Catherine Coulter - FBI 3 The Target Page 8

  "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, pull, release. "Yeah, she's so classy she makes me look like a bodyguard."

  She blinked at that. She didn't realize he'd known. Eleanor, classy?

  He continued after a moment, his voice smooth and calm, despite his exertion, "The younger, the more beautiful the girl, the more like a gargoyle I look."

  Melissa laughed. "You're right, but I wouldn't have said it out loud. I saw you with a really beautiful girl out by the swimming pool the other day. You were wearing a bikini and so was she. You looked better than she did. Just wear shorts, Dad, and you'll look great."

  He grunted, slowly easing down on his speed. This was his cooldown. He'd been on the rowing machine for forty minutes. Sweat was dripping off him and his muscles were pumped and glistening. If he hadn't been her father, she would have at least looked him over.

  The phone rang. He said without looking up, "Answer it, but don't say anything."

  She did. When she handed him the phone, he'd finally come to a halt. He was breathing just a bit on the fast side. He listened, then said, "What's the status?"

  He listened. Melissa wished she could pick up the extension. She walked over to the weight rack and picked up two five-pound free weights. She began to do bicep curls.

  She turned only when she heard him place the phone back into the cradle. He said, "It shouldn't be long now. We'll get three for the price of one."

  "I wish it could be different."

  He looked at her closely, doing the slow bicep curls, like pulling through water, just as he'd taught her. "No you don't. You enjoy all this crap. But I promised you. You know I always keep my promises."

  She put down the free weights and walked to him. She hugged him close, not caring that he was sweaty. "Thanks, Daddy. I know. I appreciate it."

  He lightly pushed her away and toweled himself off. "You're a good girl, Mellie, but sometimes you get strange ideas." He raised his hand. "No, it's okay. It keeps life interesting."

  Rule Shaker was whistling when he walked into the huge shower stall in the marble bath off his private gym.

  8

  "EMMA, KEEP YOUR head down and eat your French fries. Molly, don't go for your gun, listen to me. I want you and Emma to go through that doorway that says TELEPHONES & TOILETS. If there's an exit, go on out to the Jeep, otherwise, stay in the bathroom. If you get to the Jeep, lock yourselves in. I'll be out as soon as I pay the bill. Go. Act as naturally as you can. Don't look back."

  Molly didn't move. "Em, did you see the two men that came to the cabin?"

  "Not really."

  "So you wouldn't recognize them?"

  "No, Mama, but Ramsey would."

  "That's right, I would. Go, Molly. There's no time for any more discussion. If they're the guys I'll be out as soon as I can, probably walking really fast."

  "You made a joke, just like Mama does."

  "Maybe."

  Molly gave him a final long look, grabbed her purse, kept her attention on Emma, and walked with her to the back of the small restaurant, through the doorway. Slowly, Ramsey turned around just as he raised his hand to the waitress. They were standing with their backs to him. One was tall and thin, the other short. He couldn't tell if he was bow-legged or not. He didn't think they were the same guys who'd come to the cabin. How could they be? He'd shot both the bastards. He didn't have his Smith & Wesson. The restaurant was pretty crowded. He prayed the men wouldn't do anything stupid.

  The waitress smiled down at him. He said without looking at her, "Is there a back way out of here?"

  "Yeah, there's a back door just beside the men's room."

  "Good. How much do I owe you?"

  She wrote down a couple of more things, frowned as she added, then ripped off the paper and handed it to him, saying, "You guys didn't eat all that much so I took a bit off the bill."

  "That's really nice of you. My wife was feeling a bit on the edge. She's pregnant."

  "Oh, well, congratulations. It happens to the best of us, getting sick that is."

  "Hey, Elsa, how's tricks?"

  The guy looked like a cowboy with a gut. He was standing behind the waitress. Ramsey couldn't see his face because Elsa was large, had very big hair, and was standing squarely between them. But it wasn't one of the men at the cabin. He didn't know whether to be relieved or worried over a possible new threat.

  "I'm mean and pretty as ever," she said, turning to face the man, blocking Ramsey's view of him. "You're new, aren't you? You move here or something?"

