Impulse (49 page)

Savage didn’t say a word, didn’t move as he watched Marcus grip the wire firmly, wrap it around his fingers, then suddenly jerk it free. The four of them froze, waiting, waiting for the explosion, waiting for death. Nothing happened.

They continued silent, frozen in place. Still nothing. Marcus looked up to see the helicopters still hovering. So Dominick was waiting too. Rage exploded inside him.

Then he saw what Coco was clutching tightly against her chest—a SAM-7. The thing could bring down an airliner taking off. Marcus grabbed it from her, positioned
himself on one knee, and quickly balanced the antiaircraft missile on his right shoulder. It wasn’t particularly heavy or difficult to handle, but it wasn’t all that accurate either. It required skill or luck to inflict serious damage. If only the helicopters stayed low, if only they continued to hover and give him a stationary target.

He had only one try; that was it.

He shaded his eyes, staring at the helicopters, and hesitated. Suddenly there was a burst of automatic fire and the tiles around the swimming pool exploded, spewing shards everywhere. Marcus saw Rafaella grab her arm, saw Coco and Savage hit the ground, saw flower blossoms explode into bits of wild color. One of the helicopters was firing on them. Dominick must have realized that they’d neutralized the explosives. More fire blasted around them. Then there was answering fire from Hurley’s men, now coming out of the trees surrounding the compound.

Marcus saw Hurley go down. He had no choice now, not really. They were sitting ducks. Slowly he balanced the missile again on his right shoulder, aiming carefully. Just one chance to bring them down.

He saw Dominick clearly piloting the lower helicopter, the one spraying them with fire. And just as clearly he saw DeLorio hanging out the open cabin window, the automatic in his arms; he mowed down two men even as Marcus aimed the missile. Both father and son in the same helicopter; he didn’t have to decide which one to take down.

He prayed as he aimed the SAM, prayed that his luck was in, and he fired.

He saw the disbelief on DeLorio’s young face just before the missile struck the helicopter, saw the automatic rifle fly out of his arms. He couldn’t make out Dominick, just saw the wild jerk of his body as the missile struck. The helicopter exploded instantly into a ball of orange flame. It was an incredible sight, an
awesome sight, and more terrifying than Marcus could have imagined. It had been years since he’d seen a helicopter explode. Long ago, in western Austria.

The other helicopter was already out of range, veering off over the Caribbean, due west. Marcus thought he saw Merkel and Link in that one.

Coco looked up and said dispassionately, “It’s over, Charles. It’s all right now. The bastard’s dead; DeLorio is dead. It’s over for both you and Margaret.”

Rafaella turned and saw her stepfather watching the flaming helicopter parts as they hit the water, splashing up thick veils of water that steamed and hissed with the impact. She got to her feet and ran into his arms.

Charles couldn’t think of a thing to say. He hugged his stepdaughter. “I’m sorry, Rafaella.”

“We’re alive,” she said, pulling back to look at his face, “and Mother will be all right soon now. I know it—no, it’s just a scratch on my arm, don’t worry.”

Marcus looked over at Hurley, his shoulder being attended by one of his men. He’d have to try to deal with Hurley somehow. He’d failed; he hadn’t managed to bring Dominick Giovanni to justice. And that had been the agreement. But God, he’d brought the bastard down, he’d sent him straight to hell, him and that lunatic son of his.

He thought of Uncle Morty. He’d best get to Hurley while he was still weak and thankful that Marcus had brought Giovanni down before Hurley and more of his men had been killed. But not just yet.

He looked at Rafaella and smiled. She walked right into his arms. Whatever happened with Hurley and the feds, she was his life, and life for both of them would be vastly different from now on.

He was kissing her when he heard Anton Rosch say to Ross Hurley, “He’s Irish. The Irish always get the girl.”

Pine Hill Hospital
Long Island, New York
April 2001

I dreamed he came to me last night. He took my hand and leaned down close to my face and said, “Hello, Margaret.”

That was all he said for a very long time.

I wasn’t surprised to see him, even though I suppose I should have been. Things are easy to accept in dreams.

I knew he was looking at me, and it seemed very odd that he would just stare without saying anything, until I realized that he hadn’t seen me for twenty-six years.

A very long time for a woman. Too long.

