know why he thinks I screwed him?”
She shook her head, but he could tell that she was angry because she hadn’t been told what he’d done. She was a hired gun, nothing more. He wondered if she was free-lance. Whatever, she’d accomplished her assignment.
Dominick had moved with incredible speed. It was impressive, but Marcus didn’t like being on the other end of all that impressiveness. He wondered who owned the jet. It wasn’t Dominick’s. Then he remembered Mario Calpas. He owned a jet, probably this one.
“Obviously it’s got something to do with her.” The .38 waved in Rafaella’s direction. “He was very clear that he didn’t want her killed. I guess he wants to do it. Was she his mistress first?”
“Nope, she’s his biographer.”
The woman snorted, a very unattractive sound. She wasn’t a pleasant sort. It was after midnight. Marcus wished she’d just go to sleep.
So she’d had orders not to kill Rafaella. But Marcus knew that if it had come down to it, the woman would have killed Rafaella without a blink, both of them in fact, and any other person who got in her way.
“She’s a very good writer,” he said.
“Bull. She wouldn’t be lying there bleeding if she’d been writing.”
“She’s multitalented.”
The woman snorted again.
“I don’t suppose you had a sister who lived in Mannheim, named Tulp?”
“No.”
“Oh, well, you look a bit like her.”
She didn’t tell him her name, which was just fine with Marcus. No, she held her tongue and turned to stare into the dark night from the window at her elbow.
When Rafaella woke, she had to go to the bathroom.
“You swear you’re okay?”
“Yes,” she said, and he believed her. He helped her up, aware that the woman was watching every move. Didn’t she ever sleep? He waited outside the bathroom door.
He fetched them more food. When Rafaella came out of the washroom, he knew her well enough to realize that she was ready for business, any business. She’d nearly gotten it together again.
Rafaella drank down more orange juice. When she finished, she felt almost ready to take on the woman, who still sat there, holding the pistol at the ready, watching them. It was scary, that soulless stare of hers.
Rafaella looked at Marcus, then leaned toward him, her nose practically touching his, and whispered, “Dominick Giovanni is my father.”
As a bombshell, it won highest marks. She’d never before seen him utterly speechless; in fact, she’d begun to believe that her suave, smooth-talking Marcus couldn’t be caught off-guard, but she’d gotten him this time.
“My God,” he said finally, and a black eyebrow shot up toward his hairline. “You’ve got to be making that up.”
“My mother is married to Charles Winston Rutledge, just in case your brain hadn’t leapt to make the connection.”
“My God,” he said again.
“Dominick doesn’t even remember her. Her name is mine—Holland—but when he met her, Dominick knew her only as Margaret Pennington. She was—and still is—very rich, you see. Her aunt and uncle insisted that she use their name, to keep away men who wanted heiresses.”
“Your eyes—damnation, your eyes. I thought they were familiar. They’re the same color as Dominick’s.”
“I hope that’s all I inherited from my dear father. My mother is lying in a coma because she was hit by Sylvia Carlucci Giovanni—that’s what Charles was told. I can’t buy it myself—the coincidence goes too far.”
Marcus stared at her. “And here I thought my secrets would blow you out of the water. I’m not in your league.”
“Just keep listening. It’s hard even for me to believe it all. My mother wrote journals. I didn’t know about them until after she’d been struck by Sylvia or whoever. Then I found them and read them all. That red book you saw beside me that first night on the beach? Well, that was one of her journals. It’s so sad, Marcus, so sad. Anyway, Charles found out about the journals and read them too, nearly a year ago. I guess he decided to murder Dominick, get him out of her life once and for all. The painting Bathsheba—I suppose he saw a sort of irony in it, the king, himself, dispatching the man who had an incredible hold on the woman he, Charles the King, loved. That explanation would probably make a shrink cringe, but it’s the best I can do.
