The Last Victim (41 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

BOOK: The Last Victim
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She and Brad, Cheryl, Fuller, and Olivia—they were all innocent. They hadn’t killed Mallory. And Mallory had been right about Sonny all along. Bridget used to regard him as the town’s Boo Radley. But he was really the town’s Ed Gein.
“Was there anyone else, Sonny?” she heard herself ask. “Did you kill anyone else in those woods behind your house?”
He nodded. “All together, nine people. I buried three of them, and no one ever found them. And these two teenagers, this boy and girl, I hung them from a tree. . . .”
Bridget squinted at the feeble old man next to her. Sonny’s voice seemed to be coming at her through a fog. She wished the light behind him would stop blinking. “My God, Janette Carlisle and Frank Healy,” she murmured. “You must have been—around their age, seventeen, eighteen . . .”
“I caught them swimming without any suits on in our pond,” Sonny said. “They were naked. And he got real mad when he caught me peeking. He called me all sorts of names, and he even hit me . . . and she was laughing at me . . . but I’m not a pervert . . . told them . . .”
Bridget felt herself drifting off. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t focus, and Sonny’s voice kept drifting in and out. She reached for the hot chocolate—for a jolt of
something
.
Then she saw the eager look on Sonny’s face. He giggled. “Are you tired yet?” he asked. He reached over and touched her hair.
Bridget would have shrunk back, but she realized she couldn’t move. She had another awful realization. This mental patient who had killed nine people—some of them, children—had put something into her hot chocolate. No wonder he was so anxious for her to drink it. She remembered how—after serving up the hot chocolate—he’d asked her to check the corridor.
Bridget sat there in a stupor while his hand moved down from her hair to her shoulder to the front of her blouse. “Sometimes they give me pills to help me sleep,” she heard him say through the fog. She tried to focus on him against the sputtering light. He was smiling. “I saved some of my pills for you, young Corrigan lady.”
She let out a moan of protest and started to shake her head. “No . . .”
He pulled his hand away, then reached inside his shirt pocket. “Look what else I have.”
Bridget felt herself slipping away. She could barely focus on what he’d taken out of his pocket. Her body was shutting down. She felt so helpless.
Just before she lost consciousness, Bridget saw the razor blade in his hand.
The ground in the forest clearing was hard. Swinging the pick, Zach had spent a half hour breaking apart the topsoil. Then he’d gone to work with the shovel for another hour. Now he stood in a narrow hole that was about two feet deep. At the edge of the pit, the ape-faced goon looked down at him with the gun in his hand and a smug grin on his face.
The sun was setting, and a chilly wind kicked up. Zach felt goose bumps rise under the clammy layer of sweat that covered him. His back ached from all the digging. He’d lost the feeling in his toes, and his feet stung. Both his heels were bleeding, because he often had to use the bottom of his bare foot to force the shovel deeper into the ground. His executioner seemed to enjoy watching him wince in pain every time he had to give the shovel that extra push.
Zach still wasn’t sure how he was going to get out of this. He hoped to come up with something before this guy ordered him to stop digging.
He needed to catch him off guard. One little distraction and he could pitch a mound of dirt in his ape face and charge him with the shovel. But whenever Zach glanced up, the man was staring down at him—and smirking. He seemed to know his vigilance was being tested.
“Listen,” Zach said, hoisting a pile of dirt over his shoulder. “If I’m going to die anyway, why not just tell me? What’s he planning to do to her?”
“Oh, give it up already, numb-nuts. I told you, she’s as good as dead. Leave it at that.”
“So why not tell me what he’s going to do to her? It’s not like I’ll have far to go—carrying the secret to my grave.”
The goon chuckled. “Good one. For that, I’ll give you an honest answer. I don’t know what the hell Clay has planned for your girlfriend—”
“
Clay?
He’s the painter? The artist?”
“Likes to think he is. Anyway, I figure he’s going to finish her off tonight—or tomorrow. Hell, maybe he’s even doing her right now—I fucking hope so. It’s getting to the point at which she’s all he thinks about, and he’s useless. He went AWOL on our last job, because he was so preoccupied with that Corrigan bitch. It’s why he’s not here with us now. Like I told you, I’ve seen it happen to him before. He’s not going to focus on anything else until she’s dead—and he can paint her.”
Zach stared at him and shook his head.
“Keep digging, asshole. You’ll be able to rest soon enough. Huh,
eternal
rest.”
Zach went back to work with the shovel. “So—what’s Brad Corrigan going to say?” he asked. “Don’t you think your employer will be upset when his sister ends up dead?”
The man didn’t answer. Zach glanced up at him.
“What makes you so sure I work for Brad Corrigan? Keep digging.”
