The Target

by Catherine Coulter

  “What is it?”

  “It’s very likely that Emma could describe the kidnapper. I’d thought about it before, but I decided she didn’t need that kind of stress. It was too soon. Maybe she could do it now. We could get a police artist out here.”

  “No police. They poke where they shouldn’t. I’ll get an artist and have him make arrangements to see you at Dr. Loo’s.”

  Ramsey nodded and walked into the breakfast room. Only Emma and Molly were there. It was a charming room done in the Colonial style, with bowed windows looking over the back lawn with its glittering blue swimming pool. He sat down at the cherry-wood table with its hand-embroidered tablecloth, covered dishes set for them.

  “I like Dr. Loo,” Emma said as she started on her bowl of the special oatmeal Miles had made for her. “Do you really believe I saw him?”

  “It’s possible you didn’t really see him, sweetheart. I hope we can find out what you really saw. Do you mind?”

  “No.” She sighed deeply. Ramsey hadn’t ever thought a child could sigh like that.

  Molly stood up and walked behind Emma. “Let me French-braid your hair, Em. It looks a bit ratty.”

  While Emma ate her cereal, Ramsey drank coffee, watching Molly do the French braid, her hands sure, her motions smooth. He’d have to learn how to do that. He remembered the pathetic braids he’d managed after he’d found Emma.

  “Will you teach me that?” he said to Molly, who was twisting a rubber band around the bottom of the braid. She wrapped a pretty yellow puffy bow around that.

  “Sure, no problem. Emma, do you mind Ramsey practicing on you?”

  “No, Mama. Ramsey can learn anything.”

  “Such faith,” Molly said and kissed her daughter’s ear. “If you’re finished, sweetheart, it’s nearly time to go. I’ll call Miles to get the car.”

  “Gunther already brought it around earlier, according to your father.”

  They went out of the house five minutes later to see the car parked on the far side of the wide circular drive.

  Suddenly, Louey Santera bolted from behind a thick row of bushes, rushed to the car, and jerked open the driver’s-side door of the Mercedes.

  “He’s trying to escape,” Ramsey said, shaking his head. “The idiot.”

  He yelled, “Come back here, Louey. You can’t get out of here, and you know that. The drive is gated. There are two guys there, with guns. Stop, you moron. For God’s sake, Mason isn’t going to pull your fingernails out. All you’ve got to do is tell him the truth and nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  Louey gave them the finger. He twisted the key in the ignition.

  It was his last act.

  18

  THE CAR EXPLODED in a ball of flame. Tongues of fire and metal swept upward and outward from the car, shooting into the air, hurtling toward them. Molly grabbed Emma and threw her to the ground, falling over her. Ramsey flung himself on top of them both, gathering them in with his arms, covering them as best he could. He felt the fierce heat of the flames, heard the whoosh of the fire and chunks of metal striking the sidewalk and gravel. Suddenly he felt as if a boulder had slammed into the middle of his back. It was hard and heavy and hot. The pain was intense. Whatever had hit him was still on his back, burning through his sports jacket and shirt. “Hold still, Molly.” He quickly rolled off them onto his back. A smoking fragment of upholstery fell to the ground beside him. The pain immediately lessened. He’d stopped the burning.

  He looked back at Molly and saw a sharp piece of metal that looked like a spear jutting out of her arm, right above the elbow. “Oh Jesus, Molly, hold still. Emma, you okay?”

  “Yes, Ramsey.”

  “Good. Don’t either of you move yet. It’s still too dangerous.” He ripped off the sleeve of his shirt, took a deep breath, and without saying a word to Molly, he jerked the metal spear out of her arm. “Good,” he said. “Don’t move, I’m going to wrap it up.”

  Molly hadn’t made a sound. He didn’t know how she’d managed it, but she did. The next minutes ground slowly by. Emma was fidgeting. He said things, silly meaningless things, to quiet her. Finally, the car was burning down, consuming itself, the flames collapsed into plumes of black smoke, which then fell, blanketing everything. The smell of burning rubber was nauseating. The Mercedes was a burning corpse. And what was left of Louey was inside it.

  Emma twisted onto her back when Ramsey finally moved and looked up at him and her mother, who was holding her arm. “What happened? Why did our car blow up?”