“I just happened to see the painting a very long time ago, by accident. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but it made an impression that finally came back to me. And that was when I made the connection. I couldn’t tell you then, Marcus. He’s my stepfather and—”
“I understand. Forget it. This is crazy, utterly crazy, but I still love you, and we’ll get out of this somehow.” Marcus took a deep breath. “Dominick will kill your stepfather.”
“We must stop him.”
“I hate to remind you, Ms. Holland, but you and I are also prisoners and our future isn’t the brightest I would have planned for us. Dominick doubtless thinks you’re in on the assassination attempts, but he doesn’t know why. Which is why he didn’t want you killed.”
“We’ll think of something, Marcus, we’ve got to.”
“Yeah, just not at the moment. I want you to tell me everything, Rafe, don’t leave anything out, not even a semicolon. But first hug me and tell me you can’t live without me.”
But it wasn’t to be. Even as Rafaella put her arms around Marcus’s waist, the woman said suddenly, her voice an odd mixture of envy and anger, “That’s enough. Mr. O’Sullivan, move away from her. It isn’t smart to let you two go on and on, because I can’t hear what you’re saying. If you want to tell her how cute she is, then do it in my hearing.”
Marcus gave her a long look, then moved away. “Go to sleep, sweetheart,” he said. “Dream of solutions while you’re at it.”
“And no nightmares for you, okay?”
Twenty-three
Giovanni’s Island
April 2001
The two men stared at each other. Finally Dominick said, “Welcome to my island, Mr. Rutledge. I have heard a lot about you, of course, particularly from your lovely stepdaughter. Do sit down, sir. Do you mind if I ask your age?”
“Fifty-six,” Charles said, staring at the man who’d betrayed Margaret, the man who’d killed his own wife, the man who’d made Charles’s life a mockery. Margaret had never been all his own, and he’d known it deep down even before he’d found and read her journals, known there was someone else, a man who haunted her. This man, Dominick Giovanni, had always lurked there in the shadows of her mind, always locking Charles out. Charles wanted to kill Giovanni with his bare hands.
“I am fifty-seven.”
Somehow that one year made Charles feel a bit better, which was, of course, ridiculous. “Why did you bring me here, Mr. Giovanni? And in such an unorthodox manner?” He looked over at Frank Lacy as he spoke.
“I believe you know quite well the answer to that, Mr. Rutledge. However, if you wish to begin the game in an obtuse fashion, well, in just a little while I’ll accommodate you.” He stared for
a few more moments at Charles Winston Rutledge III and said aloud, “You must, among other things, tell me why you chose the name Bathsheba.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Pretending ignorance at this stage is truly unworthy of you, Mr. Rutledge. The game is mine. This final match is mine. I have won. Now, why don’t you accompany Merkel here. He will take care of you.”
Merkel himself was still feeling tremors of shock. The man behind the assassination attempts—this educated easterner, his voice clipped and aggressive. Why? It made no sense, none at all.
Why did this man want Mr. Giovanni dead? Because he didn’t like his name? Because Mr. Giovanni had stolen a painting he’d wanted? Merkel said nothing as he directed Mr. Rutledge to a guest room with an adjoining bath. He gave him fresh clothing, not telling him that the clothing belonged to Mr. Giovanni. The clothes would fit, except for the length of the trousers. Mr. Rutledge was the taller of the two.
Merkel left him and returned to the library to report to Mr. Giovanni. He drew to a halt outside the door at the sound of DeLorio’s voice.
“He’s behind the assassination attempts? He’s Bathsheba? That old man? But why? What did you do to him?”
“That man is my age, DeLorio. He isn’t an old man. His name is Charles Rutledge and he’s a very wealthy American entrepreneur and newspaperman, and I don’t know yet why he wants me dead. We will discover the truth shortly.”
