The Target f-3

by Catherine Coulter

  He didn't say anything, just gently reached down to rub her shoulders, then hunched down on his knees beside her. He pulled back her hair. She sank back against him. "You okay now?"

  She moaned. "I don't want to talk. I just want to die."

  He flushed the toilet. "Hold still, let me get you some water to wash out your mouth."

  She moaned again. "I wish you hadn't come up here. I should have known Emma would get you. This is humiliating."

  He handed her a glass of water. She eyed it, then rose slowly. "Let me brush my teeth."

  "I've got some antacid. You want some? Oh yes, Emma was really worried. I'm glad she had sense enough to fetch me. More sense than her mother."

  "Go away," she said, pushing him out the door and closing it. He heard her rinse her mouth out with mouthwash. Five minutes later, he was walking beside her to the bed. There wasn't a great view in the guestroom, but the row of three windows that were there gave a glimpse of the Golden Gate.

  "At least while I'm lying here dying, the last thing I see will be beautiful."

  "Nah, the last thing you'll see is my ugly face. That's enough right there to get you well again."

  "I must have eaten something bad on the airplane."

  She'd had the linguine with clam sauce. Both he and Emma had had the chicken. "Could be. That or it's stress."

  He gently cupped her face with his palm. She was sweaty and damp. He frowned. "I'm going to call my doctor, see what he has to say."

  "I'm not going to any doctor, Ramsey. Forget it. My stomach's empty now. I'll be fine."

  "We'll see," he said, in the same adult tone she used naturally with a child when she wanted to clamp down on any further arguments.

  He brought her a couple of pills and a glass of water. "Take these."

  She didn't even ask what they were. When she'd swallowed them, she leaned back against the pillows.

  "How's your arm?"

  "It's fine. How's your back?"

  He just smiled at her. "I'm okay. Can you still see the stitches in your arm?"

  "Some of them, but they're on their way. How's your leg?"

  "Long healed. I want to see your arm." She suffered his rolling up the sleeve of her pale cream-colored blouse. He gently pulled back the bandage. The skin was a healthy pink, the stitches obscene in her white arm, but the wound was much better, the remaining stitches disintegrating. He grunted and pressed the bandage down again. "Well, your heaving isn't from this wound."

  "Where's Emma?"

  "She's in my big leather chair staring out the French doors toward the bridge. But let me go check." He brought her back up five minutes later.

  "Look who I found with her cute little nose pressed to the window?"

  "My beautiful little princess?"

  "Nah, she's mine, but I'll be willing to share her for a couple of minutes. You can see for yourself, Emma.

  Your mom's okay."

  "Can I stay with her, Ramsey? I'll try to make her laugh. She says laughing always makes anybody feel better."

  "Okay, but if she gets sick again, you holler and I'll get somebody over here with some needles to stick in her."

  "Yuck," said Emma.

  Three hours later, Molly was chewing on some dry toast and drinking hot plain Earl Grey tea. She still looked pale. At least she hadn't vomited again. The nausea had been gone for an hour, but his hand still hovered over the phone. He wanted to call Jim Haversham, an internist with privileges at San Francisco General.

  "I don't think we're going anywhere tomorrow," he said at nine o'clock that evening. Both Emma and Molly were lying in the guestroom bed, the brand-new TV on low, providing background noise.

  The doorbell sounded. Ramsey turned to leave. "It's just a friend of mine from the San Francisco PD. I called her. She's going to brief me on anything they've turned up."

  "About your house being trashed?" Molly asked, moving the wet washcloth a bit to the left on her forehead.

  "That and other things. You guys just relax. Emma, if your mom needs anything, you come and tell me.

  Can I count on you to mind me and not her?"

  Emma looked worried. "I don't know, Ramsey, she's my mom. She's been around since I was born."

  "I know, but right now she's on the pathetic side. She doesn't know what's good for her. Call me, all right?"

  Emma still looked uncertain. She pulled her piano onto her lap. Molly groaned. She groaned again, a big funny groan that made Emma smile.

  Good for you, Molly, he thought, gave them a salute, and took off downstairs.

  Virginia Trolley was at the door, wearing her signature black boots, black slacks, black turtleneck, and a red blazer. "I'm glad you're home, Ramsey. All hell's broken loose."

