James Patterson - Lifeguard

“Hey, Dave!” I yelled.

I noticed a book opened on the couch. An art book. I turned it over: The Paintings of van Gogh . Unless Philly had somehow elevated his reading material since I’d been away, I figured Dave had brought it. There was a stamp on the inside flap from the Boston College library. He had said he had something to show me on Gachet.

“Davey, where the hell are you, man?”

I plopped down on the couch and flipped the book open to a page that had been marked by a yellow Post-it sticker.

There was a portrait of an old man leaning on his fist, wearing a white cap, with a melancholy look, piercing blue eyes. Those identifiable van Gogh swirls brilliant in the background.

My eyes focused on the text.

Portrait of Dr. Gachet .

I stared closer, my eyes magnetized to the small print.

Portrait of Dr. Gachet. 1890 .

I felt a surge of excitement. The painting was done over a hundred years ago. Anyone could be using the name. But suddenly I had hope. Gachet was real! Maybe Ellie Shurtleff would know.

“Dave!” I called, louder. I looked up the stairs to the main floor.

Then I noticed the light in the bathroom, the door slightly ajar.

“Jesus, Dave, you in there?” I went over and rapped on the door. The force of my knock edged it open.

All I remember for the next sixty seconds or so was standing there as if I’d been slammed in the midsection by a sledgehammer.

Oh, Dave…oh Dave .

My brother was propped up on the toilet seat in his hooded BC sweatshirt. His head was cocked slightly to the side. Blood was everywhere, leaking out of his abdomen, onto his jeans, the floor. He wasn’t moving. Dave was just staring at me with this placid expression, like, Where the hell were you, Ned ?

“Oh my God, Dave, no!”

I rushed over to him, feeling for a pulse I knew wasn’t there, trying to shake Dave back to life somehow. There was a large puncture wound through the sweatshirt on the left side over his ribs. I pulled the sweatshirt up, and it was as if the left side of Dave’s abdomen fell into my hands.

I stumbled backward, my legs buckling. I punched the bathroom wall and sort of slid, helpless to the linoleum floor.

Suddenly, the sweats started to rush over my body again. I couldn’t just sit there, staring at Dave any longer. I had to get out. I staggered to my feet, leaving the bathroom. I needed some air.

That was when I felt the arm wrap around my neck. Tight, incredibly tight. A voice hissed in my ear, “You’ve got a few things that belong to us, Mr. Kelly.”

I COULDN’T BREATHE. My neck and head were jerked back by a very strong man. The edge of a sharp blade dug into my rib cage.

“The art, Mr. Kelly,” the voice said again, “and unless I start hearing about the paintings in the next five seconds, that’s about all the time you have left in this world.”

Just to make his point, the guy let me feel the edge of the blade again.

“Last chance, Mr. Kelly. See your brother over there? Sorry about the mess, but he just didn’t know anything about you coming here. It’s just not gonna go so easy for you.” He stretched my head farther back and pressed the tip of the blade under my chin. “No one fucks the people I work for.”

“I don’t have any paintings! You think I’d lie about it – now?”

He scraped the serrated edge of the blade against my neck. “You think I’m a complete imbecile, Mr. Kelly? You have something that belongs to us. About sixty million dollars’ worth. I want to start hearing about the art. Now.”

What was I supposed to tell him? What could I tell him? I didn’t know a thing about the missing art.

“Gachet!” I shouted, twisting my head. “Gachet has it. Find Gachet!”

“Sorry, Mr. Kelly, I’m afraid I don’t know any Gachet. I gave you to five and now it’s one.” He squeezed tighter. “Say hi to your brother, asshole…”

“ No !”

I yelled, expecting to feel the blade dig into my neck, and then my legs lifted off the ground. Maybe he was giving me a last chance to talk. I knew whatever I told him, I wasn’t leaving there alive.

I slammed my elbow with everything I had into the guy’s rib cage, heard a deep exhalation of air. His grip loosened enough for my feet to hit the ground, and his other arm dropped for just a second. Then I rolled forward, lifting him across my back. He flailed with the blade and I felt a slash against my arm. I slammed him as hard as I could against the wall.

Suddenly the guy was on the floor.

He looked about forty, bushy dark hair, wearing a nylon jacket, built like a brick, a bodybuilder. No way I could take him. He still had the knife and spun quickly into a crouch. I had about one second to find a way to save my life.

I reached around for whatever I could find. There was an aluminum baseball bat against the wall. I swung it with all my might. The goddamn bat shattered the beer lights over the pool table.

The guy stepped back in a shower of splintering glass. He was laughing at me.

“I don’t have the art!” I screamed.

“Sorry, Mr. Kelly.” He started to wave the knife again. “I don’t fucking care.”

He came at me, and the blade slashed against my forearm. Incredible pain shot up my arm, probably because I saw the cut happen. “That’s only the beginning,” he said, smiling.

I swung the bat across his arm and managed to nail him. He grunted. The knife dropped and clattered to the floor.

He barreled into me. I hit the wall and saw stars and bright colors. I tried to ward him off with the bat, but he was in too close. And too strong.

He started to press the bat into my chest, increasing the pressure against my ribs, my lungs. Slowly he elevated it higher. Until it was on my windpipe.

I started to gasp. I mean I was strong, but I couldn’t budge him. I had no air.

I felt the veins in my face bulge. With the last of my strength, I jerked my knee upward and caught him the groin. I threw myself into him. We rolled across the room, crashing into shelves behind the pool table – toppling games, pool sticks, the VCR.

I heard the guy groan. Jesus, maybe he hit his head . I spotted his knife across the floor. I scurried over and was back before his eyes cleared.

I wrenched the guy’s head back and jammed his own knife under his chin. “Who sent you?” This bastard had killed my brother. It wouldn’t have taken much for me to drive the blade into his throat.

“Who sent you? Who ?”

His eyes rolled back, all the way to the whites.

“What the hell?”

I grabbed him by the collar of his jacket as if I were trying to lift him into a boat, and the guy just toppled forward into my arms.

The blade of a hockey skate was wedged in his back. I pushed him forward and he rolled over, dead.

I was drained and exhausted. I could barely move. I just sat there, breathing hard, looking at him. Then reality hit me. You just killed a man .

I couldn’t’ think about it – not now. I went back to my brother and knelt next to him a last time. Tears stung my eyes. I ran my hand across Davey’s cheek. “Oh, Dave, what did I do?”

I pulled myself up and stumbled back to the art book on the couch. I ripped out the page with Portrait of Dr. Gachet .

Then I slipped out of the basement, back into the night. My arm was bleeding, so I wrapped my sweatshirt around it like a bandage. Then I did something I was becoming very good at lately.

I ran.

THE CELL PHONE jolted him out of bed. Dennis Stratton hadn’t been sleeping anyway. He’d been waiting up, watching the overseas news on CNBC. He jumped up in his shorts and caught the phone on the second ring. Liz was curled up, sleeping. He checked the lit-up number. Private caller .