The Target f-3

by Catherine Coulter

  He turned when he heard Betty say something. He nodded and watched Bop finally catch the Frisbee well into the surf. He bounded back through a spray of water that looked like diamond droplets beneath that crystal sunlight.

  "Did you see that, Emma?" He was grinning as he turned.

  Emma was gone.

  He felt instant overwhelming panic.

  "What's wrong?" Betty was saying even as she was patting Bop.

  "Emma," he said. "Emma." He whirled about searching. He heard a cry, jerked about toward the Cliff House, but saw a little boy fighting with his sister.

  He yelled again at the top of his lungs, "Emma!"

  Oh God no. This couldn't be happening. No, she had to be close. They couldn't have taken her far, not in just the couple of minutes Ramsey hadn't been looking at her. The sun was in his eyes.

  Then he saw a man walking quickly down the beach, heading south. He was wearing a long dark brown overcoat. There was a huge bulge in that overcoat. He had Emma under that overcoat. How had he done it so fast?

  Ramsey took off after him. He didn't say a word, didn't scream at the man, just sprinted. The man stumbled suddenly, lurching toward the water. Emma's head poked out of the side of the overcoat.

  She yelled at the top of her lungs. "Ramsey! Ramsey!"

  Now he did call back. "It's over!" He was nearly on him. The man jerked back his head, saw that it was over, dropped Emma, and took off back up the beach to the high concrete retaining wall. Ramsey started after him, then heard someone yell. He whipped back and saw Emma.

  She was lying motionless on the beach. Two little girls were standing over her, one of them holding a blue bucket in her hand. A woman was running toward them. He ran back, gently pulled the little girls back,

  and knelt down beside Emma. She was drawn up in the fetal position, her eyes closed, her hair slashed across her forehead, strands stuck to her cheeks.

  "Emma." He lightly touched his hand to her shoulder. "Emma, love. It's me, Ramsey. Are you all right?"

  She moaned low in her throat. Slowly, she turned to face him, staring up at him.

  "Are you hurt?"

  She shook her head. "Well, just a little. He covered my face and hit me on my head."

  The bastard had struck her, put her under his coat, and simply walked away. He looked toward the retaining wall. There were a lot of people milling around up there, but no man wearing an overcoat. Of course he could have just taken it off, and probably had.

  He gathered Emma up against him, hugged her tightly, and kissed her. He'd nearly lost her. No more than three, maybe four minutes, and he'd nearly lost her. A woman said, "Did that man try to steal her?"

  "Yes, he did. Did you happen to see what happened to him once he made the retaining wall?"

  The woman shook her head. "No, I was looking right here."

  "It happened so fast," Betty said, running up. Bop was pushing his head against Ramsey's legs, the Frisbee in his mouth. "From one instant to the next. She was just gone. I'm so sorry."

  The woman didn't say anything more, just gathered her two little girls close. "We're leaving," she said.

  The children whined and argued, but the woman had a firm hold on their arms and dragged them away.

  "Do you want me to call the cops?"

  "No," Ramsey said, slowly rising. He still held Emma tightly against him. He was kissing the top of her head. "I'm so sorry, Emma, so sorry." He turned to Betty Conlin. "Bop can have the Frisbee and the sandwiches."

  The police would question the people on the beach, all the people on the sidewalk at the top of the retaining wall, but Emma was burrowed against him, she was shuddering, he had to get her home. He kept her pressed against him even in the front seat of his old Porsche. It was a tight squeeze but he didn't care.

  He was still holding her when he stood at his desk, calling Virginia Trolley. When she came on the line, he said, "Ramsey here. A man just tried to steal Emma on the beach near Cliff House. He dropped her when he saw I was about to catch him. I couldn't go after him because Emma was down. He was wearing a long brown overcoat, scuffed black-and-white running shoes, a brown knit cap on his head, dark sunglasses. He moved like he was over forty. No, not all that tall, maybe five-ten. Yeah, he was white. If you could send some people over there to find someone who saw the bastard. Yeah, thanks.

  See you in a few minutes."

  He was still holding Emma when he hung up the phone. "Now, sweetheart, let me take a look at your head."

  "Mama," Emma said against his jacket. "Mama."

