The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [410]
“I was packing down sand.”
“Then what?”
“I heard something. I looked up but something hit me and I don’t remember.”
“That’s fine, Emma,” Molly said. “All done in an instant of time.” Emma slipped her hand into her mother’s.
Virginia Trolley quietly closed her small notebook. She nodded to Ramsey. “He’s made a mistake. He’s close. Now maybe we can get this monster. Emma, you’re the greatest. Ramsey told me you got away from this jerk before. You did it again. Now, you need to take care of Ramsey and your mom, okay? They aren’t doing so well right now.”
“Yes, Officer, I will.”
Ramsey said, “Emma, can you give a police artist a description of the man? This time he wasn’t wearing a mask.”
“I can try, Ramsey.”
Virginia Trolley said, “I’ll send someone right over. You’re a good girl, Emma. I’ll see you later.”
“I don’t think you should ever go to the bathroom again, Mama, unless I go with you. Ramsey either.”
Virginia Trolley heard Mrs. Santera laugh as she walked out the front door. It was a shaky thin sound, but still a laugh.
27
BOTHEMMA AND Molly were openmouthed when they stepped into the reception area of Dromoland Castle, with its circular, gray stone inside the same as outside, and its giant windows, ancient tapestries, and smiling Irish. Dromoland had once been the stronghold of the O’Briens and was now a huge, turreted Gothic-style stone building that had been turned into a hotel in the early part of the century. It was a sprawling grand mass of stone, set amid the most beautiful park they’d ever seen. They were in the Speath Suite, a vast square room with tall windows that gave onto the beautifully mowed sloping lawns, formal gardens, and a lake. There were two queen beds. They’d ordered a rollaway cot for Emma, but when it arrived with the smiling bellman Tommy, and Ramsey had turned to ask Emma where she wanted the bed, the lost panicked look on her face had made him quickly turn back to Tommy and order the cot taken away. Emma slept with her mother. She’d had no more nightmares since they’d arrived.
On their third full day in Ireland, the first day it wasn’t raining heavily, the sun was so bright it hurt to look directly into it. It was late morning. Emma was wearing blue jeans, a white shirt, her favorite Nike sneakers, and a pair of plaid socks Ramsey had bought for her in the charming thatch-roofed village of Adare, where most of the picturesque cottages housed tourist shops.
Emma was feeding the ducks. Molly was crouched six feet from her, down on one knee, waiting for the late-morning sun to get to just the right angle for the perfect series of shots. She had a roll of thirty-six in her Minolta, her film four hundred ASA. She didn’t have her light meter with her, and wished fervently that she’d bought a new camera with the light meter built into it. But she’d shot Emma so often, with so many different backgrounds, different lights, and angles, she wasn’t taking too much of a chance. It’s just that she wanted one of these photos to be absolutely perfect. She wanted it for Ramsey, the man who’d saved her daughter’s life, the man she was coming to know as well as she knew herself. There was more light than dark in Emma today, and in her surroundings as well. White ducks glossier than the shine on a brand-new Corvette were surrounding Emma, and Emma was laughing, and throwing single pieces of bread, hoarding each piece, choosing which was to be the lucky duck. One of the ducks was fast and cunning. He’d jumped and flapped wildly several times now in front of one of his cousins and ruthlessly snatched the bread from her fingertips. Molly quickly closed the aperture one f-stop and increased the shutter speed to 1/125 since she was hand-holding her camera and she didn’t want to take the chance of blurring. Since the natural lighting was spectacular, she knew the background—the lake and the ducks—would be as clear and sharp as Emma’s face. The sun was behind her so she could backlight Emma. She