He took a step.
Then another.
Julie swung wildly, hitting Richard on the chest and on the face. He pulled her hair again, making her scream.
"Why do you keep fighting me?" Richard asked, his voice and expression calm, as if trying to reason with a wayward child. "Don't you understand that it's over? There's just the two of us now. There's no reason for you to act this way."
"Let me go!" she screamed. "Stay away from me."
"Think of all we can do together," he said. "We're two of a kind, you know. Survivors."
"We'll do nothing together!" she screamed. "I hate you!"
He pulled savagely on her hair again, bringing her to her knees. "Don't say that."
"I hate you!" she screamed again.
"I'm serious," he said, his voice lower, more ominous. "I know you're upset, but I don't want to hurt you, Jessica."
"I'm not Jessica!" she screamed.
Halfway up, Mike fell to his knees but dragged himself forward. With one hand holding his stomach, he reached for the railing and pulled himself up.
He was nearing the top now and could see Pete, facedown on the deck, blood pooling around his head.
Another couple of steps and he reached the deck, making his way to the door. Without the railing he was off balance, but he kept his eyes focused on the door, concentrating on what he had to do.
Richard stared at her, his expression curious, as if he didn't know what she meant. He blinked, and his head began tilting to the side, like a child first studying his reflection in a mirror.
"What did you say?"
"I'm not Jessica!" she screamed again.
Richard's free hand went behind his back; a moment later, she saw the gun.
Mike reached the knob and turned it, feeling disembodied as the door swung open.
The phone, he thought. Have to get to the phone before it's too late.
That was when he heard something crash through the front door. Raising his eyes, he suddenly felt a surge of relief.
"Julie needs help," he rasped out. "Down the beach. . . ."
Shocked by Mike's condition, Jennifer quickly moved to his side and helped him to the chair. Then she grabbed the phone and dialed the emergency number. When it began ringing, she handed him the phone.
"Get an ambulance!" she said. "Can you do that?"
Mike nodded, breathing hard as he raised the phone to his ear. "Pete . . . outside . . ."
Jennifer surged toward the door as she heard Mike requesting an ambulance. On the deck, she first believed that Pete was dead. Blood was pouring from his head, but as she bent over to check on him, he moved his arm and moaned.
"Don't move," she said. "Ambulance is on the way."
She raised her eyes to the stairs. A moment later, she was charging down the steps.
Richard put the gun to her temple, and Julie instinctively stopped moving. Gone was the calm expression on his face; reality seemed to have deserted him. She could see it in the way he looked at her, in the rasping sound he made as he drew a breath.
"I love you," he repeated. "I've always loved you."
Don't move, she thought. If you do, he'll kill you.
"But you're not giving me a chance to show you." He pulled her by the hair, moving her ear closer to his mouth.
"Say it. Say you love me."
Julie said nothing.
"Say it!" he screamed, and Julie flinched at the fury in his tone. It sounded raw, almost feral. She could feel the heat of his breath on the side of her face.
"I gave you a chance, and I even forgave you for what you've done to me! For what you forced me to do. Now say it!"
The fear was in her chest now, in her throat, in her limbs.
"I love you," she whimpered, on the verge of tears.
"Say it so I can hear it. Like you mean it."
Beginning to cry. "I love you."
"Again."
Crying harder. "I love you."
"Say you want to come with me."
"I want to come with you."
"Because you love me."
"Because I love you."
And like a dream, from the corner of her eye she saw a vision cresting over the dune, her guardian charging through the darkness.
As the vision before her eyes took shape, Julie watched as Singer launched himself at Richard, snarling, his jaw clamping down on the arm holding the gun.
Singer didn't let go, and both Julie and Richard toppled to the side, Richard jerking at his arm, trying to free himself. Singer was tugging and shaking his head, giving it everything he had as Richard began to scream, the gun tumbling from his hand.
He was on his back now, fighting to keep Singer from his throat.
His face contorting, Richard held back Singer with one hand and began reaching for the gun. The dog didn't stop his attack, but Julie screamed, and it was the sound that gave her the strength to get up and move.
She scrambled up, knowing she didn't have much time.
Behind her, Richard's fingers curled around the handle of the gun.
It was the sound of the gun going off that made Julie suddenly freeze again. Singer yelped, his cry long and drawn out.
"Singer!" Julie screamed. "Oh, God . . . noooo!"
Another shot and another yelp, this time weaker. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Richard maneuver Singer's body off him and get to his feet.
Julie began to tremble uncontrollably.
Singer was on his side, struggling now to get up, growling and crying at the same time, writhing in pain, blood gushing onto the sand.
In the distance came the sound of sirens.
"We have to go now," Richard said. "We're almost out of time."
But all Julie could do was stare at Singer.
"Now!" Richard boomed. He grabbed her by the hair again and tugged. Julie fought him, kicking and screaming, when a voice called out from the top of the dune.
"Freeze!"
