“Sir,” Merkel said, striding toward him.
Dominick waved him back. “I’m all right.” His voice was a raw croak. Marcus smiled.
Then Dominick raised his eyes to Marcus’s face. “I really cared about you, Marcus O’Sullivan, was nearly ready to trust you completely. But you’re nothing but ragpicking Irish scum. You’ll die an exquisite death for this. Yes, you will.”
“Where’s Paula?” Coco was on her feet now, facing DeLorio, but she was speaking to Frank Lacy. “Where’s Paula?”
“She fought me,” DeLorio said, his voice sulky, his face sullen, his lips puckered like a child’s. “She wouldn’t do what I told her to.”
“She’s hurt bad,” Frank said. “I brought her back. She needs a doctor. One of the men took her upstairs.”
“No doctor,” Dominick said. “Link, you go shoot her up with morphine. That’ll keep her quiet.” Dominick then turned to DeLorio. “You were foolish, DeLorio. You must learn to control your temper. You need my help, and you will need it for a long time. You must trust me.”
“Who cares? Paula’s just a stupid girl, a greedy little whiner.”
Coco’s voice rang out, filled with cold laughter, “Doesn’t that sound familiar, Dom? Doesn’t that sound just like a chip off the old block?”
Marcus, unable to stop himself, said to Rafaella’s father, “You taught him everything he knows. Just look at him.”
Dominick didn’t say a word. He didn’t even look at Marcus. As he lunged forward, he hissed, “You’ve turned him against me, you bastard!” But it wasn’t Marcus he struck. His fist caught Rafaella hard against the jaw, and she crumpled. As her world was going black, she saw Marcus leap at Dominick, heard the yelling, saw the men dragging him off, saw those black submachine guns that could empty thirty-two-round magazines in no time at all, saw so many of them, raised, ready—
Twenty-four
Rafaella lay stunned on the floor, her breath hitching, her muscles throbbing from the fall. She heard the key turn in the lock, heard a guard’s retreating footsteps.
Slowly she came up to her knees. Her head was still spinning from the blow. Dominick had caught her unawares and his fist had cleanly struck her jaw, sending her reeling backward.
She had been unconscious for only a moment, and the first thing she’d seen when she opened her eyes was Dominick fighting off Marcus. She had watched dumbly as Frank Lacy and three men dragged him off. Dominick had walked to him, pulled back his arm, and sent his fist as hard as he could into Marcus’s stomach. And Rafaella had cried out, “Hit me, you coward! I’m the one! Hit me, not him!”
Dominick had turned to her and said with a slight smile, “You will get what you deserve, Rafaella.”
Rafaella decided against moving for a while. She was alone in her bedroom, locked in, to be kept from everyone else. For how long? She’d heard Dominick order that Marcus be taken to the toolshed. What would they do to him? Beat him? Kill him?
What about the rest of them? Were they to be separated as well? Taken singly out to be shot?
She shook her head again, but still didn’t move. She prayed hard and fought off tears. When Dominick discovered Marcus was a government agent, what would he do? She heard a soft moan and realized it was from her.
What to do?
She was scared, so very scared.
She heard a noise outside the French doors that gave onto the balcony, and froze. Heavy brocade drapes were drawn over the glass doors to keep out the harsh afternoon sun. She couldn’t see a thing. Or a person. Perhaps that was a shadow she saw, moving stealthily, furtively. Then she heard a key turn in the lock, and slowly, so slowly she thought she’d die of it, the door eased open and the drapes fluttered toward her. Any second now, whoever it was would pull back the drapery. She jerked herself upright, preparing herself physically and mentally.
She moved off to one side, out of the direct path of the doors.
A man slipped through the doors into the room, making not a sound, and he was one of the guards on the compound, wearing the regulation fatigues, an AK-47 rifle slung over his shoulder and several clips of ammunition in a wide belt around his waist. He was big and lanky and looked very strong. He was wearing a close-fitting cap and his head was lowered. He looked much taller than most of the compound guards. She didn’t immediately recognize him, but she wasn’t about to underestimate the danger.
