Robert Tanenbaum: Fury

"Hey, whaddya staring at, ya big palooka," she snarled with just the right amount of sauce. "If you like it so much, why doncha take a picture?"

Karp laughed but kept looking. Twenty-five and some odd years earlier they'd both been neophyte assistant district attorneys for the New York County DA when a drunken roll in the hay after an office party had turned into an enduring love affair. The letter bomb had been intended for him-courtesy of one of the myriad of killers who would cross his path-but Marlene, jealously thinking it might be a note from his ex-wife, had opened it. The invasion of privacy had cost her an eye and a couple of pieces of her fingers, and one side of her face was laced with small white scars.

Karp knew that early on she'd wondered if he'd married her because he felt guilty about the injuries. But when his amorous intentions hadn't waned, and in fact grew more pronounced and eventually resulted in three children-twenty-one-year-old Lucy, who was currently working in New Mexico, and the twelve-year-old twins, Giancarlo and Isaac, she'd accepted that if there was one thing she could count on in her life, beyond being a lightning rod for danger, it was the constancy of his love for her.

There'd been a lot of rough spots along the way, both in their relationship and professionally-including enough run-ins with terrorists, psychopaths, mass murderers, and the usual scum of the earth to make a pretty decent action film. He wasn't quite sure if there was some sort of psychic target attached to his family's back or if it was just bad luck. Part of it was the job, but he knew plenty of prosecutors who'd led much quieter lives.

Marlene had eventually left the DA's office but, except for a brief foray into private practice, he'd remained, and that past summer he had been appointed to fulfill the term of District Attorney Jack X. Keegan, who'd jumped at the chance to become a federal judge. Being the top law enforcement officer for Manhattan could certainly make a guy enemies big and small.

Just that past summer, he'd tangled with one of the wealthiest men in the country, a dilettante, white-shoe lawyer named Andrew Kane, who had appeared to be the runaway favorite to become the next mayor of Manhattan in that fall's election. At least that was the public's perception. However, Kane turned out to be a villain of Machiavellian proportions. He'd done his best to kill Karp and his family, but they'd escaped through a combination of good fortune and equally lethal friends. Karp, aided by a Manhattan grand jury, had charged and indicted Kane with capital murder. But the trial was still some months, perhaps even a year, away, delayed by the usual flurry of pretrial motions from Kane's lawyers.

Yet his job wasn't the only reason for the Karp-Ciampi marital discord that only recently had begun to turn the corner and appear as if the couple might weather the storm that had been tearing them apart. After leaving the DA's office, Marlene had gone through a number of incarnations. She'd created a firm that provided security for high-profile luminaries-such as movie stars, athletes, musicians, and diplomats-and became an instant multimillionaire when the company got bought by a larger firm that then went public with its stock. She currently owned a farm on Long Island that raised and trained Neapolitan mastiffs for security work, including defense and bomb sniffing. One of her newest proteges, a monstrous 150-pounder named Gilgamesh, was at that moment lying under the kitchen table keeping Karp's feet warm.

Outwardly Marlene could be flippant and casual about the violence that found her the way sharks follow blood in the water. However, psychologically she'd been deeply conflicted, a former Catholic school girl who could not totally justify her decision that if the justice system couldn't protect the helpless, then someone else had to-no matter what the personal cost.

Her husband was the opposite. The law, safeguarded by due process, wasn't something to follow when it was convenient. The law was sacrosanct, a thing of beauty precisely because of its rules. Yes, there was latitude within the law that a clever attorney could work with to his advantage-and he'd skirted the line himself on numerous occasions but never stepped over it. He also insisted that the lawyers who worked for him abide by the same standards. "Do it right or we don't deserve to win," he told them. So it had troubled him greatly that his wife skirted the law in a way he would never have allowed one of his employees to do.

Knowing what her actions were doing to him and haunted by her own conscience, Marlene had distanced herself from her family, especially after one of her efforts to exact revenge for the murder of a family in West Virginia that she had befriended had nearly gotten Giancarlo killed. She'd retreated to her dog farm and seemed on a path that would lead only farther and farther from her family in Manhattan.

However, Marlene heard about a program in New Mexico that used art therapy to save women who suffered from post-traumatic stress disorders-most of them the victims of domestic violence, although there were a couple who, like Marlene, had killed. She and Lucy, who herself was only just recovering from extreme sex abuse and torture by a psychopath named Felix Tighe, had left for New Mexico in early summer.

The program seemed to work wonders for Marlene-that and the friendship she'd developed with John Jojola, the chief of police for the Taos Pueblo. A Vietnam combat vet whose native skills at hunting and tracking had been used by the U.S. Army to stalk Vietcong leaders and kill them, Jojola had emerged from years of alcoholism to make peace with his own violent past. He'd recognized a kindred spirit in Marlene and had led her down the path he'd taken out of the darkness.

It was a better fall than it had been a spring. Surgery to remove a shotgun pellet from the blast that had nearly killed and blinded Giancarlo had been a success; he could see again, though there were moments when the disconnect between his eyes and brain acted up. Lucy was living in New Mexico, still working for a Catholic charity at the pueblo, and was apparently in love with some young cowboy she'd met.

Marlene was living at the Crosby Street loft again and seemed more at peace with herself than she had been for years. However, she'd warned Karp that while she felt as if she was making progress, she was not "cured."

"It's not as simple as that. Let's just say I'm in remission," she told him as she lay in his arms one night and he'd remarked on the change. "It's like a cancer. Maybe five, ten years down the road, if there are no more spots on the X-ray, I might be considered a 'survivor.' But like cancer, if it comes back, it could be worse than ever."

Karp was just happy to have her around as a wife, a lover, and the mother whom the twins had missed terribly. Watching her untie her running shoes, he thought she was still the most beautiful woman he knew.

The effects of the bomb had never bothered him. She was still a lovely woman with dark, curly hair framing her face, and he sometimes caught other men appreciating her classic Italian features. Her body had matured from the almost teenage physique she'd kept through three births; she was a little thicker around the middle, no matter how many sit-ups she did and miles she ran, and the once-perky tits no longer pointed up like flowers following the sun. But neither had they wilted, and if she had to work a little harder to keep that fine rear end as round and solid as a pair of bowling balls, he was well aware from her exuberance of the night that she was as passionate a lover as ever.

Karp especially loved to watch the way her hips moved when she walked, and she was walking toward him now with a half-smile on her face. "What's the matter, Karp, cat got your tongue…or maybe you're just too tired from your rather mild exertions last night? How about offering a lady a cup of that coffee and the sports section of the Times?"