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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

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She reached for the phone, then dialed a number she’d written down on a scratch pad several minutes ago. An answering machine picked up on the other end of the line. She was instructed to dial O if she wanted to talk with an operator. Instead, Bridget waited for the beep.
“Yes, Mr. Jonas,” she said into the phone. “I’m Bridget Corrigan. My bother is running for senator here in Oregon. You might have read in the newspaper that my father was taken ill recently. He’s recovering now, but I’m starting to look at rest home facilities. Glenhaven Hills has been highly recommended. I’m wondering if you have some time tomorrow in the morning or early afternoon to take me on a personal tour . . .”
Bridget left her home phone and cell numbers, then hung up the receiver.
She took a deep breath and got to her feet. She still couldn’t fathom the conversation she’d just had with her father. Maybe it would all sink in tonight when she was trying to sleep. For now, she was just in shock.
She took another deep breath and wandered out of the room.
An empty bedroom.
He’d finished it—down to the last detail. Bridget Corrigan’s bedroom was rendered from God’s point of view on a thirty-six-by-forty-inch canvas. A lot of time and effort had gone into this piece so far, but the real work hadn’t yet begun. That was tomorrow.
Right now, it was just an empty bedroom. But soon, he would fill it—with three bodies.
CHAPTER 23
He drove by her house. Brad’s private detective was sitting in a white Taurus, parked in front of Bridget’s cedar shaker. He could only see the detective’s silhouette in the car, but knew the guy was looking at him. He wasn’t sure whether or not the detective was the same one from the night before last. Maybe he recognized his VW Bug—and figured him for Bridget’s stalker.
Zach wondered if driving by a woman’s house at night on a semiregular basis was
stalking
her—especially when he was finally establishing a real relationship with her. Besides, this was more concern for her safety than an obsession. Okay, so he was a bit obsessed, but he also wanted to make sure Bridget and her sons were all right.
The drive back from Olympia had taken two hours. Zach had periodically checked his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed. Fuller Sterns had died in a car accident. Zach didn’t want to meet the same fate. He knew he was on someone’s hit list.
The break-in at his apartment yesterday was no random burglary. That man had been sent there to kill him. Zach figured if he hadn’t walked in with Bridget Corrigan, he would have been a dead man. The intruder in
his
ski mask had slammed the butt-end of a gun on his head. But he hadn’t touched Bridget. Obviously, Bridget Corrigan was not to be harmed—not yet.
So, after a brief, depressing dinner alone at a Subway in Vancouver, Washington, he’d driven on to Bridget’s place to make certain she was okay. It was nine-thirty, and he could see some lights on inside the house. Brad’s guard was on duty—and vigilant. Zach figured she was safe.
The guard seemed to be watching as Zach drove away. Zach thought about waving good-bye, but he kept both hands on the wheel.
Zach found a parking spot about a half block from his apartment complex. He didn’t see any other vehicles slowing down or stopping on the street. No pedestrians either. He climbed out of the car and walked toward the U-shaped compound of old brownstone row houses. He saw a few lights on in his neighbors’ apartments. But the neglected courtyard was still dark and gloomy—with only a couple of dim lights near the ground illuminating the walkway.
Zach glanced over his shoulder as he stepped into the courtyard. Every few units, there was a walk-through between the apartments. Approaching his own place at the end of the square, he kept an eye on those little passageways. Zach noticed the carriage lamp was broken above the alcove to the laundry room—two doors down from his apartment.
Something moved in that shadowy niche.
Zach suddenly stopped. He backed up, and then ducked into one of the walkways between the units. With his back pressed against the wall, he spied the laundry room foyer. After a few moments, a figure emerged from the dark alcove. Zach heard something crunch, and he realized the man had stepped on some glass from the carriage light he’d broken. It was too dark to see his face, but he was short and balding. He seemed to be holding on to something in the pocket of his windbreaker. He looked around the courtyard, then stepped back into the shadows.
Zach was almost certain it was the same man who had attacked him yesterday—the same build, the same quick little movements.
He kept his eyes glued to the laundry room alcove across the courtyard. Taking a step back, he nearly tripped over something. A cat let out a loud screech, then scurried around his feet and slammed into an empty garbage can. The lid fell off and hit the pavement with a loud clatter that seemed to echo through the apartment complex.
