Catherine Coulter: The Target

Had she saved herself, escaped somehow, and run into the forest? Had she tripped on a root or a rock and struck her head? Or had the monster who'd hurt her dumped her, leaving her to die in the forest? He leaned over her and gently ran his fingers over her head. He couldn't feel any lumps. The pulse in her throat was still slow and steady.

If she had escaped the man who'd done this to her, that meant he was still out there looking for her. Of course he'd known this in his gut when he'd brought her into the cabin and that was why he'd locked the door. He checked his Browning Savage 99 lever action rifle. It was already chambered with a.243 Win.

On the table by the sofa was his Smith & Wesson.357 Magnum revolver. He loved that gun, had since his father had given it to him on his fourteenth birthday and taught him how to use it. It was called the Black Magic because of its black finish on stainless steel. He liked to shoot it, but he'd never used it on a person.

He picked it up. It was fully loaded, as always. He looked toward the door, the revolver in his hand, gauging the distance there.

What man had done this?

He fixed himself a salad and ate it, never taking his eyes off the child. Then he heated the soup. It smelled very good. He waved a spoonful beneath her nose. "Come on now, wouldn't you like to have a taste?

Campbell's is good stuff and it's hot, right off an old-fashioned woodstove. It takes a while to heat anything, but it does work. Come on now, sweetheart, wake up."

Her mouth moved. He got a smaller spoon, dipped it into the soup, and lightly pressed it against her bottom lip. To his surprise and relief, her mouth opened. He dribbled in the soup. She swallowed, and he gave her more.

She ate nearly half a bowl. Only then did she open her eyes. She looked confused. Slowly, she turned her face toward him, and stared up at him. He smiled and said, "Hello, don't be afraid. My name's Ramsey. I found you. You're safe now."

She opened her mouth and there came the strange noise he'd heard, a soft mewling that sounded of bone-deep fright and helplessness.

"It's all right. No one will hurt you. You're safe now with me."

Her mouth opened but no sound came out this time. Her arms came out from under the afghan and she flailed at him, the only sound her small mouth made was that awful mewling that made him want to pull this little scrap of humanity against him and protect her.

He quickly set down the spilled soup and grabbed her wrists. Her eyes fluttered closed, but not before he saw the flash of pain. He released her wrists. Both wrists were raw. She'd been tied up. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm really sorry. Don't fight me, please. I won't hurt you."

She huddled into a small ball and turned her back to him, her arms over her head, and didn't move.

He sat there wondering what he should do. She was terrified. Of him. He couldn't blame her.

Why didn't she scream at him? She'd just made those strange sounds. Was she mute?

He said very quietly, hoping she could hear him, "Your wrists and ankles are in bad shape. Can I bandage them for you? They'll feel better."

Had she heard him? She still didn't move. He pulled an old undershirt from beneath the pile of clothes he'd brought and ripped it into strips. He felt every scrap of fear in her as he washed her wrists and ankles really well, smeared on some Neosporin, then wrapped the soft material around them, knotting them off. There, he'd done everything he could. He stood slowly, knowing now he shouldn't make any abrupt moves, and stared down at her. She was still in a tight little ball, her hands, now freed of him, tucked inside the covers.

She'd eaten a good bit of the soup. She wouldn't starve.

She was warm. She was clean. He'd smoothed antibiotic cream on the worst of the scratches and cuts.

He looked toward the front door, then the front windows. He pulled down the shades and closed the curtains. Now no one could see in. He slid the bolts home on the windows. To get in, someone would have to shatter them. He walked to the back door in the kitchen and flipped the dead bolt. The door didn't have a chain. He pulled one of the kitchen chairs over and shoved it beneath the doorknob.

Someone could shove the door open, but the chair feet would screech on the floor and certainly wake him up.

He looked at her one last time. "If you awaken, just call me. My name's Ramsey. I'll be here with you.

You're safe now. All right? If you have to use the bathroom, it's just beyond the kitchen, behind you. It's clean. I just washed up in there yesterday."

The covers moved just a little bit. Good, she'd heard him. But she didn't make a sound, not even that gut-wrenching mewling noise.

His bed was on the far side of the single room. He remained fully clothed. He put both the rifle and his Smith & Wesson on the small table by the bed, right next to the reading lamp. He carefully marked the page of the thriller he was reading and set it on the floor.

He left the single lamp lit. If she awoke during the night, he didn't want her to be terrified in the dark.

He didn't sleep for a long time. When he did finally, he dreamed there was a man's face staring in through the window at the little girl. He awoke and walked to the window, stumbling with fear and panic, but there wasn't any face staring in. The curtains were tightly drawn. He couldn't help it, he pulled the curtains open. He looked into the darkness and saw instead the contorted face of someone else, the woman who'd screamed at him that she would kill him. He awoke at dawn at the sound of that ghastly mewling.

THE CHILD'S FACE was leached of color, he could tell that even in the early-morning light that was mixed with the stark overlay of lamplight. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at him, her fear so palpable he could feel it crawling inside his skin.

"No," he said very slowly, not moving. "It's all right. It's me. Ramsey. I'm here to take care of you. I won't hurt you. Did you have a nightmare?"

She didn't move, just lay there, staring up at him. Then, very slowly, she shook her head. He saw her arms move beneath the covers, saw her small hands come up over the top. The small hands were clenched. The bandages on her thin wrists looked obscene.

"Don't be afraid. Please."

He turned the lamp off. It was getting lighter quickly. Her eyes were light blue, large in her thin face, her pupils dilated. She had a thin straight nose, dark lashes and eyebrows, a rounded chin, and two dimples.

She was a pretty little girl, and she'd be beautiful when she smiled and those dimples deepened. "Are you in any pain?"

She shook her head.

He felt profound relief. "Can you tell me your name?" She just stared at him, all frozen and tense, as if she were just waiting for her chance to run, to escape him. "Would you like to go to the bathroom?" He saw it in her eyes and smiled. Her kidneys were working. Everything seemed to be working fine except she couldn't speak. He started to touch her, to help her up, but didn't. He kept his voice low, utterly matter-of-fact. "The bathroom is on the other side of the kitchen. The kitchen's just behind you. Do you need any help?"

Slowly, she shook her head. He waited. She didn't move. Then he realized she didn't want to get up with him watching her.

He smiled and said, "I'm going to make some coffee. I'll see what I have that a little kid would like to eat, all right?" Since he knew she wasn't going to answer, he just nodded and left her.

He didn't hear anything until the bathroom door shut. He heard the lock click into place.

He shook some Cheerios into one of the bright blue painted bowls and set the skimmed milk beside it. At least it wouldn't clog her arteries. He went to his store of fresh fruit. There were only two peaches left.