The Charlemagne Pursuit

FORTY-EIGHT

STEPHANIE HEARD THRASHING. NOT LOUD, BUT STEADY ENOUGH for her to know somebody was out there. Davis had dozed off. She'd allowed him to sleep. He needed it. He was troubled and she wanted to help, as Malone had helped her, but she continued to question if what they were doing was smart.

She held a gun, her eyes searching the darkness through trees, into the clearing that surrounded Rowland's house. The windows had been quiet for at least two hours. Her ears grabbed the night and she caught another snap. Off to the right. Pine boughs rustled. She pinpointed the location. Maybe fifty yards away.

She laid her hand over Davis' mouth and tapped his shoulder with the gun. He came awake with a start, and she pressed her palm firm across his lips.

"Company," she whispered.

He nodded in understanding.

She pointed.

Another snap.

Then movement, near Rowland's truck. A dark shadow appeared and merged into the trees, was lost completely for a moment, then there again, heading toward the house.

CHARLIE SMITH APPROACHED THE FRONT DOOR. HERBERT ROWLAND'S cabin had been dark long enough.

He'd spent the afternoon at the movies and enjoyed the steak at Ruth's Chris he'd been craving. All in all, a fairly peaceful day. He'd read newspaper accounts of Admiral David Sylvian's death, pleased that there was no indication of foul play. He'd returned two hours ago and assumed a vigil in the cold woods, waiting.

But everything seemed quiet.

He entered the house through the front door, the lock and dead bolt ridiculously easy to pick, and embraced the central heat inside. He crept first to the refrigerator and checked the insulin vial. The level was definitely lower. He knew each one contained four injections and he estimated another quarter of the saline was gone. With gloved hands, he deposited the vial into a Baggie.

He assessed the chilled whiskey bottles and noticed that one was also noticeably lower. Herbert Rowland had apparently enjoyed his nightly libation. In the kitchen garbage he found a spent syringe and dropped it in the Baggie.

He stepped lightly into the bedroom.

Rowland was nestled under a patchwork quilt, breathing sporadically. He checked the pulse. Slow. The clock on the nightstand read nearly one AM. Probably seven hours had passed since injection. The file said Rowland medicated himself every night before the six o'clock news, then started drinking. With no insulin in his blood tonight, the alcohol had worked fast, inducing a deep diabetic coma. Death would not be far behind.

He hauled over a chair from one corner. He'd have to stay until Rowland died. But he decided not to be foolish. The two people from earlier still weighed on his mind, so he returned to the den and grabbed two of the hunting guns he'd noticed earlier. One of them was a beauty. A Mossberg high-velocity bolt-action. Seven-shot clip, high caliber, equipped with an impressive telescopic scope. The other was a Remington 12-gauge. One of the commemorative Ducks Unlimited models, if he wasn't mistaken. He'd almost bought one himself. A cabinet beneath the gun rack was filled with shells. He loaded both weapons and returned to his bedside post.

Now he was ready.

STEPHANIE GRABBED DAVIS BY THE ARM. HE WAS ALREADY ON HIS feet ready to advance. "What are you doing?"

"We have to go."

"And what is it we're going to do when we get there?"

"Stop him. He's killing that man right now."

She knew he was right.

"I'll take the front door," she said. "The only other way out is through the glass doors on the deck. You cover that. Let's see if we can scare the hell out him and cause a mistake."

Davis headed off.

She followed, wondering if her ally had ever faced a threat like this before. If not, he was one bold son of a bitch. If so, he was an idiot.

They found the graveled drive and hustled toward the house, making little noise. Davis rounded toward the lake and she watched as he tiptoed up wooden risers to the elevated deck. She saw that the sliding glass doors were curtained on the inside. Davis quietly moved to the opposite side of the deck. Satisfied he was in position, she walked to the front door and decided to take the direct approach.

She banged hard on the door.

Then fled the porch.

SMITH BOLTED UP FROM THE CHAIR. SOMEBODY HAD POUNDED ON the front door. Then he heard thumping, from the deck. More knocking. On the glass doors.

"Come out here, you bastard," a man screamed.

Herbert Rowland heard nothing. His breath remained labored as his body continued to shut down.

Smith carried both guns and turned for the den.