The Guardian

by Nicholas Sparks

  Julie shook her head. I've had all sorts of fantasies, she thought, want to hear about those? Instead, she closed her eyes. "I just want it to stop," she whispered.

  "Are you going to arrest him?" Mike asked. "Or bring him in for questioning?"

  It took a moment for Jennifer to respond. "I'll do what I can," she said.

  She didn't need to say anything else. Mike and Julie turned away.

  "So where does that leave us?" Julie asked.

  "Look, I know you're worried. I know you're scared. And believe me, I'm on your side, so don't think I'm going to leave here and forget about this. I'm going to look into Richard Franklin's past to see what I can come up with, and I'm sure I'll be talking to him at some point. But remember, I have to work with Officer Gandy on this. . . ."

  "Oh, great."

  Jennifer reached across the table and squeezed Julie's hand.

  "But I give you my word," she said, "that we will look into this. And we're going to do everything we can to help you. Trust me, okay?"

  It was the kind of rah-rah speech that everyone wanted to hear at a time like this.

  Not surprisingly, it went over with a thud.

  Andrea was watching The Jerry Springer Show when she heard the phone ring. Reaching for it absently, she kept her eyes on the screen as she mumbled a hello.

  A moment later, her eyes lit up.

  "Oh, hi!" she said. "I was hoping you would call. . . ."

  Jennifer could barely concentrate on the drive home. Instead, all she could focus on was the queasy feeling in her stomach and the screaming case of the willies that the hum of the engine couldn't seem to drown out. The whole thing scared her on a number of levels. As a police officer, she knew how dangerous stalkers could be. However, as a woman, she also found herself empathizing with Julie in a more personal way. All she had to do was close her eyes and she was right there with Julie, feeling her helplessness. There was nothing worse. Most people lived under the illusion that they were in control of their lives, but that wasn't completely true. Yeah, you could decide what to have for breakfast and what to wear and all those little things, but as soon as you stepped out into the world, you were pretty much at the mercy of everyone else around you, and all you could do was hope that if they were having a bad day, they wouldn't decide to take it out on you.

  She knew it was kind of a glum outlook on things, but that's exactly what she saw happening now. Julie's illusion of security had been shattered, and now she wanted Jennifer-someone, anyone, really-to put it back together. What had she said? I just want it to stop. Yeah, who wouldn't want that? What she really meant was that she wanted things to go back to the way they were. Back to when the world felt safe.

  It wouldn't be that easy. Part of the problem was that Jennifer was feeling kind of helpless herself. They had called her for help, after all, but she couldn't even talk to Richard on her own in an official capacity yet. And Pete Gandy, though he'd probably do what she asked if she acted all coquettish, would probably screw everything up as soon as he opened his mouth.

  But she could investigate the guy on her own. And just as she'd promised Mike and Julie, that's exactly what she intended to do.

  An hour after Jennifer Romanello had left, Julie and Mike were still sitting at the table. Mike was sipping on a beer, but Julie hadn't joined him. She couldn't stomach the glass of wine she'd poured earlier and had dumped it in the sink. She just stared ahead vacantly, saying little, and though she looked tired, Mike knew better than to suggest that she go to bed, since sleep was an impossibility for both of them.

  "You hungry?" he finally asked.

  "No."

  "You want to rent a movie?"

  "Not really."

  "Well, I have an idea," Mike said. "Let's just sit around and stare at each other for a while. And maybe we can worry a little, just to break up the monotony. I mean, we need to find something to do to pass the time."

  With that, Julie finally smiled.

  "You're right," she said. She reached for his beer and took a sip. "I'm getting kind of tired of it, anyway. Doesn't seem to be doing me any good."

  "So what do you want to do?"

  "Would you just hold me?" she asked as she stood and walked over to him.

  Mike got up and put his arms around her. He pulled her close, absorbing the warmth of her body. In the circle of his arms, Julie leaned her head against his chest.

  "I'm glad you're here," she whispered. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

  Before Mike could say anything, the phone rang. Both he and Julie tensed at the sound. They continued to hold each other as it rang a second time.

  Then a third.

  Mike let go of her.

  "Don't," Julie cried, fear in her eyes.

  It rang a fourth time.

  Mike ignored her. He went to the living room and picked up the phone. He held it facedown for a moment, then raised it slowly to his ear.

  "Hello?" he said.

  "Oh, hi. For a second there, I wasn't sure you were in," said the voice on the other end, and Mike's face relaxed.

  "Oh, hey, Emma," he said, breaking into a smile. "How are you?"

  "I'm fine," Emma said, her voice full of energy. "But listen, I'm in Morehead City, and you're not going to believe who I just saw."

  Julie moved into the living room next to Mike, and he held the phone away from his ear so she could hear as well.

  "Who?"

  "Andrea. And you'll never believe who she was with."

  "Who?"

  "She was with Richard. And get this, I just saw him kiss her."

  "I have no idea what it means," Julie said. "I mean, it doesn't make sense."

  Mike had hung up the phone and they were sitting on the couch, a single lamp shining behind them. Singer was sleeping by the front door.

  "Did she mention anything in the shop this week? About seeing him, I mean?"

