The Target f-3

by Catherine Coulter

  He opened the barn door. He was greeted with a chorus of moos, most of them welcoming, a couple pissed, he could tell. They didn't like all the new equipment that relieved them of their milk.

  Shirley was the one who hated the machines the most. Since she was one of his old girls, he'd decided just the week before to milk her himself. She enjoyed that, turning her head to look at him while he pulled on her teats.

  He got all the other cows set up. It still took him a while. Well, he'd get better and faster at it soon. Then he took his old stool down to where Shirley was standing, still and fat with milk, watching him come closer.

  "Good morning, old girl," he called out, giving her a wink like the one he'd given her every dawn for the past seven years.

  He began to whistle as he set the stool down beside her. "Now, let's make you a couple of pounds lighter."

  He heard a soft whooshing sound. It was close, real close. He wrenched around on the stool. There was a man standing over him. He was black, his eyes hard and wide, his head bald. Joe never even had a chance to ask the man who he was.

  He felt a huge hand on his shoulder, and saw a big hammer part the air. He felt the blow throughout his body, but it wasn't exactly painful, just a numbing jarring that made his eyes blink once in surprise. The large hand released his shoulder.

  Joe Elders fell beside Shirley's stool, his eyes staring up at her milk-swelled teats.

  10

  "I JUST HEARD Emma moving around upstairs. We've only got a few minutes before she comes down.

  We'll get back to your daddy a bit later. Now our immediate problems: We've got to assume they're professionals. And that means we've also got to assume they have a backup organization to be on us in a flash if we use credit cards. If we're careful, your three thousand and my two thousand should last us just fine until this mess is cleaned up."

  Molly figured she'd been frugal for a total of thirteen months in her life. She'd gone from one wealthy home to taking care of herself, and she'd done it, not that it had lasted long. Then she'd gone to another one. From a rich father to a rich husband. But for the past two years, she'd been on her own again. She loved it. She grinned. Actually, it was the first time she'd smiled in a very long time. "I'm going to go scrub a toilet."

  "Mama, you're joking."

  Emma had arrived, full of energy. Molly hauled her up in a big hug, kissed her small ear, and said, "No, sweetie, this time I'm not. Well, maybe. I'm thinking that if I can take Ramsey in poker, then he can scrub the John. What do you think?"

  Emma looked very serious, her head cocked to one side. "I think you could beat him in Old Maid. I beat you last time we played poker."

  "Thanks for the support, kiddo. All right, I'll think about it. Maybe I can play him to a draw."

  "That's chess, Mama."

  "Yes, but maybe I can figure out how to apply it to poker. Hey, you want some hot dogs for supper?"

  "Oh yes. Ramsey makes the best. We stuck them on coat hangers and held them over the fire in the fireplace."

  Ramsey was sitting in that big recliner, his hands folded over his stomach, a pillow under his leg. "You'll have to go a long way to beat my hot dogs, Molly."

  "I know how to make the secret relish, handed down from my mother's family in Italy. The relish will make her jump off your bandwagon quick enough."

  "We'll see about that. I've got secret other things, like good cheap yellow mustard." He said to Emma, "How come you know about draws and chess?"

  "My boyfriend taught me."

  "You've got a boyfriend, Emma?"

  "His name's Jake. He's my nerd boyfriend."

  Ramsey rolled his eyes. "You also got a jock boyfriend?"

  "Oh no, Ramsey, they're gross."

  "Hey now, I was once a jock and I wasn't gross. Well, maybe I was for a while, when I was real young."

  "Young as me?"

  He stared down into that small intent upturned face. "No, Em, I was never as young as you."

  She giggled, actually giggled. It warmed him to his toes. Molly looked up, smiling. Emma said, "I'm just glad you're not as young as me right now." She lightly touched her palm to the wound in his thigh. "It's not warm anymore."

  "Nope, all of me is at room temperature again."

  She patted him, then skipped off to the small kitchen to help her mother.

