The Target

mom. Your mom can yell at me if it makes her feel better. I might even yell back. But nothing could make me leave you. Do you hear me?"

    A loud silence, and then, "You promise you won't leave, Ramsey?"

    "I promise. I don't break my promises. Your mom will get used to me just as you did. She won't talk me out of it, no matter what kind of reasons she comes up with. I'll even play by her rules, for the time being. You're going to talk from now on, all right?"

    She nodded slowly. "I don't like to hear you yelling."

    "No, we don't either. But it'll happen sometimes. You can just tell us both to be quiet. Now, enough said."

    Molly didn't say a word. She looked as if she wanted to fold up on herself. She looked near the edge. He felt like taking a strip off her, but he didn't. She might just crumble. Or, she might just shoot him. He lightly patted her shoulder and said in that calm deep voice that served him well in the courtroom, "It will be all right, Molly. You'll see. There's nothing wrong with needing backup, and that's how you can think of me. Now, let's get out of here. Emma, look out the rear window. If you see a car behind us, you tell me."

    "Yes, Ramsey."

    "I'm counting on you. Keep sharp."

    "I will."

    "About those men," Molly said. "Do you think it's possible that they could have been after you and not Emma?"

    "I don't know."

    "You've made enemies. I read you'd gotten threats, particularly from that one woman whose husband died that day in the courtroom."

    "That's right, I have, but no one has tried to kill me before."

    "That would mean that there were two men with Emma, not just the one who abducted her."

    "That's right. Could you please pour me a cup of coffee from the Thermos?"

    She knew he didn't want to talk about it in front of Emma. But there was so much dammed up inside her. For nearly two weeks, she'd been filling up with anger and hatred and helplessness. She'd wait, she had to. The last thing she wanted was to terrify her daughter even more than she already was. She handed the cup to Ramsey Hunt, a man she'd read about, a man she'd wondered about in odd moments along with the rest of the country. Until two weeks ago when her world was blown apart.

    She hugged Emma tightly to her.

    "Let me loose, Mama. I've got to keep looking out the back window. The Jeep's dirty, Ramsey. We should stop and get it washed."

    "That's a good idea. Who would be looking for a spanking clean Jeep?"

    They left Molly's rental car where it sat. Molly took all the papers out of the glove compartment. "I'll call them and tell them where the car is. They may not mind too much if I tell them to charge anything extra on my credit card."

    They had the Jeep washed when they stopped for lunch in Rappahoe, a small town just off the 70. No one was following them as best Ramsey could tell.

    "How's your leg?"

    "Stiffening up on me," he said, taking a big bite of his hamburger. He closed his eyes as he chewed. When he swallowed, he groaned and said, "Fat. There's nothing better in life."

    "I heard my dad say that sex was the best thing in life," Emma said, and chewed on a French fry coated with catsup.

    "I think kittens and little girls are about the two best things," Molly said without skipping a beat.

    He admired her for that. He himself was aware that his mouth had dropped open.

    "Did you bring my kite, Ramsey?"

    "Oh yes. This kid's a pro," he added to Molly, who'd taken all of one spoonful of her vegetable soup. "You taught her, didn't you?"

    She nodded, picked up her spoon, and began stirring the soup. There was a film of grease over the top. She dropped the spoon and took a slice of white bread. She spread butter and jam on it. At least she was eating that.

    "Ramsey, two guys just came in. They're looking over here. One of them has a rifle."

    * * *

    MELISSA Shaker watched her father move smoothly and steadily on the rowing machine. She wanted to tell him that he looked really good for a guy his age, that he should hang around in jock T-shirts and shorts. The minute he dressed in one of his expensive Savile Row suits, he looked faintly ridiculous. The bottom line was, he looked like a thug, really. The more expensive the clothes, the more they seemed to reduce him to a stereotype of a Hollywood movie Mafia character. But strip her old man down, and he looked just fine.

    She said, "I noticed that you've stopped taking Eleanor around to the clubs."

    He grunted, never missing his rhythmic pull, release,