Rafaella felt a moment of terror, then took a deep breath, cried out, and kicked.
Dominick sat across from Charles Rutledge and Coco, an elegant Waterford crystal glass in his hand. He was calm, in control of himself and of the situation. He looked faintly interested as he said to Coco, “You’ve been working with him, haven’t you, Coco?”
She nodded, looking toward Charles Rutledge as she did so. He was smiling at her. She brought her eyes back to Dominick. Telling him that she’d been behind Bathsheba, enjoying the pain on his face at her betrayal, seeing his incredulity that an irrational woman could plan such a thing—She prayed it would give her face some dignity. It was well done of her, and despite her terror, she knew it was right. She said now, “I only wish Cavelli had killed you in Miami. But you intimidated him, did the unexpected, forced him to kill that poor girl. Then he panicked totally.” Coco paused a moment, then continued, her voice low and vibrant and bitter, “Damn Marcus, he should have minded his own business. Tulp would have had you that first time. It was so perfectly set up. If only Marcus hadn’t—”
“That’s right, if only Marcus hadn’t,” Dominick said. “I also discovered just a short while ago that Mario Calpas was in on it with you. He wants me out of the way, the illiterate little fascist. He has visions of running the show, using DeLorio as his front, his stooge. I’ve sent Frank to Miami to take care of him.”
Charles could only stare at the man who looked like an aristocrat to the manor born, a man who seemed to exude gentility and charm until he spoke of murder as though speaking of eliminating weeds in his garden. It was frightening, the calmness of it, the matter-of-factness of it.
“And those attempts on Rafaella’s life? Those were just efforts to get her off the island, to keep her safe, while you killed me?”
“Yes,” Coco said, looking quickly toward Charles. “I never wanted to hurt her. You know that, Charles. I knew Marcus would bring the helicopter down with no problem. I was the one who fired at them on the beach. As for the boa, well, my helper got a bit carried away. I was sorry that was so close. I wanted her to leave, that was all. I just wanted to keep her safe. As did Marcus. That’s why he took her to London.”
The three of them fell silent. It was a tense silence that wasn’t broken for a long time. Charles was nearly ready to yell when Giovanni said quietly, “Why, Coco? Why?”
She looked at him oddly. Hadn’t he believed her before? “What I told you before was the truth. You murdered our child. Because I was pregnant with a girl, you forced me to have an abortion. Then you had that butcher fix me, like I was a cat to be spayed. And you were unfaithful, endlessly unfaithful. You never cared about me; I was just your high-class mistress, your property, your tart, to be what you wanted, to do what you told me to do. And then I discovered what you’d ordered that doctor to do to me. When I met Mr. Rutledge at the resort some seven months ago, we got close and I learned what you’d done to his wife. We ended up sharing things, we ended up planning to kill you, to rid our little part of the planet of you. I was so happy that he’d come to the resort to find me.
“His poor wife had become obsessed with you, and she hated her obsession and how it was weakening her and Charles and destroying what they could be together, and she hated you and she simply couldn’t bear it anymore.
“You tried to destroy his wife and me, and so much of it was because of this delusional dream of founding a dynasty of little male clones.” Coco laughed suddenly, a deep, rich laugh. “And you ended up with DeLorio, and you succeeded there. He’s nearly a perfect copy of you, except for that sadistic streak in
him that surfaces now and again. You’ve learned to control yours. Another thing, DeLorio will never believe that you were innocent of his mother’s murder. Never.”
To Charles’s surprise, Dominick said nothing. He continued to look intently at his mistress, but he said nothing.
Charles rose. “I want to call Pine Hill Hospital. I want to see how my wife is doing.”
Dominick looked at him as if surprised that he was still there, and smiled. “As I recall, Margaret was very enthusiastic in bed, out of bed, on the ground, in my convertible, against a wall, wherever. It comes back to me now, our first time together. It was summer and I took her virginity in a field of flowers. I’d scouted out the field earlier, of course. It was vastly romantic, particularly suited to an innocent and vulnerable girl. I taught her so many things. Her mouth was very well-trained by the time I was through with her. At twenty she was as accomplished as a woman of Coco’s age. Not as talented as Coco, but still, she was good.”
