Page 44 of The Guardian

Jennifer moved forward, passing through what was once a breakfast nook. It was surprisingly bright in this room, the morning sun riding high on the glass and sending streams of gold across the floor. A richly patterned wallpaper, light yellow and hinting of flowers, and oak crown molding gave the room a sense of richness. The table was simple, the chairs surrounding it pushed in neatly.

She moved into the living room, thinking again that there was nothing out of the ordinary. The furniture was plain, and nothing was out of place. Yet . . .

It took a moment before she realized what was wrong.

There's nothing personal here, she thought. Nothing at all. No photographs or paintings on the walls, no magazines, no newspapers stacked on the end table, no plants. No stereo system or compact discs, no television.

Just a couch, end tables, and lamps.

Jennifer looked up the stairs. Behind her, Pete came in, his gun drawn.

"Kind of empty, huh?" he offered.

"I'm going up," she said.

Pete followed her. At the top, they peeked down the hallway before starting toward the right. Opening the door, they found the darkroom and flicked the switch. Bathed by the reddish glow, Jennifer felt suddenly weak as she realized what Richard had been doing with his time since he'd quit work.

"Lord help us," was all she could say.

Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Richard slowed the car once he reached the major roads.

His heart was pounding, but he was free! Free! He'd escaped when escape seemed impossible, and he laughed aloud. He could still see the officers' faces as he tore down the driveway, and he was soaring.

Too bad that Pete Gandy had rolled out of the way. In his mind, he could imagine the delightful whump as the car crushed him, but alas, Pete would live to see another day.

He laughed again, exhilarated, and began to focus on his plan.

He had to ditch the car, but he wanted to put as much distance between Swansboro and himself as he could. He turned onto the highway that led to Jacksonville. There, he'd park the car where it wouldn't be spotted right away, and he'd begin his search for Julie.

Jessica had tried to run once, too, he remembered, and she thought she'd been careful. She took a bus halfway across the country and hoped he would simply let her go. But he'd tracked her down, and when he opened the door to the run-down motel where she was staying and found her sitting on the bed, she wasn't even surprised to see him. She'd been expecting him, and by the end, the waiting had worn her down. She didn't even have the energy to cry. When he handed her the locket, she slipped it around her neck, as if knowing she had no choice.

He helped her up from the bed, ignoring the lethargy of her movements, and put his arms around her. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, as Jessica's arms hung by her side.

You didn't think I'd let you go that easily, did you? he whispered.

Please, she whispered.

Say it.

Jessica's words came out raggedly. No, you couldn't let me go.

You were wrong to run, weren't you?

Jessica began to cry, as if finally recognizing what was to come.

Oh . . . please . . . don't hurt me . . . please, not again. . . .

But you tried to run away, he said. That hurt me, Jessica.

Oh . . . God . . . please . . . no . . .

Standing in the doorway of the darkroom, Pete Gandy blinked a few times, his head turning from side to side as he tried to take it all in.

Taped to the walls were hundreds of photographs of Julie. Julie leaving the salon and getting into her car, Julie in the woods taking Singer for a walk, Julie at dinner, Julie in the supermarket, Julie on the back porch, Julie reading the morning newspaper, Julie getting the mail. Julie on the beach. Julie on the street. Julie in her bedroom.

Julie everywhere she'd been over the last month.

Jennifer felt something collapse inside her. Even she hadn't expected this. She wanted to stay longer, she knew it was important to check the rest of the house for obvious signs that Andrea had been here. Pete was still frozen in place.

"I can't believe this guy," he whispered as she brushed past him. In the second bedroom, Jennifer found Richard's workout equipment. He'd hung a mirror in there, surrounded by more pictures. Jennifer moved to the final door, which she assumed was his bedroom. Though she wasn't sure her actions were legal, she decided to poke around while she waited for backup to arrive.

Pushing open the door, she saw a beat-up chest of drawers that looked as if it might have been left behind by whoever had lived here before. In the closet, she found Richard's suits, hanging neatly. Against the wall, she saw the hamper; a phone sat on the floor near the head of the bed.

But it was the photo on the bedstand that held her attention.

At first, she thought it was Julie. The hair was the same, and her eyes were a similar mixture of blue and green; yet it wasn't Julie, Jennifer realized after a moment, just someone who closely resembled her. Holding a rose to her cheek, the woman in the photograph was younger than Julie by a few years, her smile almost childlike.

It was as she reached for the frame that she noticed the locket around the woman's neck. The same locket that Julie had shown her in the kitchen.

The same. . . .

Her foot hit something; whatever it was felt heavy, though it shifted slightly. Looking down, she saw the corner of a briefcase poking out from beneath the bed.

She slid it out and set it on the bed.

Inside were dozens of pictures of the woman in the frame, and she started sorting through them.

Pete came in behind her. "What is it?" he asked.

Jennifer shook her head.

"More photographs," she said.

"Of Julie?"

"No," Jennifer said, turning toward him. "I don't know for sure, but I think it's probably Jessica."

