The Target
Page 66
"No, Mama. Ramsey can learn anything."
"Such faith," Molly said and kissed her daughter's ear. "If you're finished, sweetheart, it's nearly time to go. I'll call Miles to get the car."
"Gunther already brought it around earlier, according to your father."
They went out of the house five minutes later to see the car parked on the far side of the wide circular drive.
Suddenly, Louey Santera bolted from behind a thick row of bushes, rushed to the car, and jerked open the driver's-side door of the Mercedes.
"He's trying to escape," Ramsey said, shaking his head. "The idiot."
He yelled, "Come back here, Louey. You can't get out of here, and you know that. The drive is gated. There are two guys there, with guns. Stop, you moron. For God's sake, Mason isn't going to pull your fingernails out. All you've
got to do is tell him the truth and nobody's going to hurt you."
Louey gave them the finger. He twisted the key in the ignition.
It was his last act.
18
THE CAR EXPLODED in a ball of flame. Tongues of fire and metal swept upward and outward from the car, shooting into the air, hurtling toward them. Molly grabbed Emma and threw her to the ground, falling over her. Ramsey flung himself on top of them both, gathering them in with his arms, covering them as best he could. He felt the fierce heat of the flames, heard the whoosh of the fire and chunks of metal striking the sidewalk and gravel. Suddenly he felt as if a boulder had slammed into the middle of his back. It was hard and heavy and hot. The pain was intense. Whatever had hit him was still on his back, burning through his sports jacket and shirt. "Hold still, Molly." He quickly rolled off them onto his back. A smoking fragment of upholstery fell to the ground beside him. The pain immediately lessened. He'd stopped the burning.
He looked back at Molly and saw a sharp piece of metal that looked like a spear jutting out of her arm, right above the elbow. "Oh Jesus, Molly, hold still. Emma, you okay?"
"Yes, Ramsey."
"Good. Don't either of you move yet. It's still too dangerous." He ripped off the sleeve of his shirt, took a deep
breath, and without saying a word to Molly, he jerked the metal spear out of her arm. "Good," he said. "Don't move, I'm going to wrap it up."
Molly hadn't made a sound. He didn't know how she'd managed it, but she did. The next minutes ground slowly by. Emma was fidgeting. He said things, silly meaningless things, to quiet her. Finally, the car was burning down, consuming itself, the flames collapsed into plumes of black smoke, which then fell, blanketing everything. The smell of burning rubber was nauseating. The Mercedes was a burning corpse. And what was left of Louey was inside it.
Emma twisted onto her back when Ramsey finally moved and looked up at him and her mother, who was holding her arm. "What happened? Why did our car blow up?"
"It's all right, Emma." He couldn't answer her, not yet. He helped Molly to her feet. "You hanging in there?"
"Yes, don't worry about me. I'm lucky I was wearing a long-sleeved dress. Not much protection, but some." Her sleeve was seared off, the blood from the wound soaking his makeshift bandage and snaking down her forearm.
"Both of us need a doctor."
She was staring at him. "Are you all right, Ramsey? I know you're hurt. How bad is it?"
"I'm all right. Come on, Molly."
She looked away toward the burning car. She turned perfectly white. "Oh God, Louey!" She ran toward the burning wreck, holding her hurt arm. "Louey!"
Ramsey grabbed her around her waist, pulling her back. "No, Molly. He's dead." He blinked. It hit him that Emma's father had just been blown up in front of her. He and Molly were both in shock, not thinking clearly or quickly, but now here was Emma, staring at the car. He came down on his knees in front of her and gathered her against him. "It will be all right, Emma, I promise. I'm real sorry, sweetheart. Someone put a bomb in the car. It exploded when he turned it on."
He heard people's voices behind him, coming from the house, but he didn't turn to see who was there.
There was nothing left of the car. Nothing left either of Louey Santera. Then he saw that the Mercedes hood ornament was still recognizable. He turned then to see everyone standing on the front steps gaping at the twisted, blackened car. There were still small spurts of flame eating into the metal, bursting up now and then into glittering showers.
Emma's piano was smashed. Still she held it against her chest. She looked at her mother, then back at him. "I don't understand."
