The Target (13 page)

Ramsey's nose twitched the instant he unlocked the front door and stepped into the tiled foyer. It smelled like rotten food, but that didn't make any sense. He stepped into the living room and quickly stepped back.

The room had been trashed. His high-tech stereo equipment was ripped open and stomped on. CDs were strewn all over the hardwood floor. All the furniture had been slashed. He walked numbly into the kitchen. The stench was pretty bad.

The refrigerator door stood open. Someone had flung food all over the floor, not that there'd been very much. Dishes were smashed, in shards everywhere. Drawers were pulled out, silverware all over the floor. A violent hand had simply swept everything out of the cabinets.

“Don't come in here, Emma,” he said.

“Oh no,” was all Molly said from the doorway, holding Emma back.

It took him only minutes to see that whoever had done this hadn't forgotten a single room.

He walked into his study, a magnificent dark oak-paneled room that looked toward the Marin Headlands. His antique rolltop desk had been gouged, the drawers pulled out and smashed, all his papers in shredded heaps
everywhere. Books lay in broken piles on the Tabriz carpet. His favorite leather chair had been ripped open with a knife. His grandfather's baby grand piano had its legs sawed off. It lay drunkenly on its side, most of the keys stomped in. Someone had even cut the piano wires.

Devastation everywhere.

What had they been looking for? Something to tie him to Molly and Emma?

“I'm sorry, Ramsey,” she said at his elbow. “I'm really very sorry. We brought this to you.”

He realized then what she'd said, the full impact of it. He turned slowly, took her upper arms in his big hands, and said, “I was feeling equal parts enraged and sorry for myself. But now, after what you just said, I realize that this place, no matter how nice, is still just a place. When we get the person responsible for this, I look forward to kicking his butt, but Emma means more to me than a pile of stupid possessions. There's no contest. Do you understand me, Molly?”

She nodded. “I just don't understand why someone would do this. They could have just searched, if they wanted to find some sort of connection between us. They didn't have to destroy everything.”

“I don't understand either, but we're going to find out.”

“I hope so.” She leaned down and picked up an atlas, its pages ripped, the spine broken. She tried to smooth the pages. She looked numb.

He gently took the book from her. “Help me pack, then we're out of here. I'll make some phone calls from a pay phone.” But there weren't any undamaged clothes left. Even his leather luggage, a Christmas present from his folks, was mutilated.

Ramsey made four calls from a public phone on the corner of California and Gough. The first was to a cleaning service, the second was to Dillon Savich, the third was to an airline, and the fourth was to Virginia Trolley of the San Francisco Police Department. He made one stop: his bank.

“Let's go,” he said, grinning at Emma as he came out of the bank. “This is going to be exciting, kiddo. At least now I'm as rich as your mama.” He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep this, Emma. Tuck it away somewhere safe.”

Molly gave him a quizzical look but didn't say anything, just watched her daughter very carefully fold the twenty-dollar bill and slip it inside her piano.

“I think I've had enough exciting things happen, Ramsey,” Emma said and hugged her piano to her chest.

Molly said, “Maybe we can buy her some more clothes at the airport.”

Ramsey frowned. “I'm thinking. I don't remember any kids' clothes there. T-shirts, but that's about it. We don't have time to stop. We'll get her a new T-shirt at the airport, and work on her wardrobe in Chicago. Ours, too, for that matter.”

T
HERE WASN
'
T A
sound, just the slow movement of a finger, a gentle silent stroke, and an instant later, the whoosh of rending paper. The man's chest exploded outward, the sharp, jagged edges fanning out from a huge hole, smelling of char.

Gunther nodded to himself, turning away. He said under his breath, “Not bad.”

“What do you mean, ‘Not bad'?” she said, staring at the target as she walked closer. “How about perfect?” She watched Gunther blow on the muzzle of his Spanish Star Ten, one of the very few European 10mm auto calibre pistols, Gunther had told her in an unusual show of pride. Of all his acquaintances he had the only one, he'd said, which was just as well since he'd also be the only one to shoot it right. She watched him blow on the muzzle again. Naturally there was no smoke to blow away. She imagined he did it because it was symbolic, a move reminiscent of the gunslingers in the Old West.

He gave her an irritated look but didn't say anything.

“Don't you like to be perfect, Gunther?” She came
closer, running her fingers down his forearm, over his hand, to stroke the barrel of the gun.

He stayed silent. She was doing this just to make him crazy, he knew that, but it was tough not to respond in some way, just a small push, just a tiny shove away from him. But he wasn't stupid. He couldn't lay a finger on her, no matter what the provocation. No, he wouldn't even acknowledge that she was playing a game with him.

He had a feeling that Mr. Lord enjoyed these games of hers, even encouraged her. Maybe he was standing in the shadows at the back of the gallery, watching, chewing on an unlit cigarillo, a habit he'd developed since he'd stopped smoking the year before. Gunther slowly pulled away, cradling his gun in his big hands. He liked the feel of the cold smooth steel against his warm palm.

