Lifeguard

by James Patterson

  Stratton punched off the line. He placed the cell in his jacket and stood up and straightened his Thomas Pink shirt. This is the way he should’ve handled it from the start, with a real professional.

  His wife came into the room. She was wearing black running tights with an orange cashmere sweatshirt wrapped around her waist. “Going out for a run, dear?”

  “I should be back in half an hour,” Liz Stratton said, going over to the desk. “I was just looking for my keys. I thought I left them here.”

  “I’ll alert the boys.” Stratton reached for the phone.

  “Don’t bother, Dennis.” She picked up her keys on the desk. “I’m only going down along the lake.”

  Stratton grabbed Liz by the wrist and jerked her to a stop as she went by. “No bother at all,” he said, squeezing.

  “Get your hands off me, Dennis. Please.”

  “I’m surprised at you, darling. You know the rules.” He had that look of pretend caring in his eyes that was nothing but ego, control. They stood for a second, eye to eye. She tried to pull away from him. Then she backed down. “Call your goons.”

  “That’s better,” Stratton said, relaxing his grip and revealing a large red mark on her wrist. “I’m sorry, darling. But we can never be too safe, can we?”

  “Don’t be sorry, Dennis.” Liz tried to rub the pain out of her wrist. “You squeeze everybody, dear. That’s your style. It’s what’s so charming about you.”

  Chapter 40

  I PUSHED THROUGH the metal turnstiles, blending in with the crowd, and headed up the ramp to the sign that said FIELD LEVEL BOXES down the left-field line.

  That familiar rush of adrenaline raced through me as soon as I saw the field: the old-time placard scoreboard. The closeness of the Green Monster, where in 1978 Bucky Dent had ended our dreams yet again.

  Fenway Park.

  It was a gorgeous spring afternoon. The Yankees were in town. I only wished for a goddamn minute that they were why I was there.

  I walked down toward the field to Box 60C. Then I stood for a second behind the thin, narrow-shouldered man in a white open-collar shirt facing the field.

  Finally, I sat down next to him. He barely turned. “Hello, Neddie.”

  I was shocked at how frail and weak my father looked. His cheeks were sharp-boned and sunken; his hair, which had always been white, had thinned to a few feathery wisps. His skin was parchment gray. My father’s hands, which had always been tough, workmanlike hands, looked more like skin-covered bones. He had a scorecard rolled up in them.

  “I heard you wanted to see me.”

  “Gee, Pop, I’m all choked up,” I said, staring at him for a second. “They actually the Yankees down there, or some more undercover guys from the FBI?”

  “You think I had something to do with what went on at the house?” My father shook his head. “You think, Ned, if I wanted to sell you out, I’d do it in front of your mother? But to your question,” he said, grinning, “see number thirty-eight, I’m not so sure he could hit my fastball.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. Frank lit up, too. For a second I saw the old, familiar sparkle in his eyes, the Boston Irish con heating up.

  “You’re looking good, Ned. You’re quite the celebrity now, too.”

  “You look . . .” I wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t so easy to see my father looking like that.

  “You don’t have to say it.” He tapped the program on my knee. “I look like a ghost who doesn’t knows he’s fucking dead.”

  “I was gonna say, better than I’d heard.” I smiled.

  The game was already in the third inning. The Sox were at bat, down 3-1. A chant rippled through the crowd, pushing for a rally. My father shook his head. “In a million years, I never thought I’d have to tip my hat to you, Neddie-boy. I spent my whole life slowly sliding down the pole of life’s opportunities. And look at you! You knock it out of the park on your very first try.”

  “Guess I was always holding back a bit.” I shrugged. “Always knew I had greatness in me.”

  “Well, it breaks my heart, Neddie.” Frank curled a wistful smile. “Wasn’t it that Senator Moynihan who called it the plight of the Irish to have our hearts continually broken by life?”

  “I think he was talking about the Kennedys, Pop. Or the Sox.”

  “Well, it breaks an old man’s heart anyway,” my old man said. “Whatever’s left of it.”

  I looked into his light blue, almost transparent eyes. Not at the wasting old man I hadn’t seen for four years. But at the lifelong con man, who I knew was conning me again. “It breaks mine, too, Pop. Who’s Gachet?”

