The Guardian (50 page)

Up ahead, only distant taillights were visible, and the road seemed to split the world in two. The engine whined as she held her foot to the accelerator. The reflectors on the highway passed beneath the tires in a rapid stutter.

It wasn't about the stolen car . . . or was it? And if so . . .

She couldn't figure it out, but she knew it was there. Something in her subconscious, something obvious, something just out of reach.

Okay, she thought, going through it again. Richard's car had been abandoned. Check. The car was stolen around the time that Richard would have arrived in Jacksonville. Check. Put those two together, and she suspected-no, she knew that Richard had taken it. Check.

What had the captain said? The make and model of the car, the person who owned it, the address where the young man lived. She thought about it. The last two meant nothing, she decided, but what about the make and model of the car?

Green Pontiac Trans Am.

The kind of car she'd wanted back in high school. . . .

She frowned, wondering why that thought seemed so familiar.

From the porch, Richard heard Julie screaming about her dog. For a moment, he stopped to listen to the wailing, feeling a twinge of sympathy. He'd known that it would be hard for her, of course, but actually hearing it-the fear and heartbreak-affected him more deeply than he'd thought it would.He didn't want Julie to be upset, and he wished there could have been some other way. But there wasn't. He'd had to do it. Had Singer been a gentle dog, a sweet dog, he would never have hurt him. But Singer was as confused and temperamental as she was.

Julie's cries grew louder, more frantic, and the sound was terrible. He felt sorry for her and wanted to apologize, but he would save that for later, when she could see through her pain and recognize that he'd done it for the two of them.

Maybe he would get her another dog, after all this was behind them. Though he'd never wanted a dog, he realized that he could do that for her. They could pick out a dog together, and she would forget all about Singer. Maybe they'd make a special trip to the pound and get a dog who liked to fetch the way Singer did. Or they'd look through the newspaper and find someone selling puppies and pick the one they both thought was best.

Yes, he thought, that was it. Another dog. A better dog. That's what he would do for her when all this was over. She would like that. It would make her happy, and that's all he'd ever wanted for her. Happiness.

Now that he was feeling more in control, her cries sounded more distant to him.

On the beach, he saw a sudden movement. Knowing what it meant, Richard retreated to the corner, where he hid in the shadows.

Pete Gandy rushed up the steps, across the porch, and through the back door, racing for the kitchen. He tore open the drawer beneath the phone so hard that it nearly broke, and he grabbed the directory."C'mon, c'mon," he said as he began flipping through the pages, looking for the nearest veterinarian.

He found the right section and began running his finger down the page, looking for someone who might be able to handle an emergency.

The nearest animal hospital was in Jacksonville, thirty minutes away, and with sudden certainty he knew that the dog wouldn't last that long.

What should I do? Pete thought. What do I do now?

He forced himself to order his frantic thoughts.

The names of the vets were listed, and he decided to call them at home, since it was too late for offices to be open. It was the only chance the dog had. But that entailed looking up phone numbers one by one.

And time was running out.

Jennifer had stopped at a red light in the heart of Jacksonville. Though technically she was making her way toward Melody Lane to talk with Shane Clinton, her mind was still sorting through the problem of the green Pontiac Trans Am.The kind of car she'd wanted in high school.

She'd had the same thought recently, but where? At the station? No, she'd barely left her desk in the last couple of days. At her apartment? No, not there, either. Where else, then?

The light turned green and Jennifer shook her head as the car started forward again.

Have I been anywhere? Only to talk to Julie and Mike, when I dropped Pete off. . . .

Her hands tightened on the wheel.

No, she thought, it couldn't be. . . .

Reaching for her cell phone, she pressed the accelerator to the floor, knowing it would take at least twenty minutes to reach Topsail Beach . . . and the green Trans Am she'd seen parked up the road.

Pete Gandy was flipping back and forth through the phone book, running his finger down the pages, growing more and more frustrated. There were over a dozen vets listed, but most of them lived in Jacksonville, too far away to help.There were three names left, and he turned the pages in search of the next possibility, the thin paper tearing in his fingers.

Linda Patinson was next on the list, and he turned to each section of the phone book that listed the localities. She didn't live in Jacksonville, nor did she live in Orton or Maysville. Turning to the final section, he scanned the page and found a Linda Patinson.

Her home was in Sneads Ferry, just ten minutes up the road.

He picked up the receiver and began to dial; he hit the wrong numbers and hung up, forcing himself to take a deep breath in the process. Calm down, he told himself. If I sound crazy, she's not going to help.

He began dialing again, and the phone on the other end began to ring.

Once.

Twice.

"C'mon . . ."

Three times.

Then four.

"Be home . . ."

There was a click as someone at the other end picked up.

"Hello?"

The voice sounded young, like that of a college student.

"Hi, I'm Officer Pete Gandy with the Swansboro Police Department. I'm sorry for calling, but is this Linda Patinson the veterinarian?"

There was a moment's pause. "Yes," she said. Her voice sounded wary.

"I don't know what else to do. Our dog looks like he's having convulsions of some sort."

"Well, there's an emergency vet clinic in Jacksonville."

"I know. But I don't think he'd make it that long. . . . He's shaking all over and he's breathing really fast. His heart's going and he can't even lift his head."

Pete went on, describing Singer's condition as best he could, and when he finished, Linda Patinson hesitated. Though relatively new in practice-she'd been out of school only a few years-she knew this was serious, not only from the panic in Pete's voice, but because of the symptoms he was describing.

"Has he eaten anything in the garage? Like insecticide? Or poison of some sort?"

"Not that I know of. He was fine just a little while ago."

"What kind of dog is it?"