She shook her head, laughing at him. “The way you hold that gun of yours. What is it with you, Gunther? You think that gun is a woman?”

“No,” he said very precisely, “I think this gun is a tool to get my job done.” He nodded to her, politely, as always, and turned away from her. He said over his shoulder, pausing just a moment in the gallery doorway, “Mr. Lord appreciates my tool.”

She stared at him an instant, then doubled over, hooting with laughter. “I sure hope not,” she said. “I sure hope you're wrong about that.”

His jaw locked. He felt embarrassment flood him, from inside out, as if his guts had turned red before his face. He hated the feeling. A soft voice said, “Yes, Gunther, I do appreciate your tool. Why don't you go clean your gun. You've used it a great deal today and with excellent effect.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mason Lord watched his man leave the gun gallery before turning to his wife. His look was indulgent, his voice amused as he said, “You torment poor Gunther.”

“Yes, but he's really too easy, Mason. Did you bring my Lady Colt?”

He nodded. “I wish you'd let me teach you how to shoot a real gun, not this ridiculous toy.”

Her voice hardened. It was disconcerting in that she looked like an angel, from that smooth thick pale blond hair of hers to the soft blue eyes, the fragile blue of a summer sky. “If I'm close enough, it'll get the job done. I don't want a tool like poor Gunther's. It's not elegant.”

He had to agree with that. The recoil from the Spanish Star Ten would also knock her on her butt. He handed her the Lady Colt, stood back, and watched her put six bullets straight through the chest of the target.

She turned, her eyes sparkling, removed her earmuffs, and said in a wicked voice, “And I didn't even have to fondle it.”

“No,” he said, drawing her to him, “I'm the only thing you fondle.”

But though he spoke the words, he wasn't responding to her the way he usually did. Usually she would have been on her back by now. She stepped back, laying her Lady Colt on the counter. “I wonder what your daughter is doing?”

He shook his head. “I called Buzz Carmen in Denver just a little while ago. He said the cops are still acting like idiots, mad at her for saving her own daughter, trying to track her down and this man with her. Buzz and three others have fanned out now, looking for her. Molly's an amateur. Buzz and his people aren't. They'll find her. He admitted he hadn't known she'd left Denver. He said they'd kept their distance because the cops had hassled them.”

“No one's found her except whoever did this. Maybe the bad guys got them, Mason. You have to consider that.”

“Molly's smart. She may be an amateur, but she's smart.”

“I thought she was like your wife.”

He stared at her, then laughed. “Like Alicia? Molly thinks of herself as the ugly duckling compared to my former wife. No, Molly might look like a railroad tie, but she's smart.” He frowned a bit. “I suppose she's like me in that. I
wish she'd just admit she needs me and get over here. She knows I can protect her and Emma.”

“I'll bet this guy who's with them is calling the shots. Don't you think?”

“I don't even have an idea yet who he is.” He took her arm. “Let's have one of Miles's margaritas.”

It was during that first delicious margarita that Miles said from the doorway, “Sir, Molly's here. Emma too, and a man I don't know.”

“It took her long enough to come,” Mason Lord said, rising slowly. He set his glass on the marble tabletop as Miles went back out. Then he heard a child's voice, soft, high, not frightened, but wary?

“This is a very big house, Mr. Miles.”

“Yes, Emma, it is.”

“It's even bigger than the one we had with Daddy. This ceiling just goes up and up.”

Then the three of them were standing in the open doorway, Miles behind them, his look questioning. “It's all right, Miles. I'll call if I need you.”

Then his daughter turned, her hand on Miles's arm. “Can Emma have a glass of water, Miles?”

Miles looked down at the little girl, who was standing very close to her mother, her hand now held by the big man on her other side. “How about some lemonade instead?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Miles, that would be wonderful.”

The three of them turned back to face Mason Lord. Three years since he'd seen Molly or her daughter. The little girl was the picture of Alicia, but her dark brown hair was her father's, that low-life runty little scum sucker who'd always reminded him of Mick Jagger when he'd been younger. She was six now, tall and skinny, her skin that pearly white that only children seemed to have. She'd be at least as beautiful as Alicia when she grew up.

He'd wanted Molly to come here. He'd told her to come here. Yet now that she was here, her child with her, and that man, whoever the hell he was, he didn't know how to
respond. What was he to say to her? Three years. It had been a long time and she'd been the one who wanted to keep a goodly distance between them. But now things were different. Things had changed, irrevocably.

“Hello, Molly.”

“Hello, Dad. You're looking well.” She looked beyond at Eve, who was sitting elegant as a Parisian model on a soft yellow brocade love seat. She was wearing tight black jeans and a white blouse tied in a knot over her smooth midriff. “Hello, Eve. I presume you're Eve? I believe we spoke once on the telephone a long time ago.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. How delightful to finally meet you in the flesh. And you are Molly, I presume?”

