Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

That wasn't the simple answer she wanted to hear. It was exactly opposite of the answer she wished for. She felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. “I want to go back home,” she said. This time, he didn't argue.

“Fine,” he said, his voice level and empty. “I'll take you to my father's.”

“When can I go home?” Her words were determined.

“Afterward.”

“After what?”

“After Rifat's dead.”

T hey left late that night, after Sylvie had been sufficiently placated and Mariel settled into the room next to Egon. They drove to the airport like two silent strangers, and once they boarded the plane Carey excused himself to join Jess in the cockpit. Egon was alive; at least their mission had been partially successful, though the extent of his injuries was grievous. Molly wasn't so sure her relationship with Carey hadn't suffered an equally unfortunate mutilation; he was not the man she thought she knew. He was disturbing and unfamiliar, and she was forced to face the very real possibility she had fallen in love with a memory, not the existing Carey Fersten.

Although Carey knew better, he couldn't make himself give Molly all the necessary explanations and assurances. He wasn't up to the argument of whom or what was more important. He was going to kill Rifat or die trying. That was just the way he felt, and he didn't want to have it analyzed or examined or negated.

Their arrival at Bernadotte's was subdued. Molly didn't argue when Carey suggested she go to sleep while he filled his dad in on the events in Jamaica.

Bernadotte was concerned for Egon's life, but more apprehensive about his son's intractable obsession with Rifat's death. Once he realized Carey wouldn't be deterred, sensible man that he was, Bernadotte took it upon himself to offer whatever help he could. The two men sat up that night planning the operation.

“He must be cordoned off from the world,” Bernadotte said. “He hasn't survived this long without the most sensitive security system, and he may be expecting you if one of his men got away.”

“I can't be certain if the man survived. There wasn't time to follow him. It's possible the third man is dead.”

“Nevertheless, Rifat will be alerted as well if his men don't return.”

“Fucker's always alert. You know what my first instinct was when Egon got mixed-up with the bastard? I thought: maybe a small missile through his bedroom window or a bomb under his chair in his favorite restaurant. But no, I'm too damned civilized now. A dozen years away from Vietnam and you begin acting normal. Your first impulse is no longer shoot first and check out the corpse's identity later.”

Bernadotte heard the anger in his son's voice, and was reminded of the glimpses he'd seen of that same white-hot rage when Carey had first come home. He'd been mostly silent and uncommunicative, but on rare occasions a television newscast or a newspaper article would set him off, and an explosion of words would come tumbling out, words of tragedy and loss, of the horror that passed for war. “A car bomb might be effective. And safe.”

“His vehicles are checked before he steps foot in them.”

“Maybe a woman could carry something into his bedroom, or say, at a restaurant and leave it.”

“That's been tried. The woman's body or what was left of it turned up in the Tiber two days later. Besides… I want to see the fear in his eyes before I kill him.”

“I felt that way about the Russian artillery crew that bombarded us and killed Kirsti. I understand how you feel.”

“I don't know if I can do it-manage to get to him,” Carey said, “but I have to try. Do I sound deranged?” He smiled then, in a rueful grimace, and drained the glass of tea his father had brewed for him.

“You can't be perfectly normal with your mother and me for parents,” Bernadotte replied with his own smile, aware of the idiosyncracies in their personalities. “All I ask is that you take all the possible precautions. The image of the lone, heroic gunslinger is a literary device. In the real world, a well-devised plan with a team to implement it is more effective.”

“I'm going to ask Ant and Luger for help with the logistics. If they can supply me with some interesting weapons, I'll be in good shape.”

“Are they coming here?”

“No, not with Molly and Carrie… and Lucy. I'm flying out west tomorrow morning.” He sighed then, and recrossed his legs. “Molly doesn't understand,” he said.

“Why should she?” Bernadotte quietly replied.

“I know.” Carey slid lower on his spine, his expression disgruntled. “She wants to go home.”

“And what did you say?”

“No, of course. She'd be completely vulnerable to Rifat.”

“Does she understand?”

“Not emotionally.”

“But logically she does.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“So there's trouble in paradise.”

“You bet.” He raked his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Would you make it as pleasant for her as possible? Try to explain-oh hell, I should do that, but dammit, I'm not up to it right now.” He sighed again. “After Rifat, I'll explain.”

“I'll do what I can,” Bernadotte promised, “and if it's any consolation, Carrie and Lucy are happy as clams here. It won't be difficult to convince them to enjoy a few more days of vacation on the farm.”

“Great.” And Carey's eyes glimmered with hope. “Tell me what they've been doing. I'll bet Leon is pleased to have another Fersten under his tutelage. Isn't she wonderful?”

The night passed swiftly as Bernadotte filled Carey in on the activities at the farm. Then the two men began to plan the mission against Rifat.

They were having breakfast when Molly joined them.

“You didn't come to bed,” she said, surveying the weariness on Carey's face and the golden stubble beginning to show along his jaw.

“Papa and I couldn't sleep. Did you rest well?”

