Working Stiff (28 page)

And that's when it hits me. It's not the way Gina was sitting in the chair that bothers me, it's what happened when she got out of it.

I have to go back to the house. I run into the bedroom to dress, only to realize all of my bras are in the washing machine. After digging around in the few clean clothes I have left, I choose the loosest-fitting top I can find, not wanting to advertise the fact that I am braless. Minutes later, I am headed out of town, stopping briefly at the Quik-E-Mart to buy a disposable camera.

The Carrigan house is dark when I pull up out front but there is a police car parked in the drive. Sitting inside it is Brian Childs. The front door to the house is sealed shut with crime scene tape. Brian gets out and walks over to me as I climb out of my car.

“What are you doing back here?” he asks.

I show him my camera. “I need to get some shots of the den,” I tell him. “For Izzy.”

“We already took a bunch,” he says. “Can't you use those?”

“I suppose we can, but Izzy likes to have his own. And this way, we don't have to wait for you guys to make copies,” I explain. I hold my breath, hoping Brian will go for it.

“Okay,” he says with a shrug, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I follow him onto the porch, where he slices through the tape and peels it away. “I'll replace this when you're done,” he says. “And I'll have to record that you were here,” he adds. “Scene preservation, you know.”

“No problem,” I tell him. If my suspicions are right, by the time anyone else learns I was here, it will be a moot point. As soon as he has the door unlocked, I scurry down the hall and enter the den. I grimace at the lingering scent of dried blood that hangs in the air, and when I flip on the light switch, I see that the room doesn't look any different than the last time I saw it.

I turn back to Brian, who has followed me. “I need to close the door so I can take a shot of this end of the room,” I tell him, and as I hoped, he backs up. “It'll only take me a minute,” I promise, closing the door before he has a chance to come inside.

Immediately, I move over to the chair, standing in front of it and digging into my memory. Just as I thought, the edge of the Persian rug is up against the front legs of the chair. But I'm certain that when Sid was sitting there, the chair had been angled toward the desk, the two back feet resting on the hardwood floor, the two front ones resting on top of the rug. I remember how Gina nearly fell when I helped her up because her foot became entangled in the rug's edge. And I remember how the curled-edge fell back down, stopping in the position it's in now.

Obviously, the chair had been moved between the time I saw Sid in it and the time I saw Gina in it. I recall the noise I heard not long after Gina entered the room, the faint
thump
sound that spurred me to action. I suppose the noise could have come from Gina collapsing into the chair, but that would have moved the chair backward, away from the rug. How had it ended up closer?

I reach down and pull back the edge of the carpet, peeking underneath. There, about a foot and a half from the edge, is a small defect in the hardwood, a metal ring set into a hollow in the floor. I kneel down and study the ring more closely, realizing it's a handle. When I grab it and pull, a six-board section of the floor opens up, revealing a large, velvet-lined space beneath. Molded into the velvet are three imprints, each one bearing the recognizable shape of a gun. Next to the empty imprints is the real thing: a cold, deadly-looking pistol.

A loud noise out in the hallway startles me and I jump, letting the section of floor fall back into place. I hear the door to the den open and start to turn, but I'm not quick enough. From the periphery of my vision I see something coming toward me just before I feel a crashing pain on my head. For an instant I see a flash of bright, blinding light, but after that, there is nothing but darkness.

I
can't remember ever feeling so cold. My teeth are rattling and every muscle in my body is trembling as I try to shiver my way to warmth. I am curled into a fetal position and I try to tighten it, to pull all my parts closer together so they can warm one another. But the movement sends shock waves of pain from my head down my neck and back, making me moan.

“Ah, good. You're awake.”

Slowly, carefully, I open my eyes, wincing as the room's light pierces its way through to my brain. Fuzzy shapes come into view, familiar shapes. Sid's den. I place one hand on the floor and, bracing myself against the pain, I push myself into a sitting position. Gina is standing in front of me, a gun in one hand. It doesn't take me long to figure out where she found it or what she intends to do with it.

Seeing the direction of my gaze, Gina holds the pistol up for a moment, eyeing it appreciatively. “Is this what you were looking for?” she asks.

“Apparently,” I mumble.

“Too smart for your own good, aren't you?” she sneers. “I knew you would figure it out sooner or later. That's why I came back here to watch the house. I thought you might show up.”

“Brian…” I mutter, my head pounding in pain.

“Oh, he's out there in the hallway,” she says. “But if you think he's going to help you, you're sadly mistaken. I've taken care of him.”

I take a moment to mourn Brian and to allow my head to clear. “It was you,” I say, all the pieces finally clicking into place. “You killed Karen and Mike.”

“I had to. That Owenby bitch just refused to listen to me. Kept insisting she was going to milk Sid and me for every penny she could get. So I had no choice. I shot her.”

The cold indifference in her voice makes me shiver even harder.

