The Target by Catherine Coulter Page B

steady, but she was whispering, “Move, move, move.”
    Ramsey just kept his arms loosely around Emma. “You okay, kiddo?”
    â€œI’m scared, Ramsey.”
    His arms tightened around her. He kissed the top of her head. “I wish I could give you the power not to be afraid of anything, Emma, but I can’t. Fear isn’t bad, just as long as it doesn’t freeze you up. I know you don’t like to think about it, but you didn’t freeze up that time. You managed to escape and run into the woods and I found you. You were extraordinarily brave. And so you see that if you just keep thinking, if you don’t give up, then you can help yourself. You’ve got a chance.” He knew Molly was listening. “You won’t forget that, will you, Em?”
    â€œNo,” she whispered. “I won’t forget. There’s the truck, Ramsey. Mom’s close now.”
    â€œCan you see the license number?”
    â€œIt’s really dirty, but I can see it.”
    Then he laughed. “You can see it but you can’t tell me the letters or numbers. I’m going to teach you how to read tomorrow, okay, kiddo?”
    â€œI know how to read a little. Mama’s taught me. She reads to me all the time. She points her finger at the words while she’s reading. You think it’ll just take one day?”
    â€œWith you, maybe just half a day.” He said to Molly, “It looks to me like it’s a B, then an L, then mud’s all smeared over the next letter. There’s a space, then three-eight-eight-something. That last number’s too smeared to make out.”
    â€œYou’ll find a cell phone in my bag. Since you’re a federal judge, you’re bound to know someone who can tell us who owns the truck. Once you find that out, I promise I’ll call the cops in Denver and tell them. You don’t have to tell anybody anything. Now, I’ll hang back until you find out.”
    A cell phone. She had a cell phone and hadn’t told him until they were holding on by their teeth. He wanted to yell at her, but he didn’t. He pulled out the slim phone. He started to call Virginia Trolley in San Francisco, then paused. No, she couldn’t do anything. He needed someone objective, someone with an inside track who wouldn’t butt in, but would give him all the help he could. He dialed the main number to the FBI in Washington, D.C., and asked for Dillon Savich in the Criminal Apprehension Unit.
    In two minutes he was talking to Savich. “Why don’t you ever use my e-mail, Ramsey? You know I hate phones. I think when I was a kid a phone cord must have wrapped around my neck and nearly choked me to death.”
    â€œSorry, I don’t have my laptop and modem with me. Long story. I need help, Savich.”
    â€œTalk to me.”
    No hesitation, no questions. Ramsey said, “I need to know who belongs to this license plate.” He gave Savich the information. “I’m on a cell phone.” He gave him the phone number. “Yeah, I’ll keep it on. I owe you one, Savich.”
    A grunt, nothing more. Ramsey smiled into the cell phone. He hung up but left the phone button on.
    â€œWho did you call? The police in San Francisco?”
    â€œNo. I called a friend of mine in Washington, D.C.”
    â€œA good friend, if he didn’t ask you any questions.”
    â€œYes, a good friend. We met about four years ago at a law-enforcement conference in Chicago. At that time I was with the U.S. Attorney’s office. Savich is into karate, big time, does an exhibition now and again. He got married about six months ago to another agent named Sherlock. Keep further back, Molly.”
    â€œOh no.”
    The truck was slowing. The man in the passenger seat was looking back. “They’ve gone far enough to know we’re not there ahead of them. Slow down more, Molly. Yeah, let that Chevy get ahead of you. Good.”
    He