  My father kept his gaze trained on the field. “Who’s who?”

  “Come off it, Pop. You lived your life how you wanted, but now I’m caught up in it. I need you to get me out. Who’s Gachet?”

  “I have no idea who or what you’re talking about, son. I swear to God, Ned.”

  It always amazed me how my father could take a bald-faced lie and feed it back just like the truth. “Georgie slipped up,” I said.

  “Yeah?” My father shrugged. “How is that?”

  “He mentioned a Jackson Pollock that was stolen. I don’t think that’s ever come out.”

  Frank smiled. He tapped me on the shoulder with the program. “You missed your calling, Ned. You should’ve been a detective, not a lifeguard.”

  I ignored the dig. “Please, Pop, who’s Gachet? Don’t play me. We both know Mickey would never have made a move without running it by you.”

  I heard the crack of the bat. The crowd rose and gasped with expectation. A line-drive double off the wall by Nomar, two runs home. Neither of us was really paying attention.

  “I’m gonna die, Ned,” my father said. “I don’t have the strength, or the time.”

  “Not if you get yourself a kidney.”

  “Kidney?” For the first time he turned to me, anger flaring in his pupils. “You think I could live with setting up those kids, Neddie?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t think you’d set up your own son to take a murder rap, and you manage to live with that. You already lost one son, Pop. He was doing a job for you, right? Right?”

  Frank took a short breath, then coughed. I couldn’t tell what was going on inside his head. Remorse; more likely, denial. He just sat there, his eyes following the game. He pointed to the Wall. “You know, they got seats up there now.”

  “Pop,” I said, turning to him. “Please . . . cut the shit! I’m wanted for murder.”

  Frank gritted his teeth, as though he were the one suffering. He squeezed the program firmly in his spidery hands. “Nobody was supposed to get hurt,” he finally said. “That’s all I have to say.”

  “But people did, Pop. Mickey. Bobby. Barney. Dee. They’re all dead. You know how it makes me feel, that the only person I can come to for help is you. Help me find their killers, Pop. Help me avenge my friends.”

  He turned to me. For a second I thought he was going to break down. “Georgie gave you good advice, Ned. Get yourself a good lawyer. Then turn yourself in. Anyone with a head on their shoulders knows you didn’t kill those kids. I don’t know any more.”

  “You don’t know any more?” I said, my eyes growing hot with tears.

  “Get yourself out of this, Neddie.” Frank turned and glared at me.

  I don’t think I ever felt any lower than at that moment, knowing my old man was going to let me get up and walk out, without doing a thing to help. My blood was boiling. I stood up and stared him down.

  “I’m gonna find him, Pop. And when I do, I’m gonna find out about you, too. Isn’t that right?”

  A couple of Yanks had reached base. The Sox had made a pitching change. Suddenly, A-Rod unloaded a shot over the left-field wall.

  “You believe that?” my father spat. “Just like I said, a goddamn curse.”

  “I believe it, Pop.” I gave him just long enough to change his mind, but he never even looked at me.

  I pulled
my cap down over my eyes and left the ballpark.

  And my father.

  Chapter 41

  IT DIDN’T TAKE me much farther than the lower ramp of the stadium to realize I was kidding myself. All that big bravado talk about finding Gachet . . . All I had was the few hundred bucks Uncle George had stuffed in my hand. My face was all over the news. Any second the police could rush out and surround me.

  I didn’t even know what my next move was.

  I stood outside the park on Yawkey Way, and for the first time I had no idea where to turn. I knew the Tess McAuliffe thing looked bad. I knew my DNA was probably all over the room, my fingerprints. But the truth was, I hadn’t done anything other than set off a few crummy alarms. Maybe Ellie was right. Maybe there was only one choice. Turn myself in. And I was blowing it every second I stayed out there.

  I found a pay phone a few blocks over in Kenmore Square. I needed someone to talk to, and only one name came to mind: Dave. Just dialing his cell, I felt as if the weight of the world had been eased off my shoulders.