“Yes, thank you,” Molly replied. In fact, she had hardly slept, waiting for Carey to come, wanting to talk to him, wanting assurance against the doubts assailing her. When he didn't appear, the old uncertainties held sway.

“I'm flying out this morning but Papa will keep you company,” Carey told her at the breakfast table. She couldn't scream or make a scene or even ask for an explanation with Bernadotte there. Now she knew why he hadn't come to bed.

Carey Fersten didn't want to argue or offer any more explanations. He also didn't love her enough, she thought, to care how she felt. She replied in as pleasant a tone as his, “Have a good trip. Will you be long?”

There was an infinitesimal pause before he answered, “I don't think so.”

“I was hoping to go home soon,” she said.

“Could I call and let you know on that?”

“I'd appreciate it.”

They could have been debating the condition of the lawns at Wimbledon, Molly thought with resentment, they were all so damned civilized.

Carrie and Lucy came bounding into the breakfast room a moment later, easing the tension. The girls were dressed for their riding lessons, and so absorbed in their excitement over learning to jump that the topic took precedence over eating.

“Do we have to?” Carrie complained when Molly said, “Now sit down and eat,” and she looked to her father for support.

“Do what your mom says,” Carey directed, “and I'll go with you.”

“Will you? Wow! Grandpa said you and Tarrytown can do five feet. Will you take me over?”

“Let's start a little lower,” her father cautioned. “I didn't jump five feet my first week.”

“You will though, won't you? I mean later-maybe when I'm lots better-take me over that high?”

“Sure, Pooh, I promise.”

After the girls had bolted their breakfast, Molly was invited to accompany them, but declined, saying she'd follow along later. Her mood was still acrimonious enough to make polite conversation a trial, and she didn't care to risk even a mild scene in front of the girls. After some calming moments in her bedroom in which she counseled herself into a functional courtesy if not a sincere one, she walked down to the small jumps Bernadotte had set up near the stable.

But as she approached the jump area, it was empty. Leaning on the white, painted fence that wound for miles over Bernadotte's land, she searched the rolling hills. Several of the green pastures were occupied by grazing horses, but no riders were in evidence.

Just as she was moving away to return to the house, a wild, exhilarated cry carried faintly to her ears, the sound vaguely reminiscent of her daughter's voice. And when she turned back to investigate the direction of the high-pitched scream, she saw the horses in the distant pasture lift their heads in curiosity. A moment later, two horsemen jumped the farthest fence into their pasture, and shot toward them.

The horsemen broke through the maddened scuttle of the herd, making for the opposite fence. They cleared the three-rail fence as though it didn't exist, and galloped toward the stableyard. As they drew closer, Molly saw the two girls seated in front of the men, their hair streaming behind them, their little legs bouncing wildly, their hands clutching the saddle pommels. Carey was holding Pooh with one hand, his reins with the other, and she could see their smiles even from her distance. Lucy was equally cheerful in Bernadotte's care, and she saw the youngsters wave to each other in joyful excitement.

The horses came up the rise at enormous speed, digging in with long racing strides. When Molly realized the men were going to attempt the high fence into the riding ring, her hands went unconsciously to her mouth in horror. They're fools, she thought, petrified and appalled. Mad, mad fools… and they were jeopardizing the lives of two young girls. No wonder Carey was so impossibly heedless and wild-his father was exactly the same.

As they careened toward the high fence, she shut her eyes, unable to watch the bloody carnage.

“We won! We won!” she heard her daughter crow a moment later in lieu of the crashing noise she'd expected. Her eyes snapped open to observe her daughter twist around in the saddle and throw her arms around her father in jubilant victory.

“Tarrytown's fresher,” Carey modestly said, “or Lucy and Grandpa might have beat us. But you were great. I hardly had to hold on to you at all.”

“Nice riding,” Bernadotte said to his son, pride in his voice. Carey had managed to get two strides ahead at the last fence and held it up the hill.

“Thanks, Dad.” And he remembered all the times his father had taken him over the jumps as a young boy to teach him the joy, the inexpressible sensation of soaring through the air.

“But we're going to beat them next time, aren't we, Bernie?” Lucy emphatically declared, patting Bernadotte's favorite mount Daxon on the neck.

Bernie? Carey speculated in astonishment. His father had never allowed that diminutive.

“We have to,” Bernadotte casually replied, as though little girls had called him Bernie all his life. “How else can we keep the racing interesting?”

“Mom, Mom, did you see us?” Carrie shouted, loosening her grip on her father and searching out her mother.

Molly's heart was still caught in her throat. She was having trouble finding her voice, but she nodded at her daughter's bright-eyed face and tried a shaky smile of her own. Despite her own terrifying fright, her daughter was perfectly comfortable on that huge beast, leaning back against her father who was equally relaxed and at ease. Carrie would ride like that someday, she thought, under the Fersten tutelage. She was both fascinated and petrified by the awesome size of their mounts; they were so powerful she couldn't imagine her small daughter controlling them, not to mention jumping them over fences higher than her head.