The Last Victim (24 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

BOOK: The Last Victim
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Bridget went back to loading up her purse. She stopped to look at the razor-pen. She flicked the switch and watched the razor pop out.
“If you hit the right artery, you can do a lot of damage.”
Bridget swallowed hard. She wondered once again if she and Brad were really safe. As much as she tried to ignore it, she couldn’t help thinking someone was out there bent on murdering them.
“I bend over backward to be nice to her, and she treats me like shit,” Leslie complained, making herself a bourbon and water.
“Honey, she’s bitter,” Gerry said. “It’s that simple. I know you were trying to be friendly and make her feel welcome. But I don’t think she wanted to see how cushy we have it.”
“So what do you expect me to do? Make her wait outside? I was just trying to be hospitable, for Christ’s sake.” She sipped her drink. “That’s what I should have done. I should have made the bitch wait outside while I rounded up her brats.”
“Hey, watch it,” Gerry said. “Those are my brats too.”
Leslie picked up a copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
from the kitchen counter. “One of them left his book behind.”
Gerry glanced toward his study—off the family room. “Do you have a window open? I’m feeling a draft.”
“No. And
I’m
feeling like we’ll get a call in about five minutes from Her Royal Painess, wanting you to drive over with this thing, because your kid’s gonna need it for school.” She tossed the paperback on the counter again.
“The boys are coming over again tomorrow night. David can get his book then.” Frowning, Gerry headed into the study. “What the hell . . .”
“Well, I don’t mind your kids,” Leslie said, between sips of her drink. “But I swear, that’s the last time I’m nice to her.”
“Hey, was one of the boys in here, screwing around with the sliding glass door?” Gerry called from the other room. “The damn lock is broken—”
At that moment, the front gate buzzed.
“I bet that’s her!” Leslie called, snatching up the paperback. “Miss Sourpuss came back for the book.” She headed for the front door. “Don’t worry, I’ll be nice! I’ll rise above it. Just don’t expect me to invite her in.”
As she buzzed open the front gate, Leslie wondered why Gerry wasn’t answering her—and why he hadn’t come out of the study. Hadn’t he heard the gate?
“Gerry?” she called, glancing over her shoulder. She opened the front door and looked toward the wrought-iron gate. No one.
Yet she could hear gravel crunching under feet. Leslie glanced around the atrium. They had gravel around the bushes near the side of the house—and along the courtyard gate. But she didn’t see anyone—not at first.
Then Leslie let out a gasp. A tall, lean figure stepped out from behind the bushes. She couldn’t see his face. Then suddenly he rushed toward her.
“Oh my God!” Leslie screamed, dropping the book.
She swiveled around and headed back inside. She was about to shut the door behind her, but stopped short.
What Leslie saw in the front hall was like a freakish nightmare. It all seemed to be happening at high speed.
His forehead gushing blood, Gerry ran toward her. A short, muscular man chased after him with a pipe raised in his fist.
“Jesus, no, wait!” Gerry was yelling. “No—”
But the man slammed the pipe on the back of his head, and Gerry fell down on the stone tiles.
Leslie watched in horror.
This isn’t happening, this isn’t
’t
happening.
She started to scream, but the other man slapped his hand over her mouth. It was so forceful, he almost snapped her neck back. His hand felt like rubber. She realized he was wearing surgeon’s gloves. The shorter man, who now stood over Gerry, also wore them.
She heard the door slam behind her.
He twisted her around, and she could no longer see what was happening to Gerry—if he was alive or dead.
His pelvis pressed against her back, the man was almost lifting her up by her chin. Leslie could hardly breathe with his rubber-clad hand over her mouth. She stared into the living room. Gerry’s sons—in their framed portrait on the end table—seemed to smile back at her.
Leslie struggled. She thought he might break her neck. One hand was firmly clamped over her jaw, and she felt his other on her belly. He tugged at her T-shirt. The rubber glove brushed against her bare skin as he pulled the T-shirt up over her bra.
“It isn’t black,” she heard him mutter. His warm breath swirled in her ear. “Do you have a black one?”
He lowered his hand from her mouth—just enough for her to gasp for air. “I—I can give you money,” she cried. “Please, please . . . we have cocaine here. I’ll show you where it is. Take it . . . please . . . just take it and go . . .”