  He invited her into his study. There was a fire in the fireplace and the new heavy pale gold draperies were drawn, making the room darker, more intimate.

  "I love your house. The new stuff looks great. Did they bankrupt you refurbishing it?"

  "The insurance will cover most of it."

  "Good. Now that everything's brand-new, do you think we could get married, then we could get divorced and I'd get the house?"

  "No way you'd get the house unless you bribed a judge," Ramsey said, and poured her a cup of coffee from the Thermos on a side table.

  She sighed. "My husband might not understand, either. Would you consider adopting me?"

  "You're older than I am."

  "Ah, so have you heard of age discrimination?"

  "Not me. Thanks for coming by, Ginny. What's going on downtown?"

  "You know everyone still calls you Judge Dredd. It really fits now, what with all your flirting with the underworld. The media has been going nuts about all of it. I'm surprised they haven't found out you're home. Be thankful for small favors. It won't last."

  He brought her up-to-date, finishing with, "Molly, Emma, and I are all going to Ireland day after tomorrow. We were going to leave first thing tomorrow, but Molly was throwing up her toenails all afternoon. She seems better now, but it doesn't seem too bright to fly right now. I think it was the linguine she ate on the plane. I'm praying it's not gastritis or an ulcer, though an ulcer wouldn't surprise me what with all she's been through."

  Virginia Trolley rose from her chair, walked to the wide French doors, and pulled back the drapes. The clouds were hanging black and low. There was no sign of a moon or any stars. She sighed deeply.

  "We've all been talking about what's happened. This Shaker guy is bad stuff, Ramsey. If he is behind all of it, the chances of getting enough for an indictment are about the same as the Raiders winning another Super Bowl anytime soon. The odds are astronomical." She grinned. "Actually, it's looking like the Forty-niners aren't going to come up smelling like roses either this fall. Who knows?"

  Ramsey sat down in the big leather chair behind his desk. He leaned back, cradling his head on his arms.

  "I'm hoping it is Shaker because it means the three of us are probably out of danger. Anyway, it's what the Feds think, it's what the Denver cops think. They're all still looking for the creep who took Emma.

  "I'm praying we're out of here before the media discover we're back. I think all of us being out of the country for a while would be a healthy thing. Have you got anything new?"

  Virginia turned from the French doors, letting the drapes drop back into place. "You're probably right. No leads as to who trashed your house. The neighbors saw nothing. There weren't any prints." She paused, looking around the man's study-dark wainscoting, rich leather furniture, and highly polished oak floor. "The cleaning service took real pride in fixing Judge Ramsey Hunt's house all right and tight. The Chronicle even wanted a photo of this room after your people refurbished it. It do sparkle, don't it?"

  "Yeah, it do."

  "Any problems?"

  "No, everything is fine, at least for the moment. But I'm thinking it might be smart to have some protection."

  "Agreed. I'll schedule a patrol to come by every half-hour or
so. Oh yes, I need to show you this, though we don't think it's much of anything. Anonymous, of course. It was shoved under your office door." She pulled it out of her purse and handed it to him.

  It was short and to the point.

  YOU ARE A MURDERER. YOU WILL DIE.

  It was printed carefully with a thick-tip black pen. Ramsey handed it back to her, "No verbosity-it can't be a lawyer. Any reason to think it's more than the usual crank stuff?"

  "Not much different from what you got right after you destroyed the scum in your courtroom. You haven't gotten anything else recently, have you?"

  "No, not that anyone has told me about."

  "All right, it's probably nothing. But be careful, Judge Dredd. One of the undercover cops was telling his buddies he'd pulled a Hunt maneuver. In other words, he kicked some butt. He said he'd just wished he'd been wearing a black robe, that would have made him the ultimate cool. Sorry, Ramsey, you're in the cop lexicon now." Virginia Trolley looked up to see a little girl standing in the doorway, holding a large portable piano against her chest. The thing came down to her knees. She was clutching it really tightly. She had beautiful thick mahogany-colored hair that was straggling out of a fat French braid.

  "Hi," Ginny said easily. "Are you Emma Santera?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Ramsey, Mama's throwing up again. She told me not to tell you, but I'm worried. Would you make it stop again?"

