The Target (29 page)

She poked his leg. “You mean you'll be too paunchy and too run-down to keep up with them?”

He leaned over, took her chin in his hand, and kissed her mouth. He pulled back, studying her face. “You've also got beautiful eyes. They're a bit on the vague side right now and I do like that.”

They heard applause. They both jerked around to see Emma running away from the cliffs, her leprechaun kite high in the air. She was letting out the string perfectly, just as Molly had taught her. She was laughing, the wind whipping her hair, just as the crimson shadow of the sun floated above the water before disappearing.

He looked at Molly then back at Emma. The look on his face was tender, filled with quiet joy. He said, not looking back at her, “We're both smart. We can work out any problems. Let's do it.”

“Could you kiss me again, Ramsey?”

“My pleasure.” He kissed her a bit longer this time, but he didn't let it get out of hand. He tasted her, nibbled on her bottom lip, wished she'd open her mouth, just a little bit. On the other hand, it probably wouldn't be smart to have his tongue in her mouth here on the Cliffs of Moher with Emma flying a leprechaun kite not thirty feet away. He pulled back. He wanted her a whole lot, maybe more than
he'd ever wanted any woman before. The fact was, he really couldn't remember now what he'd felt like when he'd been with Susan. She was in the past, a past that held dear memories, a past that was becoming more blurred each day that passed with Molly and Emma. He'd found a new focus, new feelings that were sometimes overwhelming they were so rich and powerful. He kissed her again, lightly, just a recognition kiss, and it was there, this knowing of each other. He smiled at her and said nothing, wondering what she was thinking.

Molly knew why he wanted to marry her, knew it, and accepted it. He wanted Emma. To get her, he had to make Mom part of the deal. She licked her bottom lip where he'd nipped her, saying, “You just want to keep feeling like a sex god.”

He loved the humor in her, coming so seldom because life was so excessively grim. It made it all the more precious. He could look forward to her laughter for the rest of his life, he hoped, if she married him. “How'd you know?”

She looked at him a long time, studying his face, again as if she were setting her camera shot. She cocked her head to one side. “Sex is part of things. I know you like my hair, you even like my eyes. But I'm skinny, you know that. Will you mind having sex with me?”

He said, never looking away from those very nice eyes of hers, “I know it's expected, so I'll try.”

She wanted to run her hand up his thigh but instead, she just laughed, then almost immediately sobered. “What about Emma?”

“I guess at first we'll have to sneak around, that, or abstain for the time being. I spoke to Dr. Loo about Emma needing to sleep in the same room with either or both of us, that or in the same bed, and she said not to worry. She said of course it wasn't a good idea to have kids sleeping with their parents as a regular thing, but this was different. She said Emma would probably be the one to break away when she was ready. So, Molly, will you marry me?”

Molly got to her feet, dusting off her bottom with her hands. “It looks like the family is about ready to leave. Let's go get Emma and tell her she's going to have a new daddy.” She started walking away, then said over her shoulder, a big grin on her face, “Yeah, I'll put you out of your misery, Judge Hunt.”

“Say it,” he called after her, raising his deep voice loud enough for several people to hear him and turn to look at Molly. “I want to hear you say the words.”

She knew people were staring and listening and she laughed, shaking her head. She called out, “I'll marry you. It would be my pleasure to marry you.”

There was some applause and a couple of groans from some men, who got punched by their wives.

“That sounds wonderful,” he said, walking to stand beside her. “It sounds more than wonderful. We'll be a family for real now. Yes, I quite like that.” He looked over at Emma and her new friends. “I think that man is going to give Emma the leprechaun kite. Let's go thank them for watching her.” He stopped then, turned, and brought her against him. “Did I ever tell you that you're the most beautiful woman I've ever known? That you've even gotten more beautiful each added day I know you?”

“No. You just told me I had beautiful hair.”

