The Target (21 page)

Ramsey just stared at him. He shook his head. Then he turned and walked away. His back was throbbing.

T
HE NIGHT WAS
dark with thick clouds hanging low, the air heavy with coming rain and sweet with the scent of the late-spring flowers. Ramsey shifted to his side, pulling the covers with him. He'd flung the pillow on the floor some hours earlier.

He flipped onto his back again, his left arm over his head. Then, suddenly, he was thrust into a dark room where there were blurred images, voices that overlapped one another, growing louder and louder. Suddenly the room was clear, the images sharp. He was in his courtroom, jumping over the guardrail, his black robes flying, his legs straight out, his foot kicking the semiautomatic out of a man's arms, sending it spinning across the oak floor. He heard the snap of the man's humerus, heard his howl of rage, saw the wild pain in his eyes. Then he saw terror and panic, saw him leap toward the gun even as he held his broken arm.

He was on him again, with a back-fist punch to his ribs that sent him sprawling to the floor. The din of screaming people filled his mind. A second man whirled around to face him, the semiautomatic raised, ready, and he'd rolled, coming up to twist his hips as he parried, seizing the man's
wrist so he wasn't in the line of fire. With his free hand he went after the man's throat, crushing his windpipe, watching him gag, hearing his gun slam against the spectator railing. The screams were high and loud. They went on and on, filling the courtroom, filling his mind, seeping into his brain. He saw the third man now, whirling around in a slow, very precise movement, saw the point when failure registered in his brain, saw him raise his gun and fire randomly, striking the shoulder of one of the defense team, a young man in a pristine white shirt that was instantly shredded and soaked red. The force of the bullet flung him back against three women who were cowered down in the first row of spectators. The man turned back to him, his eyes filled with panic and death. Ramsey felt the heat of a bullet as it passed an inch from his temple, and rolled, picking up the semiautomatic, aiming it even as he lay on his side, and pulled the trigger. He saw the man flung hard against the wall, his blood splattering against the wainscotting. The screams wouldn't stop, just grew louder and louder.

Ramsey jerked up in bed, breathing hard, sweat sheening his forehead, and covered his face with his hands. So much blood, as if it had rained blood.

“It's all right, Ramsey.”

It was Emma. She was sitting beside him, her small fingers lightly stroking his forearm. “It's all right. It was a nightmare, a bad one, like mine sometimes. Don't worry. I won't leave you, not until you're okay again.”

“Emma,” he said, surprised that he could even get the word out of his mouth. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, pulled the little girl onto his legs, and drew her close.

“I heard you,” she said against his shoulder. “I was scared for you.”

“Thank you for coming. It was a bad one. It happened three months ago. I haven't dreamed about it for several weeks now.”

“I'm sorry it came back. What was it, Ramsey?”

“I had to kill someone, Emma.”

She drew back and gazed up at him. His eyes were used to the darkness and he could see her clearly. She looked at him with calm and utter certainty. “You must have had to, that's all. Did they deserve it?”

He stared down into that child's face with her eyes that had felt far too much pain and seen horrible evil. He owed her the truth.

“Yes,” he said slowly, never looking away from her. “They deserved it. They broke into my courtroom. They had guns. They wanted to free the drug dealers the jury had just found guilty. They started shooting jurors. So I stopped the carnage.”

“What's carnage?”

“Emma? What are you doing here, love?”

She turned toward the door. “Mama, Ramsey had a nightmare. I heard him and knew he needed me. He dreamed about car-nage.”

Molly blinked at that.

“Hello, Molly,” Ramsey said. “I'm okay now. Emma's made me see things a bit differently.”

“Can we help you get to sleep, Ramsey?”

“I smell like sweat, Emma. You don't want to stay close to a sweaty guy.”

“You're drying off, Ramsey. It's not too bad.” Emma yawned, her head falling forward to Ramsey's chest. He looked toward Molly, who was standing in the doorway, wearing a white sleep shirt that had across the front in blue lettering,
F-Stops Are My Specialty.

Molly shrugged. “Why not? Emma and I can stay on top of the covers. Here's another blanket I can cover us with. I'm surprised I didn't hear you. I just realized Emma was gone a moment ago.”

As Molly climbed in next to Ramsey, pulling Emma next to her, she said, “Next time it'll be my turn to have a nightmare.”

“Are you all right, Ramsey?”

“I'm much better now, Em, that you're here.”

“Tell me about the nightmare, Ramsey,” Emma said, leaning up over her mother. “Mama says it helps when you say everything out loud,” and he did. It was easier this time.

Molly said, “How did they get into the courthouse with guns?”

“A guard was bribed. He's in jail.” He felt himself begin to ease. He had no more words. The shadows were reclaiming the blood and the death.

“Yes, I remember now. That was in the articles I read. Well, it's over now. Does your back hurt?”

“No. It wasn't much of a burn, Molly.”

“Good,” Molly said. Emma was breathing deeply in sleep. Molly lightly touched her hand to his shoulder. “I'm very glad you weren't hurt.”

He tightened like a spring. He cleared his throat and said, “I'm sorry I'm sweaty.”

“There are three blankets between you and us. You haven't sweated them through.”

He heard Emma's rhythmic breathing. She'd crashed. He hated himself, but he couldn't stop the words. “Tell me about your little brother, Molly.”

He felt her stiffen, then felt the whisper of her sigh in the silence. “He was such a sweet little boy. He was just ten years old that summer. He was a good swimmer, which was why I was on the dock, not really paying all that much attention. I was probably thinking about some thirteen-year-old boy, I was just about at that age. Then he was yelling and going under. I swam to him as fast as I could but he never woke up.

“It was a reporter who first wrote that it might not have been an accident. My father was a ruthless criminal. Why would his daughter be any different? I was devastated. Teddy was dead and I was some sort of evil seed.”