Thirty-five

Within forty minutes, Richard Franklin's home was crowded with Swansboro police officers and Onslow County sheriffs. The forensics team from Jacksonville was inside collecting fingerprints and looking for evidence of Andrea's presence.

Jennifer and Pete were standing outside the home with their captain, Russell Morrison-a gruff bulldozer of a man with thinning gray hair and eyes set too close together. He had them repeat their story twice, then listened as Jennifer filled him in on what she'd already learned.

When she finished, Morrison just kept shaking his head. He'd been born and raised in Swansboro and regarded himself as its protector; the night before, he'd been one of the first to arrive at the scene where Andrea had been found, even though he'd been sound asleep when he'd received the call at home.

"This is the same guy that Mike Harris assaulted in the bar? The one she claimed was stalking her?"

"Yes," Jennifer said.

"But you don't have any concrete evidence linking him to this crime?"

"Not yet."

"Have you talked to Andrea's neighbors to see if they've seen him around?"

"No. We came here right after the salon."

Russell Morrison considered what he'd been told.

"Just because he ran doesn't mean he's the one who assaulted Andrea. Neither does anything you've learned about him."

"But-"

Morrison held up his hands to cut her off. "I'm not saying I think he's innocent. Hell, he tried to kill an officer, and that doesn't happen on my watch." He glanced at Pete. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. Pissed off, but I'm okay."

"Good. You're the lead on this investigation, but I'm going to put everyone on it."

Pete nodded as they were interrupted by a shout from Fred Burris, one of the officers who'd been in the house. He was approaching them rapidly.

"Captain?" he called out.

Morrison turned toward him. "Yeah?"

"I think we've got something," he announced.

"What is it?"

"Blood," he said simply.

Henry's bea

ch house was on Topsail Island, a slit of land half a mile offshore, about forty minutes from Swansboro. Covered by rolling dunes speckled with sawgrass and white sand, the island was popular with families during the summer, though few people lived there year-round. During spring, visitors seemed to have the island all to themselves.

Like all homes there, the main floor of the house had been built above the garage and storage areas due to storm surges. Steps led from the back porch to the beach, and the windows along the back of the house offered an unobstructed view of the waves as they rolled in.

Julie stood at the window, staring at their ceaseless motion.

Even here, it was impossible for her to relax. Or feel safe.

She and Mike had stopped at the grocery store along the way, buying enough food to last them a week; then they swung by Wal-Mart to grab enough basic clothing to get them through the next few days. Neither of them had any idea how long they would be here, and she didn't want to go out in public unless she had to.

The drapes were drawn on every window but this one; Mike had parked Emma's car in the garage so it couldn't be seen from the road. As they were driving, he had taken Henry's advice and exited the highway three times, circling through neighborhood streets, constantly checking the rearview mirror. No one had followed them; they were sure of that. Still, Julie couldn't shake the feeling that Richard would somehow find her.

Behind her, Mike was putting the groceries away, and Julie could hear the sound of cabinets as they were opened and closed.

"Maybe they've already caught him," Mike offered.

Julie said nothing. Singer moved beside her and nuzzled her hip. Julie's hand went automatically to his head.

"You okay?"

"No," she said, "not really."

Mike nodded. Stupid question.

"I hope Andrea's okay," he said.

When she didn't respond, Mike looked up. "We're safe here," he said. "You know that, right? There's no way he could know we're here."

"I know."

But she wasn't so sure, and her fear was so strong that she found herself instinctively backing away from the window. At her movement, Singer's ears rose to attention.

"What is it?" Mike asked.

Julie shook her head. On the beach, she could see two couples walking near the water's edge, headed in opposite directions. Both had walked by the house without a glance only minutes before. There was no one else out there.

"Nothing," she finally said.

"It's a beautiful view, isn't it?"

Julie lowered her gaze. To be honest, she hadn't noticed.

Morrison huddled with the officers outside Richard's house as he took charge, outlining what was happening and what he wanted done.

"Jacksonville police and the sheriff's department are looking for the car now to see if we can find this guy," he said, "but in the meantime, this is what I need you to do."

He pointed from one man to the next as he spoke.

"Haroldson and Teeter-I need you to head down to the bridge and talk to anyone on the crew who might know some of this guy's hangouts. Where he goes, who his friends are, what he likes to do. . . .

"Thomas-I need you to stay here while forensics gathers the evidence. Make sure they tag and bag everything. . . . This one has to go by the book. . . .

"Burris-I want you to go to Andrea's apartment and talk to the neighbors. I want to know if anyone else has seen this guy at her place. . . .

"Johnson-likewise for you. I need you to head to Morehead City to find out if anyone else can verify that Andrea and Richard Franklin were together. . . .

"Puck-I need you to find out who else Andrea has been seeing who might have done this. It's probable that we have the guy already, but you know how defense attorneys are. We have to look into every possible suspect. . . ."

He turned to Jennifer and Pete. "And you two-I want you to find out everything we can about this guy. Everything. And see what you can learn about Jessica, too. I want to talk to her if we can."

