The Target
Page 99
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 absolutely 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.
She was pleased with the photos she'd taken. One of them would be perfect, she'd bet the farm on it. Maybe even two. For a moment, she wished she'd had a tripod. Then she shook her head, remembering what a pain in the butt it was to cart around all the extra stuff.
She saw a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye, off to the left in a stand of pine trees. She froze when she saw it, panic spiking in her. It was a man, leaning slightly around a tree, wearing a long brown coat, a brown knit cap on his head. He seemed to be staring at them. Molly was on her feet in an instant, her heart pounding, just about to grab Emma when a man emerged from the trees, carrying a bag of golf clubs. The breath whooshed out of her mouth. The
Irish and their incessant golf, surely a national addiction. There were courses everywhere, including here on the grounds of Dromoland Castle. She'd swear that the Scots, with their St. Andrews, couldn't be more golf-happy than the Irish. He saw her staring at him, and took off his golf hat, calling out a good morning.
She waved back, feeling herself flush to her toes both with relief and chagrin that she'd panicked so easily.
But she knew she'd act the same way the next time a strange man suddenly appeared. She would until the man who'd taken Emma was caught. For now, he was still out there. He was still after Emma.
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 absolutely 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.
She was pleased with the photos she'd taken. One of them would be perfect, she'd bet the farm on it. Maybe even two. For a moment, she wished she'd had a tripod. Then she shook her head, remembering what a pain in the butt it was to cart around all the extra stuff.
She saw a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye, off to the left in a stand of pine trees. She froze when she saw it, panic spiking in her. It was a man, leaning slightly around a tree, wearing a long brown coat, a brown knit cap on his head. He seemed to be staring at them. Molly was on her feet in an instant, her heart pounding, just about to grab Emma when a man emerged from the trees, carrying a bag of golf clubs. The breath whooshed out of her mouth. The
Irish and their incessant golf, surely a national addiction. There were courses everywhere, including here on the grounds of Dromoland Castle. She'd swear that the Scots, with their St. Andrews, couldn't be more golf-happy than the Irish. He saw her staring at him, and took off his golf hat, calling out a good morning.
She waved back, feeling herself flush to her toes both with relief and chagrin that she'd panicked so easily.
But she knew she'd act the same way the next time a strange man suddenly appeared. She would until the man who'd taken Emma was caught. For now, he was still out there. He was still after Emma.
