Suddenly they heard Gideon's cell phone ring in the kitchen through the open French doors. Gideon swam quickly to the edge and lifted himself from the water.
“I better answer it,” he said walking to the house. “It could be Hattie.”
Danny treaded water and watched Gideon disappear through the doors. Minutes passed and Gideon had not returned.
I hope she's all right,
he thought.
I'd better go by this morning and check on her.
He then resumed his trek across the length of the pool.
Karen removed the butt of an American-made Knights SR-25 rifle from the case. She nimbly attached the barrel and telescope and inserted the twenty-round magazine. Each click of metal against metal echoed off the canyon walls below. Once assembled, she set the rifle at her feet and removed binoculars from the case.
Gideon's house was in her sights within seconds. She recognized the Spanish terra-cotta tiled roof and footprint from the satellite images supplied by Lazarus. Karen saw Gideon in the pool and swiftly calculated the target was one and eight-tenths kilometers away.
“Perfect,” she whispered, “I like a man with regular habits. Thank you, Mr. Truman, for making this easy for me.”
“Hattie,” Gideon said answering the phone standing at the kitchen table, “I was going to call you in a few minutes. How did you sleep the rest of the night?”
“I didn't sleep,” she said calmly.
Gideon could hear the scratchy tones of gospel music from the old radio in Hattie's kitchen. “We were worried about you last night.”
“Don't leave the house today, Gideon. If you have to get out, then you and Danny should come to my home. I'll cook for you. It isn't safe for you today.”
“Hattie, I have to go to work, darling,” he said basking in her love and concern. “I'm interviewing the vice president today.”
Hattie was silent.
“Hattie,” Gideon said responding to her obvious concern, “I assure you I'm going to be fine. How about this, right after the interview, Danny and I will come over and we can have dinner together?”
Still no response.
“Hattie, darling, are you there?”
“I'm here. After the interview come straight here. At least I know you and Danny will be safe if you're here.”
“I will. I promise, now stop worrying. I'll be fine.”
Karen lifted the rifle to her cheek and secured the butt snuggly against her shoulder. She positioned a black-gloved finger on the trigger and looked through the scope.
Her target swam away from her toward the house.
“One,” she counted out loud.
Karen placed one knee on the white metal “O” and her elbow held the rifle steady on the other.
“Two.”
The telescope keyed on the swimming figure. She moved the barrel until the back of his head appeared in the exact center of the opaque bull's-eye. Water rushed over him as he glided an inch below the surface.
“Three.”
Karen squeezed the trigger. A puff of air jetted from the barrel as the bullet launched and began the three-quarter mile journey from her hand to the target. A millisecond before impact Danny suddenly dipped below the water's surface. In exactly two and a half seconds the figure bobbed to the surface. She couldn't tell where the bullet impact had been but knew she hit her mark from the ring of red forming around the still body.
Karen watched him closely for ten seconds through the lens. There was no movement, and the red slowly spread with the ripples to the edges of the pool. The kill was confirmed. She quickly disassembled the weapon and placed it piece by piece, along with the binoculars, back into their appointed places in the case. She jumped from the “O,” case in hand, ran down the hill, and vanished into the wooded canyon.
“It was Hattie,” Gideon said as he exited the kitchen. “She's still a bit shaken up from her dream last night. I told her we . . .”
Gideon first saw the red. It took four seconds for the scene to fully register.
“Danny!” he called out racing to the edge of the pool and diving in. “Danny!”
With the limp body in tow, he paddled to the shallow end of the pool and lifted Danny in his arms. His legs flailed as Gideon carried him quickly up the stairs and laid him on the cement. They each glimmered from water. Blood flowed onto the cement.
“Danny!” he cried, cradling the man he loved in his arms. “Oh, God, please don't let him die.”
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The UCLA Level I Trauma Center pulsed with the city's latest batch of victims. The mournful cries of sirens provided the soundtrack for births, deaths, and every imaginable malady in-between.
Gideon Truman bolted from a chair in the waiting room when the Emergency Room doctor approached. “Are you Mr. Truman?” the doctor asked. “Gideon Truman?”
“Yes,” Gideon answered anxiously.
Earlier that morning Gideon had ridden in the ambulance as it raced up Sunset Boulevard, and watched helplessly as paramedics worked to stop the flow of blood. Hours had since passed without any word on the condition of the man he loved.
“Good morning, Mr. Truman. I'm Dr. Banks. Mr. Danny St. John has you listed on his medical directive as his next of kin. Is that correct?” he asked, referring to a medical chart.
A blood-smeared accident survivor rolled by on a gurney surrounded by a team of doctors and nurses working frantically to bring the man back from the brink of death as they spoke. “Forty-one-year-old male,” a paramedic shouted to the medical crew. “Found on the side of a cliff on Pacific Coast Highway. Had to use a helicopter to airlift him back up to the highway. Broken right and left femurs, hip, and both arms. Possible spinal injury.” The life-and-death exchange faded into insignificance as the crew raced by.
“Yes, that is correct,” Gideon answered the doctor while bracing himself for the worst possible news.
“Are you his brother?” the doctor asked matter-of-factly.
“No,” Gideon said, brushing aside all concerns about revealing the true nature of their relationship. “No, I'm his lover,” he answered blindly tossing fear to the wind. “Is he alive? Please, God, tell me he's alive.”
“Yes, sir, he is alive,” the doctor said removing a scrub cap ringed with perspiration. “He's being moved from surgery now to the Intensive Care Unit.”
Gideon dropped his head into his hands and wept. “Thank God. That bullet was meant for me. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if he had . . . Whoever did this thought it was me in the pool. This is all my fault. I was supposed to protect him.”