"What about the subpoena for J. D. Blanchard?" Jennifer asked.

Morrison met her eyes. "Let me handle that."

Like Julie and Mike, Richard Franklin stopped at the store. After pulling his car into the rear corner parking lot of the hospital-where it wouldn't draw attention by remaining parked in the same spot for a few days-he grabbed the bags from the store and walked down the block before heading into a gas station rest room. He locked the door behind him. Staring into the grimy mirror above the sink, he became his methodical self again.

In the plastic bags were items necessary for the change he'd gone through once before: a razor, scissors, hair coloring, tanning cream, and a pair of inexpensive reading glasses. Not much, but enough to alter his appearance from a distance; enough to hide in plain view for the short term. Enough to find her.

There was, however, the problem of where she'd gone. And she was gone; of that he was now certain. No one had answered the phone at the salon, and when he'd called the garage, one of Henry's flunkies had said that Mike had left as well.

So she'd run, but where? Richard smiled, knowing he'd have the answer soon. Even when people tried to be careful, they made mistakes. And her mistake, he was certain, came down to this: Someone knew exactly where she was.

Henry or Emma or Mabel probably knew. And the police would know as well. They'd want to talk to her, to tell her what they'd learned, to keep their eye on her.

One of these people, he was certain, would lead him to her doorstep.

He whistled softly under his breath as he began to alter his appearance. Thirty minutes later he emerged into the sunlight, blonder, tanner, wearing glasses, and without a mustache. A new man.

All that's left is to find another car, he thought. He headed down the street, toward the mall across from the hospital.

Back at the station, Jennifer's first call was to the Denver Police Department, where she was passed from person to person until finally reaching Detective Cohen. She told him who she was and about the investigation; as she spoke, she heard the detective whistle under his breath.

"Yeah," he said, "I'll see what I can do. I'm not at my desk, so let me call you back in a few minutes."

After hanging up, she glanced at Pete. He was on the phone to various airlines in the Jacksonville, Raleigh, and Wilmington airports, trying to find out if Richard had indeed traveled out of town when he had told Julie he was at his mother's funeral. If so, they wanted to know where he'd gone, in the hope it would lead them to someone who could tell them about him.

Morrison was in his office, serving as the hub as information came in from the other officers. Thomas had called a few minutes earlier; he'd said that the forensics team had found evidence of semen stains on the sheets, and they were scouring the bed for additional evidence.

When Cohen called back, Jennifer picked up on the first ring.

"We've got information on a few Richard Franklins," he said. "It's not an unusual name, so more than one popped up in the system. Tell me about him."

Jennifer gave him a brief description-height and weight, hair color and eyes, approximate age, race.

"Okay, give me a just a second."

On the phone, she could hear him tapping information into the computer.

"Huh," he finally said.

"What?"

He hesitated. "I don't think we have any information for you."

"Nothing? Not even an arrest?"

"Not based on what you told me. We have records of seven individuals with the name Richard Franklin. Four of those are African Americans, one is deceased, one is in his sixties."

"What about the last one?"

"A typical druggie. He's about the same age as your guy, but nothing else about him matches up. There's not a chance he could pass for an engineer, even for a day. He's been in and out of prison for the last twenty years. And from our records, he never lived at the address you listed."

"Is there anything else? Can you track county recor

ds? Or maybe records from other cities?"

"It's all in here," Cohen said, sounding as disappointed as she did. "The system was just updated a couple of years ago. We have information on anyone arrested in the state going back to 1977. If he'd been arrested anywhere in the state of Colorado, we'd know it."

Jennifer tapped her pencil on the pad. "Could you fax me a photograph of the last guy, anyway? Or attach it to an e-mail?"

"Sure. But I don't think he's your guy," Cohen said, his tone dropping slightly. He paused. "Look-if you need anything else, let me know. Sounds like a pretty bad guy. Not the kind we want walking around in public."

After hanging up the phone, Jennifer placed a call to the Columbus Police Department, hoping for better luck.

Mabel had left the salon that morning and driven to the hospital. Now she was sitting beside Andrea in the intensive care unit, holding her hand and hoping that Andrea would somehow know she was there.

"You're going to be okay, sweetheart," she whispered almost to herself. "Your mom and dad are going to be here soon."

The heart monitor beeped steadily in response, and Mabel eyed the phone.

She wished she knew what was going on with the investigation. For a moment, she considered calling Pete Gandy to find out. But she was still so mad at him for letting this go on as long as it had that she didn't think she could do so without screaming at him. Mike had been right. All he'd had to do was listen to Julie and none of this would have happened. Why had that been so hard? How on earth had he ever passed training?

Mabel heard the sound of footsteps approaching and looked up to see the nurse. She'd been checking in every twenty minutes to monitor any changes.

The first twenty-four hours were critical, the doctor had said. If Andrea was going to come out of a coma without brain damage, more than likely she'd show some improvement by then.

Mabel's throat tightened as she watched the nurse in action, checking vital signs and scribbling notes.

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