The Last Victim (22 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

BOOK: The Last Victim
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“Janice, he needs rest more than anything else,” Bridget said gently. “Pop is going to be okay. Let’s not blow this out of proportion—”
“Why isn’t there a nurse in here?” Janice interrupted. “And Christ, where’s the doctor? What’s going on?”
She stormed out of the room. Both Bridget and her father took a deep breath. She patted her father’s shoulder. “I think
she’s
the one about to have a heart attack,” Bridget muttered.
Her father just chuckled.
Bridget could hear Janice down the corridor, screaming at a nurse. She sounded like a child having a temper-tantrum. Her voice was angry, yet choked with tears. “I can spend the night here if I choose to do so! And don’t give me that stupid look. Do you know who I am? Do you know who my husband is? Where’s the doctor who examined my father-in-law? Why isn’t he here?”
Bridget could hear Brad trying to calm Janice. Then she started arguing with him—in that same weepy, demanding tone. Apparently, one of the nurses tried to get Janice to quiet down, because she cried out: “Don’t shush me! Do you know who I am? Do you?”
The nurse must have said something to quiet Janice down, because Bridget couldn’t hear her sister-in-law after that. Suddenly, Brad poked his head in the door. “Janice is going nuts,” he said.
“Really?” Bridget replied. “Because I thought she was keeping it together rather well.”
Their father let out another frail chuckle.
“Oh, screw you,” Brad said to her. “So do you think it would hurt the baby if we gave Janice a sedative? She’s in the restroom right now. The nurse suggested giving her something to calm her down, but when I told her that Janice is pregnant—”
“Want me to call Dr. Reece and ask?” Bridget volunteered. Dr. Reece had been Bridget’s ob-gyn, and now he was Janice’s.
“Yes, thanks,” Brad said. He glanced over at their father. “Pop, it looks like you’re getting your color back. How are you feeling?”
He nodded tiredly. “I’m okay. Go back out there and shake some hands. Get some votes.”
Bridget stood by a pay phone in the visitors’ lounge down the hall from her father’s room. She couldn’t use her cellular in the hospital. And the last thing she wanted to do was step outside to make a call, then get lost again trying to find her way back to room C-216. She rummaged through her purse for more quarters.
“Need some change?”
Startled, Bridget glanced up and frowned. “What are you doing, following me?”
Slipping his hands in his pockets, Zach Matthias leaned against the wall. “Not quite,” he said. “I was called to cover Foley’s appearance here. I missed him greeting you at the main entrance. I hear there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.”
“Yes, it was very touching,” Bridget said.
“One of the other reporters told me your dad’s going to be okay. I’m glad.”
“Thanks,” Bridget replied. “So why aren’t you with the rest of them?”
Zach sighed. “Well, never one to miss an opportunity, Foley’s downstairs, giving blood. It’s quite the photo op. They’re all down there with him, lapping it up. To commemorate the occasion, he made an AIDS joke, and I took that as my cue to leave. You can bet none of those other reporters will mention the joke in their stories.”
“Will you?” she asked pointedly.
He glanced down at the floor and shrugged. “I want to keep my job. I’ve only been with the paper three weeks. I don’t have a byline yet. I just handle ‘coverage.’ So even if I blew the whistle on Foley in my coverage, it wouldn’t go to print.”
He pulled some coins out of his pocket. “You needed some change?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“So what happened? Did you use up all your quarters earlier, calling Cheryl Blume?”
Bridget stared at him. “You . . .” She hesitated. “Were you eavesdropping?”
“Not really. I might have caught the tail end of your conversation with her, that’s all. How’s old Cheryl doing, by the way?”
“Old Cheryl’s fine,” Bridget replied guardedly.
He put two quarters in her palm. “Is that enough?”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
“Let’s do that lunch sometime, okay?” he said. “I’m glad your dad is okay. Take care, Bridget.”
She watched him stroll down the hallway, then disappear around the corner.
“Dr. Reece’s office. This is Linda.”
“Linda, this is Bridget Corrigan calling. How are you?”
“Great,” the receptionist said on the other end of the line. “I don’t have to ask how you’re doing. I see you on TV practically every day, and you look terrific. What can I do for you?”
“Well, thanks. Um, I’m wondering if you or Dr. Reece could help me. My dad had—what the doctors are calling an ‘episode.’ Long story short, he’s staying the night here at Portland General—just as a precaution.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Bridget.”