  Julie shook her head. "Nothing. Not a single word. I know she cut his hair, but that's all I knew about."

  "Didn't she hear the things you were saying about him?"

  "She must have."

  "But she didn't care?"

  "Either that or she didn't believe them."

  "Why wouldn't she believe you?"

  "Who knows. But I'll talk to her tomorrow. Maybe I can talk some sense into her."

  Later, Richard brought Andrea to his house and they stood on the porch, staring toward the sky. Pressed against her, he wrapped his arms around her belly, moving his hands toward her breasts. Andrea leaned her head against him and sighed.

  "For a while there, I wasn't sure you were going to call."

  Richard kissed her neck, and the warmth of his lips made her shiver. The moon cast a silver shimmer on the trees.

  "It's so beautiful out here," she said. "So quiet."

  "Shh. Don't say anything. Just listen."

  He didn't want to hear her voice, because it reminded him that she wasn't Julie. He was with another woman, a woman who meant nothing to him, but her body was soft and warm, and she desired him.

  "And the moon . . ."

  "Shhh," he said again.

  An hour later, when they were in bed together, Andrea moaned and dug her fingers into his back, but Richard had told her not to make any other sounds. No whispers, no talking. He had insisted on total darkness in the room as well.

  He moved above her, feeling her breath on his skin. Julie, he wanted to whisper. You can't keep running from me. Don't you see what we have? Don't you crave the completion that our union will bring?

  But then he remembered their meeting in the woods, the look of horror in her eyes. He saw her revulsion, heard her words of rejection. He felt her hatred. The memory wounded him, an assault on his senses. Julie, he wanted to whisper, you were cruel to me today. You ignored my profession of love. You treated me as if I meant nothing. . . .

  "Ow," he heard in the darkness, "not so hard . . . you're hurting me. . . . Ow!"

  The sound brought him back
.

  "Shh," he whispered, but he didn't relax his hands. In the dim light from the window, he could just make out a shadow of fear in Andrea's eyes. He felt a surge of desire.

  Thirty-one

  Though her shift started at eight, Jennifer was seated at the computer by six on Wednesday morning, the copy of the original arrest report on Mike Harris beside her. At the top of the report were the basics: Richard Franklin's name, address, phone number, place of work, and so forth, and she skimmed that part before reading the description of the altercation itself. As she'd suspected, there was nothing helpful there about Richard's background, but it felt like the right thing to do. She needed something to help get the ball rolling.

  Her father, thank God, had been helpful the night before. After getting home, she'd called him to get his impressions, and when she had finished, her father had pretty much confirmed her thoughts, vague though they were, as to what might happen in the future. "It could go either way," her father said, "so you gotta find out whether he's really nuts or just acting that way."

  She still wasn't sure where to begin, since the information on Richard Franklin was sketchy and the hours she had to look into him weren't exactly standard business hours. The personnel department at the bridge project didn't open until later, and though that seemed the most obvious place to begin, her father had suggested she start with the landlord instead. "They're used to evening calls, so it's okay to call after hours. Maybe you can pull up a Social Security number and driver's license number, as well as references. They usually require those on rental applications."

  And that was exactly what she had done. After getting the name of the owner of the property through an acquaintance who worked for the county, she spoke to the owner, a man who sounded no older than thirty. The house, she learned, had been owned by his grandparents; the rent was always paid on time through his corporation, and Richard Franklin had put up both a security deposit and the first and last months' rent in advance. The owner himself had never met Richard; he hadn't even visited the property in over a year. A local real estate company was in charge of management, and he gave her that number.

  Next, she had called the manager, and after a bit of cajoling, he'd faxed over the rental application. His references listed his local employer and the head of personnel; no one from Ohio or Colorado. She did manage to get his Social Security and driver's license numbers, and as she sat at Pete Gandy's desk, she typed those into the computer.

  She spent the next hour searching for information, beginning with North Carolina. Richard Franklin apparently had no criminal record in the state, nor had he been arrested. Though his driver's license had been issued in Ohio, it was too early to check with the Department of Motor Vehicles there. Ditto with Colorado.

  Then, using her laptop, she plugged into the high-speed phone line and checked the Internet. Using standard search engines, she found about a zillion references to his name and quite a few personal Web pages on Richard Franklin, but not the Richard Franklin she wanted.

  After that, she started running into roadblocks. To get information in Colorado and Ohio concerning a possible record would take at least a day and the cooperation of another department, since police records were maintained locally. Not so hard if she was an officer, but not really kosher for someone in training. Besides, they would have to call her back, and if they rang while she was out-which no doubt she would be, since she was riding with Pete Gandy today-she'd have to explain to the chief why she had a call in to the Denver and Columbus Police Departments, and she might be off the case entirely, if not out of a job.

  Then again, she wondered whether his past was what he claimed it was.

  Was he really from Denver originally? Julie thought so, but who really knew? Her father had said as much last night: "New in town and kind of psycho? I don't know that I'd put a lot of stock in anything he said to this lady. If he's been good at skirting the law so far, I'm sure he's just as good at skirting the truth about his past."

