Impulse

by Catherine Coulter

  He couldn’t bear to go home, to hear his own footsteps on the Italian marble tiles in the vast entrance hall, to know he would be alone. The house was shadowed with memories, yet empty of any present, and even the Rutledge housekeeper, Nora May, who’d been with him for twenty-two years, was silent, reproachful, as if he, Charles, were somehow responsible for what had happened.

  And even when he was with Margaret, he was alone, because that one time his wife had regained consciousness, she’d said his name.

  Charles shook his head. Just for now, for the next hour or so, he’d forget Dominick Giovanni, forget his plots, forget his plans, forget his failures. It was like a canker and it would kill him if he let it. He was fast taking over Margaret’s obsession. He was already obsessed, had been for months before the accident.

  Charles drove his BMW to Claudia’s apartment, stopping first at a 7-Eleven to call her and ask her if he could come. She sounded pleased to hear his voice, and he hoped it was true. He was becoming a cynic. Claudia liked him, she really did—at least she had before he’d broken things off with her. It wasn’t sex he wanted from her tonight. No, he never wanted sex from her again. He just needed someone he could trust, someone who knew him, someone he could talk to, someone he knew would listen and commiserate and be patient and kind.

  Claudia met him at the front door. She helped him off with his coat and scarf, gently pulled off his gloves. She led him into the living room, which was all soft pastels and creams. He sat on a pale peach silk sofa opposite the fireplace. She told him to relax and raised his legs, placing his feet on a squat hassock. She brought him a brandy, then sat on the floor beside him. She simply looked up at him and waited. No recriminations, no sulking, no guilt.

  He sipped at his brandy and began to talk. She didn’t interrupt him, just listened intently, watching his face.

  “Claudia,” he said, pausing a moment, “do you know it feels good being here, just as a friend, knowing that you’ll bear with me, knowing that you’ll expect nothing more from me?”

  “Perhaps I still expect something more,” she said, “but not now. Yes, I’m your friend, though it isn’t what I’m used to.” Some minutes later she was sitting beside him, a glass of burgundy in her hand. And he continued to talk. It was late when he stopped, but Claudia merely smiled at him and said, “Why don’t you stay the night? You’re so tired, Charles.”

  Charles shook his head, even though he felt so tired, so very enervated, that he could fall asleep where he sat. “No, I can’t, but thank you for caring, Claudia.”

  “I worry about you,” she said, lacing her fingers through his. “I truly do, Charles. Your wife will be all right. I know it.”

  He nodded, saying nothing, and looked toward the fireplace. There were no flames now, no sparks shooting upward, just warm embers, glowing orange. And he felt old and tired and terrified of what tomorrow might bring. He turned suddenly to Claudia and said, “Did I tell you that he murdered Sylvia Carlucci Giovanni?”

  Claudia frowned. “I remember hearing that name on the news. Wasn’t she some Chicago gangster’s daughter? You knew her, Charles?”

  “Yes. Not really knew her personally, but she was the drunk who struck Margaret’s car. It’s complicated.” Charles cursed himself for cutting loose to Claudia, and quickly rose to his feet. “Forgive me for carrying on, Claudia. Forget what I said. Thank you for letting me talk my head off.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  “Perhaps, if you wish, but as a—well, as a person, a friend.”

  She grinned at him. “I suppose that’s possible, but a pity, Charles, a great pity. I’ve always loved our other relationship, you know.”

  He placed his fingertips over her lips. “I must go now. Good night.” He left her. He felt the frigid air slap him hard, and hunched forward, jerking his coat collar up, quickening his pace to his car. The wind had come up and was blowing cold and hard.

  He nearly yelled aloud at the shock of it when he heard the soft voice say from behind him, “Mr. Rutledge, do as I tell you and everything will be all right. I’ve got a gun pointed at your spine. We’re going to leave your car here. You’re coming with me.

  “No, sir, don’t turn around, don’t say anything. Just walk, that’s it, to your right.”

  “But who are you?” Charles whispered, his heart pounding so hard it hurt to breathe. “Please, what is this about? Do you want money?”