Richard and Julie saw Officer Jennifer Romanello at the same time. Richard pointed the gun toward her and fired wildly; a moment later, a choked sigh escaped him. There was a sharp, burning pain in his chest, a sound like a freight train in his ears. Suddenly the gun in his hand seemed ridiculously heavy. He fired again, missed, and felt another burning sensation in his throat, forcing him backward. He felt the blood pooling in his lungs, hearing the gurgle as he tried to draw a breath. He couldn't swallow, the sticky fluid making it impossible. He wanted to cough it up, to spit it in the officer's direction, but his strength was fading quickly. The gun slipped from his hands, and he dropped to his knees, his mind slowing. All he'd wanted for Julie was happiness, their happiness. The shapes around him were growing darker, dimming by the second. He turned toward Julie and tried to speak, but his mouth couldn't form the words.
But still, he clung to his dream, his dream of a life with Julie, the woman he loved. Julie, he thought, my sweet Jessica . . .
Richard fell forward into the sand.
Julie stared at his body, then turned toward Singer.
He was on his side, panting hard, his mouth hanging open. Julie went to him, bending down, struggling to see him through her tears.
He whimpered as she laid her hand on his head, and his tongue flicked at it.
"Oh . . . baby," she wept.
He was bleeding from two deep wounds, the blood soaking into the sand beneath him. Shaking, Julie put her head on his body and Singer whimpered again. His eyes were wide and scared, and when he tried to lift his head, he yelped, the sound nearly breaking her heart.
"Don't move . . . I'll get you to the vet, okay?"
She could feel his breath on her skin, rapid and shallow. He licked her again, and she kissed him.
"You're so good, sweetie. You were so brave . . . so brave . . ."
His eyes were on her. He whimpered again, and Julie stifled her cry.
"I love you, Singer," she murmured as the muscles in his body began to relax.
"It's okay, sweethear
t. No more fighting. I'm safe now, you can go to sleep. . . ."
Epilogue
Julie went into the bedroom while Mike was cooking in the kitchen, the smell of spaghetti sauce filling the house. She flicked on the light.
Almost two months had passed since that awful night on the beach. Though she remembered everything that happened there, what happened later was a blur, a jumble of events that ran together. She remembered Jennifer Romanello helping her back to the house, she remembered the paramedics working on Mike and Pete, and she remembered the house filling slowly with people; after that everything went hazy, then black.
She woke up in the hospital. Pete was there as well, and Mike was in another room just down the hall. Pete was up and around in a few days, but Mike was in critical condition for a week. Once his condition stabilized and he began to improve, he stayed in the hospital for another three weeks. The entire time, Julie camped out in a chair by his bed, holding his hand, whispering to him even when he slept.
The police had more questions and also more information about Richard's past, but she found she didn't care about any of it. Richard Franklin was dead-in her mind, he would never be remembered as Robert Bonham-and that's all that mattered.
And so, of course, was Singer.
Later, she'd been told by the veterinarian that he'd been given rat poison, enough to kill six dogs within minutes. "I don't understand it," Linda Patinson told Julie. "It was a miracle he was able to move at all, let alone fight with a grown man."
But he had, Julie thought. And he saved me.
On the day they buried Singer in Julie's backyard, a warm, soft rain fell around the small group of people who gathered to say good-bye to the Great Dane who had been Julie's companion in life and, at the end, her guardian.
Once Mike was out of the hospital, the next few weeks passed in a daze. For the most part, he had moved in. Though he still kept his apartment, he hadn't stayed there since before they'd gone to the beach house, and Julie was grateful. He had a way of knowing whether she needed to be held or wanted to be alone.
But nothing seemed right anymore; the house was too empty, leftovers were tossed in the garbage, nothing snuggled against her feet. There were times it seemed as if Singer were still around, though. From the corner of her eye, she sometimes saw movement. It was clear whenever it happened, but when she turned to see what had caused it, there was nothing at all. One time, she smelled an odor that was undeniably him. It smelled as if he were sitting beside her after playing in the ocean-but when she rose from the couch in search of the source, the odor simply vanished. And once, late at night, she felt the urge to get up and go to the living room. Though the house was dark, she heard him drinking from the water bowl in the kitchen. The sound made her freeze and her heart sped up, but again, the sound simply died away.
One night, she dreamed of both Jim and Singer. They were walking together in an open field, their backs to her, as she was running and trying to catch them. In her dream, she called to them both, and they stopped and turned around. Jim smiled; Singer barked. She wanted to go to them, but she couldn't seem to move. They stared at her with the same tilt of their heads, the same looks in their eyes, the same glow behind them. Jim put his hand on Singer's back, and Singer barked again happily, as if letting her know this was the way it was meant to be. Instead of coming toward her, they turned again and she watched them go, the outlines of their images fading slowly into one.
When she woke, she picked up her bedside picture of Singer, missing him. Her heart still ached when she looked at it, though it no longer made her cry. In the back of the frame, she'd tucked the letter that Jim had written, and now she slipped it out.
As the morning sun warmed the windows, she read it again, her eyes slowing as she reached the final paragraph.