  It was an easy evening, with no talk at all about the sword of Damocles that was hanging over their heads, no talk just yet about Molly's criminal father. They played word games, then Ramsey gave Emma a reading lesson using the sets of letters and numbers he'd bought at the bookstore in Dillinger.

  The kid was smart and fast. She was writing his name in full sentences, along with her name and her mother's by nine o'clock. "You put the best teacher in the world with the smartest kid in the world, and just look what you've got." He leaned down to stare at the last word Emma had printed: John.

  Both of them tucked her up in the small single twin bed.

  "You want a night-light on, Em?"

  "No, Mama. Are you going to sleep with me again?"

  "Yes," Molly said easily. "If Ramsey wakes up and gets lonesome, he can talk to us through the wall."

  Emma was smiling even as her eyes closed. They stood looking down at her, this child who had changed both their lives.

  "She wrote my name," Ramsey said. "It was legible. She wrote it in a whole sentence. Amazing."

  "She's got her mother's brains." Molly grinned up at him. "My Ramsey is smart. Yep, that has a real ring to it. Can you believe she spelled john?

  "And she did it well. It made her laugh, Molly. Where'd she get the hair?"

  "Her father." Her voice was clipped. She didn't say anything else. Why hadn't he come back here after Emma had been kidnapped? He'd teased himself with that question at least half a dozen times now. He simply couldn't imagine any father not being frantic about his child. That the parents were divorced made no difference. He said, "Let's go downstairs. Now that Emma's in bed, I want you to tell me everything about Daddy."

  "I should call Detective Mecklin and Agent Anchor first. I forgot."

  "No, you didn't, but it doesn't matter. Let's do it. Who knows, maybe they've got something."

  "Don't bet your gym socks on it."

  She asked for Detective Mecklin and got put on hold. She stared down at the phone, then suddenly banged down the receiver. "They were trying to trace the call," she said. "I know it. The bastards."

  "You're probably right. Let's call in the morning. They didn't have enough time. Don't worry."

  "I guess you'd know all about that."

  "Enough. It's not as if we really have to hide from the cops, Molly."

  "I don't want to let them near Emma. Don't you see? They might take her away and give her over to a battery of doctors, strangers, all of them. She's doing so well. I can't take that risk. You didn't want to do it either. Just leave it alone."

  "All right. Tell you what. Let me call Dillon Savich, my friend in Washington, D.C. See if he knows what's going on."

  "Who is this friend, exactly?"

  "He's a computer expert who happens to be an FBI agent. Trust me on this, he's not like Agent Anchor.

  Actually, he and his partner-who's now his wife, Sherlock- were the ones who broke The Toaster case in Chicago. Do you remember that?"

  "That was the young guy who'd killed those families?"

  "Yeah. Russell Bent."

  "They won't ever let him out, will they?"

  "Trust the system on this one, Molly. Russell will be in a psychiatric hospital until he dies."

  "Yeah, but I also remember the killer in Boston who escaped when the judge ordered that he be let out of restraints while he was being evaluated by the psychiatrists. The String Killer, wasn't that the moniker the press gave him?"

  "Yes, that's what happened."

  She gave him a long look. "Some system."

  "You know, Molly, our legal system works well most of the time. Since people run it, sure th
ere are screwups now and again. You need to be a bit more objective."

  Molly sighed, then rose and walked to the French windows that looked out over a small sloping lawn to Nathan's Creek, full and rushing from melting mountain snow. The half-moon made the snow glisten.

  "This is a beautiful place. Aren't you going to call Dillon Savich?"

  "Yep. You got me sidetracked. I want to tell him what's going on. I want to tell him who you are. He won't do anything unless I ask him to. All right?"

  Molly nodded.

  He used the house phone and punched the speaker button. The phone was picked up on the third ring in Washington, D.C. Ramsey identified himself.

  A very alert Savich said, "You know it's one A.M. here? Never mind. Where are you? You've got the speaker on. Are you finally ready to tell me what's going on?"

  "You know about that kidnapping case in Denver? Emma Santera?"