  "You're right. Let's go see that she's all right."

  But Molly wasn't there.

  Ramsey stared dumbly down at the empty bed. The water bottle beside the bed was empty. He yelled her name. He even looked in the bathroom shower.

  "Molly!"

  "Where's Mama, Ramsey?"

  "I don't know, Emma, I don't know."

  He ran back downstairs, Emma clinging to him like a limpet. He called her name again and again.

  What the hell had happened?

  He ran outside. There were two older people walking on the sidewalk. They knew him and waved. He waved back, even as he was turning to look the other way. No one else was around.

  Emma was shuddering in his arms, crying, deep and low, harsh ugly sobs. "It's all right, Emma. She must have gone for a walk, that's all." He continued speaking nonsense to her, and that's what it was-nonsense. Where was Molly? He'd never been so afraid in his life.

  Virginia Trolley pulled up with a young cop in her white Plymouth.

  "Molly's gone," he said. "She's just gone."

  Virginia Trolley saw the shock on his face, saw the little girl nearly hysterical in his arms. She said quietly,

  "Let's go inside and make some calls. It will be all right, Ramsey. Come along."

  Virginia got on the phone. Ramsey started rocking Emma in his big desk chair. They heard a woman yell.

  "Mama!"

  Emma jerked out of Ramsey's arms and ran to the front door. It opened and Molly nearly fell inside, the young cop right behind her, his arm outstretched to grab her.

  "Mama!"

  Molly was on her knees in the foyer, Emma crying against her neck. The young cop said to Virginia, "I'm sorry, she wouldn't say who she was."

  "It's okay. Now that Molly's here, you can go on over to Cliff House, Joe, and join the questioning."

  Ramsey stood slowly. He waited until Emma had quieted a bit, waited until Molly finally raised her head.

  "What happened to you?"

  He sounded furious, at the end of his rope. Molly saw the policewoman standing by his desk. For a moment, she was so relieved she simply couldn't speak. She held Emma close.

  "I got a phone call," she said, her voice strained and thin. "It came about ten minutes ago. I was sound asleep. It was a man. His voice was muffled, as though he was talking through a handkerchief. At first I was too asleep to realize what he was saying. But then he said everything again. He said something about the beach and he'd gotten her and I'd never see her again."

  "Mama," Emma whispered. For a moment, Molly just held her daughter close. She rose finally, lifting Emma in her arms. She staggered. Ramsey walked to her and gathered them both close. He said against Molly's hair, "Thank God you're all right."

  "Yes," Molly said. "What happened?"

  Ramsey walked both of them to the sofa and sat down, holding each of them very close. He kissed Emma's forehead, then Molly's. "It's all right. We're all together. What happened is that a man did grab Emma, but I saw him running away with her and got her back. He ran away. Virginia's got police at the beach questioning people." He paused a moment, not releasing his hold on either of them. "But why did he call you? Just ten minutes ago? That means he called you after I got Emma back. Why'd he do that?"

  Virginia said, "He did it to terrorize Molly. Now, who would like a glass of water?"

  Ramsey started to say that Molly would, but he didn't. He realized that he was feeling very
strange, as though his brain had slowed to a stumbling walk.

  "I've been stupid," he said. "Even though I asked you about protection and you volunteered a patrol car, I still thought it was all over. I didn't really think there was any more danger. I never thought that man would come back."

  "We've all been stupid," Molly said. "I didn't think there was any more danger either. The man's insane."

  "That's probably very true," Virginia said. "Now, let's get down to it." Virginia asked him questions. She was infinitely patient, her voice pitched low. Ramsey realized, of course, that she'd played through scenes like this before, only most of them hadn't ended as well as this one had.

  They sat close together, Emma on his lap, her face against her mother's shoulder, his arms around both of them.

  Virginia said, "Mrs. Santera, please think back. Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Virginia Trolley, of the SFPD. I've known Ramsey for a while."

  Molly nodded at the woman who was dressed all in black with a bright red blazer. "Call me Molly."

  "All right. Good. Now, the man called at about-" She looked at her watch, did some calculations. "He called about ten after three. He said what exactly?"

  "He said he had Emma. He said that stupid judge had just left her on the beach, didn't care about her at all, that he was flirting with this girl and throwing a Frisbee for her dog. He said it was a piece of cake.