  "Yeah. Me and the missus came down from Wyoming. Nice around here."

  "Yeah. You want some lunch, then go sit with your friend at that booth." She pointed with the pencil then stuck it behind her ear.

  "Hey, mister, what happe
ned to that pretty little girl I was smiling at?"

  Ramsey slowly rose. Elsa stepped out of the way, alarm suddenly hitting her brain. Ramsey towered over the man, who was middle-aged, losing the war to fat, and looked as sincere and nice as Ted Bundy had probably looked.

  "Hey, buddy, that your kid?"

  "Yes, she's my kid. Why do you want to know?"

  "No reason. She's just cute, like one of my little granddaughters."

  Ramsey handed the waitress a twenty, saying to both of them, "Have a good day. Bye now." He went to the front door, but not before he looked for the other man. He didn't see him. Not seeing him bothered him a lot more. Where was the bastard?

  His gut was dancing double time. He looked back again. There was no single guy in the restaurant. Why had the man wanted to know about Emma?

  It was then he heard the screech of brakes. He was out the door in an instant to see Molly backing up the Jeep, then slamming on the brakes again to miss a parked pickup truck, by about four inches. He saw a man running toward her. She gunned the engine and the Jeep shot forward. The man shouted and dived into the scrawny bushes that lined the wall of the restaurant.

  "Molly!"

  He grabbed the passenger door, pulled it open, and jumped in.

  She was onto the entrance ramp to the 70 before he even got the door closed.

  He looked back to see the man dusting off his pants, staring after them. Then the man he'd been speaking to came out. The two men conferred, heads bent close. He lost sight of them as Molly veered onto the 70, tires screaming.

  "Ramsey."

  He heard the small voice and looked down. Emma was scrunched on the floor at his feet. "Come here, kiddo. We're just fine. Your mama's a heroine. She saved us. Come here and hug me. I need some attention and a kiss. Yeah, a kiss would make my heart slow down and put my stomach back where it belongs."

  Emma crawled up and let him lift her onto his lap. Now wasn't the time to worry about his seat belt. She kissed him on the cheek. "That's better. Thanks." He said calmly to Molly, "Slow down, and go out at this next exit."

  "But-oh, yes, you're right. Then we'll see if they follow."

  "Slow down. We don't want to attract any attention. When you get off, make a sharp right, and drive behind that Mobil gas station. Emma, hug me tighter. Yeah, that's better."

  "If I see them, I'm going to get back on the highway. Maybe we can see their license plate. You'd be able to find out who it belongs to, won't you?"

  He nodded. She looked calm and steady, handling the Jeep well enough. Emma was hanging onto him like a leech. It felt good, those skinny little arms of hers choking his neck. The kid had grit.

  Molly was off the highway, veering right, then turning sharply right toward the back of the Mobil station, all in the space of about twenty seconds. "Well done," he said. "Now, kiddo," he said to Emma, "I want you to look with me back up to the highway. We want to see if those two men are following us."

  "I should have waited to see what car they were driving," Molly said. She hit the steering wheel with her fist. "I just had to keep moving. I didn't think it through."

  "It's okay. We'll recognize them. Keep looking." A dark green Corolla went by with two women inside. Then a truck with a single guy and a big German shepherd, his head out the window, his tongue hanging long. There was a space of five heartbeats, then a filthy black truck, its bed empty. In the cab were two men.

  "That's them," Ramsey said. "Okay, Molly, ease back onto the highway. Keep a minimum of three cars back."

  She was already driving out from behind the Mobil station. There was a small white Honda in front of her. She wanted to honk, to run over it, to yell at the older woman driving, but she managed to keep herself calm and steady, but she was whispering, "Move, move, move."

  Ramsey just kept his arms loosely around Emma. "You okay, kiddo?"

  "I'm scared, Ramsey."

