The Last Victim (30 page)

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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

BOOK: The Last Victim
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They found a fairly secluded spot in the parking garage—in front of a TV-audio-video store. Bridget could talk to him there, but it was hard not to cry. As she told him about Mallory and Gorman’s Creek, she’d catch Zach wincing every once in a while—or giving her that look again, as if she were a total stranger. She wondered if his twenty-two years of loving her could be destroyed in a matter of minutes.
Whenever anyone passed, Bridget would pretend to be interested in the television sets displayed in the store window. The last person to walk by recognized her. Bridget even heard the woman say to her friend, “That was Bridget Corrigan . . . the one crying . . .”
Bridget wiped her eyes and leaned in close to Zach. “I’m sorry—I can’t stop blubbering,” she whispered. “It’s just—this has been bottled up inside me for so long. I couldn’t tell anybody. Brad—he won’t discuss it. I’ve felt all alone with this awful secret. It’s why I pulled away from Kim after high school. I hated to. I miss her. But if I’d stayed friends with her, I’d have told her. I couldn’t afford to be close—to anyone. For the last twenty years, I’ve been so afraid of someone finding out. I remember in college, a bunch of us went to get our fortunes read, and I wouldn’t do it. I’ve always been afraid that someone will see it in me—that I’ve done this horrible thing . . .”
She fell silent as a couple of teenagers passed them. Bridget and Zach turned toward the store window. Brad suddenly appeared on the TV screens. He stood in front of his house with Janice at his side. Reporters thrust microphones in front of him as he made a statement.
Brad had told her this morning that the cocaine Christmas party story was killing him in the overnight polls. One of the
Examiner
’s editorials on the subject, entitled
LET IT SNOW
?
JUST SAY NO
,
blasted Brad, calling him
reckless
and
morally bankrupt
.
Jay Corby had predicted it would take a while to recover from the setback, even after disproving the cocaine story. This press conference, with the pregnant and pretty Janice in tow, was one of Brad’s first counterattacks against Foley and this lie.
Bridget had a hard time looking at her brother on the TV screens. What would Brad say if he knew that she’d just told Zach everything?
“Now I understand why you were so opposed to my investigating Mallory’s disappearance,” Zach said.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “The last couple of nights, I’ve come so close to telling you the truth. I’ve hated myself for lying to you, Zach. I wouldn’t blame you if you hate me too.”
“I don’t hate you,” he said, leaning against the window. “I have to admit, the night of the funeral, I could tell you were holding something back from me. I figured you were protecting your brother. Now it all makes sense.”
“But you must think I’m horrible—”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t really change how I feel about you—how I’ve always felt. I mean, if it wasn’t for Brad insisting everyone keep it secret, you would have gone to the police that night and told them what happened to Mallory. You would have done the right thing.”
“ ‘Would have’ and what really happened aren’t the same thing,” she said, her eyes downcast.
“Still, I’m glad you told me, Bridget.”
“I haven’t breathed a word to anyone else.” She shrugged. “Except Gerry.”
Zach glanced at the TV screens. “Does Brad know that you told Gerry?”
Nodding, she opened her purse and started looking though it. “Brad wasn’t too happy to hear I’d spilled my guts to Gerry. But after all, he was my husband. I guess for twins, Brad and I don’t operate the same way. He’s never said anything to Janice.”
“What are you searching for?” he asked.
She was still rummaging through her purse. “I think I’ve used up all my Kleenex. Plus, my head is pounding. You don’t have an aspirin, do you?”
“I’m sure there’s a drugstore inside,” Zach said. “I also have aspirin at my place, which isn’t far from here.”
“Could we go to your place?” Bridget asked. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to clean up a little. I must look awful.”
“Not to me,” he whispered. He smiled at Bridget, then gently took hold of her arm. “C’mon, let’s go.”
They moved away from the storefront—and all those television sets with Brad’s face on them.