“That, too. That's your crowning glory, I'll admit it.” He raised his hand and curled a thick strand around his finger. He smiled at her. “Feels like springy silk. Yeah, you're beautiful. I think every skinny little bone in your body is beautiful.”

He looked over at Emma, who was panting from her run, dragging the kite behind her, looking tired and pleased. “You're sure you like me enough, Molly?”

“I like you enough.” She looked down, scuffing the toe of her black boot in the dirt. She said then, making his eyes nearly cross, as she looked back up at him through her lashes, “I particularly like your body.”

She thought for a moment that he was going to grab her,
and she wouldn't have minded, but he didn't. He just smiled and said, “Excellent. That's a really good start. Let's get married, Molly, as soon as we get back home. We can stop off in Nevada. Let's have the honeymoon before the wedding. What do you think?”

What was love anyway? she thought, as she slowly nodded.

They didn't have the opportunity either to honeymoon in Ireland or to tell Emma that she was getting a new daddy. Waiting for them at the reception desk at Dromoland Castle were two phone messages and a fax from Savich.

 

T
HEY
flew from Shannon to Chicago O'Hare in Business Class, in the middle section that holds three seats, putting Emma between them. She slept most of the way, propped up on three pillows on Ramsey's armrest, covered with a blanket, holding her piano close, the top keys sticking out from beneath the blanket. The piano had sat in the corner of their suite, seemingly forgotten by Emma, until the phone call had come, her mother had paled, Ramsey had cursed quietly, and they'd started packing quickly.

Molly saw that the shoelace from one of her Nike sneakers was dangling. She stared at it, then finally reached down and simply pulled the sneaker off. She had a plaid sock on her small foot. Molly had washed out the pair the night before.

They'd said very little. Life had spun out of control again. Molly felt numb, nothing else, just a numb blankness that had taken over both her brain and her body. She supposed she should be grateful for it.

Finally, Molly said quietly, so as not to awaken Emma, “I'm having a hard time accepting it. I keep thinking it's a mistake, that someone really screwed up, that Eve was utterly wrong.”

“I know.”

“Will they get Rule Shaker now?”

“I don't know. We'll find out exactly what happened
when we get to Chicago. Listen, your father's not dead yet. God knows how he's managed to survive so far, but he has. That's a good sign.”

“Maybe he's already been able to tell the cops who shot him.” She stopped, staring at the blank movie screen directly in front of them. “Or maybe by now it's over and he's dead.”

Ramsey started to pick up the phone on the armrest. “No,” she said, placing her hand over his. “No. I don't want to know, not just yet. For the moment, I want to think you're right. He's told the cops who shot him. It will all be over by the time we arrive at O'Hare.”

But Ramsey knew this wasn't likely. In fact it was well nigh impossible. He said quietly, “Remember I told you it was a distance shot, from a good seventy-five yards away, given the trajectory. The assassin probably fired from the roof of the four-story building just across the street. Mason never saw his attacker. Savich said the preliminary ballistics report was that the bullet, a heavy 7.62 mm, was from a sniping rifle, like a SIG-Sauer SSG2000. That's a popular military rifle.” He didn't tell her that the bullet had ripped through Mason Lord's chest, hurling him into a car parked at the curb. The impact had smashed the driver'sside window of a new blue Buick Riviera.

“Gunther was just a single step in front of your father. He wasn't touched.”

Emma groaned in her sleep. Ramsey reached over and gently began to rub her shoulders and back. She pushed against his hand, then quieted.

“We had to tell her. She's not stupid.”

“Yes, I know. This is her escape,” Ramsey said, his voice pitched even lower than before. “First chance we have, let's call Dr. Loo again.”

“He's not dead, Ramsey.”

Ramsey didn't say anything. He kept lightly rubbing Emma's back. He leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. They'd just gotten over the jet lag of
flying to Ireland when they'd gotten word. Now they'd get to do it all over again.

He wanted to get married.

