The Target

the table, her face tight, as white as the tablecloth. She was staring at her husband. Then, suddenly, Eve turned to Emma, and her face was again as smooth as a Madonna's. "I gave the quiche recipe to Miles. My mother was an excellent cook. I'm sorry your mother doesn't like it."

    "I think it's time we had coffee," Mason said. "Miles?"

    Ramsey said, controlling his voice, "I would like to speak with you, Mason. Shall we take our coffee to the living room?"

    "It's a beautiful day," Eve Lord said, staring again at her husband. "Mason said that we would go out on the yacht, Ramsey. Perhaps you can speak with him later?"

    They heard the phone ring. Miles appeared around the door of the dining room. "Judge Hunt, it's Agent Savich. He, uh, wants to speak with you."

    Ramsey tossed his napkin on his plate and walked quickly to the kitchen where Miles stood patiently, holding the phone.

    "Sherlock and I are at O'Hare. We just heard about the murders in Las Vegas. I can't believe this, Ramsey. The man has balls, I'll say that for him. You want us to come back?"

    Ramsey wanted them back in the worst way, but there was nothing they could do, nothing anyone could do, really. How selfish did he want to be? "No, Savich. Take Sherlock off somewhere and make her happy. Just let me know where you're staying in Paris so I can call if there's occasion to sound the cavalry trumpet."

    "It's a little pension on the Left Bank," Savich said. "Sherlock wants to show it to me. We'll let you know the number. Did Mason say anything? Have you seen him?"

    "Oh yes. We all just heard it on the news at the dining table. It didn't even touch him that there were a federal judge and FBI agents in his house when he gave the orders."

    "Here's what I think. Just get out of there, Ramsey. Take Molly and Emma, and check out of the Bates Motel. You don't need this. It's vengeance. Don't get involved. There's nothing you can do in any case."

    "I can't believe you're saying that."

    "I'm saying it as Molly and Emma's friend. You don't want them in the middle of something that could shape up into a nice little personal war. There's been tit for tat. Don't stay to see if it goes another round. Just get out."

    Ramsey said slowly, "You're right, of course." He rubbed his hand over his forehead. "I feel that I should question Mason, handcuff Gunther. No, you're right. It's Molly and Emma's safety that's most important. I'll call you in a couple of days, let you know what's going on."

    They spoke a bit longer, and then Ramsey laid the phone slowly back into its cradle. It was an old-fashioned black rotary, one that Miles had picked out specifically for his kitchen, he'd told Ramsey when he was whipping up pancakes for breakfast one morning.

    Ramsey turned slowly to see Miles standing at the island, chopping celery. A chopped red apple stood in a bright pile to one side. Green grapes, sliced in half, formed another pile. Miles said in a very precise voice, "I'm making Waldorf salad."

    "Did you know this was going to happen, Miles?"

    "You know I can't say anything, Ramsey. Leave, sir, that's my best advice to you. Take Molly and Emma and leave. Since this man Shaker was behind everything, you're safe now that Louey's dead. Just leave."

    "Unless Shaker plans his own vengeance now. Unless he plans to escalate. If he does, we're in really deep."

    Miles shook his head, chopped some more celery in sure quick strokes, and said, "It doesn't work that way. It's over. One player knocked down, one opposing player knocked down. Everything's even again. Those are the rules. Nobody breaks the rules."

    The horror of it bubbled out of him. Ramsey slammed his fist down on the counter. "That's sick and you know it."

    Miles just shrugged. "No one will miss Louey Santera. No one will miss this Rule Shaker's daughter. Leave it alone, Ramsey. Get Molly and Emma out of here."

    Ramsey, his jaw locked hard from disbelief and tension, left the kitchen. He looked only at Molly when he reached the dining room. "Come upstairs with me, will you?"

    "Yes, certainly."

    Then he realized that Emma was sitting there, quiche on her fork, staring at them. Ramsey calmed himself. "Em, would you do me a favor?"

    She wanted to ask him questions, he could see that, but he shook his head at her. "Would you come upstairs with your mom and me?"

    Five minutes later, after they'd settled Emma with a book on animal husbandry for children in her bedroom, all of them knowing it was a ploy,