"Such faith," Molly said and kissed her daughter's ear. "If you're finished, sweetheart, it's nearly time to go. I'll call Miles to get the car."
"Gunther already brought it around earlier, according to your father."
They went out of the house five minutes later to see the car parked on the far side of the wide circular drive.
Suddenly, Louey Santera bolted from behind a thick row of bushes, rushed to the car, and jerked open the driver's-side door of the Mercedes.
"He's trying to escape," Ramsey said, shaking his head. "The idiot."
He yelled, "Come back here, Louey. You can't get out of here, and you know that. The drive is gated. There are two guys there, with guns. Stop, you moron. For God's sake, Mason isn't going to pull your fingernails out. All you've
got to do is tell him the truth and nobody's going to hurt you."
Louey gave them the finger. He twisted the key in the ignition.
It was his last act.
18
THE CAR EXPLODED in a ball of flame. Tongues of fire and metal swept upward and outward from the car, shooting into the air, hurtling toward them. Molly grabbed Emma and threw her to the ground, falling over her. Ramsey flung himself on top of them both, gathering them in with his arms, covering them as best he could. He felt the fierce heat of the flames, heard the whoosh of the fire and chunks of metal striking the sidewalk and gravel. Suddenly he felt as if a boulder had slammed into the middle of his back. It was hard and heavy and hot. The pain was intense. Whatever had hit him was still on his back, burning through his sports jacket and shirt. "Hold still, Molly." He quickly rolled off them onto his back. A smoking fragment of upholstery fell to the ground beside him. The pain immediately lessened. He'd stopped the burning.
He looked back at Molly and saw a sharp piece of metal that looked like a spear jutting out of her arm, right above the elbow. "Oh Jesus, Molly, hold still. Emma, you okay?"
"Yes, Ramsey."
"Good. Don't either of you move yet. It's still too dangerous." He ripped off the sleeve of his shirt, took a deep
breath, and without saying a word to Molly, he jerked the metal spear out of her arm. "Good," he said. "Don't move, I'm going to wrap it up."
Molly hadn't made a sound. He didn't know how she'd managed it, but she did. The next minutes ground slowly by. Emma was fidgeting. He said things, silly meaningless things, to quiet her. Finally, the car was burning down, consuming itself, the flames collapsed into plumes of black smoke, which then fell, blanketing everything. The smell of burning rubber was nauseating. The Mercedes was a burning corpse. And what was left of Louey was inside it.
Emma twisted onto her back when Ramsey finally moved and looked up at him and her mother, who was holding her arm. "What happened? Why did our car blow up?"
"It's all right, Emma." He couldn't answer her, not yet. He helped Molly to her feet. "You hanging in there?"
"Yes, don't worry about me. I'm lucky I was wearing a long-sleeved dress. Not much protection, but some." Her sleeve was seared off, the blood from the wound soaking his makeshift bandage and snaking down her forearm.
"Both of us need a doctor."
She was staring at him. "Are you all right, Ramsey? I know you're hurt. How bad is it?"
"I'm all right. Come on, Molly."
She looked away toward the burning car. She turned perfectly white. "Oh God, Louey!" She ran toward the burning wreck, holding her hurt arm. "Louey!"
Ramsey grabbed her around her waist, pulling her back. "No, Molly. He's dead." He blinked. It hit him that Emma's father had just been blown up in front of her. He and Molly were both in shock, not thinking clearly or quickly, but now here was Emma, staring at the car. He came down on his knees in front of her and gathered her against him. "It will be all right, Emma, I promise. I'm real sorry, sweetheart. Someone put a bomb in the car. It exploded when he turned it on."
He heard people's voices behind him, coming from the house, but he didn't turn to see who was there.
There was nothing left of the car. Nothing left either of Louey Santera. Then he saw that the Mercedes hood ornament was still recognizable. He turned then to see everyone standing on the front steps gaping at the twisted, blackened car. There were still small spurts of flame eating into the metal, bursting up now and then into glittering showers.
Emma's piano was smashed. Still she held it against her chest. She looked at her mother, then back at him. "I don't understand."