Zach ran for the opening at the other end of the passageway. It led to a fenced-in sidewalk area, where people set their garbage cans and recycling bins. There was even a plastic kiddy pool, tilted up against the side of the building. Zach ducked behind the plastic pool and caught his breath. He tried not to make a sound.
He heard footsteps, then a low, little cackle. “Hey there, kitty-cat?” the man called softly. “Kitty, kitty, kitty?”
Zach knew damn well he wasn’t talking to the cat.
He slowly crept toward the end of the walkway. He heard a tinny clatter and realized the man must have accidentally kicked the garbage can lid in the passageway. Or was it an accident? Was he playing around with him—making a game of it?
Zach ducked into another walk-through and sprinted to the courtyard. Then he ran for the street. He quickly hid behind an SUV parked across from his apartment complex. His heart was racing. He watched the man emerge from one of the compound’s alcoves. He stood in the middle of the courtyard, looking to his right and left. He kept his hand in the pocket of his windbreaker. He was grinning. “Hey, kitty, kitty, kitty,” he called again.
Zach didn’t move.
He thought the man might come out to the street, but he remained in the courtyard. After a few minutes, he retreated toward the laundry room alcove again.
Zach realized he wasn’t going to leave his post—not until he’d accomplished his mission. The guy probably figured his prey would have to come home eventually.
But Zach wouldn’t be going home tonight. He crept back to his VW Bug, started it up, and drove away. He didn’t switch on his headlights until he was two blocks from his apartment complex. He kept checking his rearview mirror, and didn’t see anyone following him.
Forty-five minutes later, Zach was standing in front of a vending machine by the ice dispenser in the Best Western Airporter Inn. He slipped two dollars into the machine, pressed a button, and watched the little overnight kit—disposable razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, and shaving cream—pop into the receptacle tray.
He would take his chances and go home in the morning.
“The fax was waiting for me last night when we got back from dropping off my father and my niece,” Bridget said into the phone. “Mrs. Rankin scribbled a note on the cover page, saying she was grateful for our interest and it was nice to see us. Anyway, she sent Olivia’s phone bill, and I recognized a few of the numbers Olivia called during the last couple of weeks of her life.”
Bridget sat at her computer desk in the basement. The boys used the computer more than she did, which was evident from all the cookie crumbs, gum and candy wrappers, and the two empty Coke cans left on the desk. Between the small, high basement windows, David and Eric had plastered posters on the walls—everything from the Portland Trail Blazers to
Star Wars
to
Dodgeball.
There was also the older TV and a Foosball table to keep them entertained.
Bridget had installed the fax machine when she’d started working on Brad’s campaign. The boys were under strict orders to leave it alone.
“Fuller’s phone number is on here,” Bridget continued, studying the faxed document. “Olivia called him four times. She called Brad’s line at Corrigan-for-Oregon headquarters twice. Both times she must have left messages, because each call was less than a minute. And I got curious about this one number she called three times in the beginning of the month. Brief conversations, but she certainly must have talked to someone. I dialed the number and got Edna.”
“Who?” Zach asked on the other end of the line.
“Edna, the woman who works for Anastasia Fessler,” Bridget explained. “She’s the one who answered when I phoned. You know, that loud, slightly crazy voice of hers? ‘
Fessler residence, Edna speaking
!’ ”
“That confirms what the nurse at Glenhaven Hills was telling me,” Zach said. “Olivia had some kind of special connection with the Fesslers and their lawyers because she got chummy with Sonny. We need to find out what exactly he told her about Gorman’s Creek.”
“Mr. Jonas called me back this morning,” Bridget said. “I’m getting a private tour of Glenhaven Hills at two o’clock today.”
“I’ll go up there with you,” Zach said. “There’s a camera at the gatehouse. But you can let me out before we get to the gate, and I’ll wait down the road for you. It’s a two-hour drive, so I’ll come by your house around eleven-thirty. And I don’t mean to freak you out or anything, but we have to keep something in mind.”
“What’s that?” Bridget asked warily. She put down the fax sheet.
“The ‘new information’ about Gorman’s Creek that Sonny Fessler gave Olivia got her killed. We have to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to us.”
“Well, Zach, thanks a lot,” she said sarcastically. “That doesn’t freak me out at all.”
She heard him chuckle on the other end of the line. “I’ll see you in about an hour, okay?”
