by Неизвестный
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.
32
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. He stumbled faster, then straightened when the wharf was clear, and began running, Ramsey behind him, Emma running behind them both. People cleared from their path. Dickerson looked back, saw that Ramsey was closing, then turned sharply and jumped into the water. Ramsey grabbed up Emma, turned to a large woman who was surrounded by little kids and looked tough as nails, and said, "He's a child molester. He was after my daughter. Please hold her and keep her safe." He nearly threw Emma into the woman's arms. He jumped into the icy water of Monterey Bay after Sonny Dickerson.
He thought his flesh would freeze off his body. He felt as if his lungs had seized up. He got to the surface, looking for Dickerson. He couldn't see him. He couldn't be far. He felt as though he'd jumped right on top of him.
He heard Molly yell, "He's heading for the pilings, Ramsey. Hurry! Be careful! Damn you, be careful!"
He was a strong swimmer, but the surge was vicious, yanking one way, then the other. There were rocks around them, sharp and dangerous. The water was so cold his chest was tight and his arms and legs felt rubbery. Then, finally, he saw Dickerson, slipping in between the slimy pilings.
This time he wasn't about to let that monster escape him. Not again. He believed in the laws and in the courts, to his very fiber he believed in the order of law, but he knew that no lawyer was ever going to get the chance to represent this man, not if he could help it. He surged through the wildly slapping waves, nearly on him, when Dickerson, his hair plastered to his skull, suddenly waved a gun.
"Stay away from me!" he yelled, then got a mouthful of water. He choked and spat it out. "I mean it, Hunt. I'll shoot you if I have to."
Ramsey treaded water, yelling back, his voice strong and calm, even persuasive in his rage, "Listen to me, Dickerson, you'll never get Emma. All the cops have your photo and so does the FBI. Given what you've done, all of them want to shoot you down like the pathetic bastard you are. You're not going to get Emma or any other little kid ever again. It's all over for you. Give it up." Ramsey grabbed one of the pilings, his palm slipping because it was so slimy. "Come on, Dickerson, don't be stupid. It's over."
"That's a lie. No one knows who I am. I'm an expert at makeup and disguises. All she saw was Clinton. It was good!"
"Not on the beach you didn't wear any makeup. Emma described you very well. It's not as if you'd just emerged newly hatched from under a rock. You have a record, fingerprints, photos, the whole shooting match. It's o
ver. You're never going to get near her again. Did Rule Shaker know you were a child molester when he hired you to kidnap Emma?"
"I never met him, it was one of his men who hired me. He told me over and over that I wasn't to hurt the little girl, that she had to go back to her mother after her father cooperated with Shaker. Sure I agreed. I needed the money. But when I saw Emma, I knew that she'd been sent to me.
"I knew she belonged to me. A week was only a beginning for us. But then she fooled me and ran away. It's just a matter of time and she'll be mine again."
Ramsey nearly lost it, but he wasn't stupid.
"You called up after she was gone and got those men up there to kill me, right?"
"Yes. I had to have her back, but you managed to escape."
"Yeah, and I got you too, didn't I?"
Dickerson yelled at that. He pushed forward, away from Ramsey, then veered toward a wobbly wooden ladder that looked as if it should have crumbled into the water years ago. He got himself halfway up before Ramsey was beneath him, grabbing his foot.
"Let me go! She's mine, do you hear me? I have to have her, she's all I've got. I can't survive without her. What I am is far more important than what she could ever be. I need her!"
Ramsey yanked as hard as he could on Dickerson's foot as Dickerson fired. Ramsey felt the heat of the bullet as it whizzed past his left ear.
An instant later there was another shot. It felt like a heavy blow striking his shoulder. He lurched backward, nearly losing his hold on Dickerson's foot. He didn't feel any pain, just more numbing cold. This numbness was different, colder than the water. It froze through his chest and down his arm, making it useless. He couldn't move his damned arm. He heard Molly's voice, Emma's voice. He heard someone scream out, "He's bleeding! That man's been shot."
Dickerson got his foot free. He kicked Ramsey hard in his wounded shoulder. Pain ripped through him and he fell back into the water.
He saw, as if from a great distance, Molly's white face, saw her raise her sneakered foot, saw her smash her sneakered foot into Dickerson's face just when he reached the top of the ladder. The force of her kick knocked Dickerson back. He scrambled wildly, trying to keep hold of the ladder, but the ancient rotting wood collapsed, each step crumbling when his weight hit it. Dickerson went flailing into the water, crashing beside him, struggling frantically, choking up water, trying to find the ladder whose rungs now hung down drunkenly. This time Ramsey had him around the neck and he never intended to let go. Dickerson was waving the gun around, yelling, water filling his mouth, still yelling, only it was gurgling now, and Ramsey felt him weakening. It was just a matter of which of them lasted longer now.
Ramsey felt the god-awful pain in his shoulder, the uselessness of his arm. He shuddered with the force of it, felt the pain pulling at him, felt light-headed and dizzy. But he didn't let Dickerson go. He only squeezed harder. Dicker-son was twisting wildly, trying to turn the gun toward him. He tried to bring up his useless arm, but it just hung at his side, blood streaking down it, plastering his shirt to his flesh, hurting so badly his teeth were clenched. He was squeezing now as hard as he could. Why didn't Dickerson go down? Of course it was the force of the waves that prevented it. He couldn't get enough leverage. The gun waved in the air around them.
