Miles, thankfully, closed the door.
RAMSEY called Dr. Loo, telling her about Emma's nightmare that had seemed so real to her. Dr. Loo would see them right away.
Mason Lord stopped Ramsey on the way to the breakfast room and drew him aside. "I had Gunther bring the Mercedes around for you. You can drive it to the doctor's. I also heard about the search last night."
"We didn't find any evidence of an intruder, and no one really expected to. Emma dreamed about the man, then half woke up and saw him in the window. Adults could do that. It shouldn't be too much of a stretch to imagine a six-year-old seeing the bad man at the window. That's why we're seeing Dr. Loo right away while it's still fresh in Emma's mind." Ramsey frowned, looking just past Mason Lord's shoulder.
"What is it?"
"It's very likely that Emma could describe the kidnapper. I'd thought about it before, but I decided she didn't need that kind of stress. It was too soon. Maybe she could do it now. We could get a police artist out here."
"No police. They poke where they shouldn't. I'll get an artist and have him make arrangements to see you at Dr. Loo's."
Ramsey nodded and walked into the breakfast room. Only Emma and Molly were there. It was a charming room done in the Colonial style, with bowed windows looking over the back lawn with its glittering blue swimming pool. He sat down at the cherry-wood table with its hand-embroidered tablecloth, covered dishes set for them.
"I like Dr. Loo," Emma said as she started on her bowl of the special oatmeal Miles had made for her.
"Do you really believe I saw him?"
"It's possible you didn't really see him, sweetheart. I hope we can find out what you really saw. Do you mind?"
"No." She sighed deeply. Ramsey hadn't ever thought a child could sigh like that.
Molly stood up and walked behind Emma. "Let me French-braid your hair, Em. It looks a bit ratty."
While Emma ate her cereal, Ramsey drank coffee, watching Molly do the French braid, her hands sure, her motions smooth. He'd have to learn how to do that. He remembered the pathetic braids he'd managed after he'd found Emma.
"Will you teach me that?" he said to Molly, who was twisting a rubber band around the bottom of the braid. She wrapped a pretty yellow puffy bow around that.
"Sure, no problem. Emma, do you mind Ramsey practicing on you?"
"No, Mama. Ramsey can learn anything."
"Such faith," Molly said and kissed her daughter's ear. "If you're finished, sweetheart, it's nearly time to go. I'll call Miles to get the car."
"Gunther already brought it around earlier, according to your father."
They went out of the house five minutes later to see the car parked on the far side of the wide circular drive.
Suddenly, Louey Santera bolted from behind a thick row of bushes, rushed to the car, and jerked open the driver's-side door of the Mercedes.
"He's trying to escape," Ramsey said, shaking his head. "The idiot."
He yelled, "Come back here, Louey. You can't get out of here, and you know that. The drive is gated.
There are two guys there, with guns. Stop, you moron. For God's sake, Mason isn't going to pull your fingernails out. All you've got to do is tell him the truth and nobody's going to hurt you."
Louey gave them the finger. He twisted the key in the ignition.
It was his last act.
18
THE CAR EXPLODED in a ball of flame. Tongues of fire and metal swept upward and outward from the car, shooting into the air, hurtling toward them. Molly grabbed Emma and threw her to the ground, falling over her. Ramsey flung himself on top of them both, gathering them in with his arms, covering them as best he could. He felt the fierce heat of the flames, heard the whoosh of the fire and chunks of metal striking the sidewalk and gravel. Suddenly he felt as if a boulder had slammed into the middle of his back.
It was hard and heavy and hot. The pain was intense. Whatever had hit him was still on his back, burning through his sports jacket and shirt. "Hold still, Molly." He quickly rolled off them onto his back. A smoking fragment of upholstery fell to the ground beside him. The pain immediately lessened. He'd stopped the burning.
He looked back at Molly and saw a sharp piece of metal that looked like a spear jutting out of her arm, right above the elbow. "Oh Jesus, Molly, hold still. Emma, you okay?"
"Yes, Ramsey."
"Good. Don't either of you move yet. It's still too dangerous." He ripped off the sleeve of his shirt, took a deep breath, and without saying a word to Molly, he jerked the metal spear out of her arm. "Good," he said.
"Don't move, I'm going to wrap it up."
Molly hadn't made a sound. He didn't know how she'd managed it, but she did. The next minutes ground slowly by. Emma was fidgeting. He said things, silly meaningless things, to quiet her. Finally, the car was burning down, consuming itself, the flames collapsed into plumes of black smoke, which then fell, blanketing everything. The smell of burning rubber was nauseating. The Mercedes was a burning corpse.
And what was left of Louey was inside it.
Emma twisted onto her back when Ramsey finally moved and looked up at him and her mother, who was holding her arm. "What happened? Why did our car blow up?"
"It's all right, Emma." He couldn't answer her, not yet. He helped Molly to her feet. "You hanging in there?"
"Yes, don't worry about me. I'm lucky I was wearing a long-sleeved dress. Not much protection, but some." Her sleeve was seared off, the blood from the wound soaking his makeshift bandage and snaking down her forearm.
"Both of us need a doctor."
She was staring at him. "Are you all right, Ramsey? I know you're hurt. How bad is it?"
"I'm all right. Come on, Molly."
She looked away toward the burning car. She turned perfectly white. "Oh God, Louey!" She ran toward the burning wreck, holding her hurt arm. "Louey!"
Ramsey grabbed her around her waist, pulling her back. "No, Molly. He's dead." He blinked. It hit him that Emma's father had just been blown up in front of her. He and Molly were both in shock, not thinking clearly or quickly, but now here was Emma, staring at the car. He came down on his knees in front of her and gathered her against him. "It will be all right, Emma, I promise. I'm real sorry, sweetheart. Someone put a bomb in the car. It exploded when he turned it on."
He heard people's voices behind him, coming from the house, but he didn't turn to see who was there.
There was nothing left of the car. Nothing left either of Louey Santera. Then he saw that the Mercedes hood ornament was still recognizable. He turned then to see everyone standing on the front steps gaping at the twisted, blackened car. There were still small spurts of flame eating into the metal, bursting up now and then into glittering showers.
Emma's piano was smashed. Still she held it against her chest. She looked at her mother, then back at him. "I don't understand."
"He's dead, Emma," Molly said.
"Oh," she said finally. She looked at the gutted car, at the licking flames. "I don't see him, Ramsey."
"No," he said. He wasn't about to tell her that her father could be picked up in a wastebasket.
Then everyone seemed to be talking at once, patting, soothing, Mason Lord even holding Molly close to his side for a moment. Gunther had his gun out. Miles was trying to edge close to Emma. Guards had swarmed to the burning wreck, their guns at the ready. All of them were young men, fit and strong, each carrying an automatic weapon. Even they stopped to stare at the devastation.
Eve Lord said slowly, her eyes on Emma, "You three were supposed to be in that car, not Louey Santera."
"It was that bad man," Emma said. "He came back to get me, but he killed Daddy instead."