“Thanks. Anyway, Janice is taking it kind of badly, and one of the nurses here suggested we give her a sedative. But Brad and I thought—to be on the safe side—we better call Dr. Reece and see if it’s okay.”
“Oh, um, Bridget, I . . .” The receptionist trailed off for a moment. “Well, Dr. Reece isn’t seeing Janice anymore.”
“What?” Bridget murmured.
“She stopped coming by six weeks ago—very sudden. She phoned and told us that she started seeing another doctor.”
“I can’t believe it,” Bridget said. “Did she give you the name of this other doctor?”
“No. In fact, we still have Janice’s data. We’ve been waiting to forward it. But we’ve yet to hear from this new doctor. So—I gather your sister-in-law didn’t tell you about the switch.”
“Um, no,” Bridget said into the phone. “It’s a surprise to me. A total mystery.”
Bridget wandered back toward her father’s room. She almost ran into Brad—on his way out. “You didn’t call the doctor yet, did you?” he asked. “Because it’s all nipped in the bud. Janice is okay now.”
“Brad, I . . .” Bridget hesitated as she noticed Janice in the room with Bradley Senior. She was holding his hand and talking in a soothing tone.
“While we were wondering if she could have a sedative, Janice was in the ladies’ room taking a Valium.” Brad must have read the concerned look on her face, because he let out a little laugh. “Hey, don’t worry. I guess it’s a real light dose. She said Dr. Reece gave her the okay. Reece said it won’t hurt the baby at all.”
“Are you sure she said
Dr. Reece?
” Bridget asked.
“Yeah, of course.” He patted her arm. “Be right back. I need to make a few calls.”
Brad headed down the hallway.
Bridget gazed into her father’s room. Janice didn’t look up at her. She stayed focused on Bridget’s father and kept stroking his hand. “You’re going to be all right, Dad,” she whispered. “I’m here . . . I’m right here. . . .”
Bridget slammed on the brakes. The minivan’s tires let out a screech. Pushing back from the steering wheel, stiff-armed, Bridget prepared for the crash. She stopped just inches from the back bumper of the other car.
She hadn’t noticed the Honda Accord stopped there. She hadn’t even noticed the red light. Her mind was somewhere else.
It was nine-fifteen. Bridget had left the hospital only a few minutes ago. Her father was asleep. Visiting hours were over. Brad was still trying to convince Janice to come home with him.
Bridget hadn’t had a chance to talk confidentially with her brother. So he didn’t know about Cheryl, or Zach Matthias, or about Janice switching obstetricians. The crisis with their dad canceled everything out—at least temporarily.
Bridget was on her way to Gerry and Leslie’s house to pick up the boys. Her stomach was still tied in a knot as she watched the light turn green. The Honda in front of her pulled forward, and Bridget noticed the bumper sticker:
JIM FOLEY, MY FRIEND, MY SENATOR
.
She let out a frail little laugh. “Huh, maybe I should have hit him,” she said to no one.
She moved on through the intersection. Gerry and his girlfriend had a new house in one of those new developments with its own country club and golf course. It was out where God lost his shoes, off Route 30.
Bridget turned onto the freeway. A few drops of rain started hitting the windshield, and she switched on the wipers. Route 30 wasn’t very busy this time of night. Without much traffic to navigate, she started thinking about her sister-in-law again.
She wondered about Janice and her new obstetrician, the one who wasn’t interested in her previous medical records, the one who thought it was okay for her to have the occasional glass of bourbon or dose of Valium while pregnant. Who was this quack? Or did he even exist?
It might not have been any of Bridget’s business what her sister-in-law did, but Brad had a right to know about the risks Janice was taking with their unborn child. And obviously, Janice was lying to him if she claimed
Dr. Reece
had approved of her using some kind of Valium lite.
Brad knew the most current figures for the state budget down to the penny, but obviously he didn’t know squat about common safeguards during pregnancies.
Bridget was making up her mind to tell her brother all of this when suddenly, she felt something horribly wrong with the minivan. She glanced in the side mirror, and the image of the road behind her was shaking. In fact, everything shook and vibrated. She heard a loud rattling and wondered if something had happened to the engine. Then she realized the minivan was listing to one side.
She had a flat.
“Oh, shit,” she murmured. She felt that panic-lurch in her stomach again. It seemed impossible—so soon after that blowout on the interstate two weeks ago. She’d just had two tires replaced and the other two rotated.
