Lifeguard

by James Patterson

  Chapter 70

  THE FRONT WHEEL kicked up, the g-force threw my head back, and with what seemed like a supersonic blast, the Ducati rocketed away.

  I felt as though I were being dragged by a jet taking off, holding on for dear life. I pressed myself into Geoff’s back, certain that if I loosened my arms for a second, I’d be hurled onto the concrete like a bouncing ball.

  We flew down the street in a tuck, headed in the direction of the lake. I took a glance behind. The Hummer didn’t even stop. It was coming after us for sure.

  “Get out of here! They’re coming!” I shouted above the roar into Champ’s ear.

  “Your wish is my command!”

  The Ducati’s engine exploded and I was thrown back hard as we shot past homes at a hundred miles an hour. My poor, abused stomach tightened in a knot. A stop sign was coming up pretty quick. Cocoanut Row. The last intersection before the lake. There was only one way to go down here, north. Champ slowed just a little. The Hummer was barreling fast behind.

  ‘Which way?” Champ shouted, glancing back.

  “Which way? There is only one way,” I said. Right. We were still only a block or two from the poshest shopping street in all of Florida. There could be cops around.

  “That’s what you think,” he said.

  I felt this monstrous downshift and Champ’s Ducati slid into the intersection—and hairpinned sharply to the left.

  I think my stomach was left somewhere behind. We were leaning so low, my jeans scraped against the pavement. We barely managed to avoid a head-on with a Lexus driven by some tourist with his bug-eyed family.

  All of a sudden we were zigzagging down Cocoanut.

  “How’s that for an exit, mate?” Geoff flashed back a grin.

  It was as if we had jumped through the woods on some ski trail, and now we were on another trail, skiing against the flow. I looked around for a cop, exhaling with relief that one wasn’t in sight. Then I looked behind. The Hummer had screeched to a stop at the intersection. I thought for sure he’d yank a right and get out of there. But he didn’t! He swerved to the left—and was coming after us again.

  “Jesus,” I shouted, squeezing Champ’s ribs, “he’s still on us!”

  “Damn”—he shook his head—“those bastards have no respect for the law.”

  He pressed the throttle, but now we were coming up on Palm Beach’s busiest shopping street, Worth Avenue. We slowed for half a second.

  “Always wanted to try this . . .” Champ gunned the bike again.

  He jerked the Ducati to the left. Suddenly we were heading up Worth Avenue. Against traffic.

  The wrong way!

  Chapter 71

  THIS WAS THE craziest yet!

  We were zigzagging through oncoming cars, swerving out of people’s way. Tourists and other shoppers on the sidewalk pointed as if it were some kind of show. We cut between two cars, people pointing, their heads craning. I was praying I didn’t hear the sound of a police siren.

  We dodged a man loading an SUV, then sideswiped an antique pedestal. It shattered into pieces on the ground. Oh shit . . . We drove past the Phillips Galleries. I glanced behind. Amazingly, the Hummer had made the turn and was still behind us, horn blaring madly against anyone blocking the way. It was as if the driver knew he had immunity if he got caught.

  “Champ, we have to get out of here,” I said. “Get off this street.”

  He nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  We made a sharp right, zipping into an entrance to the Poincietta Country Club. I glanced behind. The Hummer had made its way through the obstacle course of traffic. It was still following us.

  Champ hit the accelerator and we picked up speed, approaching a golf course. Through hedges I could see golfers on a fairway. The Hummer was still closing.

  I gripped Champ’s waist. “I’m up for ideas.”

  “How’s your golf game, buddy?”

  “My what?”

  “Hold on!” He jerked the Ducati at a sharp right angle, sparks slashing up from the pavement. We blasted right through an opening in the hedges, branches whipping my face.

  Suddenly we were off the road and in the middle of a perfectly manicured golf fairway!

  Ten yards in front of us some poor guy with a five iron was about to play his shot to the green.

  “Sorry, playing through!” Champ shouted as the Ducati sped past. Two golf partners in a cart looked on, as if they were in someone else’s crazy nightmare. Maybe they were. “Dogleg a bit to the right,” Geoff said. “I’d play a fade.”

