Blood of Angels (29 page)

“You find anything?”

I pull out the keys to the truck and hand them to Fiona. “Take the truck out of here.”

“Why?”

“Maybe he'll come home. If the truck's not here, he won't know until it's too late.”

“And you can have the gunfight at the OK Corral.”

I shake my head. “I'm trying to stay alive here, Fiona. At least you can not get in the way.”

“You can call the police right now. They can wait for him.”

“All of a sudden you trust the police?”

She starts to answer, but my cell phone rings. I flip it open. “Dennehy.”

“So, Skippy. You're inside.” I freeze; the voice is Bridges's. I walk to the front window and jerk back the blinds. The street is empty. “No, Skippy, I'm not out there. The silent alarm calls my phone. Well, today's phone, anyway.”

“Where are you?”

He laughs. “God, you must be desperate, Skippy. Everything you touch becomes inadmissable as evidence.”

“Yeah, well, I don't have busting you for meth in mind. Anyway, I've decided to work outside the system for a while.”

He chuckles. “Doesn't matter. I won't be coming back there. The phones are already dead. I usually get two or three days out of one. I used one to take the picture. I hope you liked it. He looked so peaceful, lying there. I told him to smile, but he didn't.”

Nausea floods through me. “Tell me where you are, you miserable fuck of a human being.”

“Now, now, Skippy. Be nice. That way, I'll make what's coming next more merciful.” He pauses. “It really is spectacular. Truly my finest work.”

“You're a fucking coward, Bridges. You hide behind stolen phones and phony identities. Be a man. Come out and face me.”

Bridges explodes with laughter. “Jesus, Skippy, is that right out of a police manual? Or maybe Psych 101?” His voice drops. “I make the rules. Not you. And I say we have unfinished business.”

Suddenly, Fiona rips the phone out of my hand. “Robert. It's Fiona. What you're doing is terribly wrong. It's shameful. You have to turn yourself in.”

I stare, stunned, and pull the phone back from her. “Bridges? It's Dennehy. Forget her. Tell me what you're going to do.” I can hear Bridges breathe, but he doesn't speak. “Talk to me, Bridges.”

“She's with you.” His voice is petulant, annoyed. “She shouldn't do that.”

Shit. He's got a thing for her.
“Forget her, Bridges. This is about you and me.”

“I've humiliated the great Thomas Dennehy. I was smarter than her precious Professor Buchanan. And she's with
you.
” Bridges is losing it, talking to himself on the other end of the line. “Every single person in this thing has done exactly what
I've
decided. I'm in control.”

“Leave her out of it, Bridges. This is about you and me.”

Bridges pulls the phone up to his mouth, making his voice a breathy rasp. “It's already over; you just don't know it. You're in the wrong place, Dennehy. You've been in the wrong place since the beginning. You've been chasing ghosts. Now you will pay for the life you stole from me.”

“Tell me what you're going to do, you coward.”

“This is my schedule, do you hear me!” he screams. “You just stay by the phone, Skippy. You'll find out.” The line goes dead.

I turn to Fiona. “Are you
trying
to get killed?”

“I'm not afraid of him, Thomas.”

“You don't get this, do you? You were safe when he was using you. Now you're on my side.” I start toward the back door. “Come on. We're leaving.”

“To where?”

“I'm taking you someplace safe until this is over. I won't have your head on my conscience.”

“No.”

I whirl around. “Excuse me?”

“You gave the lecture that Bridges used me. You were right. I didn't understand how far hate could take him. And maybe you could cart me off now, except for one thing. I don't walk away from my responsibilities.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You say you won't have my head on your conscience? Join the club, because I won't have yours on mine.”

“You're not helping, Fiona. You're in the way.”

“He loves me, Thomas. He won't hurt me.”

I look at her cautiously. “You know how he feels about you?”

“Of course. Being a preacher doesn't make me dead, Thomas.”

I watch her, considering. “What are you saying? That you'll act as bait?”

