Fatal Justice (Jack Lamburt #1)(31)

I crept between the trees, still listening hard for anything out-of-place, and heard nothing. Everything was as it should be. But I knew better. I knew something was wrong.

The wooded area around the front of my house was thinned out, but not cleared. Most of the trees were evergreen, but we still had quite a few hardwoods. The leaves they shed every fall were much crunchier than the fragile pine needles that coated the forest trail, and I had to step slow and soft to minimize the crunching sound that came with each step.

I worked my way up to the clearing that was around my A-frame log cabin and spotted Debbie’s BMW in my driveway. It was parked in front of the right-side garage door. In my spot. Me being a swell guy and all, I let her park in front of the left side garage door because it’s closest to the house.

She never parked in my spot. The fact that something was wrong couldn’t have been clearer to me if she’d held up a neon sign. Good girl. I took out my Glock.

My fears about Sam were coming true before my eyes. I chastised myself again for not ensuring that the douche was dead, but then focused on the task at hand. The fact the Debbie’s “something is wrong” signal of parking her BMW in my spot meant that someone, likely Sam, had been in her car. Otherwise she wouldn’t have known to park in my spot to alert me. But how had he managed to do that?

The most likely scenario was an armed carjack, but if this was the work of Sam, where had he gotten a gun from? All my guns were locked away in safes, so even if he’d broken into my house before Debbie arrived, he wouldn’t have gotten any of my guns. Plus she wouldn’t have known to park in my spot unless he was in her car. Had he had a second firearm on him at Mary Sue’s house? If so, how did I miss it?

And where was London? I instinctively looked over to my hammock and saw the outline of a mound in the grass. Right where he always fell asleep and waited for me. Except this time he didn’t greet me. He didn’t even move. Oh no. It hit me like a freight train.

London was hurt bad, or even dead.

I resisted the urge to go over and confirm it, but there was no way that he was okay. A ghost couldn’t come on our property without him noticing it and trotting over to check out the potential invader, which was usually a chipmunk or rabbit. “Perimeter secure, London?” was probably the most frequently spoken phrase I’ve ever said in my life.

But I would probably say it no more.

I’m not an emotional guy, but London was such a great friend, especially to Cheryl. God she loved that dog. I’d never forget the first time I went over to her condo in Princeton. She opened the door to let me in and the first thing I saw, after her lovely smile, was London sitting by her side. He didn’t bark or growl, he just sat there with his ears up and watched me.

The whole night.

Cheryl made this fantastic steak dinner, and when we finished and moved to her couch to watch a movie, he followed. He was respectful and kept his distance, but I was never out of his sight.

It took a while, but eventually he and I bonded and he relinquished the role of alpha male of the house to me. I thought about how he was one of my last attachments to Cheryl, and my eyes watered up.

He must have been wounded, most likely shot, and gone to the one place above all others that he found comfort in. By my side at the hammock. Except I wasn’t there for him.

I no longer had to assume the worst. I knew it for sure. An armed attacker was holding Debbie hostage inside my house. Or she was already dead. I took a few breaths to get control of my anger, took one last look at London, and stepped closer to the house.

I approached from the left, made it to the corner, and then slid along the front to look in the living room picture window. This was the second time in two nights I’d Peeping Tommed it, and I was already good at it. If this sheriff thing didn’t work out, I could always make a killing selling Peeping Tom videos online.

I reached the lower corner of the window and listened for any sign of life before looking in. I didn’t hear anything. I raised my head and looked in the window.

There was a fire in the fireplace and two glasses of red wine on an end table. The lights were dimmed, and I could hear the sexy bass rhythm of Barry White’s “My First, My Last, My Everything,” a song that we’d danced to so many times that just hearing a stranger hum it on line at Starbucks brought thoughts of Debbie and me locked in an intimate embrace.

My heart nearly stopped when I saw two writhing bodies on my bearskin rug. What the?

Holy Fuck. My Debbie? She was on her back, and even with the dim light I could tell that she was naked. Ostrich Boy was between her legs.

And God help me, she was smiling!





33





In slow motion, I saw Ostrich Boy raise a hand and point it towards Debbie’s face. I caught a glint of light reflecting from his hand and regained my focus. It was a gun. I almost crapped in my pants.

I raced to the front door and smashed it open, entering the living room just as I heard the click of a dry-firing pistol. The gun was empty.

Debbie looked up at me, down at Ostrich Boy, and blurted out; “I swear, honey, this isn’t what it looks like…”

God I loved her sense of humor. She looked back down at Ostrich Boy’s reddening forehead, grunted, and squeezed her legs together so tight that he dropped his pistol and his whole body went limp. Out cold.

I was in awe. “Holy shit, where’d you learn to do that?”