THE FBI THRILLERS COLLECTION Books 1-5 (97 page)

“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.

B
OTH
E
MMA 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 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.

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 disappear. 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.

“Mama, you’re hurting me.”

“What? Oh goodness, Em, I’m sorry. Look, there’s Ramsey. Let’s see if he wants to go to Bunratty.”

They left Dromoland grounds an hour later, a picnic
basket packed in the backseat beside Emma, with ham-and-cheese sandwiches, nothing else, because the Irish, Molly said, evidently didn’t believe in mayonnaise or mustard or tomatoes or lettuce. They did, however, have potato chips. And lots of local cider.

The lanes were so narrow that if another car came along, they had to back up into one of the bulges, Emma called them, and park until the other car passed. “I’m nearly used to driving on the wrong side,” Ramsey said as they passed a car on a turnout. “In the east of Ireland there are lots more people and better roads. By the time you get over Dublin way, you’re pretty much used to all these strange things.”

There was only one tour bus parked at Bunratty. They had nearly the entire shaded park to themselves. Emma climbed the castle’s main stairs all on her own.

“
W
E
think we’ve found him, or at least we know who he is.”

Ramsey gripped the phone tight. It was midnight in Ireland, seven o’clock in Washington, D.C. Savich said again, “Ramsey, you there? Damned telephones. We got a poor connection?”

“No, it’s fine. You really found him, Savich?”

“Yep. Well, we don’t have him in the slammer yet, but we know who he is. His name’s John Dickerson, aka Sonny Dickerson, aka Father Sonny. He’s forty-eight years old, an ex-priest, finally booted out by the Church because he’d been so flagrant that the good bishops and the cardinal had to oust him. You remember how they used to just ship the pedophile priests from one unsuspecting parish to another after having sent the offending priest off for spiritual and psychological rehabilitation?”

“Yeah. Thank God the Church now hands them over to be prosecuted.”

“Yes, once they realized there were no cures. This guy was so over the edge that at the last parish they sent him to the people found out about him within a week of his arrival. Unfortunately, he had time to molest a little girl while her
mother was in the church bathroom. There was a wedding rehearsal going on at the same time. Everyone came running out when they heard the mother yelling her head off. The bride and groom got an eyeful. He was in prison until about a year ago. He was supposed to register when he got out, but he didn’t. He’s been a fugitive, but no one ever really tried to find him, not enough cops, larger cases, until now.”

“Does he look like Emma’s description?”

“Have I got a surprise for you. I inputted the police sketch, just as if it were a photograph, into what we call the Facial Recognition Algorithm program. The general public doesn’t know about this program yet; I got it from a friend who helped develop it for Scotland Yard. I’ve made modifications and have been working on it for the FBI. We’ve already uploaded photographs of every convicted child molester in the United States, and several other groups of violent felons too.