"It doesn't matter," Molly said, her eyes on her daughter. "Emma's what's important. We'll leave when you think it's right and not before."
"She's doing well, Mrs. Santera. She really is. But this sort of thing-it will be with her forever. You must face that and find a way to deal with it. Her feelings about it will change as she grows up. Most of it will fade into blurry vague memories, and that's good, but it won't ever disappear. But now, she's just a little girl. She doesn't have a clue about the concept of rape. She knows this bad man hurt her badly, and that it wasn't right, but there are no grown-up connotations. What you're dealing with right now are feelings of fear and remembered helplessness.
"Eventually, she'll have to understand that what happened to her can't be changed, that it was real, and that the trick is for her to learn to deal with it so that it doesn't ruin the rest of her life. It's not going to be easy for either of you. You'll put out a fire then another one will crop up in some other context.
"She's lucky that you're her mother. I know that Judge Hunt has known Emma for a very short time, but they trust each other, their affection seems to be deep and abiding."
"It will be difficult when Judge Hunt returns to his home," Molly said.
Dr. Loo let a couple of seconds go by, then said in that comfortable, matter-of-fact voice, "Well, these things have a way of working out. Tomorrow I'll meet with Emma alone. I want to speak to her about the abuse, try to make her see that the man wasn't normal, that it wasn't in any way her fault, that this didn't happen to her because she was bad."
"But how could she possibly feel that way?"
"Children, Mrs. Santera, children can bring almost everything back onto themselves. Also, we have no idea what the man said to her, how he manipulated her, how he terrorized her, or how he hurt her. It's always the adults who screw up royally. I have to deal with Emma now from the inside of her head. I'm telling you not to worry, but of course you will, both of you."
"You won't want either Judge Hunt or me here?"
"I think it would be better between the two of us. You would find it very upsetting. I can see Judge Hunt becoming quite enraged. No, just Emma and me."
"If you think that's best, Dr. Loo. You will call me, won't you?"
"Of course." Dr. Loo turned back to Emma with a smile. She leaned over and patted her shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, Emma. In the meantime I want you to get a lot of rest and try to smile at least three times a day at your mama."
"How about me?"
"And at least six times for Ramsey. I've found that guys need more smiles than girls do. Remember that."
RAMSEY smiled down at Emma. It was early afternoon, two hours before Louey Santera's memorial service. He'd brought her upstairs for a nap, just tucked her in. "I like your jazz variation, Emma. Did you know that Mr. Savich plays the guitar and sings? Yep, country and western. He performs in a club. It isn't Carnegie Hall, but it's a neat place, he told me. He also has a friend who plays the saxophone. He and Sherlock want us to visit them."
"I wish they didn't have to leave. Sherlock told me that she hoped she was going to have a little girl just like me. She said that Mr. Savich felt the same way. She said they both thought I was really neat. I told her that that wasn't a good idea. I'm not very good anymore."
Ramsey looked down at the child he'd give his life for. He'd just kissed her forehead, just complimented her on her music, and now this. He gently pushed her hair back from her face. Before he could think of what to say, Emma continued, "Sherlock's face turned red. She was really mad, but she said she wasn't mad at me."
"You, my perfect Emma, not good? Where'd you get a weird idea like that?"
She looked away, into a past that still had a hammerlock on her, a past that hemorrhaged into the present. "That man said I would save him. I didn't know what he was talking about."
Ramsey wanted to kill. He forced down a deep breath, slowed it, tried to calm himself. This was something for Dr. Loo, but she wasn't here, he was, and the rage he felt couldn't help her. "Listen to me, Em. This man who kidnapped you, he's sick in the head, really sick. What he thinks, what he does, it has nothing to do with you-Emma Santera. He would have hurt any little girl he could find. You weren't Emma to him. Do you understand?"
"No," she said finally. "I don't understand. It's scary, Ramsey."
He leaned down, his forehead touching hers. He kissed the tip of her nose. "Listen up, Emma. We're on a roll here. The three of us together, we'll take on the scariest thing you can dream up. You're a very good little girl, Emma. In fact, you're so good that the thought of not having you with me makes a big dent in my heart. That's how good you are."