“It’s a pretty easy deduction,” Zach replied, scooping out another mound of dirt. “Brad needs me to disappear. I’ve been asking too many questions about Mallory Meehan and Gorman’s Creek.”
Zach scooped up another shovelful of loose earth and hurled it over his shoulder. “That’s quite a body count you and your buddy Clay have going,” he remarked, breathing hard. “The newspapers said the ‘drug-related’ murders of Bridget’s husband and his girlfriend looked like a two-man job. Makes sense now. And it must have taken the two of you to set up Fuller Sterns in that car crash. What about Olivia and Cheryl? Were you both working those jobs?”
“We handled the girl on the beach together,” the man grunted. “Clay wanted to paint her, so he’s the one who shot her. But I fried that juicy bitch in the tub all by myself. Like I told you, Clay went AWOL on that hit. He was too busy finalizing plans for your girlfriend.”
“All of this because Brad Corrigan wants to be senator,” Zach muttered with disgust. “So he has to get rid of everyone who was there at Gorman’s Creek twenty years ago, everyone who knows about his crime—”
“A little less talk, and a little more work, asshole.”
Zach ignored him and kept muttering to himself while he dug. “And now, one of the apes he hired to pull these hits has decided to go off on his own and murder Bridget. Jesus—”
“I told you to shut up, fuck-face.”
“Hey, hit man,” he retorted, glaring up at him. “You can call me
Zach
, okay? Calling me
fuck-face
or
asshole
every time you address me is getting kind of old. You’re a walking cliché of your profession, using that kind of defense mechanism.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you, and the little tricks of your trade. You’re trying to maintain this contempt for me, so it’ll be easier to kill me. Hit men and professional burglars fall back on that to ease their consciences.”
The little man let out a defiant laugh.
Zach went back to digging. “I read an article about it in a psychology magazine. It’s why some burglars trash a house when they rob it. By having contempt for the victim, it justifies what they’re doing. Even if I’d been your good friend up to this point, you’d suddenly start calling me
fuck-face
and
asshole
right now—so it’ll be easier to put a bullet in my brain without feeling bad about it.”
“That’s fascinating, asshole.”
Zach felt something sting his shoulder. It burned. Wincing in pain, he suddenly straightened up. He realized the guy had just thrown a small rock at him.
“That’s just a defense mechanism too,
Zach
,” the man said. “Now shut the fuck up and keep digging.”
Zach rubbed his shoulder and went back to digging his grave. It dawned on him that he’d just missed an opportunity. The little creep must have taken his eyes off him for a couple of moments to pick up that rock. Zach figured if he could make him angry again, the guy might go looking for another rock. Then maybe he could catch him off guard.
“So—do you have a name, hit man?” he asked, shoveling the dirt.
His executioner didn’t respond. Zach glanced up. The man just smirked and shook his head.
“C’mon, you have a name, don’t you?” Zach went on. He kept staring up at the guy while he dug. “Or maybe a nickname?
Monkey Man?
Did anyone ever tell you that you look like an ape? Well, actually, you look more like a real
short
ape—a chimp.”
The man let out an irate laugh. “That’s right, funny man, keep it coming . . .”
“Did the kids in school call you
Cheetah
?” he said, scooping up another mound of dirt. “Or maybe
Bonzo
?”
“Fuckin’ asshole,” the man muttered. He looked down at the ground, then bent down and started to pick up a rock.
Zach swung the shovel upward. Dirt flew in the air. Zach connected with the backside of the shovel and hit the man square in his ape face. He heard a hard smack and felt a jolt vibrate through the shovel handle.
The man howled in pain. It was like the sound of a wounded animal—echoing through those woods. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth. Somehow, he’d managed to hold on to the gun. He waved it erratically and staggered back from the grave. He wouldn’t stop screaming. The man cursed at Zach between his anguished cries.
Zach started to charge toward him with the shovel.
A shot rang out, and then another.
The screaming abruptly stopped. And the forest was quiet again.
She swallowed, and it felt as if she had ground glass in her throat.
Bridget tried to move, but she couldn’t. Her body was still asleep. She was somewhere between a terrible nightmare and consciousness. She wanted so much to wake up. She hated this helpless, paralyzed,
trapped
feeling. Bridget wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
The last thing she remembered was this same awful, powerless feeling—and Sonny Fessler showing her a razor blade.
Now she was in a bed—somewhere—and someone had stripped her down to her bra and panties. Her head was aching, and she was afraid to swallow, because it hurt so much.
“Ms. Corrigan? Bridget? Can you hear me? Bridget?”