He wanted Emma to know he'd always be with her, as in forever, as in she was his now. The woman who would be his wife as soon as it could be managed was two feet away from him. He didn't know what to say to her either. He wondered what the hell was going to happen now.

“Ramsey?”

“Yes, Molly?”

“We're going to have to wait until things are sorted out.”

He looked over at her and said, “Well, hell.”

D
ETECTIVE
O'C
ONNOR WAS
waiting for them at the Lord mansion. Miles was there, but no one else. Gunther and Mrs. Lord, Miles told them at the front door, were at the hospital. “Do come in. Mr. Lord is holding his own. He's not out of the woods yet, but he's holding steady. I'm sorry, Molly.”

“Thanks, Miles. This is hard on everyone. Thanks for being here to hold down the fort.”

“Hello, Judge Hunt, Mrs. Santera,” Detective O'Connor said, stepping out of the living room and walking toward them. “I'm sorry you had to come back to this. It's unexpected. No one quite knows what to make of things. I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Santera, that I waited for you here?”

“No, Detective, not at all.” Molly went down on her haunches in front of Emma. “You want to go with Miles to the kitchen and have a goodie to eat?”

“I made some chocolate-chip cookies just for you, Emma,” Miles said. “They're still warm, right out of the oven.”

Emma gave her mother a long, patient look. There was such weariness in her eyes that Molly wanted to fold her up
against her and cry. “Your grandfather is in the hospital, Emma. He was hurt. We told you that. Now Detective O'Connor needs to speak to Ramsey and me. He wants to know what we think about things.”

“All right, Mama, I'll go with Mr. Miles.”

“Thanks, Em. I'll be in to see you soon. I want one of those cookies myself.”

She got another long-suffering look. She didn't get back to her feet until Miles had taken Emma's hand in his and they were walking toward the kitchen, Emma holding her piano close against her chest. She rose and sighed. “Do come into the living room, Detective.”

“It was verified,” Detective O'Connor said. “The bullet was a 7.62 mm sniping round.” He turned toward Ramsey. “You probably know that this bullet is heavier, to give it more energy and a flatter trajectory. That's particularly important over a long distance.”

“Any sign of the shooter?”

“We went to the Ames Building, to the roof, which is the top of the fourth floor. We found a couple of cigarette butts, a to-go coffee container, and, wonder of wonders, there was this small wet spot.”

Molly blinked at the detective. “Wet spot? Why is that a wonder?”

“He spit, Mrs. Santera. The shooter spit. That means DNA, if we're lucky. That means if and when we catch the guy, we'll have indisputable proof that he's guilty. The forensics folks think he's a smoker with a bad hacking cough. His vices might end up bringing him down.

“Since Mason Lord is a very powerful man, despite his more questionable associations and business practices, this case is very high profile. The press is starting to understand there isn't much to see around here. But they'll start showing up again at dawn, you can count on it. I'm glad you made it back so early. They'll find out soon enough that you're back, Judge Hunt.”

“What do the doctors say about Mason's condition?”

Detective O'Connor checked his watch. “It's nearly midnight. I told his surgeon that you'd be arriving about now. He said you could call and he'd give you the latest word.”

Detective O'Connor pulled out his cell phone and dialed. After five minutes of being sent from one person to the next, he handed the phone to Molly.

Ramsey watched her face as she took in what was being said to her. Her expression didn't change. That was odd. He watched her press the
Off
button, then hand the phone back to Detective O'Connor.

“He's alive. The surgeon, Dr. Bigliotti, says he's got a fifty-fifty chance—if, that is, he manages to survive the night. He already woke up.” She looked at Detective O'Connor. “He whispered to the officer sitting next to his bed that Louey Santera shot him.”

“You're kidding,” Detective O'Connor said. “He must have been out of his head, what with the drugs.”