Trembling, Bridget switched on her flashers, then pulled over to the side of the road. All the while, she felt the car dragging in the back—on the left side.
At least there was room on the road’s shoulder, but it wasn’t very well lit. Trees surrounded both sides of the highway, neither a gas station nor a fast food place in sight.
Bridget switched off the motor and watched raindrops accumulate on the windshield. It wasn’t raining too heavily. She climbed out of the car and took a look at the back tire.
The deflated tire’s hubcap seemed to be digging into the gravel. “Lord,” Bridget muttered, looking skyward, “it isn’t enough my dad’s in the hospital and my sister-in-law’s insane. You have to give me this?”
She ducked back in the car, then called Triple-A on her cell phone. They told Bridget someone would be there within a half hour. Next, she phoned Gerry’s house. His girlfriend answered the phone. Bridget could hear David and Eric laughing in the background.
“Hi, Leslie, it’s Bridget. Is Gerry there, please?” she asked, trying like hell to sound pleasant.
“Oh, hi, Bridget. Yes, just a minute.” There was a pause, then: “Hey, honey, it’s Bridget on the phone! Sweetie?”
Bridget could still hear the boys laughing—and the television. Her family was there. Yet she felt like the outsider. When Gerry got on the line, she quickly explained that she had a flat and she’d be late picking up the boys.
“Where are you?” he asked. “I’ll come by.”
“No, it’s okay, really. I called Triple-A, and they should be here in twenty minutes.”
“Well, at least let me wait with you. It’s a cold, ugly night out.”
She didn’t need her estranged husband being nice to her right now. “No, really, I’m fine. You stay there with the boys. Are they okay?”
“Oh, they’re fine. We had pizza. And they’re watching
Rat Race
on TV right now.”
“They should be doing their homework,” Bridget said.
“It’s all done. That was part of the deal. They couldn’t watch the movie until the homework was done. You sure I can’t drive out there and keep you company?”
“No, I’m fine, Gerry. Thanks. See you in a bit.”
Bridget clicked off. She sat in the car, surrounded by darkness. As she listened to the rain tapping the roof, Bridget had never felt so all alone.
She made up her mind, she wasn’t going to cry. Still, why did the boys have to sound so happy at their place? And why did Gerry and Leslie have to sound so happy—and cozy, and lovey-dovey? Making matters worse, they were trying to be nice to her.
“Goddamnit!” she finally cried, enraged now. “Where the hell is the stupid Triple-A?”
Bridget jumped out of the car and stomped around to the back. The rain had let up a little. She opened the rear doors and started dislodging the board that covered the spare tire, the jack, and the wrench.
By the time Bridget had prepped the car to change the tire, she felt utterly miserable.
She toiled with the wrench, trying to loosen the lug nuts so she could remove the flat. Every so often a car passed, its headlights sweeping over her. When the roar of the engines faded, she could hear the nearby forest, restless with leaves rustling and rain dripping from the branches. She tried to work quickly.
Bridget was so busy, she didn’t realize a vehicle had pulled over and stopped several yards behind her.
“Looks like you could use some help.”
Bridget turned around and saw a man approaching. The headlights from the old Volkswagen minibus in back of him partially blinded her, and all she could see was his silhouette. He was a short, compact man, who walked with a macho swagger.
“You’re just in time,” Bridget called, managing a smile.
Then she saw him, and her smile faded. She’d thought he was from Triple-A. But there was no AAA logo on his leather jacket. And there was nothing professional about the way the balding little ape of a man leered at her. It was almost obscene.
“Out here all alone, pretty lady like you?” he asked. “What’s this world coming to?” He licked his lips, then held out his hand. “Why don’t you give me that wrench and I’ll get this taken care of in no time.”
She automatically took a step back. “Oh, that’s okay. I’ve called Triple-A. They should be here soon.”
Chuckling, he still held his hand out. “Bet I get it changed before they even show their faces. Gimme.”
“Oh no, really, thank you, but—”
He swiped the wrench out of her hand. “C’mon, don’t be stupid.”
Dumbfounded, Bridget backed away from him. She watched him squat down by the tire and start working on the lug nuts. “Shit,” he growled. “These motherfuckers are on here pretty tight.”
She saw a squiggly vein bulge out on the side of his head. He gasped as he got each lug nut loose. He stopped and pulled off his jacket. He wore a red T-shirt that looked painted on. His muscular arms were covered with thick black hair.
“Why don’t you go wait in my van while I finish this?” he said, fixing the jack under the car.