She managed to glance back toward where Gerry had fallen. The other man was tying Gerry’s hands in back of him with some duct tape.
“Do you have a black one?” the man behind her repeated. His cheek was rubbing against hers. The whisker stubble scratched.
Leslie was crying helplessly. “A black what?”
“A black bra. Do you have one?”
Tears streamed down her face. She wondered why he would ask that. But she nodded. “Upstairs . . . my bedroom dresser . . . please . . .”
His hand came over her mouth again, tighter than before. He suddenly grabbed her arm with his other hand and wrenched it behind her back. He pushed her toward the stairs.
She glimpsed Gerry, lying on the floor, unconscious and bleeding. The shorter man darted past them to the door, and he locked it. Then he hurried to the living room window and closed the drapes. His every move seemed so efficient and passionless.
Leslie tried to breathe past the gloved hand over her mouth. The man’s face was pressed against hers. Yanking at her arm, he forced her up each step toward the second floor. The lights were off up there.
Leslie looked at the darkness ahead.
This isn’t happening
, she kept telling herself. She felt his lips brush against her ear again, and she shuddered.
“Come on, Leslie,” he whispered. “You’re going to put on your black bra for me. And I’ll make you immortal.”
“Where is that moron with the wheelchair?” Janice wanted to know. She nervously paced back and forth in the hospital room.
Bridget glanced over at her father. He sat on the side of the hospital bed, wearing a baggy, bright blue nylon jogging outfit with purple piping. It was zipped up around his slight turkey neck. Every white hair was carefully combed in place. But he still looked ashen and frail.
Bridget wondered if he really should be getting out of the hospital today. Or were they locked into the decision, now that the press had gathered in front of the hospital? Brad was trying to keep little Emma entertained. They’d brought her along to make the most of the photo opportunity.
Janice looked very pretty for the occasion, one of her first public appearances since the pregnancy had sidelined her. She wore a black jumper that made her appear further along than she actually was.
Bridget hadn’t known this was a minor media event. Still, she’d taken too much time getting dressed this morning. Zach Matthias had called back, saying he would meet her at the hospital cafeteria for lunch, and suddenly she’d freaked out over what to wear. After changing outfits and hairstyles several times, she’d finally decided to put her hair up—and wear her sage cashmere sweater and black pants.
At the last minute, David couldn’t find
To Kill a Mockingbird
, which he’d needed for class. Bridget had hunted down her own copy for him. The boys had barely made their bus. While waiting for them to replace her spare at the Firestone outlet, Bridget checked out the
Examiner
. The story was on page two:
SENATORIAL CANDIDATE’S FATHER, BRADLEY CORRIGAN SR., HOSPITALIZED
.
They ran a photo—not of her father, but of
her
with Jim Foley. He was holding her hand, while she numbly gazed at him. The caption read:
GOOD SPORT: Senatorial Candidate, Jim Foley, puts aside political differences to offer his moral support to his opponent’s sister, Bridget Corrigan, at Portland General Hospital yesterday. Corrigan’s father was admitted to the hospital with an undisclosed illness.
Small wonder Brad’s campaign manager, Jay Corby—aka
Mr. Slick—
was turning their father’s release from the hospital into a family photo opportunity.
“I think when we go out the main door, you should be pushing Dad in the chair,” Janice told her husband. “I’ll be at Dad’s side, holding his hand, and carrying Emma. Bridget, you should be, um, let’s see . . .”
“How about if I sat on Dad’s lap?” she offered.
Her father chuckled. But Janice threw her a peeved look. “You’re not helping.”
“Sorry,” Bridget said. “Actually, I’ll stay in the background. This is a moment for you three and Dad. I got my picture in the paper this morning, and that’s enough for me.” She headed toward the door. “I’ll see what’s holding up the guy with the wheelchair.”
She was halfway down the corridor when Brad caught up with her. “Hey, those were her raging hormones talking,” he said in a hushed voice. He took hold of her arm, and Bridget stopped. “I want you in the picture, Brigg.”
“No, you guys should be the focus. But you ought to be carrying Emma, on the other side of Dad. Let the orderly push Dad in the chair. It’s his job.”
Brad chuckled. “Well, if Janice wants it a certain way, you know that’s how it’ll be.”
Bridget only gave a flicker of a smile. “Brad, I told you last night that I needed to talk to you about something.” She glanced around the corridor. “This is as good a time as any, I suppose. It’s about Janice.”