“If there's one thing I'm sure about, Molly, it's the quality of your seed.”

She laughed, sadness and relief in her voice, then she leaned over and kissed his shoulder.

He was content when he fell asleep.

* * *

“
T
HE
police have already interviewed Rule Shaker, with his lawyer present, of course,” Savich said to a full audience the following morning just after they'd finished breakfast and trooped into the living room. “Detective O'Connor called me just a while ago. He said that Rule Shaker is giving them all the same kind of cooperation the president gives to Congress. That approach stretches things out forever and ends up leading anybody anywhere.

“Rule Shaker just sat there behind his big chrome-and-glass desk, smoking his Cuban cigars, and swearing he just wanted Louey Santera to come play in his casino. He freely admitted that Louey lost a good deal of money at the craps table, so what? What reasonable man, what reasonable businessman, he asked, would kill a man who owed him money?

“When the cops pointed out that Louey might not have been the target, Mr. Shaker very politely informed them that any operation he ever undertook was done right. A screwup would have been impossible with him running it. Then he offered both O'Connor and the Las Vegas detective a cigar.”

Everyone just stared morosely at Savich. Mason Lord said, “That sounds like Shaker. He's an arrogant little bastard.”

“Sorry, guys,” Savich said, “ain't nothing easy in this life, even when it involves bastards.”

Miles cleared his throat at the door. “Detective O'Connor is here.”

O'Connor looked very tired; he had bags under his eyes that hadn't been there just two days before. He tried to smile, but didn't make it. “Hello. I got by the reporters and photographers intact. Your men are dealing well with them, Mr. Lord, no violence, but they're firm. There aren't more than a dozen out there today. Ah, I see that Agent Savich is giving you all a rundown of what I didn't accomplish in Las Vegas.” He turned to Savich. “Do you have anything for us?”

“MAXINE just might, Detective O'Connor,” Savich said, grinning. “Actually, we've had her plugged in all night. We're just waiting for her to cough something up.”

Mason Lord cleared his throat. “My dear, would you like to ask Miles to bring in coffee?”

“Of course, Mason,” Eve Lord said and rose gracefully from the elegant wing chair she'd been sitting in. She hadn't said a word until that moment, hadn't really called any attention at all to herself. But when she stood, all the men's eyes began to swing toward her. She was wearing tight white jeans, a top tied beneath her breasts, her pale blond hair long and loose, smooth as a silk swatch down her back. Every male eye in the room watched Eve Lord walk to the door, open it, and leave the living room. There was nearly a collective sigh of lust.

Ramsey smiled as he said, “Detective O'Connor, we didn't mean to interrupt you.”

“Well, I can tell you that we spoke to Mr. Santera's accountant, Warren O'Dell, last evening, after you'd seen him. He was telling the truth, as far as we can tell. Louey Santera did personally remove three hundred thousand dollars from his account. We won't know what he did with it.

“About the bomb,” Detective O'Connor continued. “It was hooked directly to the ignition switch. The parts are common, but we're checking for leads. It was professional, no doubt about that. Mr. Lord, we'd like to speak to your staff again, at some length, beginning with Gunther. You said, Mr. Lord, that he was the man who brought the Mercedes up from the garage.”

“Yes, that's right. He brought it around at about five o'clock in the morning. I was awake and so was he. He had the time, so he washed the car. Gunther does that. When he finished, he just brought it around. He doesn't know anything more or he would have told me. This is my estate, and I know everything that goes on here.”

“Evidently not,” Molly said, ignoring the look her father gave her.

O'Connor said, “Someone could have rigged the bomb in the car, but not turned it on until they were sure who would be in the car. Unless, of course, Gunther told anyone who he was bringing the car around for. You must realize, Mr. Lord, that someone on the estate must have been involved.”

There, it was said out in the open.

Mason Lord said in his mildest voice, “That is one opinion, Detective O'Connor. Now, there is, of course, the man who works here to take care of my cars. I have a fleet of six. He also lives on the premises. But I know you've already spoken to him. It's possible that Gunther would have said something to him, I suppose. I'll send him to see you, Detective.”

“I would appreciate some cooperation from your people, Mr. Lord.”

Mason Lord just looked at him, one eyebrow arched. Then he rose and left the living room, saying nothing more.

“Judge Hunt, can you think of anything else?”

Ramsey said slowly, “I remember vividly when the car blew up. For an instant you just don't register that it's really happening. Your brain doesn't want to accept it as real. It's like this special effect in a movie. Then it hits. It becomes real and terrifying.

“As to whether there was anyone else, no, I saw only Louey rush out of the bushes and yank the car door open. I remember he was wearing a blue shirt, short sleeves, no jacket. He looked frantic.”

O'Connor said to Ramsey, “Of course we've searched those bushes. We'll look again. Anything else?”

Ramsey shook his head. “I asked Mason about Rule Shaker, but he refused to say anything much about him.”

“I wouldn't expect him to, Ramsey,” Molly said. He suddenly remembered that kiss on his shoulder blade in the night. He wished now it had been his mouth. He'd told Savich what Molly had told him about her little brother, Teddy. And Savich had looked off into the distance, thinking his own private thoughts, and finally nodded.

“Yeah, whichever way you want to translate that,” Detective O'Connor said. “The point is, though, that Mr. Shaker wouldn't ever let a trail, particularly a murder trail, lead anywhere near him. If he was responsible for Louey Santera's death, we don't have what I'd call a very good chance of connecting him personally to it.

“We've got court orders to take a narrow look at his financial records, to see if there's anything to indicate that he had dealings with Louey Santera, and if he did, what they were. The cops in Las Vegas told us he goes out of his way to keep his nose clean. Even the IRS is happy with him at the moment.”