Bridget glanced back at the old Volkswagen minibus. Except for an air-freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, she couldn’t see anything—or anyone—inside the vehicle. From this far away, Bridget could just make out the reflector-cartoon snake on the air freshener. The thing was grinning—with big eyes and fangs. The air-freshener was moving back and forth.
“Go ahead,” the man urged her. “The door’s open.”
She kept staring at the darkened front seat of the minibus—and that thing dangling from the mirror. “Um, thanks,” she said finally. “I’m all right here.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s warm in there. You can listen to the radio.”
“I—I’m fine, thanks,” she said.
“Suit yourself,” the man grumbled. He used the wrench to rotate the jack, and Bridget’s minivan started tilting up on one side.
She glanced down the lonely highway and wondered what was taking Triple-A so long. She wished she hadn’t left her cell phone on the front seat.
“Are you going to give me a reward for this?” the man asked, grinning up at her again.
Bridget tried to smile. “Maybe I can take you out to lunch sometime.”
“Lunch, huh?” He cackled. “I had something else in mind. I bet, after this blowout, you could probably use a drink, huh? Nothing like a roadside emergency to unnerve a gal.”
Straightening up, the short, muscular man smirked at her. He still had the wrench in his hand. He’d left her minivan propped up on one side. He took a step toward her.
“I have an ongoing happy hour at my place,” he said, looking her up and down. “The drinks are free.”
Bridget knew she couldn’t take refuge in the minivan and lock the doors. Not now. Hell, she would have needed a stepladder to reach the driver’s door.
She backed away from the man. “That’s a very nice offer,” she said. “But I—I have some people waiting for me.” She looked at her watch. “In fact, one of them is on his way.”
Studying her, the man cocked his head to one side. “Wouldn’t the joke be on him if he got here and you were gone?”
Bridget stared at him. She kept a stony look plastered on her face. She didn’t want to let him know she was scared.
At that moment, a black Honda Accord slowed down and pulled over in front of Bridget’s minivan.
Squinting at the other car, the man frowned. “Is this your friend?”
Bridget had no idea who it was, but she thanked God for their perfect timing. She watched a tall, lean man climb out of the Accord. He waved at them. Once he came out of the shadows, Bridget could see he was handsome, with brown hair, a narrow, chiseled face, and dark, intense eyes. “Looked like you guys were in trouble,” he said. “Need any help?”
“It’s under control,” the short man said. “Thanks anyway. We don’t need you.”
Bridget gave the tall man a furtive, panicked look and shook her head.
He caught it, then turned and smiled at the shorter man. “Oh, I think I should stick around—just in case.”
The little man changed his stance and casually brandished the long wrench. “That’s not necessary. So you can get back in your car and drive to wherever you’re headed. We’re fine here.”
“Why don’t we let the lady speak for herself?” The handsome man turned to Bridget. “Ma’am, would you like me to stay?”
She nodded. “Yes, please.”
“That settles it then,” he said, heading toward the back of her minivan. He started to remove the deflated tire.
For a moment, Bridget wondered if the ape-faced man was going to hit him with the wrench. Instead, the little creep threw it down. The wrench hit the gravel with a clang. “Screw this,” he grumbled. He swiped his jacket off the ground, then stomped back to his old Volkswagen minibus.
Bridget waited until he climbed inside and slammed the door; then she turned toward her rescuer. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He set down the deflated tire. “Well, from my car, I noticed him standing there, holding the wrench—and you backing up. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to stop.”
“You figured right,” she said, with a sigh. “He was starting to make me feel very uncomfortable.” Bridget glanced back at the Volkswagen. She could see the hairy, muscular man sitting behind the wheel, watching them. She wondered why he hadn’t moved on yet.
Her rescuer hoisted the spare tire over to the raised axle. “Well, don’t worry, Bridget. I’ll make sure he doesn’t mess with you.”
Bridget frowned. How did he know her name?
She watched him set the spare tire in place. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said, stepping behind him. She picked up the wrench. “How—um, how do you know my name?”
His back to her, he was lining up the holes with the lug nut rods. “I thought I recognized you from the news,” he explained. “Then I noticed the bumper sticker. And the Corrigan-for-Oregon posters here in the back of your minivan cinched the deal.”
He fixed the spare in place and smiled up at her. “My name is Clay, by the way. I’d shake your hand, but mine’s dirty.” He glanced down at the pavement. “Did you see where your friend left the lug nuts?”

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