Ghostly Liaison (38 page)

“At the hospital? What happened?” The surprised expression didn’t appear to be an act. And why should it? Didn’t he expect
her
to be the one in the hospital—if not dead?

She willed herself to be calm, to stay cool, and her heart almost obeyed. But staring at a known murderer didn’t make the task easy to accomplish. “He received an electrical shock after picking up a malfunctioning listening device. What I can’t understand is why someone would record our conversations.” She became bold and put her hand on her hip. “You wouldn’t know of anyone out to get Rob, would you? Like some nasty competitor or employee trying to take over his business?”

Carl’s jaw clenched. “What have you been feeding Rob lately? Ever since you came into his life, he’s been suspicious of me. Maybe you should have picked up that snake instead of him. He’d do well to be rid of you.”

Man, if only she’d gotten that on tape. All her worries would be over. “Who said anything about a snake?”

Carl glared at her. Hell’s bells. Was she crazy or just nuts? Screaming, Bridget threw the sunglasses at him, then slammed the door and locked it. The investigator had better get his ass over here, quick. She ran to the sliding glass door and made sure it was locked, too. As she pulled the drapes, Carl appeared in the backyard.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Bridget scrambled backward. Her butt hit the counter. She grabbed her backpack and dashed toward the front door.

The sound of broken glass hit her like a shot of adrenaline. She reached for the knob and pulled. Nothing.

Shit. She’d locked it.

Rob’s call went straight to Bridget’s voice mail, and he disconnected without leaving a message. Unease niggled on the back of his neck. He’d feel a whole bunch better if he could only hear her voice. “She still hasn’t turned her phone on. I wish I knew what was taking so long. She should have been here by now.”

“Have you tried calling a neighbor?” Dean asked.

“I already have. His phone just rings.” Could it be the two of them just got busy talking? Henry tended to be long-winded and sometimes Bridget was too nice to the guy.

Dean pulled his phone from his pocket. “Let’s see what Sam has to say.” He put the phone to his ear. “Whatcha got?”

Rob sat up. He needed some good news. Let Carl be in Kettering, far away from Bridget.

“Shit!” Dean’s outburst popped Rob’s little hope balloon. “Head on over to Bridget’s. I’ll meet you there.” He stood and slid the phone back in his pocket. “No sign of Carl at the site. I’ll go check on Bridget—”

“No. We’ll check on Bridget.” And if he found Carl anywhere near her, he’d kill the man. Rob slid out of bed and the room spun. He grabbed the bedside table.

“Rob, you’re in no shape to go.”

He would be, dammit. Nothing could keep him from Bridget. “If you don’t take me, I’ll call a cab. But I’m going.” He yanked the bottom drawer open and pulled out the only thing in it—his jeans. “You don’t happen to have a spare shirt, do you?”

* * * *

“Stop or I shoot.”

Bridget’s hand froze over the lock. She was probably dead, regardless. If Carl had been followed by one of Dean’s guys, he would have shown up by now. At least there was still hope for Charlie. Slowly, she reached into the side pocket of her backpack and turned on the recorder. She placed the bag on the floor and turned around to find a gun pointed at her. “Aren’t you going to shoot me anyway?”

“Now, why would I want to do that? It has to look like an accident.”

“Like it did for your son?”

“Whoa, wait a minute. I did not kill my son.”

“You didn’t try to save him, either.”

“There was no one to save. He died upon impact. When I finally reached him, the light had left his eyes.” Carl shivered.

“You left him,” Bridget said.

“I left a body, not my son.” He rubbed the arm holding the gun. “Got the air set rather cold, don’t you?”

Charlie must have heard the scream. Her presence felt reassuring, in an odd sort of way. If she could only help, though.

“That would be Charlie. You know, the woman you killed.”

“Charlie?” He looked around as if he expected to see the woman. “She died from an overdose.”

“That you gave her.”

He shivered again. “You’re crazy. Now get away from the door.”

“Am I crazy? You’re feeling her, aren’t you? How do you think I know so much? It’s because she told me.”

“She
told
you? I knew something wasn’t right about you.” He spun around, swatting the air.

“If you want her to leave you alone, admit you did it. And tell her why.”

He swung the gun in her direction. “I’m not telling you again. Get away from the door.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me?”

“Yeah, maybe I will. You’re kind of getting on my nerves.”

