Joseph Colella pointed to Bungalow 7. “He’s in there.”
“What about the kid?”
The big man shrugged. “Dunno. Jackson’s got the curtains drawn.”
“Should we go in now and take him?” Salvatore Fiore asked.
“Stay here.”
The two men looked at him in surprise. He was a caporegime. He had soldiers to make hits for him while he sat back in safety. And yet he was going in himself. It was not right.
Joseph Colella said, “Boss, Sal and I can—”
But Michael Moretti was already moving to the door of Bungalow 7, a gun fitted with a silencer in his hand. He paused for a second to listen, then stepped back and smashed the door open with one powerful kick.
Moretti took in the scene in a single frozen moment: the bearded man kneeling on the floor beside the small boy; the boy’s hand nailed to the floor, the room reeking of gasoline.
The bearded man had turned toward the door and was staring at Michael. The last sounds he ever uttered were, “You’re not C1—”
Michael’s first bullet took him in the center of his forehead. The second bullet shattered his pharynx, and the third bullet took him in the heart. But by that time he no longer felt anything.
Michael Moretti stepped to the door and waved to the two men outside. They hurried into the cabin. Michael Moretti knelt beside the boy and felt his pulse. It was thin and thready, but he was still alive. He turned to Joseph Colella.
“Call Doc Petrone. Tell him we’re on our way over.”
9:30 A.M.
The instant the telephone rang, Jennifer snatched it up, squeezing it tightly. “Hello!”
Michael Moretti’s voice said, “I’m bringing your son home.”
Joshua was whimpering in his sleep. Jennifer leaned over and put her arms around him, holding him gently. He had been asleep when Michael had carried him into the house. When Jennifer had seen Joshua’s unconscious body, his wrists and ankles heavily bandaged, his body swathed in gauze, she had nearly gone out of her mind. Michael had brought the doctor with him and it had taken him half an hour to reassure Jennifer that Joshua was going to be all right.
“His hand will heal,” the doctor assured her. “There will be a small scar there, but fortunately no nerves or tendons were damaged. The gasoline burns are superficial. I bathed his body in mineral oil. I’ll look in on him for the next few days. Believe me, he’s going to be fine.”
Before the doctor left, Jennifer had him attend to Mrs. Mackey.
Joshua had been put to bed and Jennifer stayed at his side, waiting to reassure him when he awakened. He stirred now and his eyes opened.
When he saw his mother, he said tiredly, “I knew you’d come, Mom. Did you give the man the ransom money?”
Jennifer nodded, not trusting her voice.
Joshua smiled. “I hope he buys too much candy with the money and gets a stomachache. Wouldn’t that be funny?”
She whispered, “Very funny, darling. Do you know what you and I are going to do next week? I’m going to take you to—”
Joshua was asleep again.
It was hours later when Jennifer walked back into the living room. She was surprised to see that Michael Moretti was still there. Somehow it reminded her of the first time she had met Adam Warner, when he had waited for her in her little apartment.
“Michael—” It was impossible to find the words. “I—I can’t tell you how—how grateful I am.”
He looked at her and nodded.
She forced herself to ask the question. “And—and Frank Jackson?”
“He won’t bother anyone again.”
So it was over. Joshua was safe. Nothing else mattered.
Jennifer looked at Michael Moretti and thought, I owe him so much. How can I ever repay him?
Michael was watching her, wrapped in silence.
BOOK II
37
Jennifer Parker stood naked, staring out of the large picture window that overlooked the Bay of Tangier. It was a beautiful, crisp autumn day and the bay was filled with skimming white sails and deep-throated power boats. Half a dozen large yachts bobbed at anchor in the harbor. Jennifer felt his presence and turned.