  "Yes. Wait, don't tell me. You're somehow involved in that?"

  Ramsey gave him an unedited version of what had happened until they'd arrived in California. "We're all right, hopefully, safely hidden. Mrs. Santera doesn't want anyone to know exactly where we are."

  "Including the FBI? Including the cops? This is all very strange, Ramsey."

  "Yeah, I know. Bear with me. Can you tell me what's happening there? Has an Agent Anchor said anything that's filtered back?"

  Savich laughed. "Has Bud said anything? He's been yelling his head off, claiming he's going to bring in Mrs. Santera for hampering his investigation. It's going to be hard to keep my mouth shut, Ramsey, but I will until you give me the 'go' signal. Can you begin to imagine what folks here would say if they knew you were a part of this and you were getting inside information from me?"

  "What about the owner of the truck? We gave the Denver PD and Agent Anchor the three names and license numbers you gave me."

  "The truck was reported stolen last month from a dairy farmer in Loveland, Colorado. The wife reported it. Then the husband said it hadn't been stolen, he'd sold it, and hadn't told his wife. Who knows? Did he sell it to the kidnappers? That plays for me."

  "Yeah, it does for me too." Ramsey sighed.

  "You might consider coming in now. Any more attempts to get the kid?"

  "Not since we've come to our new location."

  "Come in, Ramsey. It sounds dicey. I agree that this isn't just a simple kidnapping. You got any ideas?"

  "Maybe. Look, Savich, let me keep us hidden awhile longer. I'll check in on Friday unless something happens sooner. Listen, thanks. I owe you."

  "You can bet on it."

  "Is that Sherlock I hear? Give her a kiss for me."

  "Not on your life. You're too much like the kind of man she likes, all hard and tough. Given your macho demonstration a while back in your courtroom, I'd be hard-pressed to keep her away from you, especially if she's having a bad day and not thinking clearly. No, all kisses are from me. Take care of yourself, Ramsey, and call if there's anything I can do."

  "Thanks, Savich." Ramsey slowly hung up the phone. "You heard everything?"

  She nodded.

  "Now, no more procrastinating. It's time. On to Daddy."

  She started shaking her head.

  "Listen, Molly, your father is Mason Lord. It's time we thought about him. I don't think it's possible he could be involved directly in any of this, but it's very possible that from what we've seen, just maybe some of your father's enemies had Emma kidnapped to use as leverage against your father."

  She didn't turn, just ran her fingers over the thick fabric of the light tan drapes. "I think he would have warned me if someone he was dealing with might consider such a thing."

  "Yes, he probably would have, if he'd had warning. Do you agree that perhaps some of his enemies are involved up to their gum lines to get leverage on him, to milk him? You wondered about all the guys who seemed to be involved in this, so far. Well, that could be our answer."

  She still didn't turn around. Slowly, she pulled the drapes shut over the French windows and just stood there, head down, saying nothing.

  He noticed that she was barefoot. Her toes were painted a pale pink and were chipping. "When did you last speak to your father?"

  "Last week."

  "And you told him what was going on?"

  She nodded.

  "Tell me something, Molly. When was the last time you saw your father?"

  "That's none of your business. It has nothing to do with this. Stop pushing me on this."

  "I just want us to stay alive. You're making that difficult by holding out on me. When, Molly? I deserve to know." He rubbed his leg.

  "All right, but it doesn't make any difference. The last time I saw him was three years ago."

  He slammed the recliner forward and stood, staring at her. "Three years ago? What's been going on?"

  She turned then to face him, but she didn't move from her stand by the windows. "The last time I saw him was when Emma had just turned three years old. He flew to Denver for her birthday. But that wasn't the real reason he came. He was angry at my husband. He came to Denver to see him."

  "And did he see your husband?"

  "Yes, he saw him. Louey ended up with two broken ribs, a fractured kidney, and bruises everywhere except on his face, that lasted until the next Christmas."

  "What had Louey done?"

  "I don't want to talk about it. It has nothing to do with this."

