Free The Empty Warrior by J. D. McCartney Page A

would not have startled him any more.
    For what he was hearing from the dogs was not the whine tinged baying that indicated some sort of wildlife had been sighted through a window, nor was it the sound of their somewhat tentative canine exclamations that meant a strange noise had been heard. No, the fierceness and rapidity of the dogs’ vocalizations indicated clearly that they had seen and could still see someone approaching the house. Either Melissa was very early or some person unknown and unannounced had come up the mountain early on a Sunday afternoon to bother him. Both of those possibilities were so rare as to be nearly inconceivable.
    After quickly saving the game and tossing his reading glasses to the desktop, he flipped forward the levers that held the locks to his wheels, grabbed the push rims and, pushing one wheel forward while pulling the other back, expertly spun the custom-made sports chair around and away from his desk. Faster than any walking man could have moved, he sailed through the oversized doorway that led from his office out onto the hardwood floor of the hall. A slight, three-fingered pressure on the left rim that spun beneath his hand easily pulled the wheelchair through almost ninety degrees and set him on a course to roll directly down the center of the hallway. In seconds he had traversed nearly the length of the house and came gliding to a halt in front of the high picture windows of the living room, in front of which both the dogs still barked excitedly.
    They stood shoulder to shoulder, jostling each other as they bellowed out their warnings. They were so close to the windows that their wet noses touched the glass from time to time as they yammered on crazily, leaving smudges that O’Keefe made a mental note to wipe away later. It took him several moments to quiet them.
    As they had many times before, his pets had once again proven their vigilance as sentries. Below and far down the drive, O’Keefe spied a car moving through the trees, making its way cautiously up the winding stretch of asphalt toward his home. It was not a vehicle he recognized, but rather a well used, fire engine red Camaro that O’Keefe was certain he had never seen before. He reached for the pair of binoculars he kept on an end table next to the sofa and trained them on the intruding machine, but there was nothing to see. The view from the side was blacked out by privacy glass and the rakishly angled windshield showed nothing save sky and bits of leafy canopy reflected onto it from above.
    O’Keefe’s heart rate increased as he watched the vehicle approach. He was fully cognizant of the fact that he was paranoid to a certain degree. He had suffered from that mental affliction for forty years, ever since his first few weeks in southeast Asia. But he, like many Marines, justified, or perhaps more correctly rationalized, his feelings with the old saying “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.” At any rate, the self-awareness of his middling psychosis did little to quell the expanding urge in his brain to take precautions. He rolled to the rear of the house, down an inclined ramp and into the large den, where he ordered the dogs; who were, as was their wont when strangers approached, hovering protectively around his chair; out into the yard.
    Bismarck, a German Shepherd whose name had, over time, mutated into the more apt and descriptive moniker of Bizzy, was eager to comply, bounding through the pet door apparently hopeful of getting a better look at whoever was approaching. His ferocious, deep throated bark and his menacing appearance belied his true nature. He was always overjoyed to see guests, apparently in the belief that what few there were came exclusively to visit him rather than to see O’Keefe or conduct any business. He was, in short, a large and furry teddy bear. O’Keefe believed it highly likely that he would welcome a mafia hit squad into the house if he thought