Her eyes fluttered open. She realized that she was in one of the more “homey” hospital rooms Mr. Jonas had shown her in Ward A of Glenhaven Hills. Bridget suddenly sat up. Her head throbbed.
A wry-faced nurse with white hair was hovering over her. “You’ll be okay,” she said, adjusting the pillow behind her. “Just take it easy.” She gently pushed Bridget back against the pillow, then pressed a button that raised the mattress up to a sitting position.
“Oh God,” Bridget murmured, rubbing her head.
“I’ve got you covered,” the nurse cooed. She put a cold washcloth on Bridget’s forehead, then reached for a plastic tumbler of water on the side table. She bent the flexible straw in the tumbler and raised it to Bridget’s lips. “Wet your whistle first. Then I have some aspirin for you—industrial strength.”
Bridget drank, took the pills, and then drank some more. All the while, she looked at a woman, seated in an easy chair across the room. She was about fifty-five with short blond hair and a still-attractive, suntanned, sun-wrinkled face. There was something very elegant about her—or maybe it was just her black suit and the Hermes scarf. She seemed to be studying Bridget.
“What time is it?” Bridget asked, her voice hoarse. “How long have I been out?”
“A couple of hours,” the nurse said. “It’s just about five-thirty. You sit still, and I’ll get you some coffee.” She headed for the door.
“Um, I have a man who drove me here,” Bridget said, half sitting up. “He’s—”
“He’s in the lobby,” the nurse said. “He knows you’re all right. I’ll be back with your coffee in a jiff.”
“Thank you,” Bridget said, taking the washcloth off her head.
“Get me a coffee too, will you, Cecilia?” the woman finally piped up. “Industrial strength.”
“Okeydoke,” the nurse replied. Then she ducked out of the room and closed the door behind her.
Bridget took another sip of water and noticed her purse on the night table. She grabbed it, opened it up, and pulled out her cell phone. There were three new messages—all the same area code, 360. She listened to the voice mail. It was Mr. Jonas, asking where she was.
Frowning, Bridget dialed her home phone to retrieve her messages. Nothing. No one. Zach still hadn’t called.
She sighed, tossed the phone back in her purse, and set the bag on her nightstand. Then she locked eyes with the woman who sat across the room from her.
The woman leaned forward in the chair. “So—how are you feeling, Ms. Corrigan?”
Bridget put the cool cloth on her head again. “Lucky to be alive, I guess. Did they—pump my stomach? It sure feels like it.”
“No, you pumped it for them. Apparently, you were out for a few minutes. Then you suddenly came to, stuck your finger down your throat, and threw up. Talk about survival instincts. Your clothes are down in the laundry right now. They should be done soon. Anyway, you scared the hell out of Sonny.”
“Well, Sonny scared the hell out of me,” Bridget muttered. She tried to smile. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“You don’t recognize my voice?” the woman said. “I should be offended, Bridget. Or would you rather I call you
Cheryl
?”
Bridget squinted at her.
“Cheryl Matthias of Blooms Floral in Longview?”
the woman said. “That was you who called my office yesterday trying to get an address for Sonny Fessler, wasn’t it? Talk about a red flag. I knew there was going to be trouble after that call. Sure enough, just when I thought I’d sneak out of the office early today, I get a call from Glenhaven Hills. And I had tickets to Benaroya Hall tonight too. Anyway, ninety minutes later in rush-hour traffic, here I am.”
She got to her feet and walked over to Bridget’s bedside. She grabbed Bridget’s hand and shook it. “Rachel Towles, Bard and Mitchell Associates. I’m the attorney for the Fessler family—and Glenhaven Hills.”
The nurse returned, pushing a cart with a thermal pitcher, two cups, a creamer, and packets of sugar. She poured their coffees for them and announced that the doctor wanted to give Bridget another quick examination before they sent her home.
“Where’s Sonny?” Bridget asked, setting aside the cool cloth.
Rachel gave the nurse a look. “Thanks, Cecilia. Give us a few minutes, okay?”
She waited until the nurse left and closed the door behind her. Then Rachel took a deep breath. “Sonny’s back in his room in C Ward. And he’s very sorry. He told us everything that happened.”
“Well, maybe you can tell me,” Bridget said over her coffee cup. “I missed part of it. Last thing I remember was Sonny showing me a razor blade. What did he do with it?”
“He carved your name on the tabletop,” Rachel replied, frowning. “And I’m sorry, you might as well know. Sonny admitted that he touched your hair. He also touched your breasts over your blouse. According to Sonny, he was cutting off the buttons to the front of your blouse when you suddenly woke up—and made yourself vomit. Like I told you, it scared the hell out of him. Sonny ran back up to C Ward and confessed everything to Mr. Jonas.

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