The Target
Page 100
At the moment, Ramsey was making some phone calls, one of them to Virginia Trolley of the SFPD to see if she had anything to tell him. Emma's meeting with the police artist had shown a man in his forties, with thinning hair, a sharp chin, and whiskers heavy on his face. His eyes were a soft gray, and set wide apart. He'd had strange ears, large for the size of his head, sticking out a bit. Emma said that's why he wore a knit hat. He didn't like his ears. His bad teeth were the giveaway. Molly hoped the guy didn't make a trip to the dentist.
Molly had no idea-no one did-how accurate Emma's description was. But it was the best they had to go on. The drawing was in the hands of the SFPD and the FBI.
Having the picture out there would protect them somewhat, Molly thought, but he was still out there. She felt it deep in her innards. When they went back home, he would be there, waiting. Somewhere. She decided that when they returned to the U.S. she and Emma wouldn't go back to Denver. No, she'd take her to an entirely new city. She would change her name and Emma's. They would disap- pear. The man wouldn't be able to find them then. She had enough money from the divorce settlement. She was a good photographer. She would get better. She'd have to start over with her professional contacts, but that wasn't a big deal, Her biggest assignment had been photographing Louey for
Rolling Stone magazine some six years before. They knew who she was, but that was about all.
She saw Emma molding her last pieces of bread in the shape of an apple. After she'd thrown the small glob to the ruthless duck, Molly called out, "Hey, Em. Maybe you can grow up to be a caterer."
The ducks stopped squawking. They knew the bread was gone. They were going back to the large pond, waddling gracelessly, flapping their wings, grooming themselves.
"What's that, Mama?"
"That's a person who's paid to cook for people on special occasions. You'd get to taste lots of different kinds of goodies. You'd get to be creative, make food look like different things, just the way you've made the bread look like an apple. You'd be a food artist."
"Would I have to feed all those people, too?"
"Emma, was that a joke?"
Emma thought about that, then gave her mother a small smile. "I don't think so."
"No, they wouldn't eat out of your hand. Well, they might, but not literally." Molly looked out over the beautiful grounds. She put her arms around Emma and drew her back against her. She desperately wanted to ask her what she was thinking, what she was feeling, but she was afraid that she wouldn't say the right thing if Emma were to tell her something awful. Instead, she said, her voice bright and warm with the overwhelming love she felt for her daughter, "We've got sun today, kiddo. What do you say we go to Bunratty Castle? Maybe have a picnic on the grounds? Since it was raining the other day when we went, you just got to spend ten minutes there. Ramsey says it's a great place to visit, when the sun's out."
Emma grinned every time someone mentioned Bunratty Castle, just west of Limerick, where William Penn had been born in 1644, and where his father, Admiral Penn, had surrendered in the civil war and sailed off to America. Ah, and that had led to stories of the Quakers in Pennsylvania, a good half dozen that Ramsey had been told growing up near Harrisburg.
Emma wiped her hands on her jeans as she said to Molly, "I'd like to climb all those steps. Maybe I'll get all the way to the top this time without Ramsey having to carry me. Yes, let's go, Mama. Tommy said that the tourist buses will start coming soon. But it's still early, he said."
Molly blinked. It was the end of May. Life had changed so irrevocably that Molly had forgotten the day of the week, much less the month. "Yes, it is very early in the tourist season. Isn't that something?" A month before she'd been taking pictures, trying to polish her craft, her life busy and fun. Not really full, but that was okay. Emma would be starting first grade in the fall. They'd both looked forward to that. Then Emma had been kidnapped and their lives had flown out of control.
Suddenly, Emma held out her left hand. "Tommy gave me this." It was a small elaborately worked dark silver ring with a purple stone in it. "Tommy said it was Celtic."
Molly held her daughter's small white hand and looked at the lovely child's ring on Emma's middle finger. "It's beautiful. He gave it to you this morning?"
"He said if I ate my oatmeal, he had a small present for me. It was yesterday."
