Catherine Coulter - The Target

Ramsey breathed in the clean air deeply and smiled. He looked through the half-open window of his study that gave onto a small lawn and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond, off in the distance. He loved Sea Cliff, which was considered by many, himself included, to be the most spectacular area in the city. His house was among the first tier of homes that sat atop the line of the cliffs at the northwestern tip of the city. The ocean rolled in from the left, the Golden Gate stood guardian at the entrance of the bay to the right, connecting the city to the bleak naked Marin Headlands directly across from him. The Headlands stood stark in the afternoon sunlight. There was still some green on the hills. But it wouldn't be long now, deep into summer, until the Headlands would be unrelieved brown, seemingly barren of life. If the fog rolled in during the late afternoon, it would settle over the Headlands, and look for all the world like the setting for a Gothic movie.

His house had been photographed, fingerprinted, thoroughly cleaned up, and repaired. He'd spoken to his secretary and both of his externs, the two law clerks assigned to him as a federal district judge. The three of them had volunteered to refurbish his house. He'd given them color schemes, the type of furniture he liked, and a budget. They'd gone over budget, but given the furniture and draperies that had been delivered and lovingly arranged throughout the house, he wasn't about to bitch. He wondered what else would be arriving. It was interesting to see himself through other people's eyes. His study was more domineering and masculine now, full of leather and rich earth colors. They'd spent a small fortune on the leather sofa and chairs and the immense mahogany desk, and he'd approved that as well. The walls were still empty. They couldn't have bought the art he would like.

Given that less than a month had passed, they'd accomplished miracles.

"Ramsey?"

"Yes, Emma?"

"I like your house. The water makes me feel good."

He grinned as he leaned down and picked her up in his arms. He carried her to his huge leather chair and sat down. He put his feet up on the sinfully rich leather hassock, something he'd never had before. "Let's look at the view together, okay? We can let our souls commune with nature. Hey, where's your piano?"

"Upstairs. But my piano's not important right now." She sighed, that adult sigh. "I'm worried about Mama. I don't think she feels good even though she told me she was fine."

"What's wrong?"

"She's sick. She sent me down here to keep you busy, to keep you away. She doesn't want you to know, but I'm worried. Can you fix it, Ramsey?"

"Oh, damn. Sorry, Emma. Will you stay here and commune with nature for me?"

"Yes, but just for a little while. Mama's face is kind of green."

"I'll take care of her. You stay put, all right, Emma?"

"I won't go outside by myself, Ramsey."

"Good girl," he said, kissed her forehead, and took off upstairs. He heard her retching from the top of the stairs. There were three rooms on the second floor-his master suite, a study, and a guest room, where she and Emma were sleeping. She was in the bathroom attached to the guest room. The door was pulled to, but not closed all the way. He inched it open. Molly was on her knees, her head over the toilet, heaving.

He didn't say anything, just gently reached down to rub her shoulders, then hunched down on his knees beside her. He pulled back her hair. She sank back against him. "You okay now?"

She moaned. "I don't want to talk. I just want to die."

He flushed the toilet. "Hold still, let me get you some water to wash out your mouth."

She moaned again. "I wish you hadn't come up here. I should have known Emma would get you. This is humiliating."

He handed her a glass of water. She eyed it, then rose slowly. "Let me brush my teeth."

"I've got some antacid. You want some? Oh yes, Emma was really worried. I'm glad she had sense enough to fetch me. More sense than her mother."

"Go away," she said, pushing him out the door and closing it. He heard her rinse her mouth out with mouthwash. Five minutes later, he was walking beside her to the bed. There wasn't a great view in the guestroom, but the row of three windows that were there gave a glimpse of the Golden Gate.

"At least while I'm lying here dying, the last thing I see will be beautiful."

"Nah, the last thing you'll see is my ugly face. That's enough right there to get you well again."

"I must have eaten something bad on the airplane."

She'd had the linguine with clam sauce. Both he and Emma had had the chicken. "Could be. That or it's stress."

He gently cupped her face with his palm. She was sweaty and damp. He frowned. "I'm going to call my doctor, see what he has to say."

"I'm not going to any doctor, Ramsey. Forget it. My stomach's empty now. I'll be fine."

"We'll see," he said, in the same adult tone she used naturally with a child when she wanted to clamp down on any further arguments.

He brought her a couple of pills and a glass of water. "Take these."

She didn't even ask what they were. When she'd swallowed them, she leaned back against the pillows.

"How's your arm?"

"It's fine. How's your back?"

He just smiled at her. "I'm okay. Can you still see the stitches in your arm?"

"Some of them, but they're on their way. How's your leg?"

"Long healed. I want to see your arm." She suffered his rolling up the sleeve of her pale cream-colored blouse. He gently pulled back the bandage. The skin was a healthy pink, the stitches obscene in her white arm, but the wound was much better, the remaining stitches disintegrating. He grunted and pressed the bandage down again. "Well, your heaving isn't from this wound."

"Where's Emma?"

"She's in my big leather chair staring out the French doors toward the bridge. But let me go check." He brought her back up five minutes later.

"Look who I found with her cute little nose pressed to the window?"

"My beautiful little princess?"

"Nah, she's mine, but I'll be willing to share her for a couple of minutes. You can see for yourself, Emma.

Your mom's okay."

"Can I stay with her, Ramsey? I'll try to make her laugh. She says laughing always makes anybody feel better."

"Okay, but if she gets sick again, you holler and I'll get somebody over here with some needles to stick in her."

"Yuck," said Emma.

Three hours later, Molly was chewing on some dry toast and drinking hot plain Earl Grey tea. She still looked pale. At least she hadn't vomited again. The nausea had been gone for an hour, but his hand still hovered over the phone. He wanted to call Jim Haversham, an internist with privileges at San Francisco General.

"I don't think we're going anywhere tomorrow," he said at nine o'clock that evening. Both Emma and Molly were lying in the guestroom bed, the brand-new TV on low, providing background noise.

The doorbell sounded. Ramsey turned to leave. "It's just a friend of mine from the San Francisco PD. I called her. She's going to brief me on anything they've turned up."

"About your house being trashed?" Molly asked, moving the wet washcloth a bit to the left on her forehead.

"That and other things. You guys just relax. Emma, if your mom needs anything, you come and tell me.

Can I count on you to mind me and not her?"

Emma looked worried. "I don't know, Ramsey, she's my mom. She's been around since I was born."

"I know, but right now she's on the pathetic side. She doesn't know what's good for her. Call me, all right?"

Emma still looked uncertain. She pulled her piano onto her lap. Molly groaned. She groaned again, a big funny groan that made Emma smile.

Good for you, Molly, he thought, gave them a salute, and took off downstairs.