The Target f-3

by Catherine Coulter

  Savich stood and said to Ramsey, "You want to go work out? That is, if your back's up to it?"

  Sherlock said to Ramsey, "Working out is great for his stress. I usually work out with him. I used to let him throw me around, under the pretext of teaching me karate. He tromped me regularly until he found out that I was in this interesting condition, then he refused even to let me watch him. You two go; it'll be good for both of you. I'm beat. Molly, I'll head on upstairs with you."

  Molly gave Ramsey a worried look, but he just smiled, nodding at her. "I'll be up later," he said. "Tell Emma I'll be in to kiss her good night." He knew she was thinking about Emma, whose father had been blown up, and it had to be dealt with.

  "Let's do it," Ramsey said. They didn't have to leave the compound or even Mason Lord's house.

  Gunther took them to the downstairs of the west wing to a state-of-the-art gym, actually more like a sports facility.

  Ramsey said when they came out of the locker room, "Look at this. You think we're in the wrong line of work, Savich?"

  Savich fastened on a weight belt. "Nah, it doesn't matter. Hey, the equipment might be the best, the mats might be the thickest, the bottled water might be from France, but the end result is still sweat. Let me help you tape your back up really well before we get the kinks out. I can even make you waterproof."

  After Savich taped him, they both stretched for five minutes, then, as if of one mind, they began circling each other, poised and focused. Ramsey made the first move, a high clean kick with his right foot. Savich stepped three inches to the left, grabbed the ankle with his right hand, and pushed. Ramsey went flying to the floor, only to roll to the side and be back in position in an instant. He felt a twinge in his back, and Savich noticed.

  "You're a bit faster than Sherlock, but not much, Ramsey. I don't think your back's ready for this. Why don't we just spot each other on the equipment?"

  After thirty minutes, they ended up on their backs on the mat, their arms flung out, sweating and feeling better. After twenty laps in the swimming pool, they felt even better.

  "Not bad," Ramsey said as he hauled himself out of the pool onto the cool pale blue tile apron. "I'd forgotten how busting my butt relieves the tension. My back doesn't feel so bad either."

  "It's always worked for me."

  Ramsey gave Savich a hand out of the pool. They sat in silence, soaking in the sweet still air in the huge enclosed pool room. "This place is something," Savich said. "So much foliage, it looks like a rain forest."

  "As long as it doesn't have any boa constrictors under those palm fronds."

  "Look," Savich said quietly, nodding only slightly upward. "It's a TV camera. Well, what did I expect-our host to give us a welcome kiss and let us roam at will? I'll bet there are microphones as well."

  "Who cares? I'll have to ask Miles to show me the equipment," Ramsey said. "It looks like high-grade stuff from here."

  "Think he has any female security people?"

  "No," Ramsey said, "not Mason Lord. He's not what you'd call a major employer of women. I've seen him look at his wife. There's actually lust in his eyes and a sort of immense satisfaction that she's his and no one else's. I'm a bit surprised that he bothered to marry her, except that maybe he wants to get himself a son." Ramsey shook his head. "Mason probably had to marry her just to get into her pants. Eve's very smart."

  Savich said, "Safe bet, huh?"

  "As for Molly, well, she seems to deal with him pretty well. When we showed up here, I could practically taste her fear of him, the pressure to be the helpless little girl grateful for her daddy's help, but at the first insult from him, she dug in her heels."

  "You backed her up, I assume?"

  "Yeah, even though I didn't know the players then. I didn't realize then what a big deal it was for him to back down. I do now. And he did back down, Savich."

  "You'd have to be blind not to notice what he thinks of her. That's got to have been tough on her. Jesus, I hope he doesn't show his stripes too obviously in front of Sherlock. She'd take a strip off him."

  "I bet she would. Good choice, Savich. I like her. She's tough and she's smart and she seems to think you're pretty hot."

  "Ramsey, what do you really think is going on here?"