  He said he'd never let her escape him again. He said I'd never see her again. Then he laughed. He said he was going to drive close to the house so maybe I could see him and Emma. He said he'd let Emma wave good-bye to me. Then he hung up. I was staring at the phone. I couldn't think of anything to say. Then I thought if I went outside maybe I could catch him. I ran outside. I've been running all through Sea Cliff.

  I'm surprised neighbors haven't called the cops to report a crazy woman."

  "He called her after I got Emma back," Ramsey said slowly. "Just to frighten her?"

  "Like I said," Virginia repeated, "he wanted to terrorize Molly. He wanted to make himself feel powerful.

  He'd failed to get Emma, but by calling Molly, he could win, at least for a while, until the both of you got back here."

  His brain was beginning to function again, thank God. He could tell that Molly, too, was getting herself back together. As for Emma, he didn't know what they'd be facing with her. "Emma says he hit her on the head."

  Molly patted her daughter's shoulder. "Em, does your head hurt?"

  Emma sat up on Ramsey's lap. Slowly, she lifted her hand to touch above her left ear. "It's just a little lump."

  "I saw you poke your head out of his overcoat."

  Emma nodded. "I bit him through his shirt, too. Real hard. You told me never to give up and I didn't."

  Virginia said, "In his side, Emma?"

  "Yes."

  "Which side?"

  "His right side. I think it hurt him."

  "Good for you." Ramsey cupped her face between his hands and kissed her nose. "Good for you, Em."

  He looked into that small face that had become so inexpressibly dear to him. It broke him. "Oh, Emma, I'm so sorry." He touched his forehead to hers. He felt the panic well up again, and that awful foreboding of sheer helplessness.

  Slowly, Emma raised her small hand and lightly ran her fingers over his cheek. "I'm okay, Ramsey. You didn't do anything wrong. He was so fast. I was patting down one of my sand castle walls, and then he hit me."

  Virginia Trolley turned away, cleared her throat, and said over her shoulder, "Emma, does your head hurt?"

  "No, ma'am. It's just sore."

  "Perhaps we should call Dr. Haversham again, Ramsey."

  "All right. I'd sure feel better."

  "I'm like my mama. I hate hospitals."

  Ramsey and Molly exchanged glances.

  "He wasn't wearing a mask this time, but he still had bad teeth."

  Her voice sounded almost normal. She was sitting up straight now on Ramsey's legs. She was looking at Virginia.

  "Did you notice anything else about him, Emma?"

  "He smelled funny, just the way he did before."

  "Funny how?" Virginia asked, taking a small pad of paper out of her purse and writing on it.

  Emma shrugged. "Strong. Not nice."

  "Whiskey," Ramsey said. "Was it whiskey?"

  Emma wasn't certain. Ramsey lifted her in his arms and carried her over to the sideboard. He pulled the cork out of a bottle and lifted it to her nose. "Is this the smell?"

  She scrunched up her face and jerked back. "Yes, Ramsey, like that. It's not a nice smell."

  "No, it's not."

  "And he had bad teeth?"

  "Yes, ma'am, all black and yucky. I remember one was missing." She pulled open her lip and pointed to one of the incisors on the left.

  "Good," Virginia said as she wrote. "Did he say anything to you, Emma?"

  She shook her head. Ramsey returned to the sofa with her and sat back down beside Molly. "Think, Em.

  What were you doing just before he hit you on the head?"

  "I was packing down sand."

  "Then what?"

  "I heard something. I looked up but something hit me and I don't remember."

  "That's fine, Emma," Molly said. "All done in an instant of time." Emma slipped her hand into her mother's.

  Virginia Trolley quietly closed her small notebook. She nodded to Ramsey. "He's made a mistake. He's close. Now maybe we can get this monster. Emma, you're the greatest. Ramsey told me you got away from this jerk before. You did it again. Now, you need to take care of Ramsey and your mom, okay?

  They aren't doing so well right now."

  "Yes, Officer, I will."

  Ramsey said, "Emma, can you give a police artist a description of the man? This time he wasn't wearing a mask."

  "I can try, Ramsey."

  Virginia Trolley said, "I'll send someone right over. You're a good girl, Emma. I'll see you later."