She gave him a big smile. One small hand stroked his cheek. "You won't leave, Ramsey, will you? You won't go back to your house?"
He took both of her hands between his and kissed her fingers. They tasted like the gingerbread that Miles had baked for her at lunchtime. He didn't really know what the future would bring, but he knew he couldn't tell that to her. Her life had been smashed, her father murdered, and he said now, without hesitation at all, "I won't leave you, ever, Emma."
"Good," she said, and yawned.
"Emma?"
"Yes, Ramsey?"
"Will you be a brat for me just once? Maybe when you get up from your nap? Or this evening? I know, you could whine about having to drink your milk or finish your dinner or having to go to bed? Throw a kid fit?"
She smiled at him. "Sure."
"You want to take a nap now?"
"Okay." She closed her eyes, then opened one and squinted up at him. "But maybe I won't go to bed tonight."
"Fair enough." Actually, he just wanted to get her through her father's memorial service. He hoped they could continue to keep out all the reporters, the local TV stations, and the paparazzi. The guards had ably assisted one reporter back up over the compound wall and out onto the road. He prayed that Emma wouldn't pay any attention to the impertinent questions that flew at him and Molly whenever they went outside the gates.
23
MELISSA SHAKER WAS crying so hard she nearly tripped down the steps leading into the garage. It had been two days now but she still couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it. That damned ex-wife of his had held a dip-shit little memorial service, no actual funeral because there'd been nothing to cremate or bury.
Louey was gone, just simply gone, and nobody cared. Except her. She tripped again, grabbing the handrail to steady herself as she stepped into the underground garage. A car horn honked loudly. She felt its hot exhaust as it whooshed past her, the driver yelling at her to pay attention.
She wiped her eyes. There was nothing to do. Just nothing. Her father had sworn he hadn't killed Louey, but she'd looked into his eyes and seen guilt. She would never forgive him, ever.
"Miss Shaker."
She didn't want Greg anywhere near her. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to drive out into the desert and let the sun burn into her. She kept walking toward her car.
"Miss Shaker! Please, wait up. You know your father's orders, particularly now."
She waited for him simply because she didn't want to get Greg fired when all he was trying to do was his job.
She stopped by her BMW roadster, painted James Bond blue. It was exactly like the one he'd driven in a movie, except hers was more powerful. She loved that little car.
"Thank you," Greg said as he trotted up to her. "Listen, Miss Shaker, I'm really sorry."
"Thank you," she said, and got into the car. Greg came around the other side.
"Don't try to lose me, Miss Shaker. It's important that I stick close to you, particularly during the next week."
"They gave him a measly memorial service," she said, and turned the key.
The car exploded into flames.
IT came on the local Las Vegas news brought in via satellite at twelve-twenty in the afternoon.
Melissa Shaker, twenty-three, daughter of Rule Shaker, Las Vegas casino owner, was killed at ten A.M
. this morning when she and a friend were in an explosion involving Ms. Shaker's car that was parked in the underground parking lot beneath the Sirocco Casino.
Arson experts say a bomb was involved. Police haven't yet said if there are any suspects. Details at five o
'clock.
Ramsey dropped his fork, sending the thin slice of ham slithering off onto his plate. He'd heard the TV playing from the kitchen, wondered why it was even on, wondered why it was turned up loud enough to hear in the dining room, wondered why it was on satellite to get a local Las Vegas station, and now this.
And now all his questions were answered.
Obviously someone had known it would make the local Las Vegas noon news. Obviously someone had been waiting for this.
There was an instant of shocked silence, then everyone was talking. He heard Eve gasp, heard her say something, but he couldn't make out her words. There was a crash of a pan that Miles must have dropped in the kitchen. At the head of the table, Mason Lord continued to eat his casaba melon, not missing a beat. There was a slight flush on his cheeks, but he said nothing, did nothing out of the ordinary at all.
Molly had been saying something to Emma. She stopped in mid-sentence. She looked over at her father and said quietly, "An eye for an eye, Dad?"