  “No, sir, no money. Be quiet or I’ll have to hurt you. Hurry, now. I don’t want us to be seen.”

  Charles speeded up, and his heart pounded wildly because he was afraid he was going to die, that this was finally the end for him. He was frightened beyond words. Maybe it was a kidnapping. What would happen? Margaret—what would happen to Margaret? He couldn’t leave Margaret, not the way she was, in that frightening limbo.

  He felt light-headed with fear, and the man behind him, as if sensing it, said in that same calm voice, “You’re doing just fine, Mr. Rutledge. Now, here’s my car. You just get in here and slide across the seat.”

  Charles did as he was told. There was a gear between the two front seats and he had difficulty, but the man said nothing, merely waited for him to settle into the passenger seat. He was terrified to look at the man’s face. He wasn’t wearing a mask, Charles knew that. He was terrified to look because he’d heard that terrorists, if their hostages saw their faces, killed them, saying they had no choice because they couldn’t leave witnesses. But Charles had heard they didn’t wear masks on purpose because they wanted to kill, they wanted to see a victim’s terror before they killed him. No, he wouldn’t look. But the man was in the car now, turning the key in the ignition.

  “Where are we going?”

  The man turned on the heater, adjusted the rearview mirror, then said, turning to face Charles, “To a beautiful place, actually. Right now, to the airport. Just hold still, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Before Charles could react, he felt a needle sink into his upper arm; sharp and cold, having penetrated easily through his thick cashmere coat, his jacket and shirt, and buried itself deeply into his flesh, and he gasped with the knowledge of it and the horror of it and tried to jerk away, but it was too late, the man had smashed his thumb against the plunger, and then the man was saying, “It’s just something to make you sleep, Mr. Rutledge. That’s all, just sleep. Just a minute now.”

  “No,” said Charles, and even though his single word wasn’t slurred, his mind was already becoming clouded and he turned and stared at the man full-face. The man looked benign, a kindly father who was too thin, his features sharp and gaunt, and Charles said, his voice now slurred, “What’s your name?”

  “Frank Lacy.”

  “All right,” Charles said. The man was real. He had a name and he’d said it aloud and it made Charles feel better. He slowly fell over on the seat, his head lightly hitting the car window.

  Paris, France

  April 2001

  Marcus turned and smiled pleasantly at the young nurse, who was flushed and bright-eyed, her fresh lipstick very red. He said in French, “Yes, what is it you have there?”

  And she dashed up to him, not noticing anything at all odd about the trio beside him, because she was clearly infatuated with him and had not a thought for anything or anyone else. Marcus saw it as she moved closer to him, and wanted to pray that it would continue. Her infatuation just might save her life as well as his and Rafaella’s. He gave her the sexiest smile he could dredge up.

  “What have you got?” he asked again, and she handed him a single sheet of paper, smiling shyly up at him, her very red lips parting a bit, her eyes never leaving his face even as he looked down and read. It was an insurance form. He said to her, “I’ve already paid everything in cash. I don’t have insurance here in France.”

  She looked blank; then her face flooded with color and he knew at that moment that she knew and that it had been only an excuse to talk to him. She backed up and looked squarely into the woman’s face. Marcus h
eld his breath. The woman looked cold and hard and the nurse said, flushing even more, “I’m sorry, truly, so very sorry—”

  He smiled as he handed the paper back to her. “Thank you, but it isn’t necessary. I’ll see you later.”

  She turned and he heaved a sigh of relief, his eyes immediately going to the gun beneath the cover pressed against Rafaella’s left breast.

  “Well done, Mr. O’Sullivan. You seem to collect little tarts, don’t you?”

  “Are you next?”

  “Me? Sleep with you? A stupid, egotistical Irishman? The only thing on your brain is your cock. Now, just as soon as that little slut is through staring at your crotch, we’ll get out of here.”

  He nearly lost it; he wanted so badly to smash his fist in her face. His fingers flexed spasmodically. No, no, he had to keep his mouth shut.

