The Target

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 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