The Last Day

SIXTY-THREE

Todd Hartman placed the model car in his glove box, tucking the Colt into the center console. He opened his phone and dialed Ward McCarty, who answered on the second ring. “Hartman,” he said. “You just called?”

“Todd, Natasha remembered something. She knows who Gizmo is. Gizmo was the nickname of a child who died after she operated on him four years ago.”

Todd listened intently as Ward told him the story.

“I'm leaving Concord Mills,” he said. “I'll get what I can on Louis Gismano and we can figure out what to do when I get there. In the meantime, you stay in the house. I'll call Thumper, and I'll get some more people back out there to cover the house. I'm twenty minutes away. Keep the phone lines clear. Load the gun I gave you, keep it with you, and turn out the lights like you're going to bed so, if he's around, he can't see in. I'll call the sheriff's department on the way and get a unit out there. Make sure the house is locked up tight.”

“Okay,” Ward said. “I can do that.”

“Is Natasha all right?”

“She's upset.”

“Tell her to relax. We'll deal with this Gismano. Don't worry. I mean it.”

Todd hung up, cranked the car, and raced out of the parking lot. As soon as he got on Bruton Smith Boulevard, he dialed Thumper.

“Thumper, block the driveway until I get there. The stalker is a vet and I have no idea what his level of competence is, so watch your ass. I'm going to make some calls so real help's on the way.”

As he drove eighty miles an hour, Todd picked up the Colt and clipped the holster onto his belt.