He must be bluffing. Gunshots could not be covered up easily and would only bring the police. Her only chance was to make a break for it.

He waved the weapon. “I don’t have all day. Move it!”

She was pretty sure he wouldn’t shoot her, just not one hundred percent sure. Every time he waved the gun, her heart skipped several beats. But damn, if she didn’t make a move now, she’d never have a chance. She said a silent prayer.

Inhaled deeply.

And took two quick steps toward the hallway.

He flinched. She dashed to the door, flipped the lock, and gripped the knob. Pain flared in the back of her head.

Had he shot her? Was she dying?

Her hand slipped off the knob as she crumpled to the floor.

* * * *

Being a ghost sucked! How could an incorporeal being hope to stop a bullet? Giving Carl the chills wouldn’t stop the bastard from killing Bridget, yet Charlie continued to move into him, to distract him, so Bridget could escape.

When Bridget had run for the door, Charlie cheered and kept up the freeze. But Carl had either adapted or was clued in to Bridget’s plan. He clobbered her on the back of the head before she had a chance to open the door.

Anger and helpless frustration burned inside Charlie as her friend, and future sister-in-law, fell to the ground, bleeding. She screamed over all the wrongs assaulted her. Over all the death and despair this one monster had caused. “No one messes with my family!”

The coffee table skidded across the room and slammed into Carl’s leg. How the hell did that happen? Wait a minute. The chair in the wall. She’d been angry then, too.

He bent over, rubbing the offending spot. “What the…”

Directing her enraged energy toward the table, she willed it to crash into Carl once again. The end flipped up and landed on his head.

Oh, yeah! Game on.

He kicked the table aside. Pointing the gun at Bridget, he said, “Is this how you want to play? Keep it up and I shoot her.”

If he had planned to shoot her, he would have by now. Charlie didn’t take the bluff. She directed the framed photo of Bridget and her parents to his shooting hand. Hot damn! He dropped the gun.

He rubbed his wrist and then reached for the weapon. With a flip of her hand, Charlie shooed it into the dining area. This was getting fun.

He straightened and stared around the room, evil etched into every line of his face. “Fine. I don’t need the gun to kill her.”

* * * *

“You think you can get away with leaving, wearing just your jeans and a robe?” Dean asked.

Rob zipped up. What choice did he have? He figured he would look less conspicuous wearing a robe rather than no shirt at all. “It’s Sunday. How busy can this place be?”

“Yeah, exactly. You’ll stand out like a sore thumb.”

“So what if they stop me. It’s not like I’m breaking out of jail.” But the less distractions, the better.

They stepped into the deserted-for-now hallway and walked to the stairwell. The floor was cold beneath Rob’s bare feet, but it beat wearing those silly booties the hospital had given him. He let out his breath as soon as the door shut behind him. So far, so good. He followed Dean down the stairs toward freedom.

Maybe he was overreacting, but Bridget wasn’t the kind of person to make him worry needlessly. His gut twisted inside and out. She was in trouble and he prayed he’d get there in time.

As soon as they arrived on the first floor, he stopped to catch his breath. Someone should give him a walker. Apparently, that shock had turned him into an old man. Three flights of stairs should not be this exhausting.

“You okay?” Dean asked.

“I’ll live. Let’s go.”

Dean directed them to the side entrance, away from the reception area, and a direct line to the parking lot. Two steps later, a man from behind spoke.

“Excuse me.”

Oh God. Now what?

* * * *

Carl knelt before Bridget and grabbed her throat. Panicking, Charlie sent the table flying into Carl’s back, knocking him forward and on top of Bridget. He sat up and still held her neck, but Charlie counterattacked with every available knickknack from the room. Frames, coasters, remote controls—they all headed for Carl, hitting him in the head, arms, and back.

He raised his arms in defense as she continued assaulting him with the flying debris. Each item took its toll on her, but she refused to give in to the weakness. He stood and staggered into the dining area. With a flick of her hand, she sent the gun flying and it crashed into his forehead. Blood trickled from the gash it left. Another flick sent the gun back into the living room as he stumbled toward the door to the garage.

A block of knives sat on the counter. Weariness settled over her, but she directed the largest knife into the wall, intentionally missing Carl’s head by inches.

