"Don't make me angry."

Frank Jackson pressed his thumb and forefinger against Joshua's cheeks and forced his mouth open. He shoved the handkerchief into Joshua's mouth and slapped a piece of tape across it to hold the handkerchief in place. Joshua was straining against the wires that bound his wrists and hands, and they began to bleed again. Frank Jackson ran his hands over the fresh cuts.

"The blood of Christ," he said softly.

He picked up one of the boy's hands, turned it over and held it down against the floor. Then he picked up a nail. Holding it against Joshua's palm with one hand, Frank Jackson picked up the hammer with his other. He drove the nail through the boy's hand into the floor.

7:15 A.M. A.M.

Michael Moretti's black limousine was stalled on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway in early morning traffic, held up by a vegetable truck that had overturned and spilled its cargo across the road. Traffic had come to a standstill.

"Pull over to the other side of the road and get past him," Michael Moretti ordered Nick Vito.

"There's a police car up ahead, Mike."

"Go up and tell whoever's in charge that I want to talk to him."

"Right, boss."

Nick Vito got out of the car and hurried toward the squad car. A few moments later he returned with a police sergeant. Michael Moretti opened the window of the car and held out his hand. There were five one hundred dollar bills in it.

"I'm in a hurry, officer."

Two minutes later the police car, red light flashing, was guiding the limousine past the wreckage on the road. When they were clear of the traffic, the sergeant got out of the police car and walked back to the limousine.

"Can I give you an escort somewhere, Mr. Moretti?"

"No, thank you," Michael said. "Come and see me Monday." To Nick Vito: "Move it!"

7:30 A.M. A.M.

The neon sign in front read:

BROOKSIDE MOTEL.

SINGLES-DOUBLES DAILY AND WEEKLY RATES.

INDIVIDUALESDOBLES PRECIOS ESPECIALES.

Joseph Colella and Salvatore Fiore sat in their car across from Bungalow 7. A few minutes earlier they had heard a thump from inside, so they knew that Frank Jackson was still there.

We oughta jump in and cool him, Fiore thought. But Michael Moretti had given instructions. Fiore thought. But Michael Moretti had given instructions.

They settled back to wait.

7:45 A.M. A.M.

Inside Bungalow 7, Frank Jackson was making his final preparations. The boy was a disappointment. He had fainted. Jackson had wanted to wait until Joshua regained consciousness before the other nails were driven in, but it was getting late. He picked up the can of gasoline and sprinkled it across the boy's body, careful not to let it touch that beautiful face. He visualized the body under the pajamas and wished that he had time to-but, no, that would be foolish. Clara would be here any moment. He must be ready to leave when she arrived. He reached in his pockets, pulled out a box of matches, and set them neatly beside the can of gasoline, the hammer and the nails. People simply did not appreciate how important neatness was.

Frank Jackson looked at his watch again and wondered what was keeping Clara.

7:50 A.M. A.M.

Outside Bungalow 7, the limousine skidded to a stop and Michael Moretti jumped out of the car. The two men in the sedan hurried over to join him.

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. 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. 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. A.M.

The instant the telephone rang, Jennifer s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, squeezing it tightly. "h.e.l.lo!"

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 rea.s.sure Jennifer that Joshua was going to be all right.

"His hand will heal," the doctor a.s.sured 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 rea.s.sure 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 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.

"Like the view?"

"Love it."

He looked at her naked body. "So do I." His hands were on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, caressing them. "Let's go back to bed."

His touch made Jennifer shiver. He demanded things that no man had ever dared ask of her, and he did things to her that had never been done to her before.

"Yes, Michael."

They walked back into the bedroom and there, for one fleeting moment, Jennifer thought of Adam Warner, and then she forgot everything except what was happening to her.

Jennifer had never known anyone like Michael Moretti. He was insatiable. His body was athletic, lean and hard, and it became a part of Jennifer's body, catching her up in its own frenzy, carrying her along on a rising wave of pounding excitement that went on and on until she wanted to scream with a wild joy. When they had finished making love and Jennifer lay there, spent, Michael began once more, and Jennifer was caught up with him again and again in an ecstasy that became almost too much to bear.

Now he lay on top of her, staring into her flushed, happy face. "You love it, don't you, baby?"

"Yes."

There was a shame in it, a shame at how much she needed him, needed his lovemaking.

Jennifer remembered the first time.

It was the morning Michael Moretti had brought Joshua safely back home. Jennifer had known that Frank Jackson was dead and that Michael Moretti had killed him. The man standing in front of her had saved her son for her, had killed for her. It filled Jennifer with some deep, primordial feeling.

"How can I thank you?" Jennifer had asked.

And Michael Moretti had walked over to her, taken her in his arms and kissed her. Out of some old loyalty to Adam, Jennifer had pretended to herself that it would end with that kiss; but instead, it became a beginning. She knew what Michael Moretti was, and yet all that counted as nothing against what he had done. She stopped thinking and let her emotions take over.

They went upstairs to her bedroom, and Jennifer told herself that she was repaying Michael for what he had done for her, and then they were in bed and it was an experience beyond anything that Jennifer had ever dreamed.