“Yes, that's what Dr. Bigliotti said. My father hasn't said anything more. Dr. Bigliotti also said the media was all over him personally and the hospital in general. One of the night nurses nabbed a reporter who was carrying around a mop—as a disguise, I suppose—trying to find Mason Lord's room. Do you guys have any ideas? Any guesses that might help?”

Molly and Ramsey just looked at him. He knew defeat when he saw it.

 

T
HE
hiss of the regulator was obscenely loud in the momentary quiet of the ICU at Chicago Memorial on Jefferson, the closest trauma center available when her father had been shot down in the street. Molly looked down at her father's white face, the tubes in his mouth and nose, the lines running into both arms, the bag emptying his bladder hanging from the side of the hospital bed. One officer sat not six inches away from him, a recorder on his lap, holding a police procedural mystery novel in his right hand. He
nodded to them, then did a double take when he saw Ramsey. He nodded again, this time, his head going lower, a sign of excessive respect, Molly thought, to Ramsey.

The ICU was huge, impersonal, filled with high-tech equipment. There were six other patients, with just curtains around their beds, and they weren't quiet. Moans of pain mixed with that damnable hissing sound, low voices of relatives speaking to patients, curses from the bed in the far corner, a nurse's hurrying footsteps.

Her father was as still as death. If it weren't for the machine, he would be dead. She lightly touched her palm to his cheek. His skin felt slack and clammy.

She realized in that moment that she wanted him to live. No matter what was true, he was her father. She wanted him to live. The nurse motioned them to leave after five minutes.

In the corridor, Molly said to Detective O'Connor, “Has anyone called my mother? She lives in Italy.”

He looked at her blankly, scratched his ear, and shook his head. “Can't say anyone has, Mrs. Santera.”

“I'll do it then when we get back home.” It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. Molly had wanted to come, to see his face, just to see for herself that he was alive. Life was there, huddling deep inside her father, barely.

There was no traffic on the drive back to Oak Park. Ramsey kept a hard focus on the road in front of him. He was nearly cross-eyed with fatigue.

Even if they'd managed to get married, he was so tired right now, he doubted he could even stay awake long enough to kiss Molly's ear, even if she offered her ear to him to kiss. She was in pretty bad shape herself.

When they finally drove to the gates of the Lord mansion, they saw a man jump from a dark car just up the road. A reporter.

“Just what we needed,” Ramsey said, and quickly called out to the guard in the security box at the gate. “It's Judge Hunt, open the gates, quickly. A reporter is coming.”

“Putrid little maggots,” the guard snarled, and got the
gate open just before the reporter got to the rear end of the car.

“Wait!” the reporter yelled, but Ramsey just roared through the open gate. The reporter started through, then saw the wild maniacal grin on the security guard's face in the lighted booth as the huge gates began to swing shut.

He stepped back, cursing. “Hey, haven't you heard of the First Amendment? You jerk!”

The security guard, still grinning like a mad scientist, said over the loudspeaker, “Sure, you little shit, and Prince Charles is a Tampax.”

Ramsey heard that. It made no sense at all. It all of a sudden seemed hilarious. He began to laugh. Molly joined him. They walked into the house, holding hands, laughing their heads off.

“Oh, dear,” Miles said.

 

B
OTH
Miles and Gunther had alibis. Warren O'Dell also had an alibi. So did Eve Lord. Of all things, three of her friends had come over for a visit. They'd been drinking iced tea by the swimming pool at the time of Mason Lord's shooting.

The media had exploded. Since Eve was young, beautiful, extravagantly rich, she garnered immense sympathy and support, bolstered by the media, who always wallowed in beauty and money, particularly if it was possibly tragic beauty.

Molly's mother had expressed sympathy, but wasn't about to fly back to the U.S. “Why ever should I, my dear? I have no desire to hold his limp hand or let the paparazzi leap out of bushes at me. Just keep me informed, Molly.”

Not unexpected, Molly thought, given that the new Mrs. Lord was young enough to be her daughter, and that her ex-husband hadn't been in her life for a good number of years.

