"I still have trouble with what Miles told me about the even-up rules. If it were me, I'd want to up the ante myself, not walk away, not just wipe my hands and say, well, that's how it is. My daughter's dead, but hey."
"Probably Shaker knew when he had that bomb planted that he was putting his daughter's life on the line.
It does make him sound like he's not the greatest dad, doesn't it? These guys aren't like you or me, Ramsey. There's something missing somewhere in how they're put together. But they don't get where they are by being stupid. He probably thought Mr. Lord would try for him, only he didn't."
"Let's say he didn't expect Mason to go that far. Let's say he doesn't consider things even. What happens then?"
"Listen, go home, Ramsey. I'd say for you it's over. Rule Shaker isn't about to make another mistake. He can't afford to; he's got too much to protect.
"Send the little girl and her mother home. The Denver cops will take care of them.
"It's over now. You can leave the rest of it to us. We'll let you know if we find out anything that would fill a cereal box."
24
AT SIX-THIRTY IN the evening a taxi pulled up to Molly's house on Shrayder Drive. It was a small, lovely house with white window frames and window boxes painted a soft blue. Flowers bloomed wildly over the fence, in bordered flower beds, and in half a dozen flower boxes attached to the porch railing.
The house faced the park where Emma had been kidnapped while Molly was taking pictures. All the front yards were filled with trees and bushes, but no other house had such beautiful flowers.
Emma was a silent ghost. She was holding her piano against her chest, looking straight ahead. She was so very still, as if the quieter she became, the less likely the chance that anything bad would happen to her. He could tell her again that she need not be frightened, but that wasn't true, not really, and both of them knew it. The man was still out there. Probably he was far away, in hiding, but to Emma, he was lurking close, just as he had been, waiting to take her again. It broke his heart.
He looked out over the park, with its small dips and rises, its clusters of flowers and bushes, and banks of elm and pine trees. He wondered where the man had waited for Emma to get close enough to take her.
He saw that Molly was gazing toward a knot of trees at the west corner of the park. So that was where it happened. Her face was tense, drawn, and thin. Even her glorious red hair seemed flat and lank, pulled back and fastened with a pale green clip that matched the color of her silk blouse. He'd bet that if she'd had a piano like Emma's, she'd be carrying it too.
"Emma, we're home." Molly spoke very softly, not wanting to frighten her, just gain her attention slowly and gently. "Remember, we're just going to pack our things and then we're going with Ramsey to San Francisco."
"And then Ramsey is coming with us to Ireland?" Emma said, pressed against her mother's side, not an inch between them. Molly wondered what had gone on between Dr. Loo and Emma. It had been just that morning that Emma had seen her for the final time. She must remember to call her.
"Yes, he is," Molly said. "He wants to go back and he really, really wants us to go with him. He begged, Emma. I'm a nice person, I had to say yes."
"Did you really beg, Ramsey?" Emma asked, shooting a look at him.
"I can beg with the best of them, Emma," Ramsey said, going down on his haunches in front of her. "I decided I didn't want to let you out of my sight. I decided not seeing you would make me very unhappy.
Do you mind my staying with you at your house until tomorrow?"
"You can stay with us, Ramsey. I think it's a good idea." She marched through the open gate toward the front door, her piano hugged against her. She said over her shoulder, "Dr. Loo showed me Ireland in her atlas. She said it was so green you had to brush your teeth at least twice a day or they'd turn green too."
"Emma, was that a joke?"
To his delight, Emma gave him a wicked little smile over her shoulder.
He said quietly, "The park, over there?"
"Yes. I used to love this house. We lived with Louey in one of those estate areas in the western part of Denver. After the divorce, I sold the house and found this one. The thing is, I don't love it anymore. I can tell that Emma's terrified. To be honest, I am too."
"Let's give it time," he said and knew it was a worthless thing to have said. "Actually, we only have to give it the next few minutes, just time enough for you and Emma to pack. We don't even have to spend the night if you don't want to."
"No, we won't," she said.
"Also, there's no reason you can't sell the place, Molly. There's no reason at all why you couldn't, say, move to San Francisco."
The words came out of his mouth, and his eyes fastened on a rosebush just beyond Molly's left shoulder.
"I didn't mean what you could maybe think I meant."
"No, certainly not," Molly said, all cool and calm and together. "Men rarely do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry. It's been a long day. It was a lot of years with Louey. We're coming, Emma."
Emma stood patiently in front of the door while Molly pulled out her key. She slipped it into the lock and turned it easily. "Things look so beautiful because I've had a person coming to garden for me. One of my neighbors waters the indoor flowers and plants. Still, it's bound to be a bit on the musty side and-"
Molly got no farther. The stench hit them full in the face the moment they stepped into the small foyer.
"Mama, this isn't good," Emma said, backing up. "It smells like there's bad food everywhere. It smells like Ramsey's house did when we went there."
Ramsey caught Emma as she raced back out the front door. "Get behind me, Emma. That's right. Your mother and I will go see what's going on. You stay right here."
"Oh, no." Molly's once-colorful very cozy living room with high ceilings open to the dining room through an arch, filled with fat silk pillows, framed watercolors and photographs, and restored furniture painted in bright colors, all of it was trashed. Even the ivy had been pulled from its pots and dashed to the wooden floor.
"Let's see if your clothes and Emma's are all right. Pack up and get your passports, if they're still here, then we're out of here. We'll call the police from the hotel."
"I want to call my neighbors, too, and a cleaning service. Who did this and why? Is it ever going to stop?"
"It will. It has. This was done days ago."
An hour and a half later, the police met them at the hotel, in their two-bedroom suite on the ninth floor of the Brown Palace. The suite was huge, but the rooms were too warm. Ramsey had opened all the windows and complained to the front desk that the air conditioner was on the fritz. It was finally beginning to cool down a bit. Emma was seated on one of the sofas, watching a cartoon on TV. Ramsey, Molly, and Detective Mecklin of the Denver PD were sitting at the circular table at the other end of the living room. A pot of coffee and a plate of cookies were on the table.
Detective Mecklin was chewing on an oatmeal cookie from the Brown Palace kitchen.
"As I told you," Molly said, "I had a neighbor coming in to water my plants. Everything was fine three days ago. One of your people is speaking to her, right?"
"Yeah, right. But I doubt she saw anything, or we'd have gotten a call by now. Whoever did it, had guts.
We didn't clear out of there until about five days ago."
The hotel doorbell rang.
An officer who'd accompanied Detective Mecklin answered it. He walked into the living room, a stoic look on his young face. Behind him stood FBI Special Agent Anchor, decked out in his dark suit, white shirt, dark thin tie, and wing tips.