But in my eyes he hadn’t changed, because I’d watched him over the years, so often studied his photographs, so that the years had come easily, and altered him only gradually. He seemed untouched to me.

And then he started speaking, his voice low and tender, and he told me he’d met our daughter and how lovely she was.

Odd that I didn’t wonder how he could have met Rafaella, his daughter. But he had; somehow I knew that was true.

He was silent again, but he didn’t release my hand. I wished I could speak to him, perhaps even tell him
how very sorry I was, but I realized that I wasn’t sorry, no, I’d thought about it all very carefully for a very long time. No, I wasn’t sorry. I did wish I could say something to him, but it was the sort of dream that is so very real but whose dreamer can’t act, can’t participate, can’t speak. But I thought about what I’d say to him if I could speak. There were so many things, years upon years of things to say. Then I realized that as soon as I thought of these things; formulated them in my mind, they lessened in their importance until they were nothing at all. It was odd, but it was so.

And then he said, leaning down and kissing my mouth, “I must go, Margaret. I must leave now. Your life is yours again. It’s over, finally over. It’s time for you to wake up, Margaret. It’s time for you to live.”

And then, just as suddenly as he’d appeared in the dream, he was gone. In the time it took me to draw a breath, it was over and he had vanished. It was all blackness again, and I breathed slowly and deeply and wondered.

This time I knew he would be gone forever.

The Branches
Long Island, New York
April 2001

Charles Rutledge raised his champagne flute. “To Marcus and Rafaella O’Sullivan. May your lives be long and filled with joy.”

“Just when does this joy part begin anyway?” Rafaella asked, poking her husband in the side.

He gave her a look that her stepbrother, Benjie, saw, and Benjie laughed deeply, then whispered something to his wife.

For a moment Marcus buried his face in her hair. “I love you so much it sometimes hurts—deep down inside me. I thank God for you, Rafaella.”

“And I for you, Marcus Ryan O’Sullivan.”

Marcus thought of their wedding ceremony in the small church in Maplewood on Long Island and how the minister had swelled with pride to see the overflowing pews. He’d beamed until he’d seen Punk, sporting a beautiful deep rose silk suit and matching deep rose stripe through her hair. But Coco, exquisite chic Coco, had smoothed it over, laying her white hand on the minister’s black-sleeved arm, and he had nearly melted all over her. Charles had flown up many employees from Porto Bianco for the wedding and it was a raucous group who wished Marcus and his new bride well.

Ownership of the resort, and of the entire island, for that matter, wasn’t really in question. Dominick Giovanni was dead, as was his only heir, DeLorio. But DeLorio had had a wife, and Paula would soon be a very wealthy young woman. Wealthy and wiser, Marcus hoped, silently wishing her luck. It was probable she would also eventually inherit all of Dominick’s vast wealth as well. Marcus wondered if Paula would keep the resort and manage it herself.

Marcus still wondered where Merkel and Link had ended up. Probably as henchmen for another crook, since they didn’t know anything else. Oddly enough, he wished them well, particularly Merkel. As for Lacy, he’d be an efficient assassin for another master.

After the minister had finished the ceremony, Marcus had asked Punk what she thought of Rafaella, and Punk, thoughtful under her deep rose stripe, said judiciously, “We didn’t know you had it in you, boss.” Then, turning to Marcus’s new bride, she’d said, “But you know, Rafaella, I’ll just bet
something
could be done with your hair—”

Ross Hurley, his arm in a sling, had also attended the ceremony, but thus far Marcus hadn’t managed to cut a deal with him. Hurley would just look at him and say, “It doesn’t change anything that you probably
saved my life, Marcus; the bastard’s dead, not in jail, which is what our deal was. Try again, O’Sullivan.” But John Savage held out hope. Hurley would bend and mellow, Marcus would see. Besides, Hurley had just gotten a lead on the woman who’d led Uncle Morty into the paths of illegality. If they caught her, they’d forget all about Uncle Morty. And Charles tried his diplomatic best, plying Hurley with the best champagne from his cellars.

Marcus thought now of all the endless details to be gotten through before he and Rafaella could take off for Montreal—her choice—for their honeymoon. She’d firmly vetoed the Caribbean, England, France, as being too far away from her mother. Always, always, there was Margaret Rutledge, lying in the hospital, breathing calmly and smoothly and not opening her eyes.