There was silence, and Merkel raised his hand to knock on the door, only to lower it again when DeLorio said in a low, vicious voice, “You can’t pretend anymore that Grandfather gave me a pat on the head and two quarters. He left me millions. More than millions. All for me, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I called Goldstein in Chicago. Yes, I found his phone number in your private book. He told me everything. And you had my mother killed, didn’t you? You lied to me!”
Mr. Giovanni, his voice smooth and deadly: “Listen to me, boy, your mother died in an accident. I had nothing to do with it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m your father, I rescued you from her. I also know about that girl you hurt in New York.”
Merkel could practically see DeLorio turn white. His voice was suddenly shrill and high and scared. He didn’t sound like a millionaire anymore. “She didn’t die, I didn’t really hurt her. She’s fine now, not dead like my mother.”
“No? Physical abuse and rape are frowned upon, you know, DeLorio.”
DeLorio’s voice was even thinner now. “Mother told me, she swore to me she’d never tell. She took care of it, she told me she did—and she never lied to me!—she paid off that girl’s father, she’s still paying him off. Except she can’t now, can she, because you killed her.”
“No, DeLorio, I told you, but I’ll tell you again. Your mother’s death was an accident.”
Merkel backed away. He didn’t want to hear any more. He turned around and saw Link standing only two feet away. From the look on Link’s face, Merkel knew he’d heard it all as well.
“I don’t want to stay here,” Merkel said, and turned on his heel. He wasn’t surprised that Mr. Giovanni knew about a girl DeLorio had brutalized in New York. Mr. Giovanni usually found out whatever he wanted to know. He’d found out all about Mr. Rutledge, hadn’t he?
Link didn’t have a chance to escape because the library door burst open at that moment and DeLorio rushed out, his face gray, his eyes wild and dilated. He pushed Link aside, nearly knocking him down, and ran up the stairs. And Link thought: Poor Paula. No fun and games this time, just uncontrolled rage.
“Come in, Link, do come in.”
Link wanted to join Merkel, to get far away from the house. But he couldn’t; he was a soldier, and this man was his colonel. He nodded and came into the library, shutting the door behind him.
“It would seem,” Dominick said slowly, his brow puckered in thought, “that dear Sylvia protected DeLorio, had protected him for years. Did you know about that incident in New York?”
Link shook his head. He wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t surprised about anything anymore. He was as sure as could be that Frank Lacy had killed Sylvia on Mr. Giovanni’s orders, although Frank hadn’t said anything. Then again, Frank never said anything. Frank wouldn’t hesitate to tell DeLorio to his face that his mother had died in a tragic accident. Nor would Link, for that matter.
“It would appear that I misjudged Sylvia, at least in this instance.”
Link wanted to puke. He said nothing.
“I can’t let the boy have all that money, Link. I can’t begin to imagine what he’d do with it, the kind of twisted power he’d wield with it. It’s my responsibility to control him, to direct his steps. I can see that now, more than before. He’s still immature; he needs my guidance. He just doesn’t understand how to operate yet, how to deal well with the men in this business. He’d get into drugs, the young fool. He still doesn’t think beyond his next lay or his next easy dollar.”
Link knew well enough that it was the first thing DeLorio would do. All DeLorio saw in drug trafficking was the promise of quick and easy money, lots of it. Mr. Giovanni was right about that. As for sex, the kid had the sexual appetites of a healthy young bull.
Like Merkel, Link wanted to leave the island, go far away, but he waited patiently to see what Mr. Giovanni wanted from him.
“Charles Rutledge,” Dominick said, seeming to savor the man’s name as he rubbed his hands together. “Frank did a good job of fetching him here. The man’s scared to death. I can tell. He thinks he’s such a patrician, so cold and in control of himself, but he’ll talk soon enough, he’ll break.”
“He has every reason to be scared,” Link said.
“He’ll tell me everything. I can’t wait to have him face his stepdaughter. Ah, Rafaella.” His face hardened. “She betrayed me. Am I to be surrounded by traitors? And Marcus. I’ve given him everything—my trust, money, more freedom to do as he wished than one could imagine. And he disappointed me, failed me.”