  Ramsey slowly rose. He was nearly dry. His back was beginning to hurt. He'd probably pay for the exercise, but right now, he was still glad he'd done it. He picked up a big dark gold towel and wrapped it around his shoulders. It was very soft, money soft. He shook his head, lifted an end of the towel, and wiped his face. "What's going on here?" he repeated, still drying his left ear. "I don't know, Savich, any more than you do. I'm too close. I care too much for the players. I do know one thing: To put a bomb in that Mercedes means that someone here on the premises had to have done it. No one could have gotten in here and planted that bomb without being seen. But nobody's coming right out and saying it. I wonder what Mason Lord is going to do."

  "How much do you know about Molly Santera?"

  Ramsey cocked a dark eyebrow not at the question itself, but the seriousness of Savich's voice. He said slowly, "I know she's fiercely protective of Emma. I know she's brave and tough, just like Sherlock. I know she can focus on one main thing and disregard everything else. She's also got great hair. Red like Sherlock's, but not at all the same shade. It's more like a sunset I once saw when I was on the west coast of Ireland."

  Savich didn't say anything to that. He looked away, wishing things could be different, but, of course, they weren't. He said finally, "Did you know that one summer when she was about twelve years old she supposedly let her younger brother drown?"

  Ramsey dropped the towel. He stared at Savich. He was shaking his head. "No," he said, "oh no. I can't believe that, Savich. That's not at all like her."

  "I'm sorry. Sherlock discovered it in fifteen-year-old records. I'm sorry if you think she was spying on something that wasn't her business, but Sherlock is a professional to her fingertips. She looks at everything."

  "I have no problem with Sherlock checking out my birthmark if she thinks it's relevant to this case, but I'm telling you that this thing with Molly's brother, it had to be an accident. Molly could never just watch her own flesh and blood die. No way. And that includes that son-of-a-bitch father of hers."

  Savich shrugged. "There was an investigation, of course, but the results were inconclusive. The general belief at the time was that she hated her younger brother because Daddy made it clear he was the favorite, the heir, the only one worth anything. You told me yourself that Mason doesn't have much use for his daughter. Maybe you're right, maybe that's one reason he married Eve. He wants another boy child.

  "Mason and his first wife, Alicia, were divorced when Molly was around eight years old and her brother was six," Savich continued. "She went with the mother back to her mother's home in Italy and the boy stayed with the father. Molly was visiting here one summer when this happened. When she was eighteen, she went to Vassar. She left after a year and moved in here with her father.

  "You can't just dismiss it out of hand, Ramsey. Molly Santera has a past. She may have been innocent, but you know there was a question about it. We can't afford just to ignore it."

  Ramsey said, "Are you suggesting that she'd have anything to do with Emma's kidnapping?"

  "No, I don't believe that. But how about Louey's murder. What if Louey was the target after all?"

  Ramsey said, "Listen, she divorced his worthless ass. There was no reason to kill him. Besides, she couldn't have known that he would try to escape. It was a spontaneous thing; Louey just lost it and ran."

  Savich rose to stand facing Ramsey. "What if she convinced him that her father was going to kill him?

  What if she told him he'd best clear out and he could take the Mercedes that Gunther had just brought it up? Isn't that possible? Just think about it, Ramsey. None of us have known any of these people for very long. Don't sweep it under the rug because you happen to admire the lady, just because you think he
r hair's cool."

  Ramsey felt his heart pounding against his chest. It made his back ache even more. He didn't believe it.

  He was a good judge of character. He'd seen Molly in crunch situations. She hadn't faltered, hadn't broken, hadn't flipped out. He said aloud, "She would have no clue how to fashion a bomb. That means she would have had to hire someone in a very short length of time. Not likely."

  "She's Mason Lord's daughter, but maybe you're right about her. You really seem to know this woman very well, even though it's only been for a short time." He sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck.

  "What better person to bring someone onto the estate in secret? And how do you know she wouldn't know how to rig a bomb?"

  Ramsey just stared at him. He shook his head. Then he turned and walked away. His back was throbbing.

  21

  THE NIGHT WAS dark with thick clouds hanging low, the air heavy with coming rain and sweet with the scent of the late-spring flowers. Ramsey shifted to his side, pulling the covers with him. He'd flung the pillow on the floor some hours earlier.