  His arms tightened around her. He kissed the top of her head. "I wish I could give you the power not to be afraid of anything, Emma, but I can't. Fear isn't bad, just as long as it doesn't freeze you up. I know you don't like to think about it, but you didn't freeze up that time. You managed to escape and run into the woods and I found you. You were extraordinarily brave. And so you see that if you just keep thinking, if you don't give up, then you can help yourself. You've got a chance." He knew Molly was listening. "You won't forget that, will you, Em?"

  "No," she whispered. "I won't forget. There's the truck, Ramsey. Mom's close now."

  "Can you see the license number?"

  "It's really dirty, but I can see it."

  Then he laughed. "You can see it but you can't tell me the letters or numbers. I'm going to teach you how to read tomorrow, okay, kiddo?"

  "I know how to read a little. Mama's taught me. She reads to me all the time. She points her finger at the words while she's reading. You think it'll just take one day?"

  "With you, maybe just half a day." He said to Molly, "It looks to me like it's a B, then an L, then mud's all smeared over the next letter. There's a space, then three-eight-eight-something. That last number's too smeared to make out."

  "You'll find a cell phone in my bag. Since you're a federal judge, you're bound to know someone who can tell us who owns the truck. Once you find that out, I promise I'll call the cops in Denver and tell them. You don't have to tell anybody anything. Now, I'll hang back until you find out."

  A cell phone. She had a cell phone and hadn't told him until they were holding on by their teeth. He wanted to yell at her, but he didn't. He pulled out the slim phone. He started to call Virginia Trolley in San Francisco, then paused. No, she couldn't do anything. He needed someone objective, someone with an inside track who wouldn't butt in, but would give him all the help he could. He dialed the main number to the FBI in Washington, B.C., and asked for Dillon Savich in the Criminal Apprehension Unit.

  In two minutes he was talking to Savich. "Why don't you ever use my e-mail, Ramsey? You know I hate phones. I think when I was a kid a phone cord must have wrapped around my neck and nearly choked me to death."

  "Sorry, I don't have my laptop and modem with me. Long story. I need help, Savich."

  "Talk to me."

  No hesitation, no questions. Ramsey said, "I need to know who belongs to this license plate." He gave Savich the information. "I'm on a cell phone." He gave him the phone number. "Yeah, I'll keep it on. I owe you one, Savich."

  A grunt, nothing more. Ramsey smiled into the cell phone. He hung up but left the phone button on.

  "Who did you call? The police in San Francisco?"

  "No. I called a friend of mine in Washington, D.C."

  "A good friend, if he didn't ask you any questions."

  "Yes, a good friend. We met about four years ago at a law-enforcement conference in Chicago. At that time I was with the U.S. Attorney's office. Savich is into karate, big time, does an exhibition now and again. He got married about six months ago to another agent named Sherlock. Keep further back, Molly."

  "Oh no."

  The truck was slowing. The man in the passenger seat was looking back. "They've gone far enough to know we're not there ahead of them. Slow down more, Molly. Yeah, let that Chevy get ahead of you. Good."

  He pressed Emma against him. "I don't want them catching sight of you, kiddo. Keep down."

  "They're pulling out, Ramsey," Molly said.

  He wanted to follow. So did Molly, probably. But they couldn't, not with Emma such an open target.

  "It won't matter," Ramsey said. "Once we know who owns the truck, we'll have what we need. We don't have to do everything."

  "I don't know about that," she said, her voice all rough and low. Then she smiled at Emma and said, "Sure thing," and slowed down even more.

  "They're hanging on the side, just the way we did." He weighed the options. "Drive like a bat out of hell, Molly. In a couple of exits, we're out of here."

  She didn't hesitate for an instant. She floored the gas pedal. The Jeep hit nine
ty miles an hour quickly. They sped by two exits, Molly weaving in and out like a pro, then she slowed and swung off at the third exit onto a high arcing road that flattened finally, headed due south.

  "Good going. Just keep driving, then pull over about a mile toward-what's the name of the town in this direction?"

  "Paulson, according to the sign we just passed."

  "Yeah, it's about three miles to Paulson. Let's go nearly to the town, then take a side road. We'll just sit there for a while. I'll bet everyone's thirsty. We'll have to buy a bottle of water."