“If it has a chance of bringing him in, yes.”

“He's a dangerous man, Fiona. You don't know what you're saying.”

“You have no other choice.”

“So you figure I'll let you put yourself at risk to save my ass. Not hardly.” I exhale. “Look, I appreciate the offer. It's admirable. Every time I'm around you, you do some damn thing I don't expect. But on this, you're dreaming.”

 

I TAKE HER TO MY HOME
. There's nothing else I can do, because she's in this thing now.
She shouldn't do that,
Bridges had said, and that can't be good. He killed his parole officer for suggesting he work as an orderly in a hospital. The penalty for siding with the man he hates above all others, I can't imagine. We pull into my subdivision about noon. I make Fiona stay in the truck until I go through the house, room by room. The house is clear, and I lock it down once we're inside.

I set the .45 on a table in the front hallway, pick up a phone, and call Sarandokos's number. “Maria, please get me Rebecca.”

“Si, Señor Dennehy. I get her.”

A few seconds later, Rebecca answers in an icy tone. “Hello, Thomas.”

“Is Jazz okay?”

“Of course she's okay. What's this about?”

“Where is she, right now?”

“Fifteen feet away from me.”

“Good. Keep her at home, and turn on the alarm.”

The silence that follows contains a truckload of recriminations, disappointments, and frustrations. Finally, she says, “How bad is it?”

“I'm going to send over a uniform tonight.”

“A uniform.”

“Yeah. Just for tonight.”

Her voice is pure metal. “And what do I tell Jazz when she asks me why there's a man out front with a gun?”

I close my eyes. “Keep her away from the windows. Play games or something. Is Michael home today?”

“He's going to play golf.”

“Tell him to cancel it.”

Another pause. “You're scaring me, Thomas. What's going on?”

“Nothing's going to happen. Just keep her in sight today, and everything's going to be fine. It'll be over soon.”
Sarandokos's alarm is state of the art. A mouse couldn't get through that thing.

“It's never over, Thomas. That's the problem.” She hangs up.

Three adults, perimeter security, a gated community, and tonight, an armed guard. One thing I know. I'll never let him get his hands on Jazz. Let him come after me, and we'll finish this once and for all.
I hand Fiona my cell phone. “I'm taking a shower. Come get me if it rings.”

I go to the bedroom and strip. The shower water's as hot as I can stand, but it doesn't soothe. I'm inside Charles Bridges's clock now, forced to wait. I don't call the police, since there's nothing to tell them.
The guy you can't find is somewhere planning something terrible he
won't reveal.
It feels like something inside me wants to explode. I towel off, throw on jeans and pull on a shirt, and walk back out into the living room. Fiona is sitting in one of the living room chairs, her eyes closed. “You getting some rest?”

She opens her eyes. “I was praying.”

“Does that help?”

She smiles softly. “At the moment, it's all I've got. You feel better?”

“Yeah. I don't know. Cleaner, anyway.”

She hands the phone to me. “Did you eat?”

“No.”

“Is there anything in the kitchen?”

“Last time I looked, just eggs.”

“Stay here.” She walks past me, and in a few moments I hear her pulling out a pan from underneath the counter.
She's this big feminist, activist, liberal. And then she goes to make me eggs.

I don't have the energy to analyze it. I'm wiped, caught between exhaustion and the nervousness of waiting on Bridges. I wander into the kitchen, set the phone on the breakfast table, and sit. Fiona goes to the refrigerator and pulls out eggs, milk, cheese, a green pepper, and a red onion. “I can do that myself, you know,” I say. “I just did, the other night.”

“Olive oil?”

“Under the counter.”

Within a couple of minutes she has the eggs on the gas range. “Where's the coffee?”

I stand. “You're in luck, Towns. I make the greatest coffee on Earth.” I go through my coffee ritual, grateful for something to do. It feels normal, as though we weren't a phone call away from having the world turn upside down. When I've finished, she's got the eggs on plates. I hand her a cup, and she takes a sip.