  He flipped onto his back again, his left arm over his head. Then, suddenly, he was thrust into a dark room where there were blurred images, voices that overlapped one another, growing louder and louder.

  Suddenly the room was clear, the images sharp. He was in his courtroom, jumping over the guardrail, his black robes flying, his legs straight out, his foot kicking the semiautomatic out of a man's arms, sending it spinning across the oak floor. He heard the snap of the man's humerus, heard his howl of rage, saw the wild pain in his eyes. Then he saw terror and panic, saw him leap toward the gun even as he held his broken arm.

  He was on him again, with a back-fist punch to his ribs that sent him sprawling to the floor. The din of screaming people filled his mind. A second man whirled around to face him, the semiautomatic raised, ready, and he'd rolled, coming up to twist his hips as he parried, seizing the man's wrist so he wasn't in the line of fire. With his free hand he went after the man's throat, crushing his windpipe, watching him gag, hearing his gun slam against the spectator railing. The screams were high and loud. They went on and on, filling the courtroom, filling his mind, seeping into his brain. He saw the third man now, whirling around in a slow, very precise movement, saw the point when failure registered in his brain, saw him raise his gun and fire randomly, striking the shoulder of one of the defense team, a young man in a pristine white shirt that was instantly shredded and soaked red. The force of the bullet flung him back against three women who were cowered down in the first row of spectators. The man turned back to him, his eyes filled with panic and death. Ramsey felt the heat of a bullet as it passed an inch from his temple, and rolled, picking up the semiautomatic, aiming it even as he lay on his side, and pulled the trigger. He saw the man flung hard against the wall, his blood splattering against the wainscotting. The screams wouldn't stop, just grew louder and louder.

  Ramsey jerked up in bed, breathing hard, sweat sheening his forehead, and covered his face with his hands. So much blood, as if it had rained blood, "It's all right, Ramsey."

  It was Emma. She was sitting beside him, her small fingers lightly stroking his forearm. "It's all right. It was a nightmare, a bad one, like mine sometimes. Don't worry. I won't leave you, not until you're okay again."

  "Emma," he said, surprised that he could even get the word out of his mouth. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, pulled the little girl onto his legs, and drew her close.

  "I heard you," she said against his shoulder. "I was scared for you."

  "Thank you for coming. It was a bad one. It happened three months ago. I haven't dreamed about it for several weeks now."

  "I'm sorry it came back. What was it, Ramsey?" "I had to kill someone, Emma."

  She drew back and gazed up at him. His eyes were used to the darkness and he could see her clearly.

  She looked at him with calm and utter certainty. "You must have had to, that's all. Did they deserve it?"

  He stared down into that child's face with her eyes that had felt far too much pain and seen horrible evil.

  He owed her the truth.

  "Yes," he said slowly, never looking away from her. "They deserved it. They broke into my courtroom.

  They had guns. They wanted to free the drug dealers the jury had just found guilty. They started shooting jurors. So I stopped the carnage."

  "What's carnage?"

  "Emma? What are you doing here, love?"

  She turned toward the door. "Mama, Ramsey had a nightmare. I heard him and knew he needed me. He dreamed about carnage."

  Molly blinked at that.

  "Hello, Molly," Ramsey said. "I'm okay now. Emma's made me see things a bit differently."

  "Can we help you get to sleep, Ramsey?"

  "I smell like sweat, Emma. You don't want to stay close to a sweaty guy."

  "You're drying off, Ramsey. It's not too bad." Emma yawned, her head falling forward to Ramsey's chest.

  He looked toward Molly, who was standing in the doorway, wearing a white sleep shirt that had across the front in blue lettering, F-Stops Are My Specialty.

  Molly shrugged. "Why not? Emma and I can stay on top of the covers. Here's another blanket I can cover us with. I'm surprised I didn't hear you. I just realized Emma was gone a moment ago."

  As Molly climbed in next to Ramsey, pulling Emma next to her, she said, "Next time it'll be my turn to have a nightmare."

