The Target

new piano. The finish was so glossy she could see her face in it. She swallowed hard. She laid one finger gently over F. She didn't press the key down. Slowly, she turned to Dr. Loo. "I'm sorry, but I can't play right now. It doesn't feel right. My old piano just died."

    Ramsey thought he'd cry. Oh, shit. He beat Molly to it. He picked Emma up, leaving the piano on the small table, and gathered her to his chest. "You're right, sweetheart. You need to mourn your old piano for a while. Dr. Loo can hear you play on your next visit."

    Dr. Loo, who'd heard from Molly exactly what had happened, didn't mention the violent death of Emma's father. Rather, she said, "Mason Lord sent an artist over, Emma. We would like you to describe that man who kidnapped you, that same man you saw look in your bedroom window at your grandfather's house. Can you do that?"

    Emma looked worried, then, slowly, she nodded. "I can try, Dr. Loo."

    An elderly bald man was shown into Dr. Loo's office by the receptionist. His name was Raymond Block and he'd been a police artist for twenty-seven years. "Don't worry," he said to all of them. "I've worked with children all my career." Then he sat down beside Emma and opened his drawing pad.

    "Are you ready, Emma? No, wait a moment, Mr. Block. I need to scratch inside my cast."

    Dr. Loo didn't leave them until it was done. It took Mr. Block forty-five minutes of drawing, erasing, widening, elongating, more drawing, more erasing. Finally, Emma said, "That's him."

    Mr. Block turned the drawing so that Dr. Loo, Ramsey, and Molly could see it.

    "Oh, dear," Molly said, staring at the excellent drawing. "Are you sure that's the man you saw at the window, Emma? The man who kidnapped you?"

    "Yes, he was the man who stole me. And then he came back and he smiled at me through the window."

    Ramsey just shook his head back and forth, quelling a weird desire to laugh and cry at the same time. "Well, this fellow isn't any pool man who works down the street from your house in Denver, Molly. No, I think he resembles someone who lives in a much more prestigious place."

    It was an excellent rendering of President Clinton, only he had very bad teeth.

19

    Two HOURS LATER, Ramsey and Molly sat opposite Dillon Savich and Sherlock in the small breakfast room off the kitchen. Miles had served coffee and some special nut bread he said he'd baked just that morning. He said Emma had told him she liked nut bread, but only with walnuts. Miles and Gunther stood in the shadows back by the outside door.

    "Yeah," said Ramsey. "It was an excellent likeness of President Clinton."

    Sherlock, who was drinking some of Miles's rich Jamaican coffee, choked.

    Savich slapped her on the back. "Get a hold, Sherlock. It may not have been a coincidence. It may have been a mask. But he wore a mask the whole time? That would get real uncomfortable."

    "Yes," Molly said, handing Sherlock a glass of water, "but it also means that they-whoever they are-wanted Emma alive, and they continued the disguise so she wouldn't be able to identify that man later."

    "It still doesn't make sense," Ramsey said, picking a big chunk of walnut out of the bread. "Then why the attempts on our lives? Believe me, Savich, someone wanted Emma, alive? Dead? I'm not sure which."

    Sherlock took another sip of her coffee, then shuddered. She said, "This coffee is delicious but I think it's trying to kill me."

    "You shouldn't drink it in any case. You're pregnant. It's not good for you."

    "Thanks for announcing it," Sherlock said, grabbed her stomach, and flew through the door Miles quickly opened for her. "Just down the hall on the left," he shouted.

    Savich shook his head. "I forgot. You won't believe this, but usually she's just fine. But when I mention the word pregnant in front of her, she has to heave."

    Ramsey started to say something, then shook his head, smiling. "I'm not going to go there, Savich." He stuck out his hand. "Congratulations."

    "Me too," Molly said.

    "She'll be just fine when she gets back, and I'll try harder to watch my mouth. Poor Sherlock. She hates it ' when she loses control."

    "She married you," Ramsey said. "She can't hate losing control all that much."

    Savich laughed. "Point that out to her and see what she has to say."

    Molly said, "You're both FBI agents, you're married, and she's pregnant. You have a transgender laptop and you took a week off to come and help us. Why?"

    Suddenly serious, Savich leaned forward, resting