"A Great Dane."

Linda Patinson hesitated. "Is there any way you could get him into the car and bring him in? I can be in my office in ten minutes. It's just down the street. . . ."

"I can find it."

Seconds later, Pete hung up the phone and was already on the back porch. Slamming the door closed behind him, he barely noticed the shadow as it moved toward him.

Julie was stroking Singer lightly, her hands shaking."What's taking so long?" she pleaded. "What's he doing?"

Mike didn't answer, knowing she was talking more to herself than to him. Instead, he tried to reassure her.

"He's going to be okay," he whispered.

Singer was panting harder now, his eyes wide. His tongue was in the sand, coated with granules. With every breath came a whimper.

"Hold on, baby," Julie pleaded. "Please . . . oh, God . . . please . . ."

On the porch, Pete Gandy wasn't sure what made him turn.The gentle scrape of shoe against wood, perhaps, or the nearly imperceptible shift of shadows thrown by the glowing yellow porch light. It wasn't simply intuition, Pete was sure. In that moment, he was thinking about poison and what it might mean; there wasn't room in his subconscious to process anything other than what he needed to do next.

But he knew, even before he saw Richard, that someone was moving toward him, and he was already beginning instinctively to duck when he felt something hard crash against his skull.

There was a flash of instant pain, then a bright light in the corners of his eyes that faded suddenly to black.

"Maybe I should go check on Pete," Mike offered. "See what's taking so long."Julie barely heard him, but she nodded, her lips pressed together.

Mike turned and started back toward the house.

Richard stared at the fallen figure of Pete Gandy. Gruesome business, yes, but necessary and, in its own way, inevitable.Then, of course, there was the fact that Pete had a gun. Makes the rest so much easier, he thought. For a moment, after removing the gun from the holster, he considered putting a bullet into Pete Gandy's head; then he decided against it. He had nothing against Pete Gandy. He was just a guy doing his job.

Richard turned and was heading for the stairs when he saw Mike coming up the beach, toward the house.

Glancing down at the body, he realized that Mike would see it immediately. His mind clicked through the problem, and he crouched down, waiting for Mike's heavy tread on the stairs.

As Jennifer Romanello sped to the beach house, she kept dialing the number. First the phone was busy; now no one was answering. As the phone kept ringing and ringing, she couldn't escape the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. She reached for the radio and called for backup, but even as she relayed her concerns, she knew that no one would reach the beach house before she got there.

Mike looked up just as a shadowy figure launched himself from the top of the stairs.The momentum of the attack sent him tumbling backward; his head collided with the stairs as something crashed down on him, crushing his rib cage and driving the edges of the stairs into his lower back.

The pain was staggering. Mike could see nothing, but he felt himself sliding down the stairs on his back, headfirst, each jarring motion like someone swinging a hammer against his ribs, until his head hit the sand and he suddenly stopped, his neck bent at an odd angle. Above him, he could feel someone reaching for his neck and taking hold. Feet were planted in the sand on either side of him, and a sack of what seemed like lead sat on his chest.

The hands began to tighten, and Mike fought nausea as the pain rolled through him. Even opening his eyes was difficult, but when he saw the face of Richard Franklin, his thoughts came suddenly into focus.

Julie! he wanted to scream. Run!

But he made no sound. Cut off from oxygen, he began to grow dizzy, his mind a jumble. As he struggled to draw breath, he reached instinctively for Richard's hands, trying to pry them off as adrenaline began to surge. But Richard's grip refused to weaken.

Mike swung wildly, connecting with Richard's face to no effect. Every cell in his body was screaming for oxygen. He thrashed his legs, trying to throw Richard off, but Richard wouldn't budge. Mike tried to whip his head back and forth, but it only served to make Richard's grip seem tighter.

And the pain . . .

Get air. It was all he could think about as he reached toward Richard's face, aiming for his eyes. Forming his hands into claws, struggling furiously, he found the target momentarily before Richard raised his head, escaping his reach.

It was then that Mike knew he was going to die.

Panicked, he reached for Richard's hands again, prying and grabbing, but this time he found a thumb and was able to latch on to it, and he jerked with every bit of strength he had left.

He felt something snap, but Richard refused to let go. As he tugged harder, the thumb was curved into an unnatural angle. Richard loosened his grip as his mouth contorted in pain. He leaned forward.

That was all Mike needed. Kicking and bucking, he finally felt a wisp of air pass through his throat. He grabbed Richard's hair with his free hand and rammed his knees into Richard's back, momentum and gravity shifting the advantage. Richard went over him, landing in the sand behind him.

Gasping for breath, Mike pushed off the stairs into the sand beside Richard, but just moving to all fours left him exhausted. Though he was able to take a quick breath, his throat kept constricting, cutting it off. Richard was on his feet first and, whirling suddenly, he kicked Mike savagely in the ribs, then kicked him again. Mike toppled over onto his back, and another kick to his head followed. The pain was nearly blinding in its intensity, and again he couldn't breathe.

He thought of Julie.

Julie . . .

Staggering onto all fours, he lunged toward Richard. Richard kicked at him; Mike felt the blows but kept driving forward. A moment later, he was reaching for Richard's throat when he felt something hard wedged against his stomach and heard a pop.

At first there was nothing, but then there was fire in his belly, boiling water riding the nerves, pain shooting in all directions, climbing the spine. Mike blinked in shock, and he seemed to lose control of his tongue. His legs went still, his body weakened, and Richard shoved him off.

When Mike reached for his stomach, it was slippery, oozing. In the dim light, his blood looked like motor oil puddling beneath a car. He couldn't understand where the blood was coming from, but when Richard got to his feet, he saw the gun.