Emma sat up on Ramsey's lap. Slowly, she lifted her hand to touch above her left ear. "It's just a little lump."
"I saw you poke your head out of his overcoat."
Emma nodded. "I bit him through his shirt, too. Real hard. You told me never to give up and I didn't."
Virginia said, "In his side, Emma?"
"Yes."
"Which side?"
"His right side. I think it hurt him."
"Good for you." Ramsey cupped her face between his hands and kissed her nose. "Good for you, Em."
He looked into that small face that had become so inexpressibly dear to him. It broke him. "Oh, Emma, I'm so sorry." He touched his forehead to hers. He felt the panic well up again, and that awful foreboding of sheer helplessness.
Slowly, Emma raised her small hand and lightly ran her fingers over his cheek. "I'm okay, Ramsey. You didn't do anything wrong. He was so fast. I was patting down one of my sand castle walls, and then he hit me."
Virginia Trolley turned away, cleared her throat, and said over her shoulder, "Emma, does your head hurt?"
"No, ma'am. It's just sore."
"Perhaps we should call Dr. Haversham again, Ramsey."
"All right. I'd sure feel better."
"I'm like my mama. I hate hospitals."
Ramsey and Molly exchanged glances.
"He wasn't wearing a mask this time, but he still had bad teeth."
Her voice sounded almost normal. She was sitting up straight now on Ramsey's legs. She was looking at Virginia.
"Did you notice anything else about him, Emma?"
"He smelled funny, just the way he did before."
"Funny how?" Virginia asked, taking a small pad of paper out of her purse and writing on it.
Emma shrugged. "Strong. Not nice."
"Whiskey," Ramsey said. "Was it whiskey?"
Emma wasn't certain. Ramsey lifted her in his arms and carried her over to the sideboard. He pulled the cork out of a bottle and lifted it to her nose. "Is this the smell?"
She scrunched up her face and jerked back. "Yes, Ramsey, like that. It's not a nice smell."
"No, it's not."
"And he had bad teeth?"
"Yes, ma'am, all black and yucky. I remember one was missing." She pulled open her lip and pointed to one of the incisors on the left.
"Good," Virginia said as she wrote. "Did he say anything to you, Emma?"
She shook her head. Ramsey returned to the sofa with her and sat back down beside Molly. "Think, Em.
What were you doing just before he hit you on the head?"
"I was packing down sand."
"Then what?"
"I heard something. I looked up but something hit me and I don't remember."
"That's fine, Emma," Molly said. "All done in an instant of time." Emma slipped her hand into her mother's.
Virginia Trolley quietly closed her small notebook. She nodded to Ramsey. "He's made a mistake. He's close. Now maybe we can get this monster. Emma, you're the greatest. Ramsey told me you got away from this jerk before. You did it again. Now, you need to take care of Ramsey and your mom, okay?
They aren't doing so well right now."
"Yes, Officer, I will."
Ramsey said, "Emma, can you give a police artist a description of the man? This time he wasn't wearing a mask."
"I can try, Ramsey."
Virginia Trolley said, "I'll send someone right over. You're a good girl, Emma. I'll see you later."
"I don't think you should ever go to the bathroom again, Mama, unless I go with you. Ramsey either."
Virginia Trolley heard Mrs. Santera laugh as she walked out the front door. It was a shaky thin sound, but still a laugh.
27
BOTH EMMA AND Molly were openmouthed when they stepped into the reception.area of Dromoland Castle, with its circular, gray stone inside the same as outside, and its giant windows, ancient tapestries, and smiling Irish. Dromoland had once been the stronghold of the O'Briens and was now a huge, turreted Gothic-style stone building that had been turned into a hotel in the early part of the century.
It was a sprawling grand mass of stone, set amid the most beautiful park they'd ever seen. They were in the Speath Suite, a vast square room with tall windows that gave onto the beautifully mowed sloping lawns, formal gardens, and a lake. There were two queen beds. They'd ordered a rollaway cot for Emma, but when it arrived with the smiling bellman Tommy, and Ramsey had turned to ask Emma where she wanted the bed, the lost panicked look on her face had made him quickly turn back to Tommy and order the cot taken away. Emma slept with her mother. She'd had no more nightmares since they'd arrived.
On their third full day in Ireland, the first day it wasn't raining heavily, the sun was so bright it hurt to look directly into it. It was late morning. Emma was wearing blue jeans, a white shirt, her favorite Nike sneakers, and a pair of plaid socks Ramsey had bought for her in the charming thatch-roofed village of Adare, where most of the picturesque cottages housed tourist shops.
Emma was feeding the ducks. Molly was crouched six feet from her, down on one knee, waiting for the late-morning sun to get to just the right angle for the perfect series of shots. She had a roll of thirty-six in her Minolta, her film four hundred ASA. She didn't have her light meter with her, and wished fervently that she'd bought a new camera with the light meter built into it. But she'd shot Emma so often, with so many different backgrounds, different lights, and angles, she wasn't taking too much of a chance. It's just that she wanted one of these photos to be absolutely perfect. She wanted it for Ramsey, the man who'd saved her daughter's life, the man she was coming to know as well as she knew herself. There was more light than dark in Emma today, and in her surroundings as well. White ducks glossier than the shine on a brand-new Corvette were surrounding Emma, and Emma was laughing, and throwing single pieces of bread, hoarding each piece, choosing which was to be the lucky duck. One of the ducks was fast and cunning. He'd jumped and flapped wildly several times now in front of one of his cousins and ruthlessly snatched the bread from her fingertips. Molly quickly closed the aperture one f-stop and increased the shutter speed to 1/125 since she was hand-holding her camera and she didn't want to take the chance of blurring. Since the natural lighting was spectacular, she knew the background-the lake and the ducks-would be as clear and sharp as Emma's face. The sun was behind her so she could backlight Emma. She continued to meter off her face so she could get natural skin tones that would give her somewhat of a halo. The lake and the ducks would also be in focus, would show full stark color, full drama. She wanted fluidity, not a vaguely blurred motion shot with little detail, but the essence of constant motion captured at exactly the perfect moment. She wanted every crease in that shirt to be exactly as it looked, with no shadows or dimming, no unnecessary highlighting or overexposing. She wanted that incredible smile on Emma's face to be there just as it was at this moment, in one hundred years, sharp and warm and so real you could practically hear the laughter, feel its warmth. She snapped once, twice, three times, then shifted back on her heels for another series. Then she sat down on the slope, leaning back, looking up at Emma. The aggressive duck hopped high to grab a small piece of bread Emma had destined for the duck beside him. Emma jumped up and clapped, so pleased she thrust out a hunk of bread to the invader duck. The duck jumped up toward her, almost in counterpoint, his neck stretched out full length to get that bread. Molly snapped another series, ending up flat on her back, looking nearly straight up. She righted herself, and lay her Minolta SLR on her knee. She was out of film. The camera felt warm and comforting in her hand, just right resting against her leg. She and the Minolta were old friends. She was used to the weight of it, the feel of it. The new cameras were something, doing everything she still did manually; some of them were so fine-tuned, they could probably even make coffee for the photographer. Nah, she didn't need coffee. Her Minolta had a lot of miles left in it.