The Guardian

by Nicholas Sparks

  Richard woke and showered, then hopped back into the stolen Trans Am. Two hours later, after buying a cup of coffee and a few magazines from a convenience store along the way, he pulled into Swansboro, feeling as if he'd come home.

  He was dressed in Dockers and a polo shirt; with his light hair and glasses, even he didn't quite recognize himself when he peeked in the rearview mirror. He looked like any other family man heading to the beach for the weekend.

  He wondered what Julie was doing at that very moment. Showering? Eating breakfast? And was she thinking of him, even as he was thinking of her? He smiled as he dropped a series of quarters into two newspaper racks out front. While the Jacksonville paper was a daily, the Swansboro paper came out twice a week.

  After the convenience store, he made his way to a small park and perched on a bench near the swing sets, then opened the newspaper. He didn't want his presence in the park to alarm any parents; people were paranoid these days about adults hanging around in parks, but he supposed he understood that, even in a small town.

  His picture was on the front page of the paper, and he took his time in reading the article. It offered basic information, but not much else-he had no doubt the reporter had gathered the information directly from the police department-and listed a hot line number for people to call if they had any information. When he finished reading it, he scanned the rest of the paper, looking for anything about the stolen car. Nothing. Then he settled in to read the article again, his eyes glancing up every few minutes.

  He would wait all day if he had to; he knew the one he was looking for, the one who would lead him to Julie and Mike.

  When Pete approached Jennifer's desk, she thought he looked as tired as she felt.

  "Anything?" she asked.

  He shook his head, stifling a yawn. "Another false alarm. How about you?"

  "Not much. There was another waitress at the Mosquito Grove who remembered seeing Andrea and Richard together. We also heard from the hospital in Wilmington. Andrea's not out of the woods yet, but the doctors are hopeful." She paused. "I forgot to ask this morning, but did you ever end up talking to the detective or Julie's mother?"

  "Not yet."

  "Why don't you give me the numbers while you grab some coffee? I'll check 'em out."

  "Why? We already know why he went down there."

  "I don't know what else to do."

  Jennifer finally spoke to Julie's mother, but Pete had been right for once. The call told her nothing that she hadn't already assumed. Yes, the mother had said, a man who said he was an old friend of Julie's had come by. A week later, he'd brought a friend with him. The friend had matched the description of the suspect.

  The call to the private investigator had gone unanswered again.

  Still no word on fingerprints.

  Without new information, she was back to where she'd been before, and she was frustrated. Was he still in town? She didn't know. What would he do next? She didn't know. Was he still after Julie? She thought so but wasn't absolutely sure. There was always the possibility that because the police were after him, he would simply leave town and start over, the way he'd done in the past.

  The problem was that for all intents and purposes, he'd become Richard Franklin. There was nothing personal in the house whatsoever, with the exception of his clothing, his cameras, and the photographs. And the photographs told her nothing, except that he was a good photographer. They could have been taken anywhere, at any time, and because Richard developed them, there wasn't so much as a lab they could trace them back to. . . .

  Jennifer's thoughts suddenly froze as she felt the answer begin to click into place.

  Anywhere, at any time?

  Good at photography?

  Expensive camera gear?

  His own lab to develop them?

  This wasn't just a hobby for him, she thought. Okay, she already knew that. What else? She stared at the stack of photos on her desk. This is something he's been doing for a long time. Years, even. Which meant . . .

  He might have been using the cameras before he became the man known as Richard Franklin.

  "Pete," she suddenly called out, "are his cameras in the evidence room, or are they still with forensics?"

  "Franklin's? Yeah. We put them in yesterday. . . ."

  Jennifer jumped up from her chair and started toward the evidence room.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I think I might know a way to find out who this guy is."

  A moment later, Pete was struggling to keep up with her as she made her way through the station.

  "What's going on?" Pete demanded.

  Julie was signing out the photography gear at the counter as the officer in charge of the evidence locker watched her.

  "The cameras," she said, "the lenses. This stuff is expensive, right? And like you said, the pictures could have been taken anytime. Even with these cameras, right?"

  Pete shrugged. "I guess so."

  "Don't you see what that means?" she asked. "I mean, if he's had these cameras all along?"

  "No, I don't get it. What?"

  By then, the officer had placed a Tupperware container on the counter, and Julie reached for it. Too distracted to answer, she picked it up and carried it back to her desk.

  A minute later, Pete Gandy watched in confused fascination as she studied the back of the camera.

  "Do you have a small screwdriver?" she asked.

  "What for?"

  "I need to remove this piece."

  "Why?"

  "I'm looking for the serial number."

  "Why?" he asked again.

  Jennifer was too busy looking through her drawers to answer. "Damn!" she said.

  "They might have one in maintenance," Pete offered, still unsure why she needed the serial numbers.

  She looked up excitedly. "You're a genius!"

  "I am?"

  Fifteen minutes later she had the list of serial numbers she needed. She gave half the numbers to Pete and took the other half to her desk, trying not to get her hopes up.

  She called information and got the numbers for the camera manufacturers, then dialed the first one. After she explained that she needed to verify the name and address of the owner, the person on the other end typed in the number.

