Catherine Coulter - The Target

Virginia Trolley was at the door, wearing her signature black boots, black slacks, black turtleneck, and a red blazer. "I'm glad you're home, Ramsey. All hell's broken loose."

He invited her into his study. There was a fire in the fireplace and the new heavy pale gold draperies were drawn, making the room darker, more intimate.

"I love your house. The new stuff looks great. Did they bankrupt you refurbishing it?"

"The insurance will cover most of it."

"Good. Now that everything's brand-new, do you think we could get married, then we could get divorced and I'd get the house?"

"No way you'd get the house unless you bribed a judge," Ramsey said, and poured her a cup of coffee from the Thermos on a side table.

She sighed. "My husband might not understand, either. Would you consider adopting me?"

"You're older than I am."

"Ah, so have you heard of age discrimination?"

"Not me. Thanks for coming by, Ginny. What's going on downtown?"

"You know everyone still calls you Judge Dredd. It really fits now, what with all your flirting with the underworld. The media has been going nuts about all of it. I'm surprised they haven't found out you're home. Be thankful for small favors. It won't last."

He brought her up-to-date, finishing with, "Molly, Emma, and I are all going to Ireland day after tomorrow. We were going to leave first thing tomorrow, but Molly was throwing up her toenails all afternoon. She seems better now, but it doesn't seem too bright to fly right now. I think it was the linguine she ate on the plane. I'm praying it's not gastritis or an ulcer, though an ulcer wouldn't surprise me what with all she's been through."

Virginia Trolley rose from her chair, walked to the wide French doors, and pulled back the drapes. The clouds were hanging black and low. There was no sign of a moon or any stars. She sighed deeply.

"We've all been talking about what's happened. This Shaker guy is bad stuff, Ramsey. If he is behind all of it, the chances of getting enough for an indictment are about the same as the Raiders winning another Super Bowl anytime soon. The odds are astronomical." She grinned. "Actually, it's looking like the Forty-niners aren't going to come up smelling like roses either this fall. Who knows?"

Ramsey sat down in the big leather chair behind his desk. He leaned back, cradling his head on his arms.

"I'm hoping it is Shaker because it means the three of us are probably out of danger. Anyway, it's what the Feds think, it's what the Denver cops think. They're all still looking for the creep who took Emma.

"I'm praying we're out of here before the media discover we're back. I think all of us being out of the country for a while would be a healthy thing. Have you got anything new?"

Virginia turned from the French doors, letting the drapes drop back into place. "You're probably right. No leads as to who trashed your house. The neighbors saw nothing. There weren't any prints." She paused, looking around the man's study-dark wainscoting, rich leather furniture, and highly polished oak floor. "The cleaning service took real pride in fixing Judge Ramsey Hunt's house all right and tight. The Chronicle even wanted a photo of this room after your people refurbished it. It do sparkle, don't it?"

"Yeah, it do."

"Any problems?"

"No, everything is fine, at least for the moment. But I'm thinking it might be smart to have some protection."

"Agreed. I'll schedule a patrol to come by every half-hour or so. Oh yes, I need to show you this, though we don't think it's much of anything. Anonymous, of course. It was shoved under your office door." She pulled it out of her purse and handed it to him.

It was short and to the point.

YOU ARE A MURDERER. YOU WILL DIE.

It was printed carefully with a thick-tip black pen. Ramsey handed it back to her, "No verbosity-it can't be a lawyer. Any reason to think it's more than the usual crank stuff?"

"Not much different from what you got right after you destroyed the scum in your courtroom. You haven't gotten anything else recently, have you?"

"No, not that anyone has told me about."

"All right, it's probably nothing. But be careful, Judge Dredd. One of the undercover cops was telling his buddies he'd pulled a Hunt maneuver. In other words, he kicked some butt. He said he'd just wished he'd been wearing a black robe, that would have made him the ultimate cool. Sorry, Ramsey, you're in the cop lexicon now." Virginia Trolley looked up to see a little girl standing in the doorway, holding a large portable piano against her chest. The thing came down to her knees. She was clutching it really tightly. She had beautiful thick mahogany-colored hair that was straggling out of a fat French braid.

"Hi," Ginny said easily. "Are you Emma Santera?"

"Yes, ma'am. Ramsey, Mama's throwing up again. She told me not to tell you, but I'm worried. Would you make it stop again?"

"Yes, Emma, I'll take care of it right now." He turned to Ginny. "I'm going to call Jim Haversham. He owes me. I'll never forget Savich telling me that it's always a good thing to have a physician on your debt list."

"He's your FBI friend?"

"Yeah. Listen, Ginny, I'll keep in touch. If anything comes up, you can fax me in Ireland. We'll be staying at Dromoland Castle just north of Shannon Airport for a couple of days. I don't remember the county name. I'll let you know after that."

"Okay. You keep yourself safe, Ramsey. Good-bye, Emma. Take care of your mama and Ramsey, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am." Emma slipped into the room and stood by Ramsey while Ginny went out. As soon as she'd left the study, Ramsey picked up the phone.

When he hung up, he swung Emma and her piano up in his arms. "Let's go tell your mom that she's lucky.

No going to any hospital. Nope, she's going to have a real live doctor make a house call to see her."

DR. James Haversham was forty-two, divorced twice, a man who sailed every free minute. He straightened and rubbed his jaw, a habit of long standing. He said finally, still looking down at Molly, still rubbing his jaw, "I need to do some tests."

"No. Forget it. If I ever go to the hospital, I'll be dead and I won't know about it. No tests."

He sighed. "All right, then. My best guess is that you ate something spoiled. Ramsey told me you had linguine with clams on the plane. From what he told me, nearly all of it is out of your system. But you're still having bowel spasms and that's why you started vomiting again. I'm going to give you a shot and some pills. They will help calm your stomach, make you drowsy, and take away the nausea. It'll take time for your bowels to straighten out. You're getting dehydrated. I want you to drink plenty of fluids tonight and tomorrow. Okay, the shot's for your butt. Turn over, please."

"Ramsey, please take Emma outside."

But Emma wasn't about to budge. "No, Mama, you need me. I'll hold your hand."

"You need me, too. I'll hold your other hand. It's your hour of need, Molly."

Emma looked up at him. "Was that a joke, Ramsey?"

"All right," Dr. Haversham said, "both of you turn around so my patient isn't embarrassed."

They turned to face the television that was showing a rerun of M*A*S*H, without sound.

They heard a yelp, then Dr. Haversham's voice. "Now, two of these pills, Mrs. Santera. You're going to stay in bed, sleep and eat through tomorrow. Drink enough water so that you're in the bathroom every fifteen minutes. Any more vomiting, though, and you're coming to the ER. I mean it. Unless you feel better soon, it means there's something going on here other than food poisoning." She was shaking her head even as he leaned down and said,

"You have a beautiful little girl who needs you. Pick something else to be stubborn about."

She sighed. "You're right, of course. Thank you for coming."