The Last Victim (14 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

BOOK: The Last Victim
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As Bridget ducked inside the car, her cell phone rang. She figured it was Brad, calling her back. She didn’t bother checking the caller number. She clicked on the Talk button. “Hello?”
“Bridget?”
She didn’t recognize the voice on the other end. “Um, yes? Who’s calling?”
“Why didn’t you open the door?”
“What?” she asked.
But then she suddenly realized what he meant.
“Why didn’t you step inside, Bridget?” he whispered. “I was in there, waiting for you.”
For a moment, she couldn’t talk. “Who—who is this?” she finally asked. “Who are you?”
She heard a click on the other end of the line.
Fuller must not have had many friends. Only the first few front pews of Immaculate Heart of Mary Church were occupied. Bridget sat alone in a middle pew. Dressed in her pale green suit, she felt slightly out of place among the mourners. So far, she didn’t see anyone from her old high school class.
An antique-bronze casket sat in the middle of the aisle—near the gap in the communion railing. It was an old church, with an arched ceiling and a stone floor. Very little light came through the stained glass windows, yet on the walls, the murals of the saints appeared sun-faded. Dark wood latticework was practically everywhere—the pulpit, communion rails, the sides of the pews—giving the place a seedy grandeur. On its own, the organ made a low humming noise, probably a draft creeping through the pipes. An emaciated old priest presided over the painfully slow service. Every reading, every move he made seemed so deliberate and prolonged.
Bridget had found the church without a problem. Thanks to her campaigning across the state, she knew her way around the major cities and several small towns.
She kept thinking about that disturbing phone call, and what
might
have happened in the alleyway. She wondered if her stalker was taking his surveillance to a new level. Before, he’d merely been
watching
her. Was it a cat-and-mouse game now? Or perhaps, this was someone entirely different.
Either way, she could no longer put off finding a bodyguard. She also needed to sit down with her sons and tell them about this situation. Maybe this guy was hanging around their school. She hated upsetting David and Eric. She didn’t want them constantly looking over their shoulders for someone in the shadows. But she couldn’t let them blithely walk into harm’s way. They had to know what was happening.
And so did she.
She hoped someone at this memorial—one of Fuller’s friends or a family member—could tell her what wasn’t in yesterday morning’s newspaper. Perhaps someone among this congregation knew where Fuller was headed at two o’clock on Sunday morning.
During communion, Bridget got a look at Fuller’s younger sister, Dorothy, who stepped out from the front pew and headed up to the communion rail. Her hands were folded in prayer. She wore a black wraparound dress that accentuated her sticklike figure. Her blond hair was pulled back in a little ponytail, making her long face and big teeth seem even more prominent. Bridget remembered her when she was a slightly bratty little girl and everyone called her Dottie. She had been in the same class with Andy Shields and the Gaines twins. Fuller often referred to her as “the little shit,” and sometimes, “horse-face.” Bridget wondered if they’d ever gotten along. Throughout the funeral mass, thirty-one-year-old Dorothy maintained a pious expression, but—from what Bridget saw—she didn’t shed a tear.
Once outside the church, Fuller’s sister dropped the piety and smoked a cigarette while she talked with some mourners.
An older woman recognized Bridget from TV, and began to tell her how wonderful Brad was. Bridget nodded politely and kept glancing back at Dorothy Sterns Whatever-Her-Married-Name-Was. For a moment, she and Dorothy locked eyes. With a sigh, Dorothy tossed her cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. Then she headed back toward the church doors.
Bridget excused herself from the old woman, then hurried after Fuller’s sister. “Dorothy?” she called.
Dorothy stopped at the foot of the church steps. She turned and glared at Bridget.
“Dorothy, I’m so sorry about Fuller,” she said. “I’m Bridget—”
“I know who you are,” she interrupted. “I remember you. And I watch TV—so I know you, Bridget. And I think your brother is evil.”
“What?”
Bridget stared at her and shook her head. She figured Fuller must have told his sister that Brad had refused to see him.