  "It belongs to a Richard P. Franklin. . . ."

  Jennifer hung up and tried the next one. Then the next. On her fourth call, however, a different name was offered.

  "The camera is registered to Robert Bonham of Boston, Massachusetts. Do you need the address?"

  Jennifer's hands were shaking as she jotted down the information.

  Morrison looked it over. "How certain are you that this is him?"

  "The name was listed on four different pieces of equipment, and according to their records, it had never been reported as stolen. I'm willing to bet this is our guy."

  "What do you need from me?"

  "In case there's any problem with the Boston Police Department, I'd like you to get involved."

  Morrison nodded. "Done."

  Jennifer didn't run into any problems. The first detective she reached was able to give her the information she needed.

  "Robert Bonham is wanted for questioning in the disappearance of his wife, Jessica Bonham, four years ago," he said.

  Knowing that staying in one place would arouse suspicion, Richard grabbed his things and moved from one bench to another.

  He wondered what she was doing inside, but then again, it didn't really matter. He'd learned long ago to be patient, and after glancing toward the windows, he raised the paper again. He'd read every article three or four times, some more than that. He knew when and where movies were playing, he knew that the community center was offering free computer classes for seniors, but the paper shielded his face from curious townspeople.

  He wasn't worried about being discovered; though he knew they were looking for him, no one would think to look for him here. Even if anyone did, between the newspaper and his altered
appearance, he was certain that no one would recognize him.

  His car was parked around the corner, in a grocery store parking lot, and he could get to it easily if he had to. It was, he knew, only a matter of time now.

  An hour later, with pages still coming through the fax machine from Boston regarding Jessica's disappearance, Jennifer sat at her desk, readying herself for the call she knew she had to make. After she'd dialed, a female voice picked up on the other end.

  "Hello?"

  "Is this Elaine Marshall?"

  "Yes? Who's this?"

  "This is Officer Jennifer Romanello. I'm calling from the Swansboro Police Department."

  "Swansboro?"

  "It's a small town in North Carolina," Jennifer said. "I was wondering if you had a moment to talk."

  "I don't know anyone in North Carolina."

  "I'm calling about your sister, Jessica," she said.

  There was a long silence on the other end.

  "Have you found her?" The voice was weak, as if expecting the worst.

  "I'm sorry, but no, we haven't. But I was wondering if there's anything you could tell me about Robert Bonham."

  At the sound of his name, Jennifer heard Elaine Marshall draw a sharp breath.

  "Why?"

  "Because right now, we're looking for him."

  "Because of Jessica?"

  Jennifer wondered how much to say. "No," she finally said. "He's wanted in connection with something else."

  There was another long pause.

  "He killed someone, didn't he?" Elaine Marshall said automatically. "In Swansboro."

  Jennifer hesitated. "Is there anything you can tell me about him?"

  "He's insane," she said. Her words were clipped, as if she were doing her best to stay in control. "Everyone was afraid of him, including Jessica. He's violent and dangerous . . . and he's smart. Jessica tried to get away from him once. He used to beat her. She went to the supermarket one night for groceries and we never saw her again. Everyone knew he did it, but they never found her."

  Elaine Marshall began to cry. "Oh, God . . . it's been so hard. . . . You can't imagine what it's like not to know . . . I mean, not to be certain . . . I know she's gone, but still, there's like a tiny spark that you hold on to. . . . You try to move on, but then something happens that makes it all real again. . . ."

  Jennifer listened to the sobbing on the other end. "What was he like in the beginning of their relationship?" she asked gently, after a moment.

  "Why does that matter? He did whatever you think he did. He's evil. . . ."

  "Please," Jennifer said. "We just want to catch him."

  "And you think this'll help? It won't. We've been looking for him for years. We hired private investigators, we made sure the police stayed on the case. . . ." Elaine Marshall trailed off.

  "He's here," Jennifer said. "And we want to make sure he doesn't get away. Now please. Can you tell me what was he like?"

  Elaine Marshall drew a deep breath, struggling to find the right words.

  "Oh, just like you'd expect-it's an old story, isn't it." She couldn't hide the sadness in her tone. "He was charming and handsome and pursued Jessica until she fell head over heels for him. He seemed nice at first, and we all liked him. They eloped after dating for six months, and after they were married, things changed. He got real possessive, and he didn't like it when Jessica called us. Pretty soon, she rarely left the house, but on the few occasions we did manage to see her, we saw bruises. Of course, we tried to talk some sense into her, but it took a long time before she listened to us."

  "When you say that Jessica ran away once . . ."

  "She finally accepted that she had to. For a couple of days, he acted as if nothing happened. He tried to get us to tell him where she went, but of course none of us would tell him anything. We knew what was going on by then. She went to Kansas City, a place where she could start over, but he hunted her down. I have no idea how he did it, but he found her and brought her back. And she stayed with him for a couple of weeks. I can't explain it, other than to say that he had this sort of power over her when they were together. I mean, her eyes were dead when you talked to her-like she knew she could never get away-but my mom and I went over to their house and finally dragged her out of there. She moved back in with our parents, and she was trying to get her life back together. She even seemed to be doing better after a while. And then one night, she went to the supermarket and we never saw her again."