Brad frowned. “What is it?”
“Well, when I called Dr. Reece’s office yesterday—to ask about giving Janice a sedative—they told me Janice stopped seeing Dr. Reece about six weeks ago.”
“That’s crazy—”
Bridget shrugged. “Janice told Dr. Reece that she’d found another obstetrician. The nurse at Reece’s office said they’ve been waiting to forward Janice’s records to this other doctor, but they’ve yet to hear from him.”
“But Janice just told me yesterday that
Dr. Reece
said it was all right for her to take—”
“That Valium lite, or whatever it is, I know,” Bridget cut in. She sighed. “That’s another thing, Brad. I think nearly every doctor and nurse here would agree with me that a pregnant woman shouldn’t be taking Valium. It’s a definite no-no—right up there with drinking. And as long as I’m spilling my guts, that night we got back from the fund-raiser, when I was washing dishes at your house, I noticed a glass with some bourbon in it and lipstick marks on the rim. I’m pretty sure it was Janice’s shade. That was the night she’d left Emma downstairs with the boys and went to bed early.”
He just stared at her and shook his head.
“Brad, I’m sorry. I feel awful telling you all this.”
“Do you?” he asked pointedly.
“Yes, I do.”
He just kept staring.
“I hope I’m wrong,” Bridget continued. “I hope there’s a perfectly good explanation. I’d love to end up apologizing to both of you for even insinuating that, well, that Janice might be taking risks with your baby.”
“You’ll apologize all right,” he replied in a low voice. “You know, I agree with you, Bridget. Maybe you shouldn’t be in the picture with us.”
He glanced over his shoulder. A stocky, young orderly was coming down from the other end of the corridor with the wheelchair.
Brad turned to her again. “Janice and I can take it from here. Maybe the two of you shouldn’t be around each other today.”
“Brad, I—”
“I’ll call you later,” he said, cutting her off.
Bridget watched him head back toward their father’s room. He met the orderly with the wheelchair. Brad nodded, smiled, and shook his hand. Another vote for Corrigan.
He’d been up all night. Yet he was wired. Bridget Corrigan’s estranged husband and his girlfriend had quite a stash of cocaine, and he’d imbibed a bit.
Clad only in his undershorts, he stood in front of his masterpiece. Sweat, dried glue, and smudges of paint covered his skin, caking against his arm and chest hair.
Candles flickered on either side of his latest work. This one came out even better than he’d anticipated. The pale, Rubenesque young woman was nude—except for that black bra. Her wrists had been bound behind her with the same gray duct tape they’d used to tie up the man. He wasn’t interested in the guy. He’d let his partner take care of him.
His subject was posed just as he’d planned—slumped forward from a kneeling position. She looked so pitiful, curled up in a little ball beside that red sofa. He’d wanted her facedown, because he didn’t have much time to photograph her in the days prior to her death. He had to work without any good head shots.
He didn’t see her face as he strangled her. He did it from behind, while she was on her knees. His partner had given him grief for bringing along ten feet of cord for the job. But he had his reasons—artistic reasons.
The canvas was thirty-two by twenty-four inches. Instead of getting a frame, he’d carefully glued the ten-foot cord around the edges of his masterpiece. Then he’d painted it black—to match her bra. It was the first time he’d incorporated a souvenir from his killing into his art.
He decided to call this one
Girl by a Red Sofa
.
He blew out the candles on either side of the painting. Heading toward the bathroom, he scratched his bare stomach and kicked several discarded sketches he’d tossed on the floor earlier in the week.
They were pencil drawings he’d made when he should have been focusing on his
Girl by a Red Sofa
. But he couldn’t stop sketching Bridget Corrigan. He’d taken several photos of her—from newspapers and off the TV—along with ones he’d snapped himself in public—or sometimes, through a window in her home.
He’d sketched Bridget Corrigan full-face, and profile, with her hair up and down. He’d used his imagination to draw her nude. He’d made her a Madonna and a whore. He couldn’t stop drawing her.
His associate said he was crazy. Maybe he was.
He’d become obsessed with Bridget Corrigan the moment he’d first set eyes on her. And he’d go on being obsessed with Bridget Corrigan—until he painted her dead.