Zach said she was in no condition to drive. Bridget gladly surrendered her keys and he got behind the wheel of her minivan. As they pulled out of the parking garage, she figured the boys were still at the skating rink. Gerry’s parents would have them for the rest of the afternoon. She had plenty of time. Maybe Zach would let her lie down at his place for a few minutes. She felt so tired and depleted.
His eyes on the road, he asked what she thought must have happened to Mallory—and her Volare. “I mean, you’ve had twenty years to mull over the possibilities. What’s your theory?”
“I’ve always sort of hoped against hope that Mallory got away,” Bridget admitted, her head tipped back against the headrest. “She was so unhappy in that town. I used to think she might have seen it as an opportunity to leave—and make the five of us feel horrible for the rest of our lives. God knows, we deserved that. She was a very smart, resourceful girl. She might have pulled it off. But then you and I went to her mother’s, and I don’t think she would have run away without her books—and some money.”
Bridget cracked the window a bit for some fresh air. “Still, I can’t help thinking Olivia might have spotted Mallory some place recently—and maybe that’s what got her killed. Maybe it started a chain reaction of killings.”
“What does Brad think?”
Bridget sighed. “He always felt Fuller had taken the body—and the car. Fuller had been worried that with Mallory’s Volare parked on Briar Court, it would be a big clue to people where they could find her body.” Frowning, Bridget shook her head. “But Fuller seemed as confused as we were about what happened to the car—and Mallory. And I think he would have said something to me—not then, but recently. He gave five thousand dollars to Olivia for that
new information
about Gorman’s Creek. I think he was genuinely puzzled over what had happened to Mallory and the car.”
“Mallory was a big girl,” Zach said. “As big as I was. I doubt either Olivia or Cheryl could have lifted her out of that well.” He kept his gaze fixed on the road. “So—if Mallory didn’t crawl out of that hole herself, and Fuller didn’t go back there for her, that leaves one other person besides you—”
“I know what you’re about to say,” Bridget cut in. “I left Brad at home and went back there—and the body was gone. Mallory’s Volare was still parked on Briar Court, but the body was gone. Brad couldn’t have gotten back to Gorman’s Creek before me. I drove our car there.”
She glanced over at Zach, who kept staring straight ahead. “Brad couldn’t have gotten back there before me,” she repeated.
“You said when you returned home from Gorman’s Creek, he’d already taken his bicycle and left. How long was he gone?”
Bridget didn’t respond. She just frowned.
“Never mind,” he muttered. “You already told me. Your dad was home when you got back, and he went to bed at eleven. Brad came in at four in the morning, which means he spent at least five hours—maybe even six—riding his bike.”
Bridget turned and looked out her window. She didn’t want to hear any of this.
“I’m not saying he moved the body—or the car. But you need to consider the possibility—if for nothing else so we can eventually eliminate it. Maybe Brad put his bike in the trunk of Mallory’s car, dumped her in the Volare, and drove it some place far away. Then he could have ridden his bike back to town.”
“For the umpteenth time,” she said steadily, “Mallory’s body wasn’t there when I returned to Gorman’s Creek! And Brad couldn’t have gotten there before me.”
Zach said nothing. He seemed focused on his driving—or focused on avoiding a confrontation. Maybe both.
He slowed down the car, then pulled up in front of a U-shaped apartment complex, with old brownstone row houses around a neglected courtyard. Switching off the engine, he turned toward her. “Listen, are you busy tomorrow? I mean, can you get away for a few hours?”
She shrugged. “Well, the boys—believe it or not—want to go back to school. And all my appointments were canceled this week, because of Gerry. I should be free until around three-thirty. Why?”
“I’d like to go to Gorman’s Creek. You could show me exactly what you’re talking about. Maybe we can go door to door on Briar Court. There weren’t many houses on that street—if I remember right. Some of the residents from 1985 might still be there. It’s a long shot, but maybe we can come up with an old-timer who saw someone take the Volare that night.”
