by Неизвестный
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 his 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."
"You'll be checking to see if any of Lord's men took a quick trip down to Las Vegas?"
"Yeah, but it won't matter if they did. Lots of folks go to Las Vegas. Besides, the chances of Mr. Lord bringing the murders this close to home are slim to none. These guys don't operate like that. It's like dogs and their own backyards. But I got to talk to everyone, go through all the motions, just the way homicide did with me down in Las Vegas. Maybe some of the Las Vegas detectives will come up here, who knows?"
"I still have trouble with what Miles told me about the even-up rules. If it were me, I'd want to up the ante myself, not walk away, not just wipe my hands and say, well, that's how it is. My daughter's dead, but hey."
"Probably Shaker knew when he had that bomb planted that he was putting his daughter's life on the line. It does make him sound like he's not the greatest dad, doesn't it? These guys aren't like you or me, Ramsey. There's something missing somewhere in how they're put together. But they don't get where they are by being stupid. He probably thought Mr. Lord would try for him, only he didn't."
"Let's say he didn't expect Mason to go that far. Let's say he doesn't consider things even. What happens then?"
"Listen, go home, Ramsey. I'd say for you it's over. Rule Shaker isn't about to make another mistake. He can't afford to; he's got too much to protect.
"Send the little girl and her mother home. The Denver cops will take care of them.
"It's over now. You can leave the rest of it to us. We'll let you know if we find out anything that would fill a cereal box."
24
AT SIX-THIRTY IN the evening a taxi pulled up to Molly's house on Shrayder Drive. It was a small, lovely house with white window frames and window boxes painted a soft blue. Flowers bloomed wildly over the fence, in bordered flower beds, and in half a dozen flower boxes attached to the porch railing.
The house faced the park where Emma had been kidnapped while Molly was taking pictures. All the front yards were filled with trees and bushes, but no other house had such beautiful flowers.
Emma was a silent ghost. She was holding her piano against her chest, looking straight ahead. She was so very still, as if the quieter she became, the less likely the chance that anything bad would happen to her. He could tell her again that she need not be frightened, but that wasn't true, not really, and both of them knew it. The man was still out there. Probably he was far away, in hiding, but to Emma, he was lurking close, just as he had been, waiting to take her again. It broke his heart.
He looked out over the park, with its small dips and rises, its clusters of flowers and bushes, and banks of elm and pine trees. He wondered where the man had waited for Emma to get close enough to take her.
He saw that Molly was gazing toward a knot of trees at the west corner of the park. So that was where it happened. Her face was tense, drawn, and thin. Even her glorious red hair seemed flat and lank, pulled back and fastened with a pale green clip that matched the color of her silk blouse. He'd bet that if she'd had a piano like Emma's, she'd be carrying it too.
"Emma, we're home." Molly spoke very softly, not wanting to frighten her, just gain her attention slowly and gently. "Remember, we're just going to pack our things and then we're going with Ramsey to San Francisco."
"And then Ramsey is coming with us to Ireland?" Emma said, pressed against her mother's side, not an inch between them. Molly wondered what had gone on between Dr. Loo and Emma. It had been just that morning that Emma had seen her for the final time. She must remember to call her.
"Yes, he is," Molly said. "He wants to go back and he really, really wants us to go with him. He begged, Emma. I'm a nice person, I had to say yes."
"Did you really beg, Ramsey?" Emma asked, shooting a look at him.
"I can beg with the best of them, Emma," Ramsey said, going down on his haunches in front of her. "I decided I didn't want to let you out of my sight. I decided not seeing you would make me very unhappy. Do you mind my staying with you at your house until tomorrow?"
"You can stay with us, Ramsey. I think it's a good idea." She marched through the open gate toward the front door, her piano hugged against her. She said over her shoulder, "Dr. Loo showed me Ireland in her atlas. She said it was so green you had to brush your teeth at least twice a day or they'd turn green too."
"Emma, was that a joke?"
To his delight, Emma gave him a wicked little smile over her shoulder.
He said quietly, "The park, over there?"
"Yes. I used to love this house. We lived with Louey in one of those estate areas in the western part of Denver. After the divorce, I sold the house and found this one. The thing is, I don't love it anymore. I can tell that Emma's terrified. To be honest, I am too."
"Let's give it time," he said and knew it was a worthless thing to have said. "Actually, we only have to give it the next few minutes, just time enough for you and Emma to pack. We don't even have to spend the night if you don't want to."
"No, we won't," she said.
"Also, there's no reason you can't sell the place, Molly. There's no reason at all why you couldn't, say, move to San Francisco."
The words came out of his mouth, and his eyes fastened on a rosebush just beyond Molly's left shoulder. "I didn't mean what you could maybe think I meant."
"No, certainly not," Molly said, all cool and calm and together. "Men rarely do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry. It's been a long day. It was a lot of years with Louey. We're coming, Emma."
Emma stood patiently in front of the door while Molly pulled out her key. She slipped it into the lock and turned it easily. "Things look so beautiful because I've had a person coming to garden for me. One of my neighbors waters the indoor flowers and plants. Still, it's bound to be a bit on the musty side and-"
Molly got no farther. The stench hit them full in the face the moment they stepped into the small foyer.
"Mama, this isn't good," Emma said, backing up. "It smells like there's bad food everywhere. It smells like Ramsey's house did when we went there."
Ramsey caught Emma as she raced back out the front door. "Get behind me, Emma. That's right. Your mother and I will go see what's going on. You stay right here."
"Oh, no." Molly's once-colorful very cozy living room with high ceilings open to the dining room through an arch, filled with fat silk pillows, framed watercolors and photographs, and restored furniture painted in bright colors, all of it was trashed. Even the ivy had been pulled from its pots and dashed to the wooden floor.
"Let's see if your clothes and Emma's are all right. Pack up and get your passports, if they're still here, then we're out of here. We'll call the police from the hotel."
"I want to call my neighbors, too, and a cleaning service. Who did this and why? Is it ever going to stop?"
"It will. It has. This was done days ago."
An hour and a half later, the police met them at the hotel, in their two-bedroom suite on the ninth floor of the Brown Palace. The suite was huge, but the rooms were too warm. Ramsey had opened all the windows and complained to the front desk that the air conditioner was on the fritz.
It was finally beginning to cool down a bit. Emma was seated on one of the sofas, watching a cartoon on TV. Ramsey, Molly, and Detective Mecklin of the Denver PD were sitting at the circular table at the other end of the living room. A pot of coffee and a plate of cookies were on the table.
Detective Mecklin was chewing on an oatmeal cookie from the Brown Palace kitchen.
"As I told you," Molly said, "I had a neighbor coming in to water my plants. Everything was fine three days ago. One of your people is speaking to her, right?"
"Yeah, right. But I doubt she saw anything, or we'd have gotten a call by now. Whoever did it, had guts. We didn't clear out of there until about five days ago."