Zach Matthias looked tired and a bit rumpled. He’d explained that he’d been up most of the night on his computer, which was hooked up on his phone line. He hadn’t gotten her message until he’d signed off sometime around five in the morning.
He wore a navy blue knit sweater and gray corduroys. His wavy black hair was disheveled and he had on his black-rimmed glasses. He reminded her a little of the sweet, gawky Zach from their high school days.
In fact, it was almost as if they were back in high school again—sitting across from each other in a cafeteria with white and powder-blue tiles on the walls, and trays full of fatty, bland food on the table between them. Zach had the Teriyaki Bowl, and Bridget played it safe with a grilled cheese sandwich.
“So—what’s a nice guy like you doing working for a pro-Foley rag like the
Examiner
?” Bridget finally asked, sitting back in her plastic chair.
“And providing coverage for other people’s stories, no less. Talk about grunt work.” Zach dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “I was desperate. I’ve been living in Europe for the last four years. I just got back in the States about six weeks ago, and needed a job.”
“What were you doing in Europe?”
“I was an international spy,” Zach replied. Then he smiled, waved the remark away, and quickly shook his head. “Actually, I did freelance stuff, writing newsletters and press releases—for museums mostly. In London, I worked for the Tate and the Tate Modern. I lived in a little flat off a canal by the Thames, and felt very continental. In Paris, I did some work for the Musee d’Orsay. My phonetic French is lousy, but I can write it okay. I really loved Paris.” He shrugged and picked at some rice on his plate. “But I got homesick for the Pacific Northwest. So I moved to Portland, got an apartment in Hawthorne, bought a used VW Bug, and got a crappy job with a newspaper that supports a fascist. But when they told me I’d be covering the election, I thought,
That’s cool, because I’ve always had a crush on Bridget Corrigan.
”
Bridget shifted a bit in her chair. She felt herself blushing. “Well, thanks,” she managed to say. “That’s very flattering.”
“I thought you knew already,” he said, grinning. “Kim Li told me that she blabbed to you. Remember Kim? Do you know what she’s doing now?”
Bridget shook her head. She’d pulled away from her best friend those last couple of weeks before going off to college. Bridget had known she couldn’t stay close to Kim and not confide in her about Mallory’s disappearance. It had broken her heart to phase out her closest friend like that. There had been a few letters and calls back and forth during their college freshman year, but nothing like before.
“You have this—faraway look,” he said.
She blinked and sat up. “Oh, I was just thinking. It’s sad, I haven’t talked to Kim in nineteen years.”
“I tracked her down a couple of weeks ago,” Zach said. “She’s a psychiatrist in Minneapolis. She’s been married ten years, and has three kids. She asked about you. I’ve been looking up a lot of our high school classmates. It’s part of a feature story idea I had.”
“What kind of story idea?”
“Interviews with Brad and Bridget Corrigan’s high school peers, the class of eighty-five. Some of his other friends too. Remember his buddy David Ahern? He was a class ahead of us.”
Bridget felt a little pang in her stomach to hear him say the name of her old crush. “Yes. You talked to him?”
Zach nodded. “He’s a Realtor in Palm Springs. He’s been living with the same guy for eleven years. They’re very happy.”
Bridget let out a sad little laugh. “I used to have a thing for him.”
“Well, maybe you don’t want to hear this,” Zach said. “But David admitted to me that he had it bad for your brother. He said he even made a pass at Brad during a camping overnight. Brad wasn’t having any, but apparently he was cool about it and they stayed friends. Pretty amazing for a guy in high school back in 1985. David said they kept in touch—until you guys moved away from McLaren.”
Tilting his head to one side, Zach studied her. “You know, it’s funny, but that was the same story with the others I interviewed. They all lost touch with you guys once you started college or moved away.”
“What’s so unusual about that?” Bridget asked.
“Well, it’s not like you moved to the other side of the world. Portland is only, what, an hour and fifteen minutes away from McLaren?”
Bridget squirmed a bit in her chair. “What are you getting at?”
He took off his glasses and wiped them with his napkin. “I don’t know. It came up with Kim, and David, and several others. They said they tried to keep the lines of communication going, but you and Brad seemed, well, unresponsive or unavailable.”
Bridget frowned at him. “I still don’t know what you’re getting at. And I must say, I don’t exactly like the idea of someone calling up my brother’s and my old friends and asking questions about us.”

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