  "Yes, Emma, I'll take care of it right now." He turned to Ginny. "I'm going to call Jim Haversham. He owes me. I'll never forget Savich telling me that it's always a good thing to have a physician on your debt list."

  "He's your FBI friend?"

  "Yeah. Listen, Ginny, I'll keep in touch. If anything comes up, you can fax me in Ireland. We'll be staying at Dromoland Castle just north of Shannon Airport for a couple of days. I don't remember the county name. I'll let you know after that."

  "Okay. You keep yourself safe, Ramsey. Good-bye, Emma. Take care of your mama and Ramsey, okay?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Emma slipped into the room and stood by Ramsey while Ginny went out. As soon as she'd left the study, Ramsey picked up the phone.

  When he hung up, he swung Emma and her piano up in his arms. "Let's go tell your mom that she's lucky.

  No going to any hospital. Nope, she's going to have a real live doctor make a house call to see her."

  DR. James Haversham was forty-two, divorced twice, a man who sailed every free minute. He straightened and rubbed his jaw, a habit of long standing. He said finally, still looking down at Molly, still rubbing his jaw, "I need to do some tests."

  "No. Forget it. If I ever go to the hospital, I'll be dead and I won't know about it. No tests."

  He sighed. "All right, then. My best guess is that you ate something spoiled. Ramsey told me you had linguine with clams on the plane. From what he told me, nearly all of it is out of your system. But you're still having bowel spasms and that's why you started vomiting again. I'm going to give you a shot and some pills. They will help calm your stomach, make you drowsy, and take away the nausea. It'll take time for your bowels to straighten out. You're getting dehydrated. I want you to drink plenty of fluids tonight and tomorrow. Okay, the shot's for your butt. Turn over, please."

  "Ramsey, please take Emma outside."

  But Emma wasn't about to budge. "No, Mama, you need me. I'll hold your hand."

  "You need me, too. I'll hold your other hand. It's your hour of need, Molly."

  Emma looked up at him. "Was that a joke, Ramsey?"

  "All right," Dr. Haversham said, "both of you turn around so my patient isn't embarrassed."

  They turned to face the television that was showing a rerun of M*A*S*H, without sound.

  They heard a yelp, then Dr. Haversham's voice. "Now, two of these pills, Mrs. Santera. You're going to stay in bed, sleep and eat through tomorrow. Drink enough water so that you're in the bathroom every fifteen minutes. Any more vomiting, though, and you're coming to the ER. I mean it. Unless you feel better soon, it means there's something going on here other than food poisoning." She was shaking her head even as he leaned down and said,

  "You have a beautiful little girl who needs you. Pick something else to be stubborn about."

  She sighed. "You're right, of course. Thank you for coming."

  "You're welcome." He turned to leave when Molly called out, "What did Ramsey do for you? He said you owed him and that's why you came to the house."

  "He saved my life."

  "What did he do?"

  "When my first ex-wife got drunk and was going to beat up my other ex-wife, but not ex then, Ramsey stepped in. He distracted Melanie and had her dancing the rest of the night."

  Molly laughed. "That's quite a debt you've paid off."

  Dr. Haversham wasn't about to tell her that he'd made that up. She was a lovely woman with an easy smile on her face. And he'd put the smile there, brought the laugh. It was probably as effective as his pills and shot. "It sure was. Take care, Mrs. Santera."

  She was nearly asleep. He smiled and shook Ramsey's hand.

  "I heard what you said," Ramsey said. "I didn't know you could think that fast on your feet. We're even now."

  "Oh, no. I still owe you another two or three more favors. I remember that water sure was cold. If you hadn't gotten me out of there, I wouldn't be doing favors for anybody."

  He leaned down and automatically put his palm against Emma's forehead. She gasped and leaped back.

  Ramsey just smiled and patted her shoulder. "It's all right, sweetheart. Dr. Haversham just wants to make sure you're not sick like your mama. He's always checking everybody around him. Foreheads are his specialty."

  Then Dr. Haversham remembered. This was the little girl who'd been kidnapped and sexually abused. He smiled down at her. "You seem to be in great health to me. You've got a fine forehead. You stick close to your mom, okay?"

  "Yes, sir, I will," Emma said, but she kept back, staying close to Ramsey. He felt her hand slide into his.