  “It’s all right, Emma.” He couldn’t answer her, not yet. He helped Molly to her feet. “You hanging in there?”

  “Yes, don’t worry about me. I’m lucky I was wearing a long-sleeved dress. Not much protection, but some.” Her sleeve was seared off, the blood from the wound soaking his makeshift bandage and snaking down her forearm.

  “Both of us need a doctor.”

  She was staring at him. “Are you all right, Ramsey? I know you’re hurt. How bad is it?”

  “I’m all right. Come on, Molly.”

  She looked away toward the burning car. She turned perfectly white. “Oh God, Louey!” She ran toward the burning wreck, holding her hurt arm. “Louey!”

  Ramsey grabbed her around her waist, pulling her back. “No, Molly. He’s dead.” He blinked. It hit him that Emma’s father had just been blown up in front of her. He and Molly were both in shock, not thinking clearly or quickly, but now here was Emma, staring at the car. He came down on his knees in front of her and gathered her against him. “It will be all right, Emma, I promise. I’m real sorry, sweetheart. Someone put a bomb in the car. It exploded when he turned it on.”

  He heard people’s voices behind him, coming from the house, but he didn’t turn to see who was there.

  There was nothing left of the car. Nothing left either of Louey Santera. Then he saw that the Mercedes hood ornament was still recognizable. He turned then to see everyone standing on the front steps gaping at the twisted, blackened car. There were still small spurts of flame eating into the metal, bursting up now and then into glittering showers.

  Emma’s piano was smashed. Still she held it against her chest. She looked at her mother, then back at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s dead, Emma,” Molly said.

  “Oh,” she said finally. She looked at the gutted car, at the licking flames. “I don’t see him, Ramsey.”

  “No,” he said. He wasn’t about to tell her that her father could be picked up in a wastebasket.

  Then everyone seemed to be talking at once, patting, soothing, Mason Lord even holding Molly close to his side for a moment. Gunther had his gun out. Miles was trying to edge close to Emma. Guards had swarmed to the burning wreck, their guns at the ready. All of them were young men, fit and strong, each carrying an automatic weapon. Even they stopped to stare at the devastation.

  Eve Lord said slowly, her eyes on Emma, “You three were supposed to be in that car, not Louey Santera.”

  “It was that bad man,” Emma said. “He came back to get me, but he killed Daddy instead.”

  She looked at her smashed piano, and gently laid it on the grass. “Look at all the broken keys.” She came down on her knees beside it and gently pressed the middle C. A sharp tinny sound pinged out. Her face went very still. She picked up the piano again, clutched it to her chest, and walked back into the house. Molly caught her in a moment, and pulled her up into her arms.

  “I’ll call the police,” Ramsey said to Mason Lord.

  “There will be no police on my property.”

  “Oh, yes, there will.”

  * * *

  MOLLY didn’t make a sound as Mason Lord’s own personal physician, Dr. Theodore Otterly, sewed up her arm. Ramsey felt the ripples of pain, the tensing of her muscles, but she didn’t complain. He’d put two chairs together, sitting on the back one to support Molly in front of him. Dr. Otterly asked him to help support her, so Ramsey put his arm around her, under her chin, his han
d cupping her shoulder. She leaned her chin on his arm. Emma was holding her hand. Her wounded arm was resting on the kitchen table. All of Dr. Otterly’s medical stuff was spread out on the table. Molly flinched, then drew a deep fast breath.

  Suddenly Emma made a small mewling sound. Ramsey said easily, “I know, Em. This is tough, but your mom’s hanging in there. If you want to say something, say it.”

  “Are you all right, Mama?”

  Her voice was small and thin, her fear stark. Molly didn’t know where she got a smile, but she managed to manufacture one. “Hey, Em, this is nothing. I’m mean and tough, just like Ramsey. I can take these little hits. I’m a macha. Don’t you worry, kiddo, I’m just fine.”

  He felt her shudder again and tightened his arm around her. She leaned back, letting him support her weight. Dr. Otterly had helped him off with his jacket, probed at his shirt a moment, then said he’d deal with Molly first. He was vastly relieved. He didn’t want an injury that would shut him down for even a short time. Events had gotten out of control, and he couldn’t afford to be out of control as well. But damn, his back hurt.

