Self-Defense by JONATHAN KELLERMAN

I drew the shovel back like a javelin and fired it at his legs, blade first, as hard as my sandbag arms could muster.

The tip slammed into his left shin and he yelled in pain and surprise.

Nova managed to break free. Graydon-Jones aimed at her. She ran toward Inspiration as I vaulted out of the hole.

I threw myself on him. As we went down together, I felt the gun pinned between our chests, digging into my sternum. The arm holding it twisted in an unnatural way. I slammed the other down as he tried to bite my nose. He was out of shape but adrenaline had powered him, too, and he pitched and rolled, managing to slide the gun arm out.

Then something came from the left in a brown-white blur, striking him hard in the cheek, quick as a snakebite.

His head whiplashed. Another blow, and his eyes rolled back. He went loose.

I twisted the gun from his fingers.

Lucy’s muddy sneaker kicked him again. Unconscious, he started to drool, then vomit. I jumped free of the trickle of filth.

Standing over him, I trained the automatic on his head.

His Sausalito sweatshirt a putrid mess.

Breathing but not moving, the left side of his head muddy, starting to balloon.

I was panting. So was Lucy.

She reached down toward Graydon-Jones, then stopped herself.

I put my arm around her. She looked over at the larger willow.

The shovel lay on the ground, not far from Graydon-Jones.

“You okay?” I said.

She held her chest and nodded.

Movement across the pond. Nova had made her way into the tall grass and was running toward the forest, the tints in her hair bright as fruit among the green stalks.

“Call the police!” I shouted.

She gave no indication she heard.

CHAPTER

45

I needed binding. Thought of something.

I gave the gun to Lucy. The way she took it told me she’d never held one before.

“He probably won’t stir, but don’t get any closer. Keep it aimed at his head and watch him. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Taking the shovel, I followed Nova’s flight into the forest, running hard until I came to the knotted, viney plant that had blocked our way. Bent back now, and trodden—Graydon-Jones following the path we’d laid out for him.

Chopping off several long tendrils, I ran back and trussed him in a loose hogtie. He was breathing fine and his neck pulse was strong and regular. He’d have a badly bruised shin, a monster headache, maybe a concussion, but he’d survive.

We left him there and returned to the lodge.

Lowell’s Jeep was still there but the Mercedes was gone. A brown van with a rental sticker sat between Lucy’s car and the Seville. The doors were unlocked and I looked inside. Rental form made out to Mr. Hacker. Cash transaction. In back were shovels and a pickax, a hacksaw, a spool of rope, and several boxes of heavy-duty garbage bags. The keys were under the driver’s seat and I pocketed them. Fresh tire tracks and oil spots traced the Mercedes’ exit.

We went inside the house.

Lowell was in bed, eyes closed.

Breathing very shallowly and slowly.

Ghostly white.

Two halves of an ampule glinted from the floor, just under the bed. I found the hypodermic needle a few feet away, half concealed by the yellowed corners of an old New York Times Book Review. A fresh red dot in the crook of his left arm.

Lucy was behind me, at the doorway. I heard her walk away.

I picked up the old black phone and dialed.

Sheriffs and technicians swarmed. Lowell stayed asleep and he seemed to have lost even more color. One of the deputies opined, “He doesn’t look too good.” Paramedics came a half hour later and carted him away.

Milo was still out of the office, but I asked for Del Hardy, and he arrived right after the first carful of deputies. I hadn’t seen him in a while. His hair had turned almost completely gray and he’d gotten heavier. His arrival rescued Lucy and me from the knee-jerk suspicions of cops who didn’t know us. As it was, we were stuck answering questions till after midnight.

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