“Yes. Dad, Eve, this is Ramsey Hunt. He's the one who saved Emma. Then I came along. There are maybe five men after us, and they're very good at tracking us. We don't know why they're after us, but we wanted you to know this right away.”

The man cleared his throat and said, “We decided to come here, Mr. Lord, because they know who I am now. We just couldn't keep Emma safe. The people hunting us are good, too good. We trust you to keep Emma safe better than the authorities can.”

Mason Lord walked to the man and extended his hand. “This is an honor. It's a pleasure to meet you, Judge Hunt.”

Ramsey shook the man's hand. “Thank you. We're here because we believe you're our best shot at keeping Emma safe.”

“I didn't imagine for a moment that you were here to visit me, Judge Hunt. Yes, yes, I know who you are. You're a famous man. It's quite a surprise that you're the one who found Emma.”

Molly could only stare at them, all civilized on the outside, but she could see each sizing up the other, weighing, assessing. She gathered Emma closer to her. She hadn't wanted to be here, hadn't wanted her daughter exposed to her father, but it was the safest place for Emma.

Mason Lord wouldn't allow anyone to get close to his granddaughter, even though he hadn't seen her since she'd been a toddler. No, Emma carried his blood. He would protect her with every weapon in his arsenal.

Her father finally said, his voice smooth and deep, “You saved Molly and her daughter. I thank you. You brought her home when she refused. You will all be safe here. No one, cops or anyone else, will get near Emma.”

“Thank you,” Ramsey said. He squeezed Emma's hand, then said to the crook he was trusting with all their lives, “Actually, sir, Emma had saved herself. She'd escaped from the man and run into the forest. I found her there and took her to my cabin. Some days later, Molly found both of us.” Ramsey looked down a moment at Emma, who was staring at a huge rhinoceros head, complete with a shining tusk, above the mantel, her mouth open. She was tugging on his hand. He gave hers a squeeze, looked at the rhino, and said, “I wonder what kind of polish they used on the tusk. What do you think, Emma?”

She squeezed his hand tighter. “Soap and water,” she said. “Mama always says that soap and water's the best.”

Ramsey said, “I would imagine that the men after us have already tracked us to the airport. We had to show photo ID. Someone will remember, no doubt about that, even though Molly bought her ticket singly and I bought Emma's ticket with mine. Yes, the men will be here very soon.”

“You took a cab from O'Hare?”

“Yes, to downtown, Michigan Avenue. Emma needed some clothes, as did Molly and I. None of us were very presentable. Then we took another cab to the Jefferson Police Station, wandered in and spoke to the desk sergeant about nothing in particular, then we got a third cab out here. But they'll find us. I'm convinced of that. They probably already know we're here with you. As I said, they're good, and, as Molly and I have agreed, there's got to be an organization behind them.”

Mason Lord nodded, then said, “That was smart of you to go to a police station. It will give them pause. Please, all of you, sit down. As to any organization behind all this, we'll speak of it later. Ah, here's Miles with some lemonade.”

“I brought enough for all of you, sir.”

“Thank you, Miles,” Molly said.

“And I brought some chocolate cake I baked this morning.” He looked at Emma as he poured her a glass. “You like chocolate cake?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Miles. It's the best.”

Ramsey laughed. “Be careful or she'll eat the whole cake. She hasn't had many goodies for a while.”

Miles smiled as he ruffled Emma's hair, even as Mason Lord frowned. He watched his daughter wipe the child's hands on one of the little wet towels Miles had brought. How had Miles known to do that? He was like one of those hovering smiley-faced airline attendants. He was silent until everyone had drunk the lemonade and eaten some of Miles's chocolate cake. He hadn't known of any cake. He loved chocolate cake but Miles hadn't offered him any, either for lunch or right now. He'd had a low-cal, low-fat flan for dessert the previous night. It hadn't even tasted very good. He looked at his beautiful wife. She wasn't looking at the cake. She was looking at Molly. Her face was perfectly still. No expression at all. What was she thinking?

Ramsey Hunt was big, tall, and very well built, but that made sense, of course, given what he'd done in his own courtroom. He was a man who obviously worked out, who took good care of himself, a man who looked as if he could deal with anything that happened to cross his path. Mason supposed he was good-looking enough, his features regular, his coloring olive, his eyes a green color that argued against Italian blood. But who knew in America? All of them were mongrels, himself included. At least he had more good Irish blood than anything else. As for his beautiful Eve, she was Swedish, every beautiful blond inch of her. She'd told him
stories about her father falling in love with a German countess, but he hadn't married her. Too many control-freak genes, he'd said. No, Eve was pure Scandinavian. He'd chosen well this time.

He looked again, hard, at the man sitting opposite him. Judge Ramsey Hunt of the Ninth Federal District Court—who would have imagined that he'd be the one to find Emma?

What were the odds of this man's finding Molly's daughter and saving her? He cleared his throat and said, “Judge Hunt, you said you found Emma in the forest. Did she willingly come with you to your cabin?”