Catherine Coulter - The Target

He buried his face in her French braid. "I love you, Emma Hunt."

"I love you too, Ramsey. A whole lot." She kept stroking his arm and his shoulder, giving him all the comfort she could.

THAT weekend they went to Monterey to be tourists. They went first to the Monterey Bay Aquarium.

Emma loved the jellyfish. The three of them sat on the bench facing the huge tank and watched the jellyfish for a good thirty minutes.

They walked through Carmel, played on the beautiful beach at the cove at the bottom of Ocean Avenue, drove down to Big Sur and picnicked off the road on the Seventeen Mile Drive.

They kept Sonny Dickerson at bay in their minds for a good three days, at least for most of the time.

Ramsey called Virginia Trolley once they'd reached their hotel, gave her their number, and told her that everyone was settled in. Molly called her father. He was improving by the day. Miles missed them, particularly Emma. Her father was sleeping, Eve said, but maybe they could call him next week and he'd want to speak to them.

"Bitch," Molly said quietly as she hung up the phone.

Ramsey looked up from the blackjack game he and Emma were playing. He'd just taught her the game two days before. She was beating him, which both surprised him and made him so proud he couldn't stand it. He said over his shoulder to Molly with a grin, "It's easier for Eve to deal with your father when no one else is around, particularly if it happens to be a stepdaughter who's older than she is and a step-granddaughter who's smarter at gambling than she is, and a guy who's really handsome and witty who isn't at all interested in her. Darn it all, Emma, I can't believe you took a hit on sixteen. You should have held."

Emma looked so withdrawn, so apparently locked into herself, that it scared Molly until she realized that Emma was just concentrating. Now Emma looked up and said in all seriousness, "I've been counting the cards real hard, Ramsey, just the way you told me to. I knew there were two more threes and two more aces in the deck. I don't remember how many twos there are."

He snarled, leaned over, and picked Emma up, falling onto his back and lifting her up over him, shaking her. She was screaming with laughter. "Molly," he called out over Emma's laughter, "can I go throw her in the jellyfish tank? Then you and I can sit there on that bench and watch her make friends."

"I remember now. There's one more two in the deck. It would be stupid to hold on sixteen."

"No, there aren't any more twos." He let her down. "Let's look. I'll prove it." There were twelve cards left. The very last card was the two of hearts.

THE next afternoon they were walking on the Monterey Wharf. Ramsey loved the smell of a wharf, a combination of salt and wood and creosote, a sealant used on the wood. Seagulls were thick and loud, begging handouts like the most aggressive panhandlers who flocked to Union Square in San Francisco.

There were lots of fish stalls, and getting close to the stalls, particularly late in the afternoon, was nearly overwhelming-a putrid, briny odor that could bring tears to your eyes.

The smell of decaying seaweed was strong as well today. Flies swarmed over the seaweed. It wasn't an appetizing sight. Sea lions hooted near the wooden pilings, fat and bold, usually a dozen or so mesmerized children hanging around them, begging food from their parents to give to them.

And there were endless souvenir shops. Emma was wearing a Carmel T-shirt, white jeans, her Nike sneakers, and her plaid socks. Molly had told Ramsey she'd wished he'd bought Emma a good dozen pair since they were her favorites. She washed them out each night.

Because it was summer, there were tons of tourists. The sun was bright overhead, but it wasn't hot. It was rarely hot by the ocean. It was usually just perfect. Normally, Ramsey preferred to carry Emma. He knew she was safe when he was carrying her. But she was independent, and after a while, she'd given him a long look and said, "Ramsey, I'll be all right. I'm not going to go run off."

She was walking beside him, holding his hand, either trying to speed him up or slow him down. She had her eye on a particular sea lion who honked loudly at every person who appeared to look easy. He was immense, and Ramsey could see how he'd gotten that way. He asked one of the fishermen how long the sea lion had been in residence. "Two years," the man said. "Bloody beggar never stops eating. His name's Old Chester, the Gay Blade. Hey, what do you expect with San Francisco just up the road? No one's supposed to feed any of them, but they do. You can buy cheap sardines right over there. The beggars, they got no shame."

Was he referring to the tourists or to the sea lions?

"All right," Ramsey finally said. "But you're going to have to toss the sardines to him, Emma. I draw the line at that. And don't get too close."

She gave him one of her tolerant nods and bought three sardines, thankfully dead, and was given a paper towel. Ramsey stood right behind her as she eased up until it was her turn to feed the behemoth. She yelled with laughter when he honked very loudly.

At the same moment, Molly yelled his name.

RAMSEY NEARLY TRIPPED, he swung around so quickly. A boy was trying to wrestle Molly's purse out of her hands. He ran full tilt toward the tussle, yelling, "Let her go, you little punk!"

Emma.

Ramsey jerked back around to see Emma standing there, her hand close to that sea lion, not realizing what had happened. There were people all around her. She was all right. Then, just at the instant when he would have turned back to Molly, Ramsey saw him slithering through a knot of kids and parents near the sea lions. He would recognize the man anywhere, both in his nightmares and in real life. Just a few more feet and he'd be close enough to grab her. He was nearly on her, not more than three feet away, moving quickly now since he knew the distraction he'd set into motion couldn't last much longer. He had his hand out when Ramsey grabbed him by his collar, jerked him around, and sent his fist into his jaw.

"Hey, buddy! Why'd you hit that guy? He wasn't doing nothing!"

"Yeah, you can't go around hitting people. What is it with you?"

There were half a dozen people swarming close now, pressing in toward him, but no one had grabbed him yet. He yelled, "Emma! Get over to your mother!"

Dickerson was stumbling to his feet, rubbing his jaw, spitting blood, yelling, "Why'd you hit me? I'm a priest! Why'd you hit a holy man?"

"Hey, buddy, you shouldn't oughta done that!"

Ramsey was shoved back. Another man punched him in the shoulder.

"No, stop! He's my papa and he was saving me!"

But they didn't hear the little girl. Just kept telling him what a bum he was.

Ramsey was desperate. He didn't want to, but he saw Dickerson going for Emma again. "Leave her alone!" he yelled, but Dickerson ignored him, so intent on Emma that Ramsey wondered if he'd even heard him.

"Sorry about this." Ramsey levered himself up and kicked one man high on the thigh, sent his fist into another man's shoulder, and one final kick into a man's belly. He was free. Dickerson was close to Emma again. This time Ramsey didn't yell. He wanted to get his bare hands on Dickerson and beat the living shit out of him. He felt rage pour through him, violent, pure vengeance. Dickerson was two feet away from her. The look on his face was calm, even serene, as if he were looking at a beautiful scene, and perhaps he was, somewhere in his demented brain. A man turned sharply and bumped into Ramsey. Ramsey couldn't stop himself, he shoved the guy hard out of the way. Then Dickerson looked up. Ramsey heard him curse, saw him weighing his chances of getting caught. He must have seen the death in Ramsey's eyes. He stumbled away down the wharf, weaving in and out of people. Ramsey yelled after him to stop.