“You don’t know that for certain yet, Mr. Giovanni. Maybe Miss Holland didn’t know anything about Bathsheba, Marcus either.”
“Oh, don’t I, Link? He took Rafaella to London with him, didn’t he? He’s slept with her, seduced her as soon as she arrived at the resort. He was with her when they proved the Rembrandt painting to be a forgery. He was part of it, he had to be.”
“That’s true, sir, that he was there with her. But I don’t understand why he and Miss Holland did it. If they were in on the Bathsheba thing, why would they want to announce it to the world? Why would Miss Holland want to tell the world that her stepfather was the man behind Bathsheba? Why would Marcus save your life? It doesn’t make sense.”
Dominick frowned, then shook his head. There was simply too much happening, too many outsize details, for him to keep everything straight. It was a good question, one for which he had no answer. “Perhaps Rafaella brought Marcus in on it after he took her to bed. They’ll be arriving soon now. I’ll ask them then.”
Coco knocked lightly on the library door, then entered. She smiled at Link and turned her attention to Dominick.
“DeLorio left the house with Paula. She looked frightened, and DeLorio looked deranged, out of control. This wasn’t one of their games. I’m afraid he’ll hurt her badly.”
“Who cares? She’s failed me too, she’s—”
“He’s got to be stopped or he’ll hurt her, maybe even kill her. What happened? What did you say to him?”
“I said nothing. Link, ask Frank to bring him back in, both him and Paula. Tell Lacy to make sure DeLorio doesn’t hurt his wife.”
Link nodded and left the library. When he told Lacy what Mr. Giovanni wanted, Lacy merely said that he hoped the girl was still alive when he found them.
“Well, Coco, you’ve seen our guest? Mr. Charles Winston Rutledge III?”
“No.”
“You don’t look pleased, Coco. He’s Bathsheba, you know. Now he’s mine. Frank
took him so easily. You’d think the man would have taken precautions. Did he believe me stupid? Unable to discover who it was who had bought the Rembrandt? He was visiting his little tart when Frank got him. He believes he’s such a well-bred patrician, his damned noblesse oblige—hell, like every other man, he has little tarts on the side.”
Dominick skirted his desk and poured a brandy from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. “He isn’t admitting a thing at the present, but I’m not worried. He’ll come clean very soon. There are things I’ve got to know. Do you think Rafaella was in on the assassination attempts with him? That she was his inside plant, so to speak?”
Coco shrugged. “First of all, you’re not completely certain that Mr. Rutledge is behind Bathsheba, much less that his stepdaughter is helping him. Nor that Marcus is helping her. There are a lot of ifs. Too many ifs.”
“And coincidences, my dear Coco? All these parts and pieces just coincidences? Happenstance? Shall we wallow in them and ignore that they will make a whole, a perfect and complete whole, once assembled properly?”
“No, we won’t ignore anything. But you will wait and ask Rafaella and Marcus?”
“Yes, I’ll wait. Where is Jiggs? I’d like some lemonade. While I wait, maybe I’ll have him tell me some more stories about how things used to be on the island.”
It was eight o’clock in the evening. The night was perfectly clear, the stars bright points of light overhead, the air sweet and fresh with the mingling flower scents and the salty tang of the Caribbean. The helicopter they’d changed over to in St. John’s now hovered, then set down on the pad outside the house.
Four guards, heavily armed with Uzis, immediately surrounded the helicopter. Dominick emerged from the house, Coco with him.
Dominick called out, “Well done, Marta! Well done.”
Marta, Marcus thought, the woman’s name was Marta. Marta the Sadist. Tough as nails, stronger than a stevedore, mean as his mother’s scarred tomcat, Clancy. Marcus turned and lifted Rafaella down from the helicopter cabin. She looked tired, but not that weary-sick-tired that had so worried him. He straightened and looked at Dominick.
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