Charles wasn’t used to violent emotion and the rage that pulsed through him at Giovanni’s words left him shaken, ready to throw himself at Giovanni and pound his face to a bloody pulp.
“Ah, yes, her beautiful mouth,” Dominick continued, his voice dreamy with memory, yet, at the same time, mocking. “Of all my women, she had the most inventive style. Does she still?”
Charles stared at him, striving desperately for control. He was afraid that if he tried to speak, he’d leap on the man, just as Marcus had done. Or he’d say something and be struck down as Rafaella had been, so he held himself in check. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. He said again, his voice even and calm, “I would like to call my wife to see how she’s doing.”
He saw the flash of annoyance in Giovanni’s eyes. The man wasn’t used to being ignored, wasn’t used to having his baiting remarks disregarded. Charles waited now, his expression impassive. It was a bit easier this time.
Dominick waved toward a phone and his voice was peevish. “Call. Who cares?”
Charles dialed the number, waited for a good two minutes until the connection had gone through. Then he listened and was told that nothing had changed. Margaret was still in a coma, still unresponsive, although the doctors had done another CAT scan and had seen some improvement. He told the nurse he would be detained for a while—no, no, he didn’t know how long—and rang off.
“Thank you,” he said to Giovanni, and took his seat again. He wanted to relieve himself, but not badly enough yet to risk Giovanni’s reaction to that. He’d noticed that the silent guard by the door had kept his rifle pointed at him during the entire phone conversation.
“As odd as it may seem to you, Mr. Rutledge,” Dominick said now, “I really am sorry to have to kill you. I understand why you wanted me—want me—dead. Some men feel deeply about a woman, very deeply indeed. I don’t understand it, but there it is. But you’ve lost. You’re an amateur—of course you would lose. But that woman you hired the first time—Tulp—she was good, very good. Did Coco help you find her? And, as Coco said, Marcus did save my life. Of course he didn’t do it out of love for me, out of loyalty. Oh, no, as I figure it, Marcus saved me because he couldn’t have me arrested for illegal gun sales unless he caught me doing it. He wanted me in jail, not dead.”
“So you’ve found out about Marcus,” Coco said.
“It wasn’t difficult. It required just one phone call, since I had his real name. He was working for the U.S. Customs Service. Were you in on it with him as well, Coco?”
“No. I wish I had been, though. A pity. I had no idea what his real game was.”
“Now, my dear, I would like to take you to bed one last time. Come, Coco, we’ll go upstairs now, this moment. This talk of Margaret and her skills has left me lamentably horny, as the young people say so inelegantly but accurately. Mr. Rutledge can remain here and contemplate what little future he has left.”
To Charles’s surprise, Coco rose without hesitation. He wondered if she intended to try to kill him in bed.
Would Giovanni have guards watching, even while he had sex, to protect him from his mistress?
Dominick took Coco’s arm, then turned at the door. “Oh, yes, Mr. Rutledge, after you’re gone, I promise you I’ll keep checking on Margaret. And if she comes out of the coma, who knows? Perhaps I’ll go back to her, see how she’s matured, see if you’ve kept her in good form.” He paused a moment, frowning. “You know, when I was younger I wasn’t as smooth with women as I am now. I didn’t lie to them, tell them what they wanted to hear, except, of course, when I still wanted them. It was a game, a pursuit, a chase. Find the prey—an innocent in those days—and stalk her. Margaret was too easy. But when it was over it was over. That was my philosophy then. Perhaps I was a bit rough with Margaret that last time I saw her. She was very young. I can’t really remember whether or not I would have done something with her had she birthed a boy. Who knows? I imagine, though, that I did her a favor. The next man who tried to get her into bed probably had a good deal of difficulty. Yes, I did her a favor. I educated her well.”