“The next morning,” she continues, “when Sid told me how he'd run into David the night before, I realized what a perfect setup it was. I figured David was probably somewhere between here and that sleazy motel around the time of Karen's death, so he wouldn't have any alibi. And I knew all about him and Karen—hell, half the town knew. They were together all the time at the hospital until David broke things off with her. Then she started getting desperate and stupid, chasing after him, making threats, picking fights. Several people at the hospital witnessed it. It made him the perfect fall guy. All it took was one anonymous witness to get the cops sniffing at his door.”

“It was you who made that call.”

Gina smiles broadly.

“Pretty coldhearted.”

“Hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.”

“But why? Why did you have to kill Karen?”

“Because she was blackmailing Sid, and he, the dumb sonofabitch, was paying her. She discovered him one night at the hospital in an on-call room with Mike. I don't think she knew about Sid's little secret before then. No one did. Even I didn't. I didn't find out until Karen came to me, hoping to wring even more money out of us with her little blackmail scheme.”

I realize then that Sid must have figured it all out. He may have only guessed at the truth with regard to Karen's murder, but this afternoon, when I told him Mike's death was a murder and not a suicide, he had to have made the final connection. It wasn't guilt over his own actions that drove him to desperation, it was his grief over Mike and the knowledge of what his wife had done.

“So you killed Mike thinking that would put an end to it?” I say.

“Well, it did, didn't it?” She smirks. “I realized that if I used the same gun on Mike that I used on Karen and tried to make it look like a suicide, everyone would think Mike was the one who killed her. The gun, which came from our stash here”—she gestures toward the floor—“can't be traced back to me. I've had it for years, something my mother picked up from a street junkie.

“So it seemed like the perfect setup. And if someone managed to figure out that Mike's death wasn't a suicide, the finger of guilt would still be pointing at David for Karen's death, and the cops would likely try to pin Mike's death on him, as well. Just to be sure, I got a couple of hairs from the brush David keeps in his locker at the hospital and left them on Mike's body. I have you to thank for that idea,” she says with a wry smile. “All that talk about trace evidence the other day at lunch.”

“I was there,” I say, horror dawning in my mind. “I was there in the front of the store when you killed Mike.”

“That was you?” Gina laughs. “If I'd known that, I could have killed you then and saved myself a whole lot of trouble. I thought it was just some customer. I told Mike to get rid of whoever it was or I'd kill everyone in the store. He didn't know that I intended to kill him anyway and just wanted to be sure there weren't any witnesses.”

“I suppose you would have killed Sid, too, if he hadn't gone ahead and done it for you.”

“Kill Sid? Are you crazy?”

Somehow I don't think the irony of that question will register with her.

“Keeping Sid alive has been my whole purpose, you stupid bitch. Sid is…was my meal ticket. That's why I had to kill Mike. Sid was in too deep. He was getting ready to throw it all away over some misguided notion that he was in love with that diseased little freak.”

“Did you know that Sid was likely HIV positive, also?”

She shrugs. “It doesn't matter. We've never slept together. Our marriage was purely for show. Sid needed someone to make him look legit and I wanted the money and the prestige. His parents were the ones who arranged it all. They basically delivered an ultimatum to Sid: either keep your dirty little secret in the closet or lose the family millions. Though to be honest, I don't think the money mattered all that much to Sid, the fool. It was the thought of losing his job that convinced him to go along. He loved being a surgeon; it meant everything to him.”

“He loved Mike Halverson, too.”

“That wasn't love,” Gina spat out angrily. “It was just some stupid middle-aged crisis. He would have gotten over it eventually. If that Owenby bitch hadn't messed things up, everything would have been fine. Then you had to go poking your nose around.”

“You can't seriously believe you'll get away with this, Gina. As it stands now, the cops think Sid killed both Karen and Mike. If you kill me, the cops will know Sid was innocent.”

“It doesn't matter if the cops know it was me,” she says, making my blood run cold. “I won't be around anyway. There's no point in staying. Everything I had, everything I worked for, it's gone. All of it.”

“It doesn't have to be,” I say, thinking fast. “Surely you'll inherit some money with Sid's death. I mean, legally you were his wife, right?”

“Is that what you think this is all about? Money?”

“It's not?” My head feels like it's about to explode, and the room keeps spinning. I feel myself growing more impatient and irritable with each passing minute.

“Of course not!” Gina fairly yells, making me wince. “The money was nothing more than a means to an end. Don't you understand? People here looked up to me. They respected me. They admired me. I was Gina fucking
Carrigan.
I was a someone. My face was on TV and in the papers; my voice was on the radio. I was invited to all the major social events and rubbed elbows with some of the richest, most famous people in this country. Did you know I was being considered for a part in a Spielberg movie?”

“Really? Spielberg is putting insane, coldhearted killers in his movies now?”

She flashes me a sardonic grin. “Very funny,” she says. “You're a real smart-assed little bitch, aren't you?”

At least she called me a little bitch instead of a big one.

“Go ahead and act smug,” she taunts. “They can carve that into your headstone. ‘Here lies Mattie, smug and catty.'”