He turned around. “She said you were stuck here because of me. Would killing me free you or keep you around? I’m guessing you need me alive.”

“You killed me. Why shouldn’t I kill you?” At least she didn’t expect a response. Still, what he said rang true. Dead people never confessed.

But she couldn’t let her need get in the way of stopping this bastard. Bridget’s and Rob’s life depended on her taking action now. She directed another knife toward Carl’s stomach. It flew through the air, stopped midway, and clattered to the floor.

“What the—” Weak and used up, she willed the weapon to move. Nothing. She was empty. “Oh, craaap!”

He stared at the knife as if waiting for it to arise for another attack. When after several seconds nothing happened, a smugness came over his face. “Well, well. Isn’t that interesting.”

* * * *

Rob froze in his steps. His heart hammered. Damn, he’d been so close to freedom. To Bridget.

Dean turned around. “Yes?”

“Do you have a light? My lighter died.”

Rob nearly collapsed in relief. Shit. A smoker.

“Sorry. Don’t smoke.” Dean took Rob’s arm and led him away. “You okay there?”

“No. He almost gave me a heart attack.”

They arrived at a blue Honda Accord. Rob opened the door. Papers, papers, everywhere. On the seat. Stuffed beside the center console. Even the footwell. At least he hoped it was only paper.

“Interesting filing system you have here. Is it safe to sit in?”

Dean scooped up a handful of papers and tossed them in the back. “Get in, smartass.”

Slowly, Rob lowered onto the seat. “Hey, you never know. Some of the guys I work with are such slobs I swear I’ve seen shit moving around in their trucks.”

“Well you won’t find anything that will end up stinking or moving in here. I do have some sense.” Dean stuck the key into the ignition and turned. Nothing happened.

“Please tell me you forgot to step on the clutch,” Rob said.

“It’s an automatic.” Dean pulled out his cell phone. “But don’t worry. I’ll have Sam stop by and pick us up. We should be on his way, anyway.”

Rob took deep breaths. Exploding in anger would do no one any good, especially Bridget. “Maybe I should call a cab.”

Dean held the cell to his ear. “Sam will be quicker. Just be patient.”

Patience had always been Rob’s strong suit. But then he’d never been tested quite this badly. He leaned his head back and prayed.

* * * *

Bridget was having one wild dream. Or maybe a nightmare. Yeah, more like a nightmare. The kind where she couldn’t see anything, but she could sure feel.

The back of her head hurt. So maybe she was reliving her attack at the construction site. Except she wasn’t bound and gagged, the way the nightmare normally played out.

Cracks of light offset the darkness as she blinked her eyes a few times before opening them wide. A wall and door stood at an odd angle and the carpet scratched her cheek. Oh, she got it now. She lifted her head. Pain exploded and spots formed in her vision. She swallowed and her throat burned. Not a nightmare, but a monster.

Where was Carl? Had he just hit her and run? Whatever, it didn’t matter. She needed to get help. To keep her pain to a minimum, she sat up slowly, using the wall for support, but even slow was too fast. Her vision focused in and out as the room spun. Feeling queasy, she closed her eyes and concentrated on steady breathing to calm her stomach. Damn head injuries. Would she ever be right again?

Once the nausea dissipated, she opened her eyes. The coffee table lay on its side far from its original position. Broken picture frames, several coasters, and the remote control littered the living room as if a mini-tornado came through. Damn. Maybe Charlie had come to her rescue.

Bracing to stand, Bridget placed her hand on the carpet and touched something hard and cold just as Carl came around the corner. He stopped, staring at her.

Hell’s bells. Too late to leave, now. She raised the gun and brought her other hand up for support. Her hands shook and her heart pounded in her ears. She’d never shot at anyone, never even held a gun, but wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger if he took one step her way. He may be unarmed, but he was far from harmless.

He raised his hands, palms out. “Easy, now. You don’t want to do something you’ll regret.”

“What makes you think I’ll regret shooting a murderer?” God, even her voice sounded raspy. Her vision became wonky again and she blinked. Passing out would be a bad thing, but if she were to hunt for a phone, she’d have to stand and take him with her. Better to sit still and rest for a minute. Maybe get him to confess, too. The backpack—along with the recording device—was still beside her. She waved the gun at him, like he had with her. “Sit.” He moved toward the couch. “Not there. On the floor, where you’re standing.”