Rafaella just wanted the reception to be over. The past week had been frenetic, with little time to just be, without the constant demands. She’d suggested to Charles initially that their wedding be small and the reception even smaller because of her mother, but he’d objected. “No, we’ll celebrate in style, Rafaella. I’ve been telling your mother all about our preparations, all about your husband-to-be, all about your friends, and I’ve told her all about Punk’s repertoire of colored hair stripes.”

They’d put on the dog, as her Aunt Josie was wont to say. Rafaella turned to watch Al Holbein with Marcus’s mother, Molly. The two of them were going at each other in fine style. In Rafaella’s opinion, Al, for the first time in his adult life, didn’t stand a chance.

Rafaella turned to see John Savage, a man loyal to his toes, a fellow who played Marcus’s straight-man well and with such seriousness, except for that twinkle in his eye that Marcus never seemed to notice. A man so unlike Marcus, who charmed without trying. Yet the two of them were so closely attuned they many
times didn’t need to exchange words to share what they thought, what they felt. It was a good thing, Rafaella thought, that she was so fond of John. She had a feeling he would be very much a part of her new life. She turned her attention back to her brand-new husband, listening as he spoke to Charles about the merits of living in New York versus Boston versus Chicago.

Rafaella held back from their conversation for a few minutes, then said blandly, “You know, I’ve decided I’d like to try for anther Pulitzer and since it’s a fact that an investigative reporter really doesn’t have a chance working for a big newspaper, I’ve applied to the Elk Point
Daily News
in South Dakota. What do you think, Marcus?”

Before Charles could stop laughing, the Rutledge butler was at his side, speaking quietly.

Pine Hill Hospital
Long Island, New York
April 2001

I watched Charles come into my room. He looked uncertain yet hopeful, so full of life and vibrant, and full of love for me. I didn’t really deserve it but he didn’t agree and I wasn’t about to argue with him now.

And there was Rafaella, looking so beautiful in a dress I’d never seen before, a pale pink knit dress—unusual for her to wear something so outrageously designer. She was wearing heels and her hair was beautifully arranged—long and curly to her shoulders, not pulled back with two clips. And there was a man beside her, a handsome man with a mobile face that was used to laughter. I could tell he was nice. And he wasn’t so bad to look at either. It was her husband, Marcus. Charles had spoken of him throughout the past week.

Suddenly they were all speaking to me and they were laughing and talking all at once and Charles was kissing
me and Rafaella was hugging me and the man was standing back, silent but looking very pleased.

And it was then that I realized that this was what life had to offer, a simple, straightforward reality, and it was wonderful. This was where I belonged. I’ve been given another chance. And Dominick Giovanni was gone forever. I’d known it when the dream had ended.

He was gone because my dear friend Coco had followed through and managed to kill him.

How Coco and I had talked and she’d told me how she’d discovered that Dominick had had the doctor tie her tubes after the abortion. I saw her pain and knew it was nearly as great as mine. We planned and we’d come to trust each other. I had the money and she had the contacts. I knew she’d succeeded. Coco would always succeed in what she determined to do. And between us, we killed him, once and for all, and forever.

I thought about Bathsheba and my absurd serendipity. I’d loved that painting so, looking at it every day since Charles had obtained it for my wedding present eleven years ago. And when Coco and I had decided we would have Dominick assassinated, I wanted to use Bathsheba as our code, so I would never forget why I wanted Dominick to die. Bathsheba, that poor woman who’d been desired by a king and whose husband had been forced to his death by that king. Only the king hadn’t betrayed Bathsheba, no, he’d kept her until his death. And I’d loved the irony of it. The simplicity of it.

Perhaps Dominick was still a ghost, a phantom, but he was no longer of this earth, no longer to be part of my life. The future was mine alone, free and unfettered from the bitterness of the past.

Words from a song in
Les Miserables
came into my mind. Something about “loving another person is like seeing the face of God.” There was something to that, a lot of something. Even that ridiculous accident no longer seemed important. I’d been driving near Sylvia’s house—I couldn’t seem to stay away from her—after
all, she was a part of his life still, even though it was hatred that was their bond, hatred and marriage vows. And that night her young lover, Tommy was his name, was high on coke as he spun out of her drive, and he was laughing and whooping to the moon and driving like a wildman and he hit me and I saw him clearly when he hit me and I couldn’t believe the irony of it.