  He crossed the wide emerald green fairway, the Ducati picking up speed, every golfer standing agog. I yelled, “Champ, are you crazy, man?”

  Suddenly we slipped through another hedge and were in the middle of someone’s backyard. There was a beautiful pool, a cabana, and a startled woman in a bathing suit reading on a chaise longue.

  “Sorry,” Geoff said, waving as we weaved by, “wrong turn. Carry on.”

  The gal immediately reached for a cell phone. I knew that in about two minutes the Hummer was going to be the least of our worries. The Palm Beach police would be on our tail. Whatever element of slapstick comedy this scene had was fading into full-fledged panic, fast—very fast.

  We ducked through another opening in a hedge and emerged on South County. “All clear,” Geoff said with a wink. No way the Hummer could follow us.

  Problem was, the island of Palm Beach is parallel to an inlet, and if you happened to be running from certain death, there are only a few ways off. We headed toward the South Bridge. I figured we were safe now, unless someone radioed the bridge. We passed a few mansions. Dennis Stratton’s house, too. I was starting to exhale.

  Then I glanced behind.

  Oh, man!

  The Hummer was back on our tail. And so was a black Mercedes. Only this time it was worse. Way worse. A projectile zipped by my ear with this piercing whine. Then another.

  The bastards were shooting at us.

  I clutched Champ tightly by the waist. “Geoff, hit it!”

  “Aheadaya, mate!”

  The Ducati jerked, righted itself, then blasted forward into some kind of kited-up supergear.

  We shot by more big-time mansions, the wind and the salt from the ocean breeze lashing at my eyes. I saw the speedometer hit ninety, a hundred, a hundred ten . . . one twenty. We both tucked our bodies as far forward as we could. Face to the metal, ass in the air. We put some distance between us and the two cars.

  Finally we approached the end of a brief straightaway. Trump’s place, Mar-a-Lago, was on our right. We rounded a steep curve, and then . . .

  The South Bridge was in sight.

  I took a last look behind. The Hummer was about a hundred yards back. We were going to be okay.

  Then I felt the Ducati go into a giant downshift. I heard Geoff yell, “Oh, shit!”

  I looked forward and I couldn’t believe it.

  A Boston Whaler was putt-putting its way up the Intercoastal. My heart was going putt-putt, too—only really fast.

  The bridge was going up.

  Chapter 72

  THE BRIDGE BELL was clanging. The guardrail was already going down. A line of cars and gardeners’ trucks was starting to back up.

  The Hummer was coming up behind us.

  We had seconds to decide what to do.

  Geoff slowed, falling in at the end of a line of cars. The Hummer slowed as well, seeing that we were squeezed in—caught.

  We could do a 180 and try to get past them, but they had guns. Maybe we could zip around the circle and head farther south, past Sloan’s Curve, but there was no way off the island until past Lake Worth, miles.

  “Okay,” I yelled over the sputtering bike. “I’m taking ideas here, Geoff.”

  But he had already made up his mind. “Hold on,” he said, staring ahead, gassing the engine hard. “Tight!”

  My eyes widened as I saw what he had in mind. “You know what you’re doing?”

&n
bsp; “Sorry, buddy”—he glanced behind one more time—“this one’s new even for me. . . .”

  He jerked the Ducati out of line and gunned the huge bike forward, right under the guardrail. My stomach started to crawl up toward my throat. The bridge was opening now. First a couple of feet, then five, ten.

  The bike started to climb up the slowly rising platform. “Stay bloody low!” Geoff yelled.

  We zoomed up the ramp with the engine blasting, the g-force slamming my ribs. I had no idea how much space separated us from the other side of the bridge. I was tucked into a crouch, and I was praying.

  We lifted off the edge of the road and into the air at about a sixty-degree angle. I don’t know how long we stayed airborne. I kept my face pressed to Geoff’s back, expecting to feel some out-of-control, spinning panic, then free fall, and finally the crash that would separate my body into parts.

  But all there was, was this amazing sensation. How a bird must feel—soaring, gliding, weightless. No sound. Then Champ’s voice, whooping: “We’re going to make it!”

