The Target

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, Ram-sey," 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."

13

    THERE 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