“If the bullet had entered half an inch higher it would have damaged the part of the brain called the medulla oblongata located in the brainstem here,” the doctor said reaching over his shoulder pointing to a spot at the base of his skull. “The medulla connects the brain to the spinal cord and regulates autonomic functions like the heart rate, respiratory rhythm, swallowing, coughing, and sneezing. Half an inch lower, he would have been permanently paralyzed and . . . well, we would be having a very different conversation right now.”
Gideon's brain reduced the doctor's words to an indecipherable buzz after hearing, “Yes, he is alive.” The doctor's mouth moved, but Gideon struggled to process the words. “He's alive” pounded in his skull like a clapper against the walls of a brass bell.
“He lost a lot of blood, so he'll be very weak for a few weeks,” the doctor continued, after noticing the streaks of red on Gideon's shirt. “Mr. St. John is AB negative which is a somewhat rare blood type, but fortunately, we were able to find a match. We removed the bullet but there will be a permanent scar just under the hairline.”
“Will there be any permanent damage?” Gideon asked, wiping his moist cheek with a trembling hand. “Have his speech or motor skills been affected?”
“The bullet entered in such a way that we were able to remove it without damaging any of the surrounding tissue. Mr. St. John is a very lucky man. There doesn't appear to be any permanent damage at this point, but we'll have to wait to see the extent of his injury.”
“When can I see him?”
“I'll have a nurse take you to him as soon as he's settled in ICU.”
“Thank you,” Gideon said with relief. “This has been a nightmare.”
“I understand. Now if you'll wait here, I'll tell the nurse to come for you when he's ready.”
As the doctor turned to walk away Gideon called out, “Thank you, again, Dr. Banks. Thank you for saving Danny's life.”
The doctor responded with a slight smile over his shoulder and disappeared into the maze of corridors.
“Mr. Truman,” came a commanding voice from behind Gideon. “I'm Detective Guthrie, Los Angeles Police Department. May I have a few words with you?”
Gideon turned quickly and was standing eye to eye with a police identification card and a pair of blue eyes peering over the leather wallet.
“I know this is a difficult time for you, Mr. Truman. I promise to only take a few minutes.”
“Of course,” Gideon said struggling to transition from medical to law enforcement.
“Would you like to sit down, Mr. Truman?” the detective asked pointing to two chairs in the waiting room.
“Sir, can you please tell me what happened this morning in your backyard?” the detective asked with his pen poised over a small spiral notepad.
Gideon rubbed his eyes as if he was trying to activate his memory. “It was a few minutes after 6:00. I was in the pool. I swim every morning at 6:00. I had been in for about two or three minutes before Danny came out on the deck. He never swims with me . . . well, almost never. I asked him to join me and . . .” Gideon's voice faded as the role he played in Danny's near death pressed down on his chest.
“Take your time, Mr. Truman, and try to remember everything. It's very important.”
“I told him he should get in with me. He agreed and said he had to change into his swimsuit. A few minutes passed and I swam a few more lengths of the pool. Then he came back out, put his toe into the water and commented on how cold it was. I told him to jump in to get the shock over quickly.”
The detective continued scribbling unintelligible notes on the pad. “And then?”
“Well, then,” Gideon paused again and took a deep breath. “Then he jumped in and started swimming in the opposite direction. We passed each other a few times at the center of the pool. Then my phone rang. It was in the kitchen on the island. I had to take it because a friend of ours called earlier that morning, about 4:00 a.m., and I thought it might have been her.”
“And who was that friend?” the detective asked looking up from the pad.
“Hattie. Hattie Williams. She had a vis . . . nightmare and was upset.”
“Thank you, sir. Go on.”
“I got out of the pool and answered the phone.”
“And was it Miss Williams?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it was,” Gideon answered cautiously. “But she doesn't have anything to do with this.”
“I'm sure she doesn't, sir. Just wanted to know who was on the call. Is it normal for Ms. Williams to call you at that hour of the morning?”
“No. She had a difficult night. Anyway, I was on the phone for no more than two or three minutes, and when I came out. I saw . . .”
The image of Danny floating facedown in the pool flashed in Gideon's mind. Ripples of red surrounded his motionless body.
“Would you like some water, Mr. Truman?”
“No,” Gideon said brushing the picture from his mind. “I'll be fine. I jumped in and swam to him. He was unresponsive when I lifted his head from the water. I pulled him to the shallow end, carried him up the stairs, and laid him on the deck. I could see he was still breathing. I held him for a few seconds and ran back inside to my phone and called 911. The paramedics arrived in less than five minutes.”
“Did you hear or see anything unusual on or around your property before or after you got out of the pool?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm Mr. St. John?”
“No. The only person who would have wanted to hurt Danny is dead.”
“And who is that, Mr. Truman?” the officer asked suspiciously.
“It's not important. I shouldn't have brought it up. Besides, I don't believe Danny was the intended target. It was me they were trying to kill.”
Detective Guthrie looked up again. “You believe they were trying to kill you? Why?”
“Do you know who I am, detective?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I'm very familiar with your work, and so is the mayor,” the detective said as if divulging a secret. “She is very concerned and instructed the police chief to commit every available resource to this case.”
Gideon froze when he heard the words. If Hattie's premonition from the night before was correct, it was Mayor Camille Ernestine Hardaway who was behind the assassination attempt. “I'm glad to hear that,” he replied, barely concealing his suspicion.
“Is there someone in particular you think might have done this?” Detective Guthrie continued.
Gideon avoided eye contact and said, “No . . . no one in particular. It could have been any one of millions of people who watch my show every night. Every word that comes out of my mouth seems to anger someone in this country.”
“I suppose that narrows it down a bit,” the detective said sarcastically. “It appears to have been a professional, Mr. Truman. This was not done by an amateur. The gun used was a high-powered rifle fired anywhere from a half mile to two miles away.”