  Though it was illegal, Jennifer decided to check his credit record. She knew there were three major credit-reporting agencies, and most offered a free report annually. Using the rental application as a guideline, she typed in the information required-no doubt the same information that the management company had used when renting him the home. Name, Social Security number, latest address, previous address, bank account number-she hit paydirt.

  Richard Franklin's records were spelled out in plain detail over a number of pages.

  The only recent inquiry had been made by the management company for the house rental-no surprise there-but what struck her was that none of the records seemed to make much sense. Especially for a gainfully employed engineer.

  There were no credit cards currently registered or in use, no open auto loan, no personal credit lines. A quick scroll through the record showed that every account on the credit report had been closed.

  Studying the record in more detail, she saw that there was one major default from a bank in Denver, four years earlier. It was listed under real estate, and from the size of it, she assumed it was a mortgage on a home.

  There were a series of other late payments around that time. Visa. MasterCard. American Express. Phone bill. Electric bill. Water bill. Sears Card. All were registered as delinquent for a year but were eventually paid off.

  Afterward, he'd closed the Visa and MasterCard accounts, as well as the American Express and Sears accounts.

  Jennifer leaned back in her chair, thinking about it. Okay, she knew he'd lived in Denver at one point, and it seemed as if he'd run into some sort of financial trouble four years ago. Could be any number of explanations for that-lots of people weren't too good at managing money-and he'd mentioned to Julie that he'd been divorced. Maybe that had something to do with it.

  She stared at the screen. But why weren't there any more recent entries?

  He was probably using the corporation to pay his bills, just as he was doing with his rental, she thought. She made a note to check on it.

  What else? Without a doubt, she knew she also had to find out more about Jessica. But without further information, there was absolutely nothing to go on.

  Jennifer unplugged her laptop and stowed it in its padded case, wondering what to do next. Her best bet, she decided, was to wait until the personnel office opened so she could talk to the people there. Richard was a consulting engineer on a major project and working with a major company, so undoubtedly they had other references. Maybe one of them could shed light on what had happened four years ago. But that meant another hour of waiting.

  Not knowing what else to do, she scanned the arrest report again before finally focusing on his address and thinking, Why not? She wasn't even sure what she was looking for, exactly; she just wanted to see where he lived in the hope that it might give her more of an impression of the man. Her computer tucked under her arm, she grabbed a cup of coffee on her way out the door and got into her car.

  Because she was still learning her way around, she checked the map in the glove compartment before following the main road out of town, into the rural area of the county.

  Ten minutes later, Jennifer turned onto the gravel road where Richard Franklin lived. She slowed the car as she approached the mailbox, looking for a number, trying to estimate where she was. After finding it, she picked up speed again, seeing she had a ways to go.

  She was struck by how remote these homes were. Most sat on multiple acres, and she wondered why an engineer from a major city would choose to live out this way. It was convenient neither to town nor to his job, nor to anything else, for that matter. And the road kept getting worse.

  As she drove farther, the homes grew older and more run-down. More than one looked abandoned. She passed the ruins of an old tobacco barn. The sides had toppled when the roof caved in and kudzu blanketed the structure, weaving through the boards. Behind it sat the remains of a tractor, rusting in the weeds.

  Another few minutes, another mailbox number. She was
getting close now.

  Jennifer slowed the car. His house, she assumed, was the next one on the right, and she spotted it through the trees. Set back from the road, the home was two stories, not as neglected as the others, but the yard was horribly overgrown.

  Still . . .

  People who lived out this way probably did so because it was family property or because they had no other choice. Why would he have chosen a place like this?

  Because he wanted to hide?

  Or was hiding something?

  She didn't stop the car; instead she drove past and made a U-turn half a mile up the road. The same questions cycled through her mind as she passed the house again and made her way back to the station.

  Richard Franklin drew back from the curtains, frowning slightly.

  He had a visitor, but he didn't recognize the car. It wasn't Mike or Julie, he knew. Neither of them owned a Honda, and he was certain they wouldn't have come to look for him here. Nor was it anyone who lived out this way. The road ended a couple of miles up, and none of his neighbors owned a Honda.

  But someone had come. He'd watched them creep up the road, driving way too slowly, knowing they were looking for something. The U-turn had confirmed his suspicions. If it had been a wrong turn or someone lost, they wouldn't have slowed in front of his house-and only his house-then sped up again.

  No, someone had come to see where he lived.

  "What are you staring at?" Andrea asked.

  Richard let the curtain fall back in place and turned. "Nothing," he said.

  The sheet had slipped down, exposing her breasts. He moved toward the bed and sat beside her. On her arms he could see bruises, and he ran a tender finger over them.

  "Good morning," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

  In the morning light, wearing only jeans, Richard looked exotic. Sensual. So what if he got a little rough last night?

  Andrea pushed aside a loose strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. "When we finally got around to sleeping, I did."

  "Are you hungry?"

  "A little. But I have to go to the bathroom first. Where is it again? I was kind of tipsy last night."

  "It's the last door on the right."

  Andrea scooted from the bed, taking the sheet as she went. Her legs felt wobbly as she moved out of the room. Richard watched her go, wishing she'd left the night before, then turned to the window again.