  "Are you all right, Ramsey?"

  "I'm much better now, Em, that you're here."

  "Tell me about the nightmare, Ramsey," Emma said, leaning up over her mother. "Mama says it helps when you say everything out loud," and he did. It was easier this time.

  Molly said, "How did they get into the courthouse with guns?"

  "A guard was bribed. He's in jail." He felt himself begin to ease. He had no more words. The shadows were reclaiming the blood and the death.

  "Yes, I remember now. That was in the articles I read. Well, it's over now. Does your back hurt?"

  "No. It wasn't much of a burn, Molly."

  "Good," Molly said. Emma was breathing deeply in sleep. Molly lightly touched her hand to his shoulder.

  "I'm very glad you weren't hurt."

  He tightened like a spring. He cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry I'm sweaty."

  "There are three blankets between you and us. You haven't sweated them through."

  He heard Emma's rhythmic breathing. She'd crashed. He hated himself, but he couldn't stop the words.

  "Tell me about your little brother, Molly."

  He felt her stiffen, then felt the whisper of her sigh in the silence. "He was such a sweet little boy. He was just ten years old that summer. He was a good swimmer, which was why I was on the dock, not really paying all that much attention. I was probably thinking about some thirteen-year-old boy, I was just about at that age. Then he was yelling and going under. I swam to him as fast as I could but he never woke up.

  "It was a reporter who first wrote that it might not have been an accident. My father was a ruthless criminal. Why would his daughter be any different? I was devastated. Teddy was dead and I was some sort of evil seed."

  "If there's one thing I'm sure about, Molly, it's the quality of your seed."

  She laughed, sadness and relief in her voice, then she leaned over and kissed his shoulder.

  He was content when he fell asleep.

  * * *

  "THE police have already interviewed Rule Shaker, with his lawyer present, of course," Savich said to a full audience the following morning just after they'd finished breakfast and trooped into the living room.

  "Detective O'Connor called me just a while ago. He said that Rule Shaker is giving them all the same kind of cooperation the president gives to Congress. That approach stretches things out forever and ends up leading anybody anywhere.

  "Rule Shaker just sat there behind his big chrome-and-glass desk, smoking his Cuban cigars, and swearing he just wanted
Louey Santera to come play in his casino. He freely admitted that Louey lost a good deal of money at the craps table, so what? What reasonable man, what reasonable businessman, he asked, would kill a man who owed him money?

  "When the cops pointed out that Louey might not have been the target, Mr. Shaker very politely informed them that any operation he ever undertook was done right. A screwup would have been impossible with him running it. Then he offered both O'Connor and the Las Vegas detective a cigar."

  Everyone just stared morosely at Savich. Mason Lord said, "That sounds like Shaker. He's an arrogant little bastard."

  "Sorry, guys," Savich said, "Ain't nothing easy in this life, even when it involves bastards."

  Miles cleared his throat at the door. "Detective O'Connor is here."

  O'Connor looked very tired; he had bags under his eyes that hadn't been there just two days before. He tried to smile, but didn't make it. "Hello. I got by the reporters and photographers intact. Your men are dealing well with them, Mr. Lord, no violence, but they're firm. There aren't more than a dozen out there today. Ah, I see that Agent Savich is giving you all a rundown of what I didn't accomplish in Las Vegas."

  He turned to Savich. "Do you have anything for us?"

  "MAXINE just might, Detective O'Connor," Savich said, grinning. "Actually, we've had her plugged in all night. We're just waiting for her to coughr something up."

  Mason Lord cleared his throat. "My dear, would you like to ask Miles to bring in coffee?"

  "Of course, Mason," Eve Lord said and rose gracefully from the elegant wing chair she'd been sitting in.

  She hadn't said a word until that moment, hadn't really called any attention at all to herself. But when she stood, all the men's eyes began to swing toward her. She was wearing tight white jeans, a top tied beneath her breasts, her pale blond hair long and loose, smooth as a silk swatch down her back. Every male eye in the room watched Eve Lord walk to the door, open it, and leave the living room. There was nearly a collective sigh of lust.