It didn't seem at all strange to him when he saw Molly scoot off the edge of the wharf to land in the water next to him. A moment later he thought he'd die of fear. He saw her grab Dickerson's arm, grab his wrist, and pull with all her might.
Dickerson screamed and yelled, but it didn't matter. Molly had the gun now. He saw her face was white, deadening fury in her eyes, saw her raise the gun to Dickerson's face, not a foot away from him. She was going to kill him. He realized in that moment that the last thing he ever wanted in his life was to have Molly kill another human being.
He said, "Don't shoot him, Molly, you might hit me. I've got him around the neck. See? I've got him. He's not going anywhere. It's all over for him. Please don't shoot."
She blinked, the blank rage receding. Dickerson heaved, shoving his elbow into Ramsey's stomach. The vicious surging water suddenly backlashed, shoving against them, giving Dickerson more power rather than slowing the force of his arm. Ramsey's hold loosened and Dickerson jerked free. He grabbed for the gun in Molly's hand.
There was a shot, wild, nearly straight up. Molly was heaving and struggling, but he was still on her. Ramsey kicked forward with his remaining strength to help her. God, he'd been a bloody fool to save the man's life. He was a fool and he was also losing. He heard Emma screaming his name.
Then there were two men in the water, and all of them were grabbing for that gun. When the gun went off another time, no one knew who had it, who had fired it.
All any of them knew was that there was an unconscious man on his face in the water, red streaked water flowing from beneath his body.
Ramsey said to the two men, "It's about time you two showed up. I'd just about given up on you."
LIEUTENANT McPherson, of the MPD, a man whose face had come into focus just a couple of minutes before, said quietly, "Don't worry about anything, Judge Hunt. You're in Monterey. You're in a hospital room. The doctor and nurse just left before you woke up. You're going to make it, no problem. The only reason I'm here right now is I thought you'd want to know about Dickerson. He's still in surgery. The docs don't know if he'll make it. The bullet got him right in the chest. It's just too soon to know."
"I just wish they'd let the bastard die," Ramsey said. He couldn't move his right shoulder or his right arm. He looked down at a white sling. He remembered now how they'd wheeled him up to the operating room, side by side with Dickerson, Molly and Emma beside him, both of them white-faced and silent. He remembered Emma's small fingers lightly stroking his forearm. As for Molly, she'd held on to his hand for dear life. He vaguely remembered waking up in the recovery room. They'd just wheeled him into a private room, and he was alone with the lieutenant.
"Yes," Lieutenant McPherson was saying, "I hope he expires. It'd sure save the taxpayers a lot of money. Well, at least you're going to be all right, Judge Hunt."
"Do you know what they did to me?"
'The surgeon spoke to you in the recovery room. You don't remember?"
"No, just this voice that wouldn't shut up. Do you know anything?"
"Yes. They worked on you for a good two hours. When the surgeon came out, he said you were lucky. The bullet went through your pec, and all you've got there is skin, muscle, and fat. He said you'd hurt like hell because the bullet also broke your collarbone and grazed a rib, but there wasn't any bad damage, it would just take a while to heal. You should be ready to take out more crooks in your courtroom in three or four months. Oh yeah, the doc also said he was real pleased that the bullet hadn't hit anything important, said he didn't want any complications with a big-time federal judge. He gave a big belly laugh then."
Ramsey couldn't think of anything to say. His brain seemed to be going in and out on him. At least he felt blessedly numb, all of him. He just wished Dickerson was dead. Surely it wasn't asking too much after what the bastard had done. If he lived, if they brought him up on kidnapping and attempted murder, he could still get out. Emma still wouldn't be safe.
He was losing it. Yes, she would be safe. By the time Dickerson ever got out of prison, Emma would be an adult. She'd be safe from predators like Dickerson just because she'd keep accumulating birthdays.
"Judge Hunt? Can you hear me? Do you want me to get a doctor for you?"
Ramsey hadn't realized that his head had fallen back against the very comfortable pillows. He opened his eyes to see Lieutenant McPherson looking very worried. He knew he'd been speaking, he'd felt the cadence of his voice, the underlying kindness, the concern, but he hadn't understood most of what he'd said. Ramsey managed to say, "I'm okay. I didn't think hospitals had comfortable pillows."
"These aren't the hospital's pillows," McPherson said. "These are from Mrs. Hunt, who's right now changin
g clothes along with your daughter. Actually they're from Mrs. Rallis, who went out and bought you pillows and your wife and daughter new clothes. She didn't like seeing them in hospital scrubs. Evidently she saw the whole thing on the wharf. She's a big name here in Monterey. If she says that you should have soft pillows, no one's going to argue with her."
Ramsey wanted to ask about Molly and Emma, find out if they were okay, but somehow, he just couldn't get the words out. It was a weird feeling, this knowing words, feeling what those words meant to him, yet being unable to get them out of his mouth. He felt the man lightly pat his arm. "The doc gave you a shot of something really strong. He said you didn't seem like the sort to kick back and relax, so he said he'd lay you out, it would be the best thing. Did you hear me tell you about your daughter and Mrs. Hunt? They should be here soon. The last I heard, Mrs. Rallis insisted that your wife and Emma have coffee and hot chocolate. I tried to stop the doc from giving you that shot, but I couldn't. Can you talk, Judge Hunt?"