"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.
Forty-two
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.
Richard stared down at him, and Mike rolled away.
Need to get up . . . have to stand . . . have to warn Julie . . .
He knew Richard would be going after her, and he had to stop that from happening. He had to save Julie. He tried to override the pain, to figure out what to do next. . . . Another kick landed on his head.
He was on his stomach again, blood pumping out beneath him. Hand to his stomach, feeling his life drain away. "Julie!" he screamed, but the sound came out as a wheeze.
Dizzier . . . weaker . . . have to save her . . . have to protect her . . .
Another kick to his head, and then there was nothing.
Richard stood over Mike with eyes wide, breathing hard, energized as never before. His hands were tingling, his legs shaking, but the senses! Oh, they were so alive! It was as if he were experiencing a world he'd never known. Sight and sound were amplified, and he could feel the slightest movement of air over his skin. The effect was dizzying, intoxicating.
This was nothing like Pete. Or the real Richard Franklin. Or even Jessica. Jessica had fought, but not like this. Jessica had died at his hands, but there had been no sense of vanquishment, no victorious conquest. Just a sense of sorrow
that she had forced this upon herself.
No, tonight he felt triumphant, indefatigable, unbeatable. He was on a mission, and the gods were with him.
Ignoring the pain in his thumb, Richard turned and started down the beach. On his left, the dunes were covered with grass and pocket ivy; the waves continued their endless rolls. It was a beautiful night, he thought. In the shadows ahead, he could make out Julie's form, hovering over her dog. But the dog was either gone or would be soon. We'll be alone, he thought. No more complications. No one to stop us.
He began to walk more quickly, excited by the thought of seeing her. Julie, no doubt, would be frightened when she saw him. She'd probably react the way Jessica had when she'd found him waiting in her car that night outside the supermarket. He'd tried to explain himself to her, to make her understand, but she'd struggled and dug her nails into his skin, and he'd put his hands around her throat until her eyes rolled back in her head, watching and knowing that she had forced him to do it, forced him for her own selfish reasons to let their future slip away.
But he would treat Julie with the patience she deserved. He would talk to her in quiet tones, and once she really understood the nature of his love for her, once she realized that he'd done all this for her-for them-she would acquiesce. She'd probably still be upset about Singer, but eventually he would comfort her and she would see why he'd had no other choice.
He'd want to lead her to the bedroom afterward, but he knew there wasn't enough time for that. Later tonight, once they were safely away, they would stop at a motel and make love, and they would have a lifetime together to make up for what they'd missed.
"He's coming, baby," Julie whispered. "He'll be here soon and we'll take you to the doctor, okay?"
She could barely see Singer through her tears. He was worsening with every passing minute; he had closed his eyes, and though he was still breathing rapidly, he was wheezing and there was an almost high-pitched whistle, like air escaping through a tiny hole in an air mattress, that didn't sound natural at all. It wasn't just his legs that were quivering; now it was his entire body. Beneath her hand, she could feel his muscles growing tight, as if straining to fight off death.
Singer whimpered, and Julie heard the panic in her own voice. She was running both hands through his fur, aching with him, feeling as if it were happening to her.
"You can't leave me. Please . . ."
Inside, she was screaming at Pete and Mike to hurry up, that they were running out of time. Even though it had been only a couple of minutes, it seemed an eternity, and she knew that Singer wouldn't be able to keep fighting much longer.
"Singer . . . you can make it. . . . Don't give up. Please . . ."
She was just about to shout out for Pete and Mike when the words caught in her throat.
At first, she refused to believe what her eyes were seeing, and she tried to blink the image away. But when she looked again, she knew she wasn't wrong.
Though his hair was a different color, though he wore glasses and the mustache was gone, she recognized him immediately.
"Hello, Julie," Richard said.
Jennifer sped through traffic, whipping between cars, lights flashing.
With her eyes on the road, she gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her hands ached.
Ten minutes, she thought. All I need is ten more minutes.
Julie stared at Richard without breathing as everything clicked into place.
He was here. He's done something to Singer. He's done something to Pete. He's done something to Mike.
Oh, God . . .
Mike . . .
And now he was here for her.
He was walking slowly toward her.
"You . . . ," was all she could manage to say.
A brief smile flickered across his face. Of course, he seemed to say, who were you expecting? He stopped a few feet away, and after holding her gaze for a moment or two, his eyes drifted toward Singer.
"I'm sorry about Singer," he said, his voice low. "I know how much you cared for him."
He spoke as though he'd had nothing to do with it. A bereaved expression crossed his face, as if he were someone attending the funeral of a close friend.
Julie suddenly felt as if she were about to vomit, but she forced the bile back, trying to maintain some control. Trying to figure out what to do. Trying to understand what had happened to Mike.
Oh, God. Mike.