Molly felt a sudden jolt of fear. She'd seen Tommy speaking to Emma, but when had he given her the ring? Was Tommy one of those monsters? Was he trying to seduce Emma into trusting him? For a moment she was so afraid she couldn't breathe. No, she was being ridiculous. He was a nice boy, no older than seventeen, hair as red as a swatch of crimson silk, face very fair and freckled. No, Tommy was simply a nice boy. Still, she found herself taking Emma's hand for no good reason at all.
Molly had no idea-no one did-how accurate Emma's description was. But it was the best they had to go on. The drawing was in the hands of the SFPD and the FBI.
Having the picture out there would protect them somewhat, Molly thought, but he was still out there. She felt it deep in her innards. When they went back home, he would be there, waiting. Somewhere. She decided that when they returned to the U.S. she and Emma wouldn't go back to Denver. No, she'd take her to an entirely new city. She would change her name and Emma's. They would disap- pear. The man wouldn't be able to find them then. She had enough money from the divorce settlement. She was a good photographer. She would get better. She'd have to start over with her professional contacts, but that wasn't a big deal, Her biggest assignment had been photographing Louey for
Rolling Stone magazine some six years before. They knew who she was, but that was about all.
She saw Emma molding her last pieces of bread in the shape of an apple. After she'd thrown the small glob to the ruthless duck, Molly called out, "Hey, Em. Maybe you can grow up to be a caterer."
The ducks stopped squawking. They knew the bread was gone. They were going back to the large pond, waddling gracelessly, flapping their wings, grooming themselves.
"What's that, Mama?"
"That's a person who's paid to cook for people on special occasions. You'd get to taste lots of different kinds of goodies. You'd get to be creative, make food look like different things, just the way you've made the bread look like an apple. You'd be a food artist."
"Would I have to feed all those people, too?"
"Emma, was that a joke?"
Emma thought about that, then gave her mother a small smile. "I don't think so."
"No, they wouldn't eat out of your hand. Well, they might, but not literally." Molly looked out over the beautiful grounds. She put her arms around Emma and drew her back against her. She desperately wanted to ask her what she was thinking, what she was feeling, but she was afraid that she wouldn't say the right thing if Emma were to tell her something awful. Instead, she said, her voice bright and warm with the overwhelming love she felt for her daughter, "We've got sun today, kiddo. What do you say we go to Bunratty Castle? Maybe have a picnic on the grounds? Since it was raining the other day when we went, you just got to spend ten minutes there. Ramsey says it's a great place to visit, when the sun's out."
Emma grinned every time someone mentioned Bunratty Castle, just west of Limerick, where William Penn had been born in 1644, and where his father, Admiral Penn, had surrendered in the civil war and sailed off to America. Ah, and that had led to stories of the Quakers in Pennsylvania, a good half dozen that Ramsey had been told growing up near Harrisburg.
Emma wiped her hands on her jeans as she said to Molly, "I'd like to climb all those steps. Maybe I'll get all the way to the top this time without Ramsey having to carry me. Yes, let's go, Mama. Tommy said that the tourist buses will start coming soon. But it's still early, he said."
Molly blinked. It was the end of May. Life had changed so irrevocably that Molly had forgotten the day of the week, much less the month. "Yes, it is very early in the tourist season. Isn't that something?" A month before she'd been taking pictures, trying to polish her craft, her life busy and fun. Not really full, but that was okay. Emma would be starting first grade in the fall. They'd both looked forward to that. Then Emma had been kidnapped and their lives had flown out of control.
Suddenly, Emma held out her left hand. "Tommy gave me this." It was a small elaborately worked dark silver ring with a purple stone in it. "Tommy said it was Celtic."
Molly held her daughter's small white hand and looked at the lovely child's ring on Emma's middle finger. "It's beautiful. He gave it to you this morning?"
"He said if I ate my oatmeal, he had a small present for me. It was yesterday."
Molly felt a sudden jolt of fear. She'd seen Tommy speaking to Emma, but when had he given her the ring? Was Tommy one of those monsters? Was he trying to seduce Emma into trusting him? For a moment she was so afraid she couldn't breathe. No, she was being ridiculous. He was a nice boy, no older than seventeen, hair as red as a swatch of crimson silk, face very fair and freckled. No, Tommy was simply a nice boy. Still, she found herself taking Emma's hand for no good reason at all.