  “Ned!” Dave exclaimed in a hushed tone when he heard my voice. “Jesus, Neddie, I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Where are you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay. I’m thinking about a lot of stuff. I didn’t quite resolve the situation quite as I planned.”

  He lowered his voice. “You saw Pop.”

  “Yeah, I saw him. He basically wished me luck and told me to drop him a line from jail. Got to see the Sox play, though. That was a plus. Listen, I’ve been doing some thinking. About what you said. I have to talk to you, Dave.”

  “I need to talk to you too, Neddie.” He sounded excited. “I’ve got something to show you, too. About this Gachet . . . But, Ned, the police have been to see me. They’re all over this, guy. I talked to a few people. . . . Everyone knows you didn’t kill Mickey and the guys down there. It turns out there’s something called agitated capacity. Basically, it means when you resisted arrest, you weren’t in your right mind.”

  “That’s my defense? That I’m a whack job?”

  “Not wacko, Ned. That you were pressured into doing something you wouldn’t have if you were clearheaded. If it helps you to get a pass on some of this, why not? But you’ve got to stop digging yourself deeper. You need a lawyer.”

  “You putting up a shingle, Counselor?”

  “What I’m trying to do, you jerk, is save your life.”

  I closed my eyes. It’s over now, isn’t it? I had to do the right thing. “Where can we meet, bro? I can’t risk coming by the bar.”

  Dave thought it over for a few seconds. “You remember X-man?”

  Philly Morisani. We used to watch the tube in his basement, on Hillside, in the same neighborhood where we grew up. It was like our private club. He was so into the X-Files, we called him X-man. I heard he was working for Verizon now. “Sure, I remember.”

  “He’s away on business, and I’ve sort of been watching his place. The basement key’s where it’s always been. I’m at school right now. I need to finish up a few things here. How’s six? If I get there first, I’ll leave the door open for you.”

  “I’ll use the time to practice putting my hands behind my back. For the cuffs.”

  “We’re gonna get you out of this, Ned. I never told you, guy, I got an A in writs and statutes.”

  “Jeez, everything’s coming up roses now! More to the point, how’d you do in litigation?”

  “Litigation?” Dave groaned. “Nah, flunked that.”

  We started to laugh. Just hearing the sound of my own laughter, feeling that someone was on my side, sent a little bolstering warmth through my blood.

  “We’re gonna get you out of this,” Dave said again. “Stay out of sight. I’ll see you at six.”

  Chapter 42

  I HAD A COUPLE of hours to kill, so I walked around Kenmore Square. I had a beer in an empty Irish bar and sort of watched the end of the game. The Sox actually came back with three in the ninth off Rivera to win. Maybe I should believe in miracles after all.

  I sucked down the last of my beer—I figured it would be my last for a long, long time. Life as I knew it was about to end. I was definitely going to prison. I flipped down a ten for the bartender. Agitated capacity . . . Swell, Ned, your life’s been reduced to the hope that you were acting while completely out of your mind.

  It was a little after five, and I found a cabbie who for forty bucks took me down to Brockton. I had him let me off on Edson and I cut over behind the elementary school to Hillside, where Dave was going to meet me.

  The house was the third one down the block, a weather-beaten gray Cape with a short, steep driveway. I felt a wave of relief. My brother’s black WRX was parked on the street.

  I waited a few minutes by a lamppost, watching the street. No cops. No one had followed. Time to get this done . . .

  I jogged around to the side of the house. As Dave had said, the storm door to the basement was open. Just like old times. We used to hang out there, watch some ball games, occasionally smoke a little weed.

  I rapped on the glass. “Dave!”

  No one answered.

  I pushed open the door, and the musty mothball smell brought back a lot of good memories. Philly hadn’t exactly redecorated the place since I left. The same plaid, basket-weave couch and chewed-up recliner. A pool table with a couple of Miller Lite lanterns over it, a cheap barnwood bar.

  “Hey, Dave!” I yelled.

  I noticed a book opened on the couch. An art book. I turned it over: The Paintings of van Gogh. Unless Philly had somehow elevated his reading material since I’d been away, I figured Dave had brought it. There was a stamp on the inside flap from the Boston College library. He had said he had something to show me on Gachet.

