Dying to Please Read Free Page A

Judge Roberts to watch their captives, she went into the front hallway and opened one of the nine-foot-tall double doors as two Mountain Brook black-and-whites with flashing roof lights pulled into the curving drive and stopped in front of the wide steps. “They're here,” she reported to the emergency operator, stepping out so the officers could see her. Powerful flashlight beams played over her, and she held up one hand to shield her eyes from the glare. “Thank you.”
    “Glad to be of service, ma'am.”
    Sarah terminated the call as two uniformed officers approached her, hands on their weapons. From their car radios came a stream of static and staccato messages that she couldn't understand, and the rotating car lights made the manicured lawn look like a weird, deserted disco. To the right, the Cheatwoods' outside floodlights came on as the neighbors checked out the action. Before long, she figured, the entire neighborhood would be awake, though only a few would be crass enough to personally investigate. The rest would use the telephone to garner information.
    “There's a pistol in the buffet in the hall,” she said, giving the two officers that information up front. They were edgy enough as it was; their weapons weren't out, but each of them had his hand on his gun just in case. “It belongs to me. I don't know whether or not the thieves are armed, but they're both incapacitated. Judge Roberts is watching them.”
    “What's your name, ma'am?” the stockier of the two asked as he edged inside the open front door, flashlight sweeping from side to side.
    “Sarah Stevens. I'm Judge Roberts's butler.”
    She saw the glance they exchanged—
a woman butler?
She was used to that reaction, but all the stocky officer asked was, “Judge?”
    “Lowell Roberts, retired federal judge.”
    He muttered something into the radio on his shoulder as Sarah led them through the dark entry, past the sweeping front staircase, and into the back hallway. Their flashlight beams played over the two men on the floor and the tall, thin, white-haired man standing watch at a safe distance.
    The thief she had punched was conscious now, but definitely not with the program. He blinked several times and managed to mumble, “Wha' happened?” but no one bothered to answer. The one under the television was alternately sobbing and cursing, pushing at the weight on his legs, but he didn't have any leverage and he'd have been better off wiping his streaming nose; at least that would have accomplished something.
    “What happened to that one?” the taller officer asked, shining his flashlight on the face of the one tied up.
    “I hit him in the head.”
    “What with?” he asked, squatting beside the man and conducting a swift but thorough search.
    “My fist.”
    He looked up in surprise, and she shrugged. “Caught him in the temple,” she explained, and he nodded. A blow to the temple would addle King Kong. She didn't add that she had trained countless hours to be able to make that blow. If necessary she would elaborate, but until and unless a law enforcement officer asked her specifically about her skills, both she and her employer preferred to keep the bodyguard portion of her duties private.
    The search produced a knife with a six-inch blade, secured in a sheath strapped to the man's ankle.
    “They were carrying things out through there,” she said, pointing to the sunroom door. “There are sliding glass doors and a patio outside.”
    In the distance came the shriek of sirens—many sirens—signaling the arrival of an entire fleet of policemen and medical personnel. Very shortly the house was going to be swarming with people, and she still had work to do.
    “I'm going to sit over there out of the way,” she said, pointing to the stairs.
    The cop nodded, and Sarah took a seat on the fourth step, her bare feet tucked safely under her. First and foremost she needed to get power restored to the house, then phone service, though they could