The Target

Savich didn't say anything to that. He looked away, wishing things could be different, but, of course, they weren't. He said finally, "Did you know that one summer when she was about twelve years old she supposedly let her younger brother drown?"

Ramsey dropped the towel. He stared at Savich. He was shaking his head. "No," he said, "oh no. I can't believe that, Savich. That's not at all like her."

"I'm sorry. Sherlock discovered it in fifteen-year-old records. I'm sorry if you think she was spying on something that wasn't her business, but Sherlock is a professional to her fingertips. She looks at everything."

"I have no problem with Sherlock checking out my birthmark if she thinks it's relevant to this case, but I'm telling you that this thing with Molly's brother, it had to be an accident. Molly could never just watch her own flesh and blood die. No way. And that includes that son-of-a-bitch father of hers."

Savich shrugged. "There was an investigation, of course, but the results were inconclusive. The general belief at the time was that she hated her younger brother because Daddy made it clear he was the favorite, the heir, the only one worth anything. You told me yourself that Mason doesn't have much use for his daughter. Maybe you're right, maybe that's one reason he married Eve. He wants another boy child.

"Mason and his first wife, Alicia, were divorced when Molly was around eight years old and her brother was six," Savich continued. "She went with the mother back to her mother's home in Italy and the boy stayed with the father. Molly was visiting here one summer when this happened. When she was eighteen, she went to Vassar. She left after a year and moved in here with her father.

"You can't just dismiss it out of hand, Ramsey. Molly Santera has a past. She may have been innocent, but you know there was a question about it. We can't afford just to ignore it."

Ramsey said, "Are you suggesting that she'd have anything to do with Emma's kidnapping?"

"No, I don't believe that. But how about Louey's murder. What if Louey was the target after all?"

Ramsey said, "Listen, she divorced his worthless ass. There was no reason to kill him. Besides, she couldn't have known that he would try to escape. It was a spontaneous thing; Louey just lost it and ran."

Savich rose to stand facing Ramsey. "What if she convinced him that her father was going to kill him? What if she told him he'd best clear out and he could take the Mercedes that Gunther had just brought it up? Isn't that possible? Just think about it, Ramsey. None of us have known any of these people for very long. Don't sweep it under the rug because you happen to admire the lady, just because you think her hair's cool."

Ramsey felt his heart pounding against his chest. It made his back ache even more. He didn't believe it. He was a good judge of character. He'd seen Molly in crunch situations. She hadn't faltered, hadn't broken, hadn't flipped out. He said aloud, "She would have no clue how to fashion a bomb. That means she would have had to hire someone in a very short length of time. Not likely."

"She's Mason Lord's daughter, but maybe you're right about her. You really seem to know this woman very well, even though it's only been for a short time." He sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. "What better person to bring someone onto the estate in secret? And how do you know she wouldn't know how to rig a bomb?"

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

21

THE 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.