  I opened my eyes just in time to see the tip of the oncoming bridge coming toward us, and we cleared it, our front wheel perfectly elevated. We careened off the pavement, my stomach lurching. I expected to fly off and braced for the crash, but Geoff held the landing.

  We bounced a few more times, then he sort of touched the brakes and the bike glided down the platform. We’d made it! I couldn’t believe it.

  “How’s that!” Geoff hooted, coasting to a stop in front of a backup of cars on the other side of the bridge. We were in front of a woman in a minivan, her eyes as large as dinner plates. “Eight-five on the dismount, maybe, but I’d say the landing was a perfect ten. . . .” Geoff turned around and gave me a shit-eating grin. “Sweet! Next time, think I’d like to give that one a try at night.”

  Chapter 73

  ACROSS THE STREET from Ta-boó, the man in the tan car had watched the whole scene unfold, and he didn’t like one thing about it.

  The first Mercedes pulled up, the doors flung open, and one of Stratton’s men dragged Liz Stratton into the backseat.

  He squinted into the camera. Click, click.

  Then Stratton’s boys in the Hummer peeled out after Ned Kelly and that Kiwi cowboy on the show-off bike.

  “Dangerous folks,” he muttered to himself, clicking off one more shot. That son of a bitch better be able to really ride.

  Then two of Stratton’s goons got out of their car and went up to Ellie Shurtleff.

  For a second, that made him reach for his gun. Didn’t know if he should interfere. Some kind of argument took place. They started to get a little rough with her. The Shurtleff gal flashed her badge, standing up pretty tall in the saddle.

  She had spunk, the man in the car had to admit. He’d give her that.

  Setting up this scheme to get to Liz Stratton. Cavorting with a murder suspect.

  “Spunk,” he chuckled, but not exactly a lot of shrewdness. All he’d have to do was pass along a print to the feds across the street and it wouldn’t exactly be a gold star for her career. Or the rest of her life, for that matter.

  Stratton’s men backed off. Flashing the badge seemed to work, because after some jostling, they got back in their car. They drove the Mercedes close to the other car, then sped away. He took his hand off his gun. He was glad he’d decided to wait. This could get even bigger.

  Maybe he should just pass along these prints. The guy was a wanted killer. She was taking a hell of a risk. What if she was involved in some way herself?

  He watched the FBI gal get back in her car and drive away. “Not shrewd,” he said to himself again, tucking away his camera. He flicked a matchbook between his fingers.

  But a shitload of spunk.

  Chapter 74

  ABOUT 3:30 that afternoon, Ellie met us back at Champ’s garage.

  I was happy to see that she was okay and gave her a hug. I could tell by the way she held on to me, she’d been worried about me, too. We told her about the motorcycle chase.

  “You’re crazy.” Ellie shook her head at Geoff.

  “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug, as if reflecting on it. “I’ve often found the line between crazy and physically irresponsible to be quite blurred. Anyway, I thought it was a far cry better than having to party up with those guys in the Hummer. Given the circumstances, I actually thought things went pretty well.”

  I shot a glance to the clock on Champ’s garage wall. It was getting to be that time. A lot could play out for us in the next hour or so. We could find out who stole Stratton’s art. I could be cleared of the murders. “You ready to go to Liz’s? Ready to nail Dennis Stratton?” I asked. Ellie seemed nervous, though—for her, anyway.

  “Yeah,” she said. She caught my arm, her expression tight. “Just so you understand, that’s not the only thing that’s going to happen at Stratton’s today.”

  She opened her jacket. A set of handcuffs dangled from her waist.

  I felt my stomach shift. I’d felt strangely free for the past few days, following up on the crimes, maybe getting closer to catching a killer. I’d almost forgotten she was an FBI agent.

  “If it all goes like we hope in there,” she said, that law-enforcement look back in her eye, “you’re going to turn yourself in. You remember the deal?”

  “Sure.” I looked at her and nodded, but inside I was dying. “I remember the deal.”

  Chapter 75

  WE CROSSED OVER the middle bridge to Palm Beach mostly in silence. My stomach was twisting inside. Whatever happened at Stratton’s, I knew my freedom was about to end.