Mason Lord, who lay unconscious, his life in the balance, was nearly forgotten. The attention was on the beautiful young wife, who just might at any moment become a
widow. But then again, to be fair, what reporter wanted to risk his own neck questioning the background of Mason Lord?

He survived that night. They'd nearly lost him once, but they'd been able to control his blood pressure with a medication dripping into his IV, and he seemed stable. Molly and Ramsey hadn't gone back that morning, staying with Emma and watching as Eve Lord negotiated her way through the press when she visited her husband, all in glorious color on a special news bulletin on all three major local stations.

“I wish I had a clue as to what she was thinking,” Molly said.

“So does Detective O'Connor,” Ramsey said. He turned to see Emma walking slowly into the living room. “Hi, Em,” Molly said. “Come on in and tell us what Miles is making for lunch.”

Emma just stood there, holding her piano against her, looking bewildered. “Mama, when can we go home?”

Home, Molly thought. Which home?

“Where would you like to go?” Ramsey asked. He patted his knee. Emma went to him instantly. She carefully set her piano down on the floor beside the sofa and let him lift her onto his legs.

“Where?” he asked again.

“Home,” Emma said. “To San Francisco.”

“Ah,” Ramsey said. “You got it right. What would you say, Em, if your mom and I were to get married?”

She turned to look up at him. She slowly raised her hand to lightly stroke his cheek. She said with all a child's appalling candor, “My daddy just died, Ramsey. He wasn't with us much, but he was my daddy.”

“Yes, he was. He'll always be your daddy.”

“I don't think so,” Emma said then. She leaned against his chest, her cheek against his shoulder. “I can't take the chance, Ramsey, I just can't.”

“What chance, sweetheart?”

“If you married Mama, someone might blow you up too.”

“Oh, Emma,” he said, and hugged her tightly against him. “No one's going to hurt me, no one.”

“They already did. You got shot in the leg at the cabin and when my daddy blew up your back got hurt, too.”

“Just minor stuff. A big guy like me can take lots of minor stuff. Don't worry, Em. Please.”

She leaned down to pick up her piano.

Her security blanket, he thought, wondering what the hell to do. “You know something, Emma?”

She lightly stroked her finger on middle C, not looking at him. Afraid to look at him, he thought.

“I think when we're all a family and everything's okay again, we're going back to Ireland. Shall we all spend our honeymoon at Bunratty Castle?”

She gave him a small smile. She turned away from her piano and pressed herself against his chest. “I don't know, Ramsey. Will Mama be happy?”

“I can make her delirious, just ask her.”

Emma raised her head and stared at her mother. “Mama, do you think we can keep Ramsey safe?”

This was a wallop in the gut, Molly thought, smiling at her daughter, whose piano was slipping off Ramsey's lap. She nodded. “Yes, I think we can keep him safe. You see, Em, he's right. He's big and strong. We're not as strong as he is, so we'll be thinking more. We'll be the brains of the operation. Yes, we'll keep him safe.”

Emma nodded slowly. “Who shot Grandfather?”

“We don't know yet,” Molly said. “But he's alive, Em, and they're taking care of him at the hospital.”

“Look at the time,” Ramsey said. “We've got to get going or we'll miss your appointment with Dr. Loo.”

“I hope we can avoid the media,” Molly said, worry lacing her voice as she looked down at Emma.

They did manage to lose the press, and in Dr. Eleanor
Loo's office thirty minutes later, Emma said, “Dr. Loo, Ramsey and my mom are going to get married. What do you think?”

“I think,” Eleanor Loo said, fascinated, “that I need to have my secretary go buy us a bottle of champagne. You, Emma, can have a Sprite, is that all right?”

“I'd rather have a Dr. Pepper, Dr. Loo.”

“That's great.” Dr. Loo got on her phone for a moment, then turned back. “In half an hour, we'll have a toast. Congratulations to both of you. Now, Emma, tell me why you're worried.”