“Good grief, Dennehy.”

“Yeah, I know.”

We sit across from each other at the table, the phone between us. I don't say much, but I'm glad she's there. However bad this is, it would be worse alone. “They're good,” I say.

“Thanks. There wasn't much to work with.” She picks at her food, lost in thought. After a couple of minutes she walks over to the sink and starts cleaning up.

“Just leave it,” I say, over my shoulder. “It doesn't matter.” She doesn't answer. I turn and look, and see her staring into the sink, her hands clenched along its rim. “Hey, you OK?” I walk up behind her and put my hand on her shoulder. She turns, and I see she's crying.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I should have seen this. I should have done something to prevent it.”

“It's OK.”

She turns and puts her arms around me, pulling me against her. Her face is in my neck. “Your friend is dead.”

I press my hand behind her neck, and her hair falls down over my fingers. “You drive me nuts, Towns. You know that, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“You also have more real courage than anybody I've met in a long time.”

She pulls back far enough to look up at me. “I'm so sorry, Thomas.”

“It's weird, but Carl would have liked you. He would have said you were wrong about everything. But he would have liked you anyway. He was that kind of man.”

She smiles softly. “I'm sorry I never met him.”

“You two would have had a hell of a debate.” I kiss her cheek and walk back to the breakfast table. The phone sits silent and dangerous, like an armed explosive. “I can't stand here and watch it all day.” I fall back against the chair, letting her fingers knead my shoulders. She moves up against me, and my head leans against her stomach. I close my eyes and let myself drift away a little. She moves her fingers down my spine, then presses her palms outward, pushing tension out with the movement.

“Put your head down.”

I lean forward, and she moves her hands down to my belt and begins tracing them slowly upward. She presses her hands back down, and I give in to her completely, letting her work the fatigue out of the muscles. She massages me for ten minutes or so, then bends down to kiss my neck. I turn to face her. “When I saw you in court, that first day, I thought we'd be enemies.”

“Me, too.”

“Maybe when this is all over.”

“Maybe.”

I stand, pull her to me, and breathe her in. The scent I noticed before is on her, and on me, now, as well. I pull her closer and move to kiss her. She opens her lips slightly, and I feel her hips press against me. I kiss her, and she opens her mouth and presses her tongue into mine. I pull her hard against me, and we exchange another long, deep kiss. I step back, exhaling. “I'm sorry. I just…”

“It's OK,” she says. “I wanted to.”

Ten minutes later, my home line rings. Even though it's not my cell, my heart jumps into my mouth. The caller ID shows it's Bec. I answer, and she says, Thomas? It's me.” A pause. “Listen, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

I exhale, letting my heart rate settle. “I'm fine. Is Jazz all right?”

“She's in her room, playing.” Another pause. “All this talk about taking care of Jazz. It's you who's in danger, isn't it?”

“I can take care of myself, Bec.”

“It's just that I got another one of my bad feelings. Like something terrible was going to happen.” More silence. “Tell me the truth, Thomas. Is this going to be OK?”

“Michael's there, right?”

“We're all here. Michael, Maria, and me.”

“Then don't worry.”

“I just had such a chill inside. A feeling of dread.” A final pause. “Don't take any crazy risks today, OK, Thomas?”

“Try not to worry, Bec. Give Jazz a kiss for me, and tell her I love her.”

I hang up, then punch in the numbers for the South station of the police. I ask for the desk sergeant and get a woman named Welch. “Listen, this is Thomas Dennehy, assistant district attorney. I was wondering if I could get a favor from you.”

“Anything, Mr. Dennehy. Mr. Becker had friends here.”

“Carl's killer is still at large, and I'm concerned about my daughter as a possible target.”

“You want an officer?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can't pull an officer off a route to do it. But I can cover it from second shift on.”

“That's would be great.”

“What's the address?”

“Twenty-two Wentworth Place, over in President's Club.”

“I'll make this work, but if you want it to go on past tonight, I'm going to need paperwork.”