Bridget frowned. “Don’t you think the police would have already questioned them—back when Mallory first disappeared?”
“I doubt it. You, Brad, and the others were the only ones who knew where Mallory had last parked the car. The cops wouldn’t have known to question residents of Briar Court.”
“Of course,” she mumbled, feeling stupid.
“We should talk with Olivia’s mother too,” Zach continued. “Maybe Mrs. Rankin could tell us the names of some of Olivia’s friends in Seattle. Olivia probably had an address book. And if her mail was forwarded to her mother, Mrs. Rankin might have her last phone bill. We can see who Olivia was calling those last few days before her death. One of her friends might know about this
new information
Olivia was trying to sell.”
Bridget nodded. “I think Mrs. Rankin would help us. She seemed to like me. At least, she was grateful I’d come to Olivia’s memorial. I’ll call her tonight.”
“Good.” Zach nodded toward the old brownstone complex. “That’s my place.” He climbed out of the minivan, then hurried around and opened the door for her.
They headed into the courtyard together. “I didn’t mean to snap at you earlier,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Zach replied, putting his arm around her. “He’s your brother. I was out of line. You were right to snap at me.”
“You didn’t say anything I haven’t already considered,” Bridget confessed. “How do you think I had such a quick answer for you? No, Brad didn’t go back there. But someone must have.”
At his front stoop, Zach took out his key and started to unlock the door. “That’s funny,” he muttered. “I thought I’d locked the door when I left.”
Not moving past the threshold, he gave the door a little push, and it creaked open. Zach hesitated, then stepped in front of her. Bridget peeked over his shoulder. The place was tidy and sparsely furnished. She noticed a tan sofa in the living room, and above it a framed Vincent van Gogh print from the Musee d’Orsay in Paris. In one corner, there was a TV set; in the other, a desk with a computer, a printer, and stacks of papers. “Is anything missing?” Bridget whispered.
Zach shrugged. “I’m not sure.” He stepped inside the apartment.
Bridget walked in after him. She saw a bulletin board above the computer desk. There was an art calendar tacked to it—along with a postcard of The Three Stooges, and two flattering color photos of her carefully clipped from a recent
Northwest
magazine article.
“Well, I rank up there with Moe, Larry, and Curly, I see,” she remarked.
“I didn’t know you’d be coming over,” he admitted. “Otherwise, I would have taken those down. Is it creepy that I have those up there?”
She laughed. “No, I’m very flattered. In fact—”
Bridget stopped talking. For a second she stopped breathing.
A man appeared in the bedroom doorway. He was short and sturdy-looking. He wore tight black jeans, a brown sweater, and a dark, multicolored ski mask that totally obscured his face. He pointed a gun at them.
Zach swiveled around and immediately stepped in front of her.
All at once, the man with the ski mask charged them. He kept the gun pointed at Zach’s face. His movements were so quick and precise he almost seemed animated—and unstoppable.
Bridget screamed. Helplessly, she watched the man raise the gun up in the air, then smash it down on the side of Zach’s head.
Zach crumpled down at her feet. The assailant brushed past her, then hurried out the door.
Stunned, Bridget fell to her knees and hovered over Zach.
“Jesus, that hurt,” he groaned, wincing in pain. “Are you—you okay?”
“Yes.” Bridget could see the blood matting down his black hair—a few inches above his left ear. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
Quickly, she got up and raced into the kitchen. At the sink, she ran a dish towel under the water, then hurried back into the living room. She held the wet towel to the side of his head.
“Did you see where he ran to?” Zach asked.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said, catching her breath. “Are you feeling dizzy or nauseated—or anything?”
“I’m feeling pissed off, is what I’m feeling,” he grumbled. “That was
my
ski mask he had on. Son of a bitch. I loved that thing. My mother sent it to me. I wore that skiing in Switzerland last year.” Sitting up, he took the wet towel from her, then pressed it to his temple. “I better call the cops, which means you better go.”

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