James Patterson - Lifeguard

“Oh, shit,” Ellie said.

“He had to, Ellie.” The Kiwi wet his lips.

“That’s not what I meant,” Ellie said. She checked her weapon, then squeezed Champ’s hand one more time. “I’ve seen Ned with a gun.”

I BOLTED THROUGH the ballroom’s kitchen doors. The frightened kitchen staff, hearing gunshots outside, were just about hugging the walls, staring at me, unsure who was chasing whom.

I looked at a black guy in a chef’s hat. “A man went through here in a tuxedo. Which way did he go?”

“There’s a door in back,” the chef finally said, pointing. “It leads into the lobby. And upstairs. The main hotel.”

Room 601, I remembered.

I found the stairs and started up. It was worth a chance. Two teenagers appeared, coming down.

“You see a man in a tuxedo, running?” I asked.

They both pointed up the stairs. “Guy has a fricking gun!”

Six flights up, I pushed open a heavy door and came out in a red plush-carpeted hallway. I listened for Stratton’s footsteps. Nothing. Room 601 was to the left, toward the elevators. I headed in that direction.

I turned the corner and saw Stratton myself. He was down at the end of the hall, struggling to jam a plastic key into a door. I didn’t know what was inside. Maybe more help.

“Stratton!” I yelled, pointing the gun at him. He turned and faced me.

One thing almost made me smile, his cool, always-incontrol demeanor twisted into a frantic glare. Stratton’s arm jerked upward and he fired his gun. Flashes careened off the wall near my head. I pointed my gun but didn’t fire. As much as I hated him, I didn’t want to kill him.

But Stratton saw my gun – and he ran down another corridor.

I went after him.

Like a cornered prey, Stratton started trying doors around the elevator landing. They were locked. There was a balcony there, but it led nowhere but outside.

Then a door finally opened – and he disappeared.

THE STRANGEST THOUGHT flashed through my mind as, gun in hand, I made my way up a darkened concrete staircase, following Dennis Stratton.

Years ago. Back in Brockton. I was wrestling with Dave.

I think I was fifteen; he must’ve been ten. He and one of his goofy buddies had been making idiotic chimp noises while I was trying to make out with this girl, Roxanne Petrocelli, in Buckley Park, just down from our house. I chased him down by the jungle gyms, and had him pretty good, maybe the last time I could ever take Dave. I had his arms and neck pinned back in a kind of full nelson. I kept saying, “Uncle? Uncle?” hoping he’d give up. But the tough guy wouldn’t budge. I kept pushing harder, watching him grow redder in the face. I thought if I pushed any more, I would kill him. Finally Dave cried out, “Okay, Uncle,” and I let him go.

For a second he just sat there, breathing heavily, the color coming back to his cheeks; then he charged at me with all his might and knocked me on my back. As he rolled on top of me, Dave was smirking. “Uncle Al thinks you’re a dumb sonuvabitch.”

I don’t know why that popped into my head as I climbed after Stratton. But it did. One of those weird connections in the brain when you feel in danger.

The stairs rose right up into one of the Breakers’ enormous towers. The stairwell was dark, but outside, huge floods sent chasms of brilliant light shooting into the night. I didn’t see Stratton anywhere – but I knew he was up there.

I kept hearing, like a distant drumming in my head, Uncle Al thinks you’re a dumb sonuvabitch.

I pushed open a metal door and came out onto the concrete floor of the hotel roof. The scene was almost surreal. Palm Beach laid out all around. The lights of the Biltmore, the Flagler Bridge, apartment buildings over in West Palm. Huge floods, arranged like howitzers, channeled massive beams of blinding light at the towers and the hotel’s facade.

I looked around for Stratton. Where the hell was he? Tarps and storage sheds and TV dishes, all in shadow. I felt a chill shoot through me, as though I were exposed.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, a bullet ricocheting off the wall just over my head. It had missed me by inches.

“So what is it, Mr. Kelly? Have you come for revenge? Is it sweet?”

Another shot cracked into the tower wall. I squinted into the beams of light. I couldn’t find him anywhere.

“You should’ve done what you promised. We’d both be in a better spot. But it’s that thing about your brother, isn’t it? That’s what you Kellys seem to have in spades. Your stupid pride.”

I crouched low and tried to find him. Another shot rang out, clipping the tarp above my head.

“Getting closer to the end,” Stratton cackled, almost laughing. “Seems we did have one thing in common, though, right, Ned? Funny how our conversation just never got around to her.”

My blood started to boil. Tess.

“She was one sweet piece of ass. Now, those friends of yours and your brother – that was just business. But Tess… That one I regret. You, too, I bet. Ahhh, she was just another whore.”

If he was trying to get me mad, it was working. I jumped out from behind the cover and fired two angry rounds in the direction of Stratton’s voice. A floodlight shattered.

A shot rang back. I felt a searing pain lance my shoulder. My hand shot to the wound. The gun slid out of my hand.

“Oh, jeez, Ned” – Stratton showed himself from behind a light trestle – “careful there, buddy.”

I stared at the bastard. He had that supercilious grin I’d grown to detest, along with his shiny bald brow.

And that was when I heard it. The faintest thwack-thwakthwak beating in the distance. Coming closer, getting louder.

Then off in the sky, a set of flashing lights was approaching, pretty fast. A chopper.

“Wrong again, Mr. Kelly.” Stratton smiled. “Here comes my ride.”

ELLIE CLIMBED the stairwell leading from the kitchen doors.

She ran into a waiter hurrying down, babbling about this guy who was chasing some lunatic, headed up to the sixth floor. Ned. Ellie told him to grab the first cops or FBI agents he could find and send them after her. Exiting on six, she encountered a freaked-out concierge, shouting into a phone for security. She said that two men, with guns, were up on the roof!

Ellie checked her weapon one more time and stepped into the stairwell tower.

What the hell are you doing, Ned?

Ellie brushed beads of sweat off her cheek. She heard voices on the roof. She clutched her Glock with both hands.

Ellie quickly made her way to the top of the stairs. She looked out. Floodlights illuminated the tower ceiling. The lights of Palm Beach stretched out below. She leaned against the heavy door. Now what? She knew Stratton and Ned were outside. Stay calm, Ellie, she exhorted herself. It’s like training. You stay out of the line of fire. You size up the situation. You wait for backup.

Except in training, you didn’t have some guy you probably loved screwing up the situation.

She told herself she knew how to do this. She twisted the handle on the door and took a deep breath.

Then she heard two sharp bangs echoing on the rooftop. That changed everything.

Shots were being fired.

I HAD SCREWED UP things like the complete amateur I was. The thought that Stratton would get away after murdering Mickey, Dave, his own wife, was killing me more than anything else.

“Don’t be so glum, Ned,” Stratton said expansively. “We’re both going on a trip. Unfortunately, yours will be a little shorter.”