  She was holding the piano up with only one arm. He quickly reached down and picked her and her piano up. "Let's see Dr. Haversham out, Emma. Then we can bring some water to your mama."

  "She won't like having to go to the bathroom all the time, Ramsey."

  "I wouldn't either, but it's her fate for a while."

  26

  MOLLY SLEPT THROUGH the night. The next morning, she felt weak, but her stomach was settled.

  Ramsey gave her three slices of toast, thick with strawberry jam. Both Ramsey and Emma sat on the end of her bed, watching her take every bite. Finally, Molly laughed and said, "Enough. Look, two slices. I'm stuffed to my tonsils."

  "You don't have any tonsils, Mama."

  "Close enough. Now, I need a shower to feel really human. Ramsey, can you get us out of here today?"

  He shook his head. "Let's give it another day, Molly. You've got orders to stay close and rest. Take those pills and keep drinking your water. I got you the bottled stuff. If you're good, if you're feeling even better this afternoon, we can go over to my favorite Mexican restaurant on Lombard Street for dinner."

  Molly groaned and clutched her stomach.

  "Okay then. Chicken soup it is."

  She was exhausted by the time she'd blow-dried her hair and dressed. She looked at the bed, freshly made, the comforter turned back, at Ramsey, who was just smiling at her, and flopped down. "A woman picked out this bed set. It's so bright and whimsical. Am I right?"

  "Yep. Probably my secretary. I like it. Here, drink this entire glass, all twelve ounces. Then, take a nap.

  I'm going to take Emma over to Cliff House. The beach there is wonderful, right below what we call The Great Highway. She'll see some seals. We'll build a sand castle and throw a Fris-bee for one of the many dogs that hang out with their owners over there. I'll bring her back dirty and happy. I want that bottle to be empty."

  They'd been on the beach only twenty minutes when a huge panting black Lab came trotting over to Ramsey and butted his head against
Ramsey's leg. A woman called out, "Just tell him to eat dirt if you don't want to throw that Fris-bee for him."

  But Ramsey patted the Lab's big head. "You up for this, fella?" He pulled his ancient chewed-up yellow Frisbee out of the old duffel bag that also held his and Emma's sandwiches, potato chips, and soft drinks, and flung it a good thirty yards. The Lab raced after it.

  "Now Bop's never going to leave you," a young woman said, striding up to where Ramsey and Emma stood. Emma's eyes were on Bop as he hurled himself into the air, but couldn't extend far enough to catch the Frisbee.

  "He'll get it next time. He has to learn your style. Just tell me when you're tired of throwing for him. This your little girl?"

  Emma quietly slipped her hand into Ramsey's. She pressed against his side.

  "Yes," Ramsey said. "This is my little girl, Emma."

  "I'm Betty Conlin," the young woman said and thrust out her hand. Ramsey shook it. The woman knelt down in front of Emma. "Hi. How old are you?"

  Emma gave her a long assessing look. She said finally, "Bop's coming back. My mama's home in bed.

  We're here so I can play and try to forget about things. We're here so Mama can rest and get well."

  "I see," Betty said and rose, and, naturally, she did indeed see. She smiled. "Here, Bop!"

  Ramsey snapped his wrist and sent the Frisbee flying again. Bop had already begun running. He caught it on a three-foot leap. Ramsey yelled out, "Nice goin', boy, well done!"

  He was laughing. There was dog slobber on his hands. Emma was playing in the sand one foot away from him. The sun was bright, making the ocean surface gleam like light blue diamonds. The sound of the waves sweeping onto shore was a constant rumble behind all the human voices. All they needed was Molly with them, lying on a blanket, drinking lots and lots of water and probably needing a bathroom, of which there were none anywhere close. He looked down at Emma and saw that she was staring at Betty Conlin. He didn't need to worry about any woman coming on to him. Emma would protect him. Well, for the moment they couldn't have Bop without Betty. Bop came dashing back, played tug-on-the-Frisbee with Ramsey, dropped it, and took off running. Ramsey let loose with a really long throw, skimming low toward the water. He shaded his eyes, watching Bop. The Frisbee caught a sliver of upward air and went flying even farther. Maybe fifty yards?