The Target

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."

    "He's dead, Emma," Molly said.

    "Oh," she said finally. She looked at the gutted car, at the licking flames. "I don't see him, Ramsey."

    "No," he said. He wasn't about to tell her that her father could be picked up in a wastebasket.

    Then everyone seemed to be talking at once, patting, soothing, Mason Lord even holding Molly close to his side for a moment. Gunther had his gun out. Miles was trying to edge close to Emma. Guards had swarmed to the burning wreck, their guns at the ready. All of them were young men, fit and strong, each carrying an automatic weapon. Even they stopped to stare at the devastation.

    Eve Lord said slowly, her eyes on Emma, "You three were supposed to be in that car, not Louey Santera."

    "It was that bad man," Emma said. "He came back to get me, but he killed Daddy instead."

    She looked at her smashed piano, and gently laid it on the grass. "Look at all the broken keys." She came down on her knees beside it and gently pressed the middle C. A sharp tinny sound pinged out. Her face went very still. She picked up the piano again, clutched it to her chest, and walked back into the house. Molly caught her in a moment, and pulled her up into her arms.

    "I'll call the police," Ramsey said to Mason Lord.

    "There will be no police on my property."

    "Oh, yes, there will."

    * * *

    MOLLY didn't make a sound as Mason Lord's own personal physician, Dr. Theodore Otterly, sewed up her arm. Ramsey felt the ripples of pain, the tensing of her muscles, but she didn't complain. He'd put two chairs together, sitting on the back one to support Molly in front of him. Dr. Otterly asked him to help support her, so Ramsey put his arm around her, under her chin, his hand cupping her shoulder. She leaned her chin on his arm. Emma was holding her hand. Her wounded arm was resting on the kitchen table. All of Dr. Otterly's medical stuff was spread out on the table. Molly flinched, then drew a deep fast breath.

    Suddenly Emma made a small mewling sound. Ramsey said easily, "I know, Em. This is tough, but your mom's hanging in there. If you want to say something, say it."

    "Are you all right, Mama?"

    Her voice was small and thin, her fear stark. Molly didn't know where she got a smile, but she managed to manufacture one.