Catherine Coulter: The Target

She'd been with him nearly four days now. There'd been no sign of anybody near the cabin. He'd rather wanted the man who'd abused her to show up. He'd like to have the chance to kill him himself. Where was that bastard? Probably long gone. How much longer should he keep her with him, hidden away from the outside world? At least he didn't have to worry about her health. The second day he'd given her a third of one of his sleeping pills. When she was deeply asleep, he'd examined her again, checked all the bruises and welts, applied more antibiotic cream, then covered her again. She was healing nicely. She'd never stirred, thank God.

He wondered if she really had a Dalmatian. He realized, too, that he'd put himself in the place of her real father. Well, too bad. As long as she was with him, she was his. But what about her parents? Had they been there when she'd been taken? Maybe they were responsible, maybe they'd allowed it to happen?

What were they like? No, it didn't matter, at least not yet. But, of course, it did matter.

He felt good. This was the first time she'd actually gotten close to him. It had taken his falling asleep for her to get closer, but it was a start, a definite start.

He smiled toward the stove, got up, and opened a can of chicken noodle soup. She liked the soup with toasted cheese sandwiches.

THAT evening after they'd roasted the last two hot dogs, eaten the rest of the baked beans and he'd managed to make some strawberry Jell-O that wasn't rubbery at the bottom, he said to her, "Why don't I say some girl names. If I happen to hit your name, you can nod three times or pull on my arm, or kick me in my shin. Okay?"

She didn't move. Her expression didn't change. Her lack of enthusiasm didn't bode well.

"Okay, let's give it a shot. How about Jennifer? That's a really pretty name. Is it yours?"

She didn't move.

"How about Lindsey?"

Nothing.

"Morgan?"

She turned her back on him. That made her feelings clear enough. She didn't want to play a name game.

But why?

"Draw me a picture of your mommy."

She turned back in an instant. Her fingers fluttered over the blank sheet of paper. She didn't look at him, just stared at that paper. Then she began to draw. It was a stick figure wearing a skirt, sneakers, and a head of curly hair. The figure was holding what looked like a box with a knob in the front of it.

He said then, "That's just excellent. Is her hair dark brown like yours?" She shook her head. "Red?"

She smiled hugely and nodded. Then she drew more curly hair around the stick woman's head.

"I guessed red because it's my favorite color. She's got really curly hair? Is it long?" She shrugged her shoulders. "Okay, it's medium. Is she holding a box?" She shook her head. She pointed to people on the cover of a magazine on the coffee table. Then clicked her index finger again and again to her thumb.

"Ah," he said. "That's a camera. She's a photographer?" She nodded, again pointing to the pictures. "And she photographs people?"

She nodded happily. Then, suddenly, her face fell. She was thinking about her mother, missing her, wondering where she was, and there was not a thing he could do about it. He said, "Now draw me a picture of your daddy."

She clutched the pen the way one would a dagger. Then she made that horrible mewling sound in her throat. "It's all right, sweetheart. I'm here. You're safe." Then, somewhat to his surprise, she began to draw a man stick figure and he was playing a guitar and his mouth was open. Her father was a singer?

Then she pressed down so hard the pencil tip broke. So could her father have been the one who'd left her vulnerable? Abused her? No, certainly a father wouldn't do that to his own kid. Yeah, right. With everything he knew about life, everything he'd watched and dealt with, he knew, of course, it was very possible. He wanted to ask her questions about her dad, but seeing her reaction, he let it wait.

She wadded up the paper. She slowly pulled away from him and drew up into a ball, pressed against the back of the sofa.

It would take time, he knew. Time. But how much should he take?

"I'm not going to leave you here in the Jeep. It's just not safe. You're going to come with me. Here, hold my hand. Can you do that?" He paused just a moment, and lightly touched her cheek with his fingertips.

"It's all right, sweetheart, I know you're worried about this, but it'll be all right. No one's going to hurt you. You've got me now and I'm big and strong. I know karate. I'm good at it. Sort of like Chuck Norris. You ever hear of him? He can lay flat more bad guys than Godzilla."

She made some chopping motions with her hands.

"Yeah, that's right. I know you don't want to wear those clothes, but it'll just be for a little while, just until I can buy you some new things. Then you can change immediately and we'll throw these out. Better yet, we'll just leave them here at the store." He'd washed the yellow jeans and the light yellow shirt in the bathtub along with his own T-shirts and underwear. He'd hated having her put the clothes on, but there was no choice. He couldn't very well take her into Mr. Peete's Lucky General Store wearing one of his sweaters or undershirts, and barefoot. He chucked her under the chin. "Now, let's go. This will be an adventure. Don't worry. I'll keep you safe. Think of me as your own Geek the monkey, only much bigger. Can you imagine what Geek would do if someone tried to hurt you? I'm sure you can. Geek and I, we're the good-guy monkeys. You ready?"

She smiled, a very brief smile, but he knew she didn't want to leave the Jeep. But he wasn't about to leave her in here, even with the doors locked. He said, "The faster we get in there the faster we can leave."

Finally, she nodded. He lifted her out of the Jeep and set her onto the rough sidewalk. He locked the Jeep door and held out his hand to her. Slowly, she took his hand.

"Real good," he said and lightly squeezed her hand. "Let's go shop 'til we drop."

The Lucky General Store wasn't a Kmart; it wasn't even close, only about one-twentieth the size. When they walked in the door, she shrank against his leg. He just smiled down at her. "You're doing great.

Now, let's get you some jeans first, then some shirts. Yeah, it's this way. You point when you see something you like." He could feel her trembling against his leg. He picked her up. In moments, she eased.

The pants she was wearing were a five tall. And the shirt was a 4–6. There was a smiling woman in the kids' section, heavy and pretty, with really white teeth. Ramsey said with a friendly smile, "We need some clothes for my little girl."

It didn't take long. Mildred looked her over and started selecting clothes. "His little girl," as Mildred called her, even pointed to a lime green T-shirt. They ended up with two pairs of jeans, one red, the other plain blue jeans, and four tops, all in bright colors. Her new sneakers were orange. Her socks were green, red, and blue. The lightweight jacket she liked was orange and green patterned. That was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she'd stand out like a beacon. On the other hand, seeing her go for the vivid colors was positive. He wasn't about to object.

Mildred smiled really big when she showed off her new clothes. "You look a treat, honey. What's your name?"

Ramsey said easily, "She doesn't talk, but she hears everything. She does look pretty, doesn't she?"

"Orange and green are sure your colors. How old are you, honey?"

She held up six fingers.

"Six years old. Aren't you a bright girl. And so pretty. Your mama is going to be so pleased."

She froze. Ramsey said quickly, picking up a bright blue down jacket that looked as though it would fit her, "It might get really cold still. It's still only the middle of April."