“See ya, Zach,” she said. Then she hung up the phone.
Bridget sat back and glanced at Olivia’s phone bill again.
She heard a noise upstairs, and quickly stood up. It sounded like someone had bumped into something. Or was it just the house settling? Noises like that in the middle of the day seldom bothered her before. But things were different now. She waited and listened for a moment. Nothing.
Bridget crept up the stairs. She checked the kitchen, the den, and the living room. She glanced at the front door. The dead bolt lock was still in place. For the last few days, she’d been using the dead bolt all the time.
She glanced outside the living room picture window. The guard, Scott, was standing outside his car, smoking a cigarette. He was a stocky black man in his early thirties. Scott was all-business, and taciturn—almost to the point of gruffness—but the boys were thawing him out.
He seemed to catch Bridget looking at him. He nodded, and she waved back at him. Scott gave her a little smile.
Bridget told herself that she was going to be all right. For the time being, she was going to be all right.
Zach pulled out of the parking lot of Elmer’s Steak and Cake House by the Best Western. He’d eaten breakfast there, then talked to Bridget on the pay phone outside.
They would be in a car together for four hours today. He needed to change his clothes. He’d been wearing them since yesterday morning. Last night he’d showered at the Best Western, but it had hardly done any good, since he’d just climbed back into the same old clothes. He couldn’t avoid his apartment forever. And he felt safer going there during the daytime.
Zach slowly drove around the block twice to get a good look at his apartment complex. The maintenance man was sweeping the courtyard walkway. Zach didn’t notice anyone else.
He parked the car a block away and looked over his shoulder several times on his way to the apartment compound. Lester, the maintenance man, was in his late twenties and something of a burn-out. Today, he had his long black hair in a ponytail, and wore a jacket-vest over his short-sleeve T-shirt, displaying the multicolored tattoos that completely covered both arms.
Listlessly sweeping the walkway, he glanced up at Zach. “Hey, man,” he muttered.
“Hi, Lester,” Zach said.
“Some a-hole busted the light outside the laundry room last night,” Lester grumbled. “There was glass all over the place. Did you see who did it, man?”
“No. I wish I had,” Zach answered. “But you know, something weird is going around, because I couldn’t get into my apartment last night. The lock’s screwed up—or maybe it’s my keys. Can you come take a look at it with me?”
Lester shrugged. “Sure.”
Zach doubted his assailant would have stuck around while Lester was sweeping the compound. Still, he kept glancing back and forth at the different walk-through passageways in the U-shaped complex as they approached his front door. Zach wanted someone else with him as he entered his apartment. There was safety in numbers—even if his backup man was a perpetually stoned janitor.
He pulled out his key, then purposely fudged with the lock for a moment before he got the door open. “Hey, it’s working,” he said.
Lester just nodded and scratched his head.
Zach peeked inside his apartment. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed, and he didn’t see anyone. But he didn’t want to take any chances. “Could you use a Coke?” he asked.
Lester let out a little laugh. “Shit, yeah, man.”
“Hold on, I’ll get it for you.” Zach left him in the doorway. He went into the kitchen and grabbed a can of Coke out of the refrigerator. He looped around and peeked into his bedroom and bathroom. Then he returned to Lester at the front door and gave him the can of soda. “Here you go, Les.”
Lester frowned. “Oh,
a Coke
,” he mumbled with disappointment. “I get it. Well, thanks.” He opened the Coca-Cola, took a swig, then headed toward the front of the courtyard, dragging his broom behind him.
Four minutes later, the dead bolt was on the front door, and Zach was in the shower. It was the fastest, most frantic, most paranoid shower of his life. He kept the bathroom door open, and his map-of-the-world shower curtain half-open. Water was getting on the floor, but he didn’t care. It was more important to have a clear view—in case someone was creeping up on him. He couldn’t get it out of his head that Cheryl Blume had died in a bathtub.
He dried off and dressed in a hurry. For every minute he spent inside his apartment, it was another minute Zach felt he was pushing his luck. He wanted to be long gone by the time his assailant showed up.
He glanced out his front window before stepping outside. Lester was nowhere to be seen. Zach hurried through the courtyard. This was one of the few times he wished he owned a gun. Not that he was any match for someone who knew how to use one; still, having a gun right now would have given him a little peace of mind.

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