“Your brother’s disgusting,” Dorothy sneered. “He’s soft on gay marriage, which is a threat to the American family. And he wants to take away our Second Amendment rights.”
“I’m sorry.” Bridget let out a stunned little laugh. “Are you talking about him wanting to ban certain assault weapons?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m talking about.”
“Well, he’s just talking about assault weapons. I mean, c’mon, Dorothy. Why would anyone need an Uzi to hunt deer or protect their home?” Bridget waved her hand as if to quickly dismiss what she’d just said. “But listen, listen, I don’t want to get into a debate with you here. That’s not why I came. I—”
“I’m voting for Jim Foley,” Dorothy said, cutting her off. Then she turned and stomped up the church steps.
Bridget trailed after her. “Dorothy . . . Dottie . . .” she said. “I don’t care who you vote for. Really. I’m not here to question your politics. I’m here about
your
brother, not my brother.” Bridget lowered her voice as she stepped back inside the old church. She followed Dorothy Sterns up the aisle—toward the casket. Dorothy’s high heels clicked against the stone floor.
“Fuller met with me a few days ago,” Bridget continued. “He was—well, he was concerned about an old friend of ours—”
Dorothy stopped and swiveled around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I really don’t care. My brother and I hadn’t spoken in quite some time. I arranged this memorial service for him because it’s the Christian thing to do. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to talk to the monsignor.”
Bridget noticed the old priest coming from a side door near the altar. He slowly made his way toward the center aisle.
“Dorothy, I didn’t mean to butt heads with you,” Bridget said. “I read about Fuller’s accident. I was wondering if the police got in touch with you. Have they found out anything? I mean, is it possible someone tampered with Fuller’s car? I’m not asking this out of morbid curiosity. There’s a valid reason why I’m bothering you about this. Dorothy, please . . .”
“You’re right,” Fuller’s sister replied. “You’re
bothering
me—and I’m in mourning. So would you leave me alone?”
She hurried to meet the old priest; then the two of them headed toward the side door. “Monsignor, I want to thank you for that lovely eulogy . . .” Dorothy Sterns was saying.
Bridget listened to the click-click of Dorothy’s high heels—until Fuller’s sister and the elderly priest exited through the side door. She could hear another door open and shut, then nothing—except that faint droning from the organ pipes.
Bridget suddenly realized she was alone in the drafty old church, just her and Fuller in his polished antique-bronze casket. She touched the edge of it and wondered what had really happened to him.
She glanced down the aisle toward the church doors. Bridget realized she wasn’t alone with Fuller after all.
Dressed in a tie, blazer, and khakis, the black-haired man stood by the confessionals. At first, his face was shrouded by shadow, but then he came forward, and Bridget saw his eyes—fixed on her. He smiled.
Bridget stepped back and bumped into Fuller’s casket.
She almost stumbled as she made her way around the coffin. She hurried to the side door near the altar, the same exit Dorothy and the priest had used. Pushing open the door, Bridget glanced back over her shoulder.
Her stalker paused by Fuller’s casket. His hand lingered along the lid, and all the while he was staring at her. The smile had vanished from his face.
Bridget ducked into a dim, narrow corridor, then shut the door behind her. There was no lock on it. She saw two other doors at the end of the little hallway—one straight ahead, the other to her left. Bridget ran to the first door and reached for the knob. Locked. She pushed and pushed, but the door didn’t budge.
She heard his footsteps on the church’s stone floor. He was getting closer.
Bridget tried the door to her left. It swung open easily. But the room was dark and cluttered. She weaved her way around boxes of missals, acolyte candlesticks, and huge vases. She headed for the corner, hoping to hide in the shadows of a tall armoire. Then Bridget stopped dead.
She gasped at the tall man waiting for her there. He was in a monk’s robe. It took a moment for her to realize she was staring at a life-size statue of St. Francis. In the darkness, the benevolent saint appeared slightly demonic. His nose had been chipped, and the bird he held in his hand was missing a wing.
Bridget was still trying to get her breath back when she heard a door yawn open—then close—down the corridor. She listened to the footsteps approaching.
