The Guardian

"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.