The Target
Page 96
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.
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.