  “Davey, where the hell are you, man?”

  I plopped down on the couch and flipped the book open to a page that had been marked by a yellow Post-it sticker.

  There was a portrait of an old man leaning on his fist, wearing a white cap, with a melancholy look, piercing blue eyes. Those identifiable van Gogh swirls brilliant in the background.

  My eyes focused on the text.

  Portrait of Dr. Gachet.

  I stared closer, my eyes magnetized to the small print. Portrait of Dr. Gachet. 1890.

  I felt a surge of excitement. The painting was done over a hundred years ago. Anyone could be using the name. But suddenly I had hope. Gachet was real! Maybe Ellie Shurtleff would know.

  “Dave!” I called, louder. I looked up the stairs to the main floor.

  Then I noticed the light in the bathroom, the door slightly ajar.

  “Jesus, Dave, you in there?” I went over and rapped on the door. The force of my knock edged it open.

  All I remember for the next sixty seconds or so was standing there as if I’d been slammed in the midsection by a sledgehammer.

  Oh, Dave . . . oh Dave.

  My brother was propped up on the toilet seat in his hooded BC sweatshirt. His head was cocked slightly to the side. Blood was everywhere, leaking out of his abdomen, onto his jeans, the floor. He wasn’t moving. Dave was just staring at me with this placid expression, like, Where the hell were you, Ned?

  “Oh my God, Dave, no!”

  I rushed over to him, feeling for a pulse I knew wasn’t there, trying to shake Dave back to life somehow. There was a large puncture wound through the sweatshirt on the left side over his ribs. I pulled the sweatshirt up, and it was as if the left side of Dave’s abdomen fell into my hands.

  I stumbled backward, my legs buckling. I punched the bathroom wall and sort of slid, helpless to the linoleum floor.

  Suddenly, the sweats started to rush over my body again. I couldn’t just sit there, staring at Dave any longer. I had to get out. I staggered to my feet, leaving the bathroom. I needed some air.

  That was when I felt the arm wrap around my neck. Tight, incredibly tight. A voice hissed in my ear, “You’ve got a few things that belong to us, Mr. Kelly.”

&nb
sp; Chapter 43

  I COULDN’T BREATHE. My neck and head were jerked back by a very strong man. The edge of a sharp blade dug into my rib cage.

  “The art, Mr. Kelly,” the voice said again, “and unless I start hearing about the paintings in the next five seconds, that’s about all the time you have left in this world.”

  Just to make his point, the guy let me feel the edge of the blade again.

  “Last chance, Mr. Kelly. See your brother over there? Sorry about the mess, but he just didn’t know anything about you coming here. It’s just not gonna go so easy for you.” He stretched my head farther back and pressed the tip of the blade under my chin. “No one fucks the people I work for.”

  “I don’t have any paintings! You think I’d lie about it—now?”

  He scraped the serrated edge of the blade against my neck. “You think I’m a complete imbecile, Mr. Kelly? You have something that belongs to us. About sixty million dollars’ worth. I want to start hearing about the art. Now.”

  What was I supposed to tell him? What could I tell him? I didn’t know a thing about the missing art.

  “Gachet!” I shouted, twisting my head. “Gachet has it. Find Gachet!”

  “Sorry, Mr. Kelly, I’m afraid I don’t know any Gachet. I gave you to five and now it’s one.” He squeezed tighter. “Say hi to your brother, asshole. . . .”

  “No!”

  I yelled, expecting to feel the blade dig into my neck, and then my legs lifted off the ground. Maybe he was giving me a last chance to talk. I knew whatever I told him, I wasn’t leaving there alive.

  I slammed my elbow with everything I had into the guy’s rib cage, heard a deep exhalation of air. His grip loosened enough for my feet to hit the ground, and his other arm dropped for just a second. Then I rolled forward, lifting him across my back. He flailed with the blade and I felt a slash against my arm. I slammed him as hard as I could against the wall.

  Suddenly the guy was on the floor.

  He looked about forty, bushy dark hair, wearing a nylon jacket, built like a brick, a bodybuilder. No way I could take him. He still had the knife and spun quickly into a crouch. I had about one second to find a way to save my life.