  "You have no clue what does or what doesn't have to do with anything at all."

  "Listen, as I told you, Louey is my ex-husband. We've been divorced for two years. I didn't lie to Emma about her father being worried about her. Louey did call once when he heard that she was missing, which was a big surprise to me. He called me before I even considered contacting him. As Emma already told you, he hasn't bothered to see her since he left.

  "It was right after one of his concerts in Berlin. I remember clearly that he asked about Emma, said he'd heard from somebody in Denver that she'd been snatched, and wondered if I had her back yet. When I said no, he acted all sorry and depressed for about a minute. Then he sort of laughed and said that my daddy would pay the moon to get her back, and not to worry. He told me how the tour was going. He said this fraulein reporter-yeah, that's what he called her-from the Berliner Zeitung compared him to Bruce Springsteen. He told me the Europeans had better taste than the Americans-in other words they like him better-said he just-might spend most of the year in Europe. He talked about his conquests in Europe, in great detail. I don't think you need to know any of that. He never mentioned Emma after the first time.

  "The policewoman listening with me just stared at me. She worshiped Louey, prayed he'd call so she could just hear his sexy voice. Or rather, she worshiped him until she heard what that sexy voice said.

  She patted my shoulder when I hung up.

  "I started crying and she kept patting. She thought I was sorry about Louey leaving me, sorry that he was bragging about all these women."

  "I remember now," he said after a moment. "There was press about the divorce, but never any details, no hints of infidelity or drugs or anything at all. Just a quiet announcement of irreconcilable differences, something like that. It was out of the public eye very quickly."

  "My father is powerful. In this instance it was a good thing. No one had much to say about anything.

  There were a couple of days of speculation in the tabloids, but even they dropped it. I was very grateful to my father." She looked down at her fingernails. There was mustard from the hot dogs on her index finger. She licked it off.

  "Molly?"

  "Louey, her biological father, didn't ever want her. After we split up, I think he was relieved to be out of the daddy business. A child didn't go with the sexy footloose image he had of himself. Funny thing is, she's probably just as talented musically as he is. Maybe more so."

  "How did Louey know Emma had been kidnapped? You said he called you before you called him."

  "I wondered later about that.
One of his friends in Denver probably called him. Louey undoubtedly thought that if it hit the press, he should act the concerned papa so he wouldn't be seen in a bad light.

  Who knows?"

  "I wonder which friend in Denver bothered to call him."

  "He didn't say and I was too upset to ask. But you know, Louey is friends with a lot of folks in the media, from TV to newspapers. It was probably one of his newspaper buddies."

  "Is there a special buddy?"

  "Yes, his name is James Hicks and he's with the Denver Post. Why?"

  "No reason. I just like to gather information. Now, are you going to call your papa and tell him Emma's safe?"

  "Yes, I should. He's been very worried. I called him right away when Emma was kidnapped. I knew he'd have some of his people on it right away, and he did. A man and two women came by six hours after I'd called. It drove the local cops nuts. Lots of suspicion. I ignored the cops' bitching about outsiders. I told them everything I could, why not? They wanted to help; my father was paying them to find Emma. I don't know what his people actually did. I saw them several more times. We discussed leads, possibilities. If they found out anything, I don't know about it."

  "Did you tell them you were taking off to find Emma yourself?"

  "No, I didn't. I'll call him right now. At least he won't try to trace the call." She paused a moment, then said, turning to face him, "I wonder if my father suspected Emma's kidnapping had anything to do with him? I bet he has. I know one thing: If he found out who did this, he wouldn't hesitate to sanction a kill."

  11

  SANCTION A KILL. She'd said it so easily, so naturally.

  How many times had she heard it said when she was a kid?

  "All right, I'm going to call. Hey, wait a minute. What if those men were there to rescue Emma and they thought you were the kidnapper? Of course they'd try to get rid of you. Of course they'd follow you. Oh goodness, there's no end to the possibilities. I've got a headache, Ramsey."