  He was aware that Mason Lord was standing back by the kitchen door, his arms folded across his chest. He hadn’t said a word, just stood there. Miles was seated beside Emma, holding her other hand. He knew the police had arrived. He’d heard sirens and voices, running feet.

  “Ramsey, your back is all black. I mean your shirt is all black. I hope you’re not black underneath.”

  “Dr. Otterly just grunted when he saw it, told me not to whine, that he wanted to see to your mom first. He knows I’m okay, Emma.” Ramsey was glad he couldn’t see exactly what that crashing piece of upholstery had done to him.

  Dr. Otterly set the last stitch in Molly’s arm. He wet a thick cotton ball with alcohol and dabbed it against the stitches, getting off the last of the blood. He straightened. “That’s good, Mrs. Santera. All over now. Just a couple of shots. Let me get you bandaged up and then we’ll see to Judge Hunt.”

  Molly ended up with a sling. “To keep those stitches from pulling even a little bit,” Dr. Otterly said.

  When it was Ramsey’s turn, he felt Emma take his hand. “I’m here, Ramsey. It’s okay.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart. I need you to be here.”

  The pain was bad, but he managed to keep himself still. It felt as if a year had passed, a very painful one, before Dr. Otterly got his shirt off and his back cleaned. He said, “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. Your jacket saved your bacon. You’ve got a small second-degree burn on your back which means it’ll blister and take a little bit longer to heal. You’ve also got some bruising. I’m going to apply some antibiotic ointment and put a bandage over the area. Leave it be for a day or two. You’ll be just fine, Judge Hunt.

  “If either of you has any problems, just give me a call. Oh yes, here are some more pain pills like the ones I’ve already given you. Mrs. Santera, you’ll need them for the next three days or so.”

  Dr. Otterly smiled down at Emma. “Now, young lady, I’ve got a treat for you.”

  Emma didn’t believe that for an instant. She took a step back. He laughed. “No, no, I promise nothing horrible. I just want you to drink some orange juice.” He nodded to Miles. In a couple of minutes Miles handed her a half glass of orange juice. “Now, Emma, you need to drink it down.”

  She clearly didn’t want to.

  Ramsey said, “How can you make sure that your mama and I take care of ourselves if you’re not in top-flight form?”

  He saw she wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was enough. She drank down the juice. Dr. Otterly patted her head, nodding to Molly.

  “Em, will you see me upstairs? I’m a little bit shaky. No, I’m all right, but I’ve got to say that my arm isn’t very happy with me. I’m also kind of worried about Ramsey. Yes, I need to lie down for a little while. Will you come with me?”

  After Molly and Emma left the kitchen, Mason Lord said, “Will my daughter be all right?”

  “I didn’t lie to her, sir. The metal didn’t slice that deeply, so I didn’t have to repair the muscle. I gave her a tetanus shot and an antibiotic.

  “Don’t get me wrong. Although Judge Hunt’s back wound isn’t as severe as I feared it would be, your daughter’s wound is bad enough. I’d say they were both very lucky with all the burning car fragments hurtling around.”

  “And Molly’s daughter? What did you give her in that orange juice?”

  Dr. Otterly had to think a moment, then nodded. He said, “Oh, you mean your granddaughter. Emma’s okay. I slipped a bit of a sedative in the orange juice. She’ll start feeling sleepy in just a little while.”

  He turned back to Ramsey. “Both you and Mrs. Santera need to rest. It’s the best thing for both of you. No heroics. As I just said, take the pills. Rest.” He eyed Ramsey’s back, frowned, and pressed down another strip of tape over the bandage. “There, that should hold it. I hope you’ve got a good psychologist for the little girl?”

  “Yes, we do. We were on our way to see her when all this happened. One other thing, Dr. Otterly. I got a gunshot in my left thigh some two weeks ago. Do you think you could take a look at it?”

  “Here I thought that a judge’s life was pretty staid. Drop your pants, Judge Hunt, and let me take a look.”

  When Dr. Otterly was done prodding and probing, he said, “You’re just fine. Whatever you did, it worked. The flesh has grown together nicely, not even much of a scar. Have you got full strength back yet in the leg?”

  “Not all of it.”