  The town was eerily quiet for a Thursday in mid-April. There were only a few tourists and shoppers on or around Worth Avenue seeking out the late-season sales. A white-haired doyenne crossed in front of us at a light, in a fur wrap despite the April heat, her poodle in tow. I looked at Ellie and we smiled. I was holding on to anything I could right now.

  We turned onto Stratton’s private street, just off the ocean. That’s when I realized something was wrong.

  Two police cars were blocking the road, their lights flashing. Others were parked all around Stratton’s gate.

  At first I thought that the reception was for me, and I was scared. That Liz had set me up. But no . . . An EMS truck was pulling through the gate.

  “Get down,” Ellie said to me, turning around. I sank down in the backseat, my face tucked under my cap. Ellie lowered her window and flashed her shield to a policeman blocking traffic. “What’s happened?” she asked.

  The cop took a quick glance at her ID. “There are a couple of bodies in the house. Two people shot. Never seen anything like what’s been happening lately.”

  “Stratton?” Ellie asked.

  “No,” the officer said, shaking his head. “One’s a bodyguard, they’re telling me. The other’s Mr. Stratton’s wife.”

  He waved us through, but I felt my blood drain, and a feeling of panic grip me from head to toe.

  Liz was dead. Our case against Stratton was dead, too. We had no way to prove he knew that his wife had set him up. But worse, we had lured poor Liz into this.

  “Oh, Jesus, Ellie, we got her killed,” I said, feeling as if it were Dave all over again.

  Ellie turned in through the gates into the long pebbled driveway. Three more patrol cars were parked in front of the house, as well as a second EMS van, its doors open.

  “You wait here,” Ellie said, pulling up in front. “Promise me, Ned, you won’t run.”

  “I promise,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.” Ellie slammed the door and ran inside. I felt as though something inevitable was about to happen. I knew it, in fact.

  “I promise, Ellie,” I said, reaching for the door, “I’m not running anymore.”

  Chapter 76

  STRATTON WAS IN THERE.

  Ellie spotted him in the foyer. Sitting in a chair, rubbing his ashen face, mirroring shock. Carl Breen, the detective Ellie had met in Tess’s suite, was sittin
g with him. And Ponytail, the pockmarked asshole who’d taken off after Ned and Champ, was standing smugly by.

  “I can’t believe she would do this,” Stratton muttered. “They were having an affair. She told me. She’d been angry with me. I’d been working too hard. Ignoring her . . . But this . . .”

  Ellie looked ahead into the sunroom. Her stomach sank. She immediately recognized one of the muscular bodyguards she’d seen at Stratton’s party lying face up on the floor. There were two bullet holes in his chest. But worse, so much worse, was the sight of Liz Stratton, lying back on the floral love seat across from him, still dressed in the same white pantsuit as she had on that afternoon. A trickle of blood ran down one side of her forehead. Vern Lawson was kneeling beside her.

  Ellie had heard a cop talking on the way in. It was supposed to be a murder-suicide.

  Like hell. Ellie felt her blood grow hot. She looked at Lawson, then Stratton, then back at Liz. What a complete sham!

  “I knew she was upset,” Stratton continued to Detective Breen. “She finally told me about the affair. That she was going to end it. Maybe Paul wouldn’t let her go. But this . . . Oh, God . . . She seemed so happy just a few hours ago.” Stratton caught Ellie’s eye. “She went out to lunch with friends. . . .”

  Ellie couldn’t hold back. “I know you killed her,” she said to Stratton bluntly.

  “What?” He looked up, startled.

  “You set this up,” Ellie went on, teeming with anger. “There was no affair. The only affair was yours, with Tess McAuliffe. Liz told us everything. How she set you up. But you found out. You did this, Stratton, or had it done.”

  “You hear this?” Stratton yelled, and rose from his chair. “You hear what I have to defend myself against? From this bullshit art agent!”

  “I was with her,” Ellie said, looking at Breen, “only a couple of hours ago. She told me everything. How she arranged an affair to discredit her husband and he found out. How he was implicated in stealing his own art. Check at the Brazilian Court. Run the photos. You’ll see. Stratton was with Tess McAuliffe. Ask him what Liz meant, that only one painting was stolen.”