She slid behind the statue. Past the piles of boxes and religious artifacts, she stared across the room at the door. She could feel her heart racing. She heard him try the next door down. He knocked softly.
To her left, within reaching distance, Bridget noticed an ornate brass candlestick poking out of an open box. She grabbed it. The thing was heavy. She hid the candlestick behind her back and watched the door open across the room. A shaft of light spilled across all the clutter. She stared at the tall figure in the doorway.
Bridget tightened her grip on the candlestick. She tried not to make a sound.
“Bridget Corrigan?” he whispered.
She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.
“Is that you?” he asked.
Bridget couldn’t tell where he was looking. She watched him feel around for a light switch on the wall. He found it. Suddenly the lights were on, and he was staring at her.
“Are you okay?” the man asked.
Bridget shrunk in the corner. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“I’m Zach Matthias,” he said, taking a cautious step toward her. “You know, from McLaren High? Don’t you remember me?”
She stared at the tall, lean, handsome man. It didn’t make sense. She remembered chubby, sweet Zachary Matthias with his thick glasses and his chipped gray tooth. Except for the wavy black hair and creamy complexion, he didn’t seem to be the same person. The Zach she knew in high school was slightly nerdy and gentle. This man, who had been stalking her ever since Olivia Rankin’s wake, scared the hell out of her. Even his good looks were somewhat threatening.
Bridget didn’t move from the corner. She kept a firm grip on the brass candlestick behind her back. “You’re lying,” she said finally. “I remember Zach, and you’re not a thing like him.”
He smiled. “Guess I should take that as a compliment. If I don’t look the same, I owe it all to Weight Watchers, a fake front tooth, and laser eye surgery.”
Bridget frowned at him. “Why are you following me around?”
“Following you around?”
“I saw you at Olivia Rankin’s wake—”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you there, but you kept avoiding me. I tried to smile at you, but you blew me off and went to talk to Fuller.”
“Well, I—I didn’t mean to
blow you off,
” she said. “I just didn’t recognize you. Why were you there anyway? You were never very close to Olivia.”
“Maybe. But she was a classmate. So was Fuller.” He shrugged. “I didn’t think you were that close to them either. I mean, weren’t they more Brad’s friends?”
Bridget ignored his question. “What were you doing the other day at the Red Lion Hotel—in Brad’s and my hospitality room?” she asked. “And why were you at my son’s Little League game?”
He frowned. “I’ll tell you—if you get out of that corner. You’re making me feel like Jack the Ripper here.”
Chagrined, Bridget stuffed the heavy brass candlestick back in the open box. She stepped around the statue of St. Francis, but hesitated. “If I knew it was you earlier this morning,” she said, looking him in the eye, “I would have opened that door.”
He squinted at her. “What do you mean?”
“In the alley? Behind the Starbucks? Wasn’t that you?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She studied him. “No, you don’t, do you?”
Bridget made her way around the stack of boxes and the religious artifacts, then met him by the doorway.
Zach offered his hand, and she shook it. He gave her a disarmingly cute, shy smile that reminded her so much of when he was a gawky teenager. “Hi, Bridget,” he whispered. “It’s nice to see you again.”
From the corridor, they both stepped back into the old church and paused by Fuller’s casket. “It’s strange,” Zach said. “Olivia and Fuller dying practically within a week of each other.”
Bridget touched the side of Fuller’s polished coffin. “Yes, bizarre.” She retreated down the aisle, and Zach walked alongside her. He stopped in the doorway—by a marble receptacle for the holy water. “I heard you earlier—with Fuller’s sister,” he said. “You were asking some interesting questions.”
Bridget gave him a wary, sidelong glance. “I wasn’t aware we had an audience.” She knew he was Zachary Matthias from high school. He wasn’t lying about that. Still, her guard was up.
“Well, it’s not like I was eavesdropping,” he said. “I was merely hanging around, hoping for an opportunity to come up and talk with you. Anyway, you were right to ask those questions. Some details about Fuller’s accident have emerged in the last couple of days, stuff that wasn’t in the newspaper.”

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