  “Another week or so and you’ll be running again. I wish you luck, Judge Hunt. Call me if there’s any sort of problem.” He nodded to Mason Lord.

  Ramsey thanked him again and held himself still while Miles helped him on with a clean shirt. It didn’t hurt.

  Thank God Emma had escaped being hurt. Only she hadn’t escaped, not really. It was another blow, a really big one.

  Ramsey walked slowly with Mason Lord to the living room where Eve was answering questions for the police until they got there. Ramsey was relieved that Mason Lord hadn’t put up much of a fight about their coming, had even agreed to speak to them. Not even he could try to kiss them off through his lawyers after a homicide. Neither Ramsey nor Molly had seen the police yet. He wasn’t surprised that Molly had gone straight upstairs with Emma to try to keep her from the police. He just wished he could have gone with her, too.

  Three plainclothes officers sat on the edges of their chairs, looking uncomfortable, as if they had hemorrhoids, amid the stiff opulence and, naturally, in the company of Mason Lord’s gorgeous young wife. All three of them rose when Ramsey and Mason walked into the living room.

  Mason introduced himself, nodded coolly to each of the three men, then sat down beside his wife. He looked down at his fingernails and began to swing his leg.

  Immediately, one of the men turned to Ramsey. “Judge Hunt? I’m Riley O’Connor. It’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you, sir.” Detective O’Connor was at least fifteen years older than Ramsey, skinny as a one-sided board, and bald. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence and humor. “We’re very pleased that you’re all right.” The two men shook hands. Detective O’Connor introduced the other two officers, Sergeant Burnside and Detective Martinez.

  Mason Lord cleared his throat. “Do you have all the information you need, officers?”

  Detective O’Connor arched a very black eyebrow. “No, sir, we’ve actually just gotten started. We’ve got a murder on our hands, a particularly violent murder. Mrs. Lord hasn’t really had time to tell us much. And you just got here. However, I’d like to speak to Judge Hunt first. Then perhaps you’d be free, sir?”

  Mason gave Detective O’Connor an infinitesimal regal nod, rose, and walked to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy.

  “Fine,” Ramsey said. “Let’s go to Mr. Lord’s study. Is that all right, sir?”

  Mason didn’t look happy. But he had no choice. He nodded. The other
two detectives rose to go back out to the burned-out Mercedes, to join the forensics team combing the remains. Ramsey overheard one of them say, “I heard there isn’t much left of him, after the blast and fire.”

  Detective Martinez said to Sergeant Burnside, “The three of them were lucky beyond belief. This is a weird one, Tommy, really weird. That guy, Gunther, didn’t tell us a thing. I’ve got this feeling that we’re not going to find out anything at all from anyone who works here.”

  “Yeah, and I wonder what Judge Hunt is doing here, with a guy like Mason Lord? Talk about a straight arrow.”

  Ramsey couldn’t make out any more words. A straight arrow, was he? He rather liked that.

  Beside him, Riley O’Connor laughed. “This is really something for us, Judge Hunt. I’m really sorry, but it’s all going to come out now, everything about the kid’s kidnapping, you guys being followed all over the West, and now this. Yeah, both fact and supposition. But I guess you know firsthand what the media spotlight can do. You can be a devil or a saint, depending on the reporters’ likes and dislikes, and how nice you’ve been to them. As for the photographers, I’ll bet you’ve wanted to slug some of them.”

  “Oh yes,” Ramsey said, remembering the paparazzo outside hiding in his bushes, the final straw that had sent him to the Rockies where he’d found Emma and discovered that he really hadn’t had any problems worth a damn. “On the other hand, this does need to come out. I want the press to have a field day. I’ll personally cheer them on.”

  “Why?” Detective O’Connor cocked his head, his eyes trained on Ramsey’s face.

  “One reason: to protect Emma. Maybe the people who are after her will back off once everyone knows there’s some sort of conspiracy afoot and that the press is going to plunk themselves in the middle of it.”

  “Conspiracy?”

  Ramsey just smiled at him. “Just a moment, Detective.”

  They went into the study and Ramsey closed the door. His back was beginning to ache. He must have winced because Detective Riley O’Connor said, “I heard it was a nasty hit you took in the back.”