  Monique took one last furtive look at the American she thought so handsome. It occurred to her now to wonder why they were moving Mr. O’Sullivan’s wife to another hospital. It didn’t make any sense. Mrs. O’Sullivan would be able to leave the hospital tomorrow. Ah, what a lucky woman she was to have Mr. O’Sullivan for her husband. She frowned. It was strange. She saw Mr. O’Sullivan speaking to the woman, and he seemed tense. They both seemed angry. A doctor? Monique didn’t recognize her. She probably wouldn’t ever see him again. She suddenly saw the woman’s arm jerk. Her hand was under the cover, touching Mrs. O’Sullivan. How very odd it looked. And Mr. O’Sullivan had said he’d see her later. Did he mean he’d call her? Monique wasn’t even sure he knew her name.

  Over the Atlantic

  April 2001

  The private jet was spacious, with seats and tables along the right side of the cabin, several small sofas along the left side, and enough room for Rafaella to lie on her back, her legs stretched out comfortably. There was a bedroom in the rear of the plane, but Marcus had been told to put Rafaella on the floor near the bulkhead. He supposed their captors didn’t want them out of their sight. Rafaella was still unconscious from the drugs the woman had given her.

  Marcus held her, his hand unconsciously rubbing up and down her arm. He wanted her to open her eyes. He was frightened, not for himself, oddly enough, nor for what awaited them, but for now, right this minute, because Rafaella continued so still and so deeply unconscious.

  Marcus leaned back against the bulkhead and gently laid her head on his thighs. He kept her well-covered. He watched one of the men serve himself a drink at the bar on the left side of the cabin. The other man was sitting on one of the sofas reading one of those soldier-of-fortune magazines. The woman sat close in a chair opposite them, the gun in her hand. It was a .38. He remembered Tulp’s 9-mm and felt a slight ache in his shoulder.

  The ride from the hospital to a small private airfield just to the north of Paris outside Neuilly had been amazingly routine. The two men had simply lifted Rafaella off the gurney outside the hospital in the parking lot, given her to Marcus, and left the gurney and their white orderly coats there in an empty parking space. They didn’t care that anyone would notice, would wonder, would question. They obviously didn’t care because they’d be out of the country very shortly. And then, of course, they’d driven to a private airfield, not more than thirty miles north, driven directly onto the tarmac, and Marcus had carried Rafaella onto the private jet.

  He realized now who had given the orders, who’d done the planning, who’d settled on the personnel. It had all the meticulous earmarks of a Giovanni operation: smooth, flawless in execution, quiet, not a whisper of fanfare, so very discreet.

  Dominick had obviously found out about the painting being stolen, since the media had announced it worldwide, and he’d probably known who to call to find out that it had been Charles Rutledge who’d bought it ten years before. And then he’d deduced that Rafaella must somehow be involved, and thus Marcus, because he was with her and sleeping with her. They were undoubtedly being flown back to the Caribbean. To face whatever brand of music Dominick had decided they deserved.

  Marcus looked down at Rafaella. He wanted her to wake up. He wanted to tell her he loved her, to tell her that they would have a future together, that they would never again have lies between them. He wanted to hold her, feel her warmth and her giving.

  Rafaella was aware of a soft rumbling sound, a deep vibration that was continuous and soothing, and she sighed, hearing things more loudly now but not wanting to wake up. Somewhere in her subconscious she knew she wouldn’t like it when she opened her eyes. She felt fingers on her arm, gently smoothing over her flesh, and she knew it was Marcus and she knew she had to come around soon or he would be worried about her.

  She opened her eyes suddenly and stared up at his chin. He needed to shave. “Hi,” she said, and was surprised at the hoarse quality of her voice.

  “Hi, yourself,” Marcus said, and looked down at her. His relief was palpable.

  “I’m okay, Marcus, really. Tell me.”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Might as well.” She paused a moment, then said, “We’re in a plane?”

  He nodded, then told her what had happened, concisely, quietly. “We’ve probably got another eight hours or so until we get to Miami. I suppose we’ll refuel there, but who knows? Maybe we’ll just go directly to St. John’s. You sure you feel all right?”