Mason Lord chewed on the bite of melon, gracefully laid down his fork, and looked at his daughter. "I suggest you refrain from such talk, Molly, particularly in front of your daughter."
Emma, attuned to the change in the most important person in her world, pulled on her mother's sleeve.
"Mama? What happened?"
Ramsey watched Molly pull herself together for Emma's sake. She banked the horror in her eyes and smoothed her expression into nothing more than a soft smile for her daughter. She turned to Emma, hugged her close for a moment, and said, "I taste something strange in Miles's quiche. What do you think?"
Emma gave her that weary adult look. "The quiche has bacon in it, Mama, and fresh spinach. I watched Mr. Miles make it. He even let me add the eggs. The quiche is just fine."
Molly looked as if she'd just been smashed on the head with a cannonball. She was having a tough time getting it together. "I'm sorry, Emma. You're right, of course. I don't know, love, I guess I just don't feel well."
Molly looked over at Eve Lord, who sat to her right at the foot of the table, her face tight, as white as the tablecloth. She was staring at her husband. Then, suddenly, Eve turned to Emma, and her face was again as smooth as a Madonna's. "I gave the quiche recipe to Miles. My mother was an excellent cook. I'm sorry your mother doesn't like it."
"I think it's time we had coffee," Mason said. "Miles?"
Ramsey said, controlling his voice, "I would like to speak with you, Mason. Shall we take our coffee to the living room?"
"It's a beautiful day," Eve Lord said, staring again at her husband. "Mason said that we would go out on the yacht, Ramsey. Perhaps you can speak with him later?"
They heard the phone ring. Miles appeared around the door of the dining room. "Judge Hunt, it's Agent Savich. He, uh, wants to speak with you."
Ramsey tossed his napkin on his plate and walked quickly to the kitchen where Miles stood patiently, holding the phone.
"Sherlock and I are at O'Hare. We just heard about the murders in Las Vegas. I can't believe this, Ramsey. The man has balls, I'll say that for him. You want us to come back?"
Ramsey wanted them back in the worst way, but there was nothing they could do, nothing anyone could do, really. How selfish did he want to be? "No, Savich. Take Sherlock off somewhere and make her happy. Just let me know where you're staying in Paris so I can call if there's occasion to sound the cavalry trumpet."
"It's a little pension on the Left Bank," Savich said. "Sherlock wants to show it to me. We'll let you know the number. Did Mason say anything? Have you seen him?"
"Oh yes. We all just heard it on the news at the dining table. It didn't even touch him that there were a federal judge and FBI agents in his house when he gave the orders."
"Here's what I think. Just get out of there, Ramsey. Take Molly and Emma, and check out of the Bates Motel. You don't need this. It's vengeance. Don't get involved. There's nothing you can do in any case."
"I can't believe you're saying that."
"I'm saying it as Molly and Emma's friend. You don't want them in the middle of something that could shape up into a nice little personal war. There's been tit for tat. Don't stay to see if it goes another round.
Just get out."
Ramsey said slowly, "You're right, of course." He rubbed his hand over his forehead. "I feel that I should question Mason, handcuff Gunther. No, you're right. It's Molly and Emma's safety that's most important.
I'll call you in a couple of days, let you know what's going on."
They spoke a bit longer, and then Ramsey laid the phone slowly back into its cradle. It was an old-fashioned black rotary, one that Miles had picked out specifically for his kitchen, he'd told Ramsey when he was whipping up pancakes for breakfast one morning.
Ramsey turned slowly to see Miles standing at the island, chopping celery. A chopped red apple stood in a bright pile to one side. Green grapes, sliced in half, formed another pile. Miles said in a very precise voice, "I'm making Waldorf salad."
"Did you know this was going to happen, Miles?"
"You know I can't say anything, Ramsey. Leave, sir, that's my best advice to you. Take Molly and Emma and leave. Since this man Shaker was behind everything, you're safe now that Louey's dead. Just leave."
"Unless Shaker plans his own vengeance now. Unless he plans to escalate. If he does, we're in really deep."