"Where's Mike?" she demanded, wanting to know but suddenly afraid to find out. It was all she could do to keep her voice steady.
Richard looked up, the same sad expression on his face. "That's over now," he said matter-of-factly.
His words carried an almost physical impact, and all at once she felt her hands begin to shake.
"What did you do to him?" she choked.
"It doesn't matter."
"What did you do!?" she screamed, unable to control herself. "Where is he?"
Richard took another step toward her, his voice still gentle. "I didn't have a choice, Julie. You know that. He was controlling you, and I couldn't let that continue. But you're safe now. I'll take care of you."
He took another step, and Julie suddenly slid back, away from Singer.
"He didn't love you, Julie," he said. "Not the way I do."
He's going to kill me, she thought. He killed Mike and Singer and Pete, and now he's going to kill me. Julie began to stand as Richard closed in, her terror building with each step he took. She could see it in his eyes, she could see exactly what he was going to do.
He's going to kill me, but he'll rape me first. . . .
The realization was almost disabling, but something inside her screamed, Run! and Julie reacted instinctively.
She bolted, not bothering to look back, her feet slipping in the sand as she charged down the beach.
Richard didn't try to stop her. Instead he smiled, knowing there was nowhere for her to go. She would tire herself out, he knew; her panic would undo her. Instead, he hooked the gun into his belt and began to jog after her, enough to keep her in sight and close the distance when the time was right.
Mike was drifting in and out of consciousness. Trapped somewhere between a world of reality and dreams, his mind was finally able to latch on to the fact that he was bleeding heavily.
And that Julie needed him. Trembling, he slowly began to rise.
Julie tried to keep up a fast pace as she ran toward the lights of the only beach house that seemed to be occupied. Her legs were growing weary, and she began to feel as though she were running in place. The lights looked close, but she couldn't seem to reach them.
No, she said to herself, no! He won't catch me. I'll make it, and they'll help me. I'll scream for help and they'll call the police and . . .
But her legs . . . her lungs were burning . . . the pounding of her heart . . .
Only terror kept her moving.
Running as hard as she could, she stole a glance over her shoulder.
Despite the darkness, she could see Richard closing in on her.
I'm not going to make it, she suddenly realized.
She was stumbling now. Her calves were cramping. It was all she could do to keep upright.
And still he was coming. . . .
Where is everyone? she wanted to scream. Help me!
She knew with cold certainty that the sound of the waves would swallow her screams. Another few steps and she looked behind her again. Closer.
She could hear his footsteps now.
But I can't keep going. . . .
She veered toward the dunes, hoping that on the other side there might be a place to hide.
Richard could see her hair rippling out behind her. He was close now, close enough to try to reach for it.
Almost there, he thought, when suddenly she turned and began to charge up the dunes. Off balance, Richard stumbled slightly but was soon on the chase again. He laughed aloud.
Such spirit! Such effort! She was every bit his equal. He almost clapped his
hands in delight.
Julie could see a house towering behind the dunes, though climbing up the sand was almost too much for her; feet slipping, she had to use her hands for balance, and by the time she reached the top, her legs were buckling.
For a moment, she registered the home itself; built on pilings, it had room for cars to be parked beneath it, but little cover. The house next to it, however, was more heavily landscaped, and she turned that way.
That was when she felt Richard snare her feet like a football player making an open field tackle. Losing her balance, she tumbled down the far side of the dunes.
When Richard reached her, he bent over and took her by the arm, helping her to her feet.
"You really are a prize," he said, grinning as he caught his breath. "I've known it from the moment we met."
Julie flailed in his grasp and felt his fingers dig into her arm. She struggled harder.
"Don't be this way, Julie," he said. "Can't you see this was always how it was going to turn out?"
Julie jerked her arm. "Let me go!" she screamed.
Richard tightened his grip, making her wince. He broke into an amused grin, as if asking, See how pointless this is?
"We should probably be going," he suggested calmly.
"I'm not going anywhere with you!"
She jerked again, finally breaking free from his grasp, but as she moved away from him, she felt him push her from behind, sending her to the ground again.
Staring down at her, he shook his head slightly.
"You okay?" he asked. "I'm sorry I had to do that, but we need to talk."
Talk? He wanted to talk?
Screw you, she thought. And screw this.
As soon as he began moving toward her, Julie got to her feet and tried to run, but Richard suddenly reached for her hair and jerked it hard.
She heard him give a bewildered laugh.
"Why are you making this so hard?" he asked.
On the beach, Mike was trying to stand, reaching for the stairs, fighting nausea as the pain shot through him, his thoughts random and fragmented—
Getting up . . . have to call the police . . . help Julie . . . but the pain . . . shot . . . pain . . . where am I . . . that steady roar . . . again and again . . . pain . . . coming in waves . . . waves . . . the ocean . . . Julie . . . have to help her . . .
The Guardian Page 37