  In that moment she knew she had a problem. She wanted to shake her head because she was so embarrassed, so humiliated. She saw the woman who’d faked being a nurse and she was just sitting there, looking toward them, her face impassive, ugly, and cold. “I’m bleeding.”

  Marcus automatically lifted the covers and looked down. He winced at the sight of the bright red blood smeared on the white sheet, soaked through her hospital nightgown.

  “Is it normal bleeding or do you feel it rushing, like a hemorrhage?”

  “Normal, I think.”

  “Okay. Do you want me to help you to the bathroom? How weak do you feel?”

  “I’m okay. I’d like to bathe and dress too.”

  Marcus rose and leaned down to lift her up.

  The woman straightened suddenly, raised her .38, and aimed it directly at Rafaella.

  “I can’t miss from this distance, Mr. O’Sullivan. What are you planning to do with her?”

  “She needs to use the bathroom.”

  The woman looked at Rafaella’s face a moment, then said, “Her suitcase is in the bedroom. I’ll watch her while you get it and put it in the bathroom. Put her on the floor.” Marcus moved quickly. When he returned, he pulled Rafaella to her feet. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

  The woman said, “She’s bleeding on the white carpet. Get her to the bathroom.” And when they walked past her, she added, “It would serve her right to bleed to death, stupid girl.”

  Marcus just stared at her.

  The bathroom was a marvel. It was equipped with a shower, a bidet, a toilet, and a pink marble basin, and there was adequate space, with hooks to hang things on. And a rod that warmed the towels. Marcus left her at the door, his brows drawn together, not moving until the woman ordered him back. He still didn’t move until he heard the sound of the shower.

  He was getting worried. Fifteen minutes had passed. The shower had stopped eight minutes ago, not that he was looking at his watch every second. He sat on the floor, his back to the bulkhead, his knees bent and his arms wrapped around them. What to do? The first thing, he supposed, was to hear what Rafaella had to say.

  When she came out of the bathroom, he stared at her, then broke into a wide smile. It was his Rafaella, healthy-looking and standing tall, her hair nearly dry and pulled back from her face and held with clips. She was wearing lipstick and dangly earrings, dark blue wool slacks, a blouse with a white sweater over it, and running shoes. “You look great,” he said, and patted the spot beside him. “Don’t tell me this outfit put you out eight hundred dollars.”

  “This is some of my old working-woman stuff, actually part of my bright-young-graduate-stude
nt persona. With a pencil tucked behind my ear, it’s perfect.”

  The woman said nothing, just pointed the pistol at them. The men were quiet too. They just watched, drinks in their hands, not guns. Rafaella fell quiet.

  When Marcus asked for lunch, it was provided quickly by one of the men. “Drink all the orange juice,” he told Rafaella. “I remember reading someplace it was good for anything that ailed you.”

  They ate the ham-and-cheese sandwiches. The low hum of the jets drowned out the noise from their three captors. They could have been alone, but they weren’t, of course. Marcus held her hand, his eyes searching her face for fatigue, for pain, but he saw none. He said, “Did I tell you that I haven’t had a single nightmare since you took over things?”

  “What do you mean, took over things?”

  “Well, since you took over me, inside and out.”

  “I like the sound of that, kind of like I’m the boss. What nightmare?”

  He told her about his father, Chomper O’Sullivan, a pallid man with fanatic eyes, whose only weapon was a powerful pen, a father who couldn’t toss a football but could quote famous remarks from all different sorts of professional athletes. And how all he wanted all his life was justice and fairness and how he’d been murdered when Marcus had been eleven and his murderer was probably Carlo Carlucci but he’d been too powerful, too protected, to be brought to justice.

  “He was killed in front of me and my mom, shot three times.” And he told her how the dream had started then, and sharpened, adding exquisite terror over the years. And it had stayed with him until now. He smiled at her and said, “Anyway, Rafe, for what it’s worth, that nightmare is dead and buried.”

  “You’ve got a mom?”