Miles shook his head, chopped some more celery in sure quick strokes, and said, "It doesn't work that way. It's over. One player knocked down, one opposing player knocked down. Everything's even again.
Those are the rules. Nobody breaks the rules."
The horror of it bubbled out of him. Ramsey slammed his fist down on the counter. "That's sick and you know it."
Miles just shrugged. "No one will miss Louey Santera. No one will miss this Rule Shaker's daughter.
Leave it alone, Ramsey. Get Molly and Emma out of here."
Ramsey, his jaw locked hard from disbelief and tension, left the kitchen. He looked only at Molly when he reached the dining room. "Come upstairs with me, will you?"
"Yes, certainly."
Then he realized that Emma was sitting there, quiche on her fork, staring at them. Ramsey calmed himself.
"Em, would you do me a favor?"
She wanted to ask him questions, he could see that, but he shook his head at her. "Would you come upstairs with your mom and me?"
Five minutes later, after they'd settled Emma with a book on animal husbandry for children in her bedroom, all of them knowing it was a ploy, especially Emma, Molly and Ramsey were standing alone in his bedroom.
He said without preamble, "I see no reason to stay. Do you?"
"No, no reason at all," Molly said, pulling a silver ring off her pinkie finger, then pushing it back on. "He's a monster, Ramsey. My father just blew up a twenty-three-year-old woman."
"That's the league he plays in, Molly. The media should be back here anytime, if they haven't already pulled up to the front gates. Let's fly to Denver today, to your house. You and Emma can pack stuff for Ireland, then we'll go to San Francisco. Okay?"
Molly said more to herself than to him, "Ireland would be beautiful, I've seen pictures." Then he saw a sparkle in her eyes. "I could begin work again. I could take my cameras."
He realized it would be a new beginning for Molly. And for himself as well. "Yes, bring all you need. Will you take a photo of Emma for me?"
"You don't think the media will follow us, do you?"
"I doubt that we're interesting enough."
"You know that's not true."
"All right, so we'll have to be smarter than they are.
"You're leaving," Mason said, no particular regret or surprise in h
is voice. "Miles said you'd ordered a taxi." He smiled. "I can understand why you wouldn't want to take one of my cars or have one of my people drive you."
It was a joke Ramsey hoped Emma hadn't understood. He'd dealt with men like Mason Lord in his professional life. They were men to whom a designated death was just another move on a chessboard.
"Yes," Ramsey said, "we're leaving. Molly is ready to return to Denver." He wasn't about to tell Mason Lord where they were really going.
"Eve wanted to go out on Lake Michigan. We didn't go. I knew you'd leave if I left."
"You stayed and we're still leaving. It doesn't matter, Mason. Thank you for your hospitality."
Eve Lord came up behind her husband and said that Detective O'Connor had arrived.
Ramsey cursed under his breath. He should have foreseen this, but he hadn't. He'd been focused on getting the Hell Out of Dodge. He turned to Molly. "You and Emma stick close for a moment. I want to speak to Detective O'Connor." Ramsey got to him before he'd stepped into the living room.
"I was just leaving. Mrs. Santera and Emma are going with me."
Detective O'Connor looked as if he'd slept in somebody else's face. The skin didn't fit, it was loose over his jowls. There were bags under his eyes. "I don't blame you, Ramsey. Before you head out, do you know anything about this?"
"I heard it on the TV. We were all at lunch. I remember wondering why a local Las Vegas station was on the TV in the kitchen, why it was so loud. Then, of course, it was clear. You know as well as I do that Mason Lord arranged for the explosion. I've been told that now things are even again and there won't be any more violence."
Detective O'Connor whistled between his teeth. "I feel like a fly buzzing around with no place to land. I don't suppose Mr. Lord admitted to you that he'd done it?"
"No, he didn't say a word. But you know, he had a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes that he couldn't quite hide. Sure he ordered it. This place is like an alternate universe."
"The cops down in Las Vegas say they ain't got dip. Everything was neat and tidy, except for the two bodies left over."
The Target f-3 Page 22