  After hanging up, Jennifer sat at the desk, thinking about the phone call, the words still ringing in her ears.

  He hunted her down.

  Mabel got out of bed and showered. Despite her exhaustion, her worry about Mike and Julie had kept her from sleeping well. She had to talk to them in person, so they knew how serious this actually was. She grabbed her car keys and had headed out the door before she remembered what Julie had said in the salon right before she and Mike got in Emma's car.

  What if he follows us?

  Mabel froze in her driveway. What if Richard planned to follow her to the beach? What if he was watching now?

  The street was clear in either direction, but Mabel wasn't so sure.

  Nor was she willing to take the chance.

  She turned around and headed back inside.

  After sorting through the information on Robert Bonham and making a few more calls-including a second call to Elaine Marshall-Jennifer condensed the information into a couple of pages. She talked to Pete about what she wanted to do, then together they went in to see Morrison.

  He looked up as Jennifer slid the pages toward him and took a moment to peruse them. When he finished, he met her eyes.

  "You're sure about all this?"

  "Pretty sure. We still have some calls to make, but we've verified everything that you see."

  Morrison leaned back in his chair. He sat quietly for a moment, trying to absorb the seriousness of the situation.

  "What do you want to do?"

  Jennifer cleared her throat. "Until we find him, I think it's best if Pete stays out at the beach house with Mike and Julie. I don't see that we have another choice. If what we learned is true, you know what he's capable of doing, and what he's likely to do next."

  Morrison fixed her with a steady gaze. "Do you think they'll agree to something like this?"

  "Yes," Jennifer said. "I'm sure of it. Once they know what they're up against, I mean."

  "Are you going to call them?"

  "No. I think it would be best if we talked to Julie in person."

  Morrison nodded. "If she agrees, I'll authorize it."

  A few minutes later, Jennifer and Pete got in the car.

  Neither one of them noticed the stolen Trans Am when it pulled into traffic behind them.

  Thirty-nine

  "His name is Robert Bonham," Jennifer began. "The real Richard Franklin has been missing for three years."

  "I don't understand," Julie said.

  They were in the kitchen of Henry's beach house. Mike and Julie sat at the table; Pete, firmly settling into the position of the silent cop, leaned against the counter.

  Mike reached for Julie's hand and squeezed it.

  Jennifer knew she had to start at the beginning, since neither Mike nor Julie knew anything about the investigation. Going step by step would keep the questions to a minimum; it would also allow her to explain the gravity of the situation.

  "How is that possible?" Mike asked.

  "The real Richard Franklin wasn't married, and aside from his mother-who passed away in a nursing home last year-there was no one to notice if his Social Security number was back in use. And because he was considered missing-not deceased-there was nothing to raise any alarms."

  Mike stared at her. "You think Robert Bonham killed him." It was more a statement than a question.

  Jennifer paused. "Based on everything else we've learned about him? Yes, it seems likely."

  "Jesus . . ."

  Julie looked out the window, suddenl
y numb. On the beach, she saw an elderly couple stop in front of the house. The man bent over and picked up a seashell, then put it in a plastic pail before moving on.

  "So who's Robert Bonham?" she asked. "And how do you know that's his real name?"

  "We know his name from the serial numbers in the cameras. He'd registered them years ago. It was the only link to his past, but once we knew his name and where he was from, we were able to learn the rest fairly easily." Jennifer glanced at her notes. "He was raised outside Boston as an only child. His father was an alcoholic who worked at a chemical plant, his mother was a homemaker. There was more than one allegation of abuse in the home-the police had investigated half a dozen incidents over the years-until his father passed away." After explaining the circumstances behind his father's death, Jennifer tapped the file. "I talked to one of the officers in that case. He's retired now, but he remembered it well. He said that nobody believed Vernon Bonham had committed suicide, but because they couldn't prove anything-and knew Vernon wasn't exactly the model husband and father-they let it go. But he suspected the kid had closed the garage door and turned the engine back on after Vernon had passed out."

  As she listened, Julie felt her stomach doing flip-flops. "And the mother?" she whispered.

  "Died of a drug overdose less than a year later. Again, it was ruled a suicide."

  Jennifer let the unspoken accusation hang for a moment before she went on.

  "He spent the next few years in foster care, moving from one home to the next, never staying in one place too long. His juvenile records are sealed, so we can't say what else he may have done in his teens, but in college, he was suspected in the assault and battery of his former roommate. The roommate had accused him of stealing money, and Robert denied it. A few months later, the roommate was beaten with a golf club after leaving his girlfriend's place, and spent three weeks in the hospital. Though he accused Robert Bonham of it, there wasn't enough evidence to arrest him. A year later, Robert graduated with a degree in engineering."

  "They let him stay in school?" Mike asked.

  "I'm not sure they had a choice, since nothing ever went to trial." She paused. "After that, there's no record for a few years. Either he moved to another state, or stayed out of trouble, we don't know yet. The next bit of information we have comes from 1994, when he married Jessica."