And don't worry. From wherever I am, I'll watch out for you. I'll be your guardian angel, sweetheart. You can count on me to keep you safe.
Julie looked up, her eyes moist. Yes, she thought, you did.
Author's Note
The genesis of a novel is always a tricky process. Often it begins with a vague idea, or in my case, a theme, and for this novel, I chose the theme of love and danger. In other words, I wanted to write a story in which two believable characters fall in love, but I wanted to add elements of suspense and peril that would ultimately put both characters in jeopardy. I can't remember where I was when I made the decision to attempt such a story, but I do remember thinking that I was going to enjoy the process of trying to write a type of novel that I hadn't written before.
Boy, was I ever wrong.
Well, let me rephrase that. While I did enjoy the process of writing the novel, the editing required was far and away the most difficult I've ever had to do. From first to final draft, the novel went through eight major revisions until my editor and I were finally satisfied that the novel accomplished what it set out to do; that is, be a love story first and foremost, and secondly-in a way that sneaks up on the reader-a compelling thriller.
In the course of my life, I've probably read a couple of thousand thrillers, and though many of them had characters fall in love within the story, I can't remember reading one where the thriller element was secondary to the relationship. The reason for this is simple-the scarier something is, the more it dominates the story. The challenge with The Guardian, then, was to find the right balance between the two elements and to pace the story accordingly, so that the reader never lost sight of what the novel really was-a love story between two regular people who find that they've crossed paths with the wrong sort of person. Though it sounds easy, on my end it made for many sleepless nights.
I've also always wanted to write a story that included a dog. Whether it was Old Yeller by Fred Gipson, Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls, To Dance with the White Dog by Terry Kay, or My Dog Skip by Willie Morris, I've always loved stories with dogs, and I thought that it might be nice to include a dog in this particular novel. I'm indebted to those authors for their work and the hours of enjoyment those books gave me. There was also a touching story entitled "Delayed Delivery" by Cathy Miller in Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul (edited by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Marty Becker, and Carol Kline, HCI publishers) that inspired the prologue of The Guardian, and I'd like to thank her-and the editors-for bringing a tear to my eye.
Special eBook Feature:
Excerpts of
Nicholas Sparks
for
Notes on Nights in Rodanthe
The Challenge of A Bend in the Road
Inspiration for The Rescue
Notes on
Nights in Rodanthe by Nicholas Sparks
Nights in Rodanthe, unlike my previous novels, was not inspired by specific events within my own family. Rather, it is a story of two characters that were drawn from many of the people I've met in my life, and in many ways, these characters are the most unique, yet universal characters I've included within a novel.
Adrienne Willis is forty-five, a divorced mother of three, whose husband left her for a younger woman. Paul Flanner, at fifty-two, is a successful surgeon who lived a life devoted to his work. Because both the characters are older than my typical characters, Noah and Allie, in the final third of The Notebook, notwithstanding-they are facing dilemmas that are different than any dilemmas I've written about in the past. There are children and elderly parents to worry about, both of which add a different type of challenge to the relationship as it unfolds. At the same time, both have reached that point in time where they seem to realize that although that not all of their dreams for their own lives have come true. In the course of writing, I grew to care deeply about both characters.
Nights in Rodanthe is probably the most romantic of the novels I've written to this point. From the setting to the characters, the story was written to show how people can fall in love at any age, and often when they least expect it.
The Challenge of
A Bend in the Road by Nicholas Sparks
&
nbsp; A Bend in the Road was a challenging story to conceive and a difficult story to write, though in all honesty, the reasons had more to do with events in my own life than the process of putting the words down on paper. Originally, I'd intended to start my writing new novel in January, 2000, but there were two major events that made work of any kind difficult.
First, my third son was born on January 11th; within days of that event, I learned that my younger sister, who'd been battling cancer for years, had just been given a few months to live. I live in North Carolina and my sister lives in California and I wanted to spend as much time with her as I could; I also wanted to bond with my new child and the push and pull, the wonder of life and tragedy of death, made concentration of any kind difficult. Every ninth day, I flew to California to stay with my sister for four days, and those trips continued through the end of May when she finally passed away. My sister, for those who don't know, was the inspiration for Jamie Sullivan in A Walk to Remember, and she was not only a sibling, but along with my wife and brother, my best friend as well. Her loss, along with the death of both my parents, were without a doubt the most difficult things I've been through.
Despite the travel, despite the stress and lack of sleep due to the new baby, I nonetheless did try to write. I wrote half a novel in those six months, though I realized that the story simply wasn't working. My deadline was in January which gave me six months to write an entirely new story, and my editor came down to help me conceive of something that might work.
Knowing that all of my novels have come from family events, my editor suggested we start there and because my brother-in-law was on my mind, the first character became a young widower who had to raise a child on his own. This was Miles Ryan, and from there, I was able to pin down a plot that I thought might work. The end result is A Bend in the Road, and in many ways, I think it's my best novel to date. It's both poignant and suspenseful, and I hope that those who read it will find it a story that moves them.