The Target

leg of her jeans was rucked up and he could see the pink sock over her Nike sneaker. He wasn't really shocked at the strength of his feelings for her, not anymore. He swallowed. Then he saw that her other sock was white. Well, it had been a hard day for all of them. He rose, still looking at Emma. "I can't see that this is leading anywhere. Maybe we shouldn't even have bothered to call you. Waste of time for all of us."

    "No," Detective Mecklin said, rising as well. "All of it is part of the investigation. Maybe we'll turn up something at the house. Sooner or later, we'll snag that guy who hurt Emma. The Feds want him real bad. Hey, Agent Anchor, maybe you can get him on tax evasion, huh?"

25

    IT WAS SIXTY-TWO degrees and breezy in San Francisco, with a big unclouded sky overhead. Ramsey breathed in the clean air deeply and smiled. He looked through the half-open window of his study that gave onto a small lawn and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond, off in the distance. He loved Sea Cliff, which was considered by many, himself included, to be the most spectacular area in the city. His house was among the first tier of homes that sat atop the line of the cliffs at the northwestern tip of the city. The ocean rolled in from the left, the Golden Gate stood guardian at the entrance of the bay to the right, connecting the city to the bleak naked Marin Headlands directly across from him. The Headlands stood stark in the afternoon sunlight. There was still some green on the hills. But it wouldn't be long now, deep into summer, until the Headlands would be unrelieved brown, seemingly barren of life. If the fog rolled in during the late afternoon, it would settle over the Headlands, and look for all the world like the setting for a Gothic movie.

    His house had been photographed, fingerprinted, thoroughly cleaned up, and repaired. He'd spoken to his secretary and both of his externs, the two law clerks assigned to him as a federal district judge. The three of them had volunteered to refurbish his house. He'd given them color schemes, the type of furniture he liked, and a budget. They'd gone over budget, but given the furniture and draperies that had been delivered and lovingly arranged throughout the house, he wasn't about to bitch. He wondered what else would be arriving. It was interesting to see himself through other people's eyes. His study was more domineering and masculine now, full of leather and rich earth colors. They'd spent a small fortune on the leather sofa and chairs and the immense mahogany desk, and he'd approved that as well. The walls were still empty. They couldn't have bought the art he would like.

    Given that less than a month had passed, they'd accomplished miracles.

    "Ramsey?"

    "Yes, Emma?"

    "I like your house. The water makes me feel good."

    He grinned as he leaned down and picked her up in his arms. He carried her to his huge leather chair and sat down. He put his feet up on the sinfully rich leather hassock, something he'd never had before. "Let's look at the view together, okay? We can let our souls commune with nature. Hey, where's your piano?"

    "Upstairs. But my piano's not important right now." She sighed, that adult sigh. "I'm worried about Mama. I don't think she feels good even though she told me she was fine."

    "What's wrong?"

    "She's sick. She sent me down here to keep you busy, to keep you away. She doesn't want you to know, but I'm worried. Can you fix it, Ramsey?"

    "Oh, damn. Sorry, Emma. Will you stay here and commune with nature for me?"

    "Yes, but just for a little while. Mama's face is kind of green."

    "I'll take care of her. You stay put, all right, Emma?"

    "I won't go outside by myself, Ramsey."

    "Good girl," he said, kissed her forehead, and took off upstairs. He heard her retching from the top of the stairs. There were three rooms on the second floor-his master suite, a study, and a guest room, where she and Emma were sleeping. She was in the bathroom attached to the guest room. The door was pulled to, but not closed all the way. He inched it open. Molly was on her knees, her head over the toilet, heaving.

    He didn't say anything, just gently reached down to rub her shoulders, then hunched down on his knees beside her. He pulled back her hair. She sank back against him. "You okay now?"

    She moaned. "I don't want to talk. I just want to die."

    He flushed the toilet. "Hold still, let me get you some water to wash out your mouth."

    She moaned again. "I wish you hadn't