  "I don't think you should ever go to the bathroom again, Mama, unless I go with you. Ramsey either."

  Virginia Trolley heard Mrs. Santera laugh as she walked out the front door. It was a shaky thin sound, but still a laugh.

  27

  BOTH EMMA AND Molly were openmouthed when they stepped into the reception.area of Dromoland Castle, with its circular, gray stone inside the same as outside, and its giant windows, ancient tapestries, and smiling Irish. Dromoland had once been the stronghold of the O'Briens and was now a huge, turreted Gothic-style stone building that had been turned into a hotel in the early part of the century.

  It was a sprawling grand mass of stone, set amid the most beautiful park they'd ever seen. They were in the Speath Suite, a vast square room with tall windows that gave onto the beautifully mowed sloping lawns, formal gardens, and a lake. There were two queen beds. They'd ordered a rollaway cot for Emma, but when it arrived with the smiling bellman Tommy, and Ramsey had turned to ask Emma where she wanted the bed, the lost panicked look on her face had made him quickly turn back to Tommy and order the cot taken away. Emma slept with her mother. She'd had no more nightmares since they'd arrived.

  On their third full day in Ireland, the first day it wasn't raining heavily, the sun was so bright it hurt to look directly into it. It was late morning. Emma was wearing blue jeans, a white shirt, her favorite Nike sneakers, and a pair of plaid socks Ramsey had bought for her in the charming thatch-roofed village of Adare, where most of the picturesque cottages housed tourist shops.

  Emma was feeding the ducks. Molly was crouched six feet from her, down on one knee, waiting for the late-morning sun to get to just the right angle for the perfect series of shots. She had a roll of thirty-six in her Minolta, her film four hundred ASA. She didn't have her light meter with her, and wished fervently that she'd bought a new camera with the light meter built into it. But she'd shot Emma so often, with so many different backgrounds, different lights, and angles, she wasn't taking too much of a chance. It's just that she wanted one of these photos to be absolu
tely perfect. She wanted it for Ramsey, the man who'd saved her daughter's life, the man she was coming to know as well as she knew herself. There was more light than dark in Emma today, and in her surroundings as well. White ducks glossier than the shine on a brand-new Corvette were surrounding Emma, and Emma was laughing, and throwing single pieces of bread, hoarding each piece, choosing which was to be the lucky duck. One of the ducks was fast and cunning. He'd jumped and flapped wildly several times now in front of one of his cousins and ruthlessly snatched the bread from her fingertips. Molly quickly closed the aperture one f-stop and increased the shutter speed to 1/125 since she was hand-holding her camera and she didn't want to take the chance of blurring. Since the natural lighting was spectacular, she knew the background-the lake and the ducks-would be as clear and sharp as Emma's face. The sun was behind her so she could backlight Emma. She continued to meter off her face so she could get natural skin tones that would give her somewhat of a halo. The lake and the ducks would also be in focus, would show full stark color, full drama. She wanted fluidity, not a vaguely blurred motion shot with little detail, but the essence of constant motion captured at exactly the perfect moment. She wanted every crease in that shirt to be exactly as it looked, with no shadows or dimming, no unnecessary highlighting or overexposing. She wanted that incredible smile on Emma's face to be there just as it was at this moment, in one hundred years, sharp and warm and so real you could practically hear the laughter, feel its warmth. She snapped once, twice, three times, then shifted back on her heels for another series. Then she sat down on the slope, leaning back, looking up at Emma. The aggressive duck hopped high to grab a small piece of bread Emma had destined for the duck beside him. Emma jumped up and clapped, so pleased she thrust out a hunk of bread to the invader duck. The duck jumped up toward her, almost in counterpoint, his neck stretched out full length to get that bread. Molly snapped another series, ending up flat on her back, looking nearly straight up. She righted herself, and lay her Minolta SLR on her knee. She was out of film. The camera felt warm and comforting in her hand, just right resting against her leg. She and the Minolta were old friends. She was used to the weight of it, the feel of it. The new cameras were something, doing everything she still did manually; some of them were so fine-tuned, they could probably even make coffee for the photographer. Nah, she didn't need coffee. Her Minolta had a lot of miles left in it.