Hot Streak

gun… Yes, yes, yes, a child's voice, and the thunder of his heart intensified. He ran without caution, racing toward the human voices, no longer weighing the risks.

A door stood ajar at the end of the corridor, emitting a cool white fluorescent light in a neat geometric pattern on the floor and wall. Sure that his daughter was behind the door, he charged through it.

Across the room, a policeman squatted before a small, dark-haired girl dressed in yellow shorts and a DisneyWorld T-shirt, surrounded by several other uniformed men. His eyes quickly scanned the men. Seven police; there were seven policemen and Lucy. But no Carrie!

He couldn't catch his breath. A sudden chill struck him like an arctic gale, and he stopped dead as though he'd come up against an invisible wall. He was too late. Rifat had her.

“Drop it, mister,” a gruff voice said. The statement was harsh, without room for discussion. When Carey refocused on the group near Lucy, he saw seven handguns aimed at his head.

Ignoring the guns, absorbed totally with the loss of his daughter, he said, “Lucy, what happened to Carrie?”

“Fucking drop it, asshole, or you're going to lose it.”

I already lost it, asshole, he wanted to say, you're too late. And he blamed himself a thousand ways for not anticipating Rifat's treachery. She was in his hands. He couldn't breathe when he thought of his daughter at Rifat's mercy. A man without mercy. He was sick with guilt and despair.

“Daddy!” He heard her first, and his head swiveled toward the sound at laser speed. A small blond head appeared from behind a burly policeman's leg, and then a slender tanned shoulder. Followed by the whole beautiful sight of her looking like a summer rose in a pale flowered sundress.

Quickly setting down his Beretta, Carey dashed toward her. Scooping her into his arms he hugged her, gratitude and gladness rushing through him like the answered prayers of childhood. For long moments he simply crushed her to him, breathless and deliriously happy. Something moved on his cheek, and he reached up to brush away the wetness, thinking somewhere in the disconnected emotions of hope and fear and joy crashing through his mind, that he'd never cried in sheer happiness before. And he learned in those few moments of deliverance that his happiness was bound forever with this small child and her mother. It was not entirely news. After all, it had been the source of much of his former misery.

A polite cough returned him to the circle of policemen in the starkly lit room… and Carrie's breathy, high rush of words which tumbled out the moment he transferred her to a perch on his left arm. He wasn't about to set her down. He held her as if her security were guaranteed only in his arms.

“There were bad guys, like in your movies… these bad guys pushed in the front door,” she excitedly disclosed, “but Lucy and I ran as soon as they started banging through the door.”

“We took the backstairs,” Lucy interjected, tugging on Carey's sleeve.

“And ran for Theresa's office,” Carrie finished.

“But one of the scary guys came out of the elevator before we got there.” Lucy's eyes were huge as she recalled their flight.

“So we changed our minds and ran for the basement.” They couldn't talk fast enough, each finishing the other's sentences.

“Carrie pushed the burglar alarm at the top of the stairs… and the fire alarm down the basement.”

“Then I headed for the old coal cellar Mom and I found last year. It's so dark back there, no one could ever see us. Not even the monster from Friday the 13th.”

“And they didn't,” Lucy breathlessly added. “But they sure were looking.”

“They didn't talk English,” Carrie offered. “Who are they?” she asked, confident that Carey would know.

“I'm not sure,” he lied, not inclined to share his suspicions with the local police. Kiray's men were probably long gone, and his own security men could protect Carrie now that he knew Rifat's intentions. He didn't have a lot of confidence in the power of a Midwestern police department over a man who had outmaneuvered every intelligence agency in the world.

“Any idea who they might be, mister-”

“Fersten,” he volunteered. “Carey Fersten. No, I'm sorry, I don't.”

“Do you have a license for that side arm?”

“Yes, sir.” His voice altered into that sincerity he'd found convenient when dealing with military officers and police the world over. “Were any of the men chasing my daughter apprehended?”

“Well, mister,” one officer said quietly out of the corner of his mouth, reminding Carey of a young Humphrey Bogart. “It's possible these girls have seen one too many TV shows. If you ask me, I'd say childish imagination and hysteria. Either of these girls hyperactive?” he soberly inquired, switching to a concerned doctor role.

Hysteria would be a convenient explanation, Carey thought, eager to avoid further dealings with the police. Just as he was about to agree with the officer's interpretation, another policeman noted, “Someone busted that apartment door. No finesse. The jamb was in splinters.”

All the men's eyes traveled to Carey's Beretta lying on the floor, and the spokesman for the group who was apparently an amateur actor, ominously said, “You know the guys chasing these girls?”

Shit. The hysteria theory was out. Now how much of the truth was necessary to appease them? As little as possible. Talk of terrorists and international arms dealers would provoke endless interrogation… not to mention all the auxiliary agencies who would race in to take a piece of the action. And in the meantime, Rifat was safely in Italy, anyway.

“It's possible my ex-brother-in-law was involved… an obsessive practical joker-”

“This was a joke?”

Carey shrugged. “He takes drugs, he's wealthy, and he's got too much time on his hands. He shouldn't have come over here.”

“From where?”

He could see they were all thinking Colombia or Jamaica. “Germany. His family owns the Von Mansfeld Munitions Works.” His inclusion of Egon's last name was deliberate; he'd discovered at a young age that titled folk were like baseball stars or Hollywood actors, attractive celebrities treated with a combination of insatiable curiosity and awe. And Sylvie's name had been a star attraction in the tabloid story, as well as in today's press conference.

“You the guy on TV today?”

Bingo. And now we alter course away from terrorists and kidnapping. Carey nodded.

“And she's…” The man hesitated, slightly embarrassed when he recalled the headlines repeated on TV.

“My daughter.”

“I suppose your brother-in-law thought it would be a good time-”

“To play one of his irritating pranks on me. He probably heard about the press conference. Ex-brother-in-law, by the way.”

“Sylvie von Mansfeld's your ex-wife, then.”

“Yes.” He knew what they were thinking; he could tell by the smiles forming on their faces. Sylvie's early films had been well publicized, and her nubile young body was as familiar to the world as it had been to him. “We've been divorced for several years,” he politely added.

“Just a prank, hey?” La Dolce Vita after thirty years in the press was an accepted reality. How many thousands of photos and sensational stories had been published throughout the world depicting the amoral and bizarre amusements of the leisured money class? While most people worked their way toward retirement one predictable day at a time, the beautiful people looked for ways to amuse themselves.

“I'm afraid so. Look, if I could make amends for your inconvenience…” He turned on his most charming smile. “Say a contribution to some police fund? It's the least I could do for all your hassle.”

And after a few more moments' discussion they traded business cards, Carey apologized one more time, and said his business manager would send a check. “Thank you very much for responding so promptly to my daughter's call for help.” Carey and the two girls waved good-bye from the building entrance.

Theresa and the office staff were introduced to the two security men who would be, Carey said, “keeping an eye out for photographers.”

Then Carey and the girls returned to the apartment, where he called Allen first, then talked to Molly,