She cackles at that and I sense that what little self-control she has left is fading fast. My legs feel a little stronger but my head keeps swimming dangerously and I have serious doubts about my ability to stand. Yet I know that if I don't do something soon, she'll simply shoot me where I sit.

“You just don't understand what it was like for me before I met Sid,” she explains. “My father died when I was a baby and my mother was a drug addict. I was living on the streets by the time I was sixteen, surviving as best I could on my wits and my looks.”

She starts pacing and I take advantage of her inattention to shift my position and get my legs beneath me. I lean forward, putting my weight on my arms. She pauses then and stares at me, a frown on her face. “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice shrill.

“I feel sick. I think I'm going to throw up.” I make a couple of retching sounds and act like I am about to heave.

“Oh, for Christ's sake!”

I retch again, shifting forward just enough to rise onto the balls of my feet. I am positioned for launch and hope that, with one good push, I can reach her. Maybe I can knock her down. And maybe, if luck and God are with me, I can avoid getting shot in the process.

“I've wasted far too much time on you already,” she says.

The tone of finality in her voice tells me it is now or never. I retch once more, transforming it into a primal scream. Summoning up all the strength I can, I push off and lunge at her. As soon as Gina sees me coming at her, she raises the gun and pulls the trigger, but my foot snags in the edge of the folded rug and I fall flat on my face inches from her feet, probably saving my life. Had I continued my headlong run toward her, the bullet most likely would have slammed into my head. Instead, it sails by harmlessly above me and hits Sid's desk instead.

In desperation, I reach forward and wrap my arms around Gina's feet, pulling as hard as I can. She falls backward with a loud
whoomph
and I hear the gun clatter as it skitters across the floor and hits the wall. I quickly climb up her body and put all my weight on her legs, pinning her to the floor.

Shrieking like some crazed harridan, she reaches down and grabs handfuls of my hair, yanking as hard as she can. I yelp and try to pry her hands loose as her feet squirm beneath me, trying to wriggle free. Unable to loosen her grip on my hair, I reach up and grope around until I feel some skin. Then I pinch it up and twist as hard as I can.

Gina screeches and lets go of my hair. I roll to one side, closer to the gun, but that gives Gina enough leverage to squirm loose. The gun is mere inches away when she grabs my shirt and yanks as hard as she can, trying to pull me back. I feel my collar tighten around my neck, her pull so strong it bends me backward off the floor. Then the pressure eases suddenly with a loud ripping sound. A second later, I realize I am bare-chested.

The site of my bare bosom stuns me for a moment, allowing Gina to reach for the gun. But before she can pick it up, I lunge forward again, crashing into her arm and throwing all my weight on top of it.

“Get off me, damn you,” Gina mutters, writhing beneath me. There is a tremendous crash behind us and I feel Gina grow still, then stiffen. “What the hell is
that?
” she screeches.

I roll slightly to the side and glance up. There, standing in the doorway, is a huge monolith of flesh encased in red spandex, replete with boots, gloves, and a long red cape. On the chest is a huge yellow letter
H.
The face of this mind-boggling apparition is partially hidden behind a red, Lone Ranger-type mask, but I know who it is.

“Joey, help me!” I shout. But he just stands there, his gaze transfixed on my bare chest.

“Damn it, Joey. She's got a gun!”

Joey shakes off his reverie and springs to action, leaping toward us and falling on top of me, squishing all the air from my lungs. I hear a
snap
from somewhere beneath me and Gina screams out, “My arm! You broke my fucking arm, you bitch!”

I want to tell Joey to move, but I can't suck in enough breath with his weight on top of me. So I reach up and hit him on his shoulder instead, hoping I can communicate my need to him some other way.

“What the hell is this?” says a different voice.

Hurley?
I can't believe what I'm hearing. I crane my head around to peer over Joey's shoulder and sure enough, Hurley is standing in the doorway.

Joey finally rolls off of me, reaches over, and picks up the gun.

“Hey!” Hurley yells, pulling his own weapon and aiming it right at Joey. “Drop it!”

“It's okay, Hurley,” I say quickly, grateful I can finally breathe. “He's one of the good guys. This one's the one you want,” I tell him, gesturing toward Gina. Gina moans and I roll off of her, sitting up and exposing my naked torso to the world. “She's the one who killed Karen and Mike. It wasn't Sid, it was Gina.”

Joey carefully sets the gun he is holding on the desk. Then he gawks at my chest again, his eyes huge.

Hurley sheathes his own gun, then unbuttons his shirt and takes it off, tossing it to me on the floor. “For heaven's sake,” he mutters. “Cover yourself up.”

Just as I pick up the shirt, Alison Miller appears in the doorway, her ubiquitous camera hanging from her neck. She looks at Hurley and his bare chest, then at me and mine. For a fleeting second, she allows herself to pout. Then the reporter in her takes over and in one swift motion, she raises the camera, aims it at me, and snaps a picture. “Does this have something to do with this nipple incident thing I heard about?” she asks, snapping a second shot. She moves deeper into the room and aims once more. “Ooh,” she says as the camera clicks. “I wonder if the paper will print these.”