Charles said nothing. He knew now that to show rage would only give Giovanni what he wanted. He pointedly ignored the man, watching his frustration, watching him leave finally, his hand clutching Coco’s arm. He was going to force her to have sex with him and then kill her? Charles shook his head. Such a man was beyond his comprehension. And what he’d said about Margaret. He remembered her journal so well, those first words she’d written. He was a wonderful liar. The best. Ah, but only at the beginning. At the end, he’d ripped her apart viciously. And such contempt he had for women. Jesus, half the human race. Another posture that was incomprehensible to Charles.
But then he thought of Claudia, of how he’d used her and women before her to see to his pleasure; and he’d never questioned his right to use her, because after all, he’d paid her well.
Now it was too late. He’d never have the chance to heal himself, to try to fix what he’d broken, to make amends. He’d die on this miserable island. He’d never see Margaret again. He thought of Rafaella. She hadn’t hurt anyone. And she would die too.
At least he’d done one good thing. Both he and Coco had done one very good thing.
Only one. It would have to be enough.
He lowered his face in his hands and wept.
Rafaella went for the intruder’s throat. She was fast—fear made her very fast—she was right on target, her moves sharp, but at the last moment the man lunged to his left, swung his arm out so fast it blurred, and struck her leg away. Rafaella felt the jarring pain as she twisted about to regain her balance. She cried out as the force of his blow sent her reeling back toward the bed. She tried to ignore the pain, tried to concentrate, reach deep inside herself. She whirled about, her hands in position, presented her side, and yelled even as she leapt at him again.
To her utter surprise, he did a side roll onto the floor, came up on his knees out of her reach, and said, “Dammit, don’t kill me. I’m not here to hurt you—I’m trying to be a hero. I’m trying to save you.”
She heard his words, each one of them very distinctly, but she’d already set herself into motion and her forward momentum carried her to her target, and it was again only his fast reaction that saved him from having his kidneys kicked. He grabbed her leg, twisted her, then came up quickly and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her chest.
He sounded less like a hero this time as he hissed against her left ear, “Stop it. Believe me, I’m here to save you. I’m the bloody cavalry.”
Rafaella was breathing hard from pain and fear and weakness. How she hated the weakness. She could barely gasp out the words: “Who are you?”
“I’m John Savage, and you, I imagine, are Rafaella Holland? The lady Marcus wants to—” He broke off. “Are you all right? You’re shaking. Did I hurt you that last round?”
“No, I’m all right. I had a miscarriage a couple of days ago. I’m still a little bit weak. Let me go now, all right
? I won’t try anything more. I believe you.”
Savage turned her around even as he clasped her under the arms and hauled her to her feet. She was frayed around the edges, to put it euphemistically. Actually there were circles beneath her eyes, her hair was a ratty mess, there was a purple bruise along her jaw, and her clothes were wrinkled. And dear heavens, she was so pale. “Sit down,” he said abruptly. A miscarriage—He couldn’t believe that Marcus would be so uncaring, so stupid, as to get a woman pregnant. And here she was trying to take on a man single-handed.
Rafaella sat. She drew several deep breaths and said, “Marcus is in the toolshed, outside in the compound. It’s used for tools but its main purpose is as a jail for prisoners. What are you doing here? How did you get up here? You’re Marcus’s partner, aren’t you, his first cousin?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Savage stuck out his hand and she took it. “We need to talk now. You need to tell me everything I should know to get us out of here whole-hide.”
“Mr. Savage, I was trying to figure a way out of this mess and not doing such a great job of coming up with ideas. You did say you were the cavalry?”
“Marcus said you were different,” Savage said slowly. “He also said you were—well, never mind about that. Yes, I’m the cavalry—and my troops are just waiting for a signal to move in and try to clean this mess up.”
“Sit down, sir. Let me tell you what’s going on. Then we can figure out what to do.”
Marcus was sitting in muggy darkness, the smell of earth and manure and sweat strong in his nostrils, thinking so hard his brain was beginning to ache. He, of all people, knew the toolshed was escape-proof. One door, double-locked, a guard outside with a 9-mm Uzi submachine gun ready to blast away at the least provocation. No windows, and thick, thick walls. There were even cuffs fastened to chains embedded in the walls, but Merkel had spared him that.
Impulse Page 37
