“Apparently, he gave you four sleeping pills. The doctor who examined you earlier thinks you got them out of your system. But I wouldn’t operate any heavy machinery for the next few hours if I were you. I know that ruins your plans to drive a forklift tonight, but that’s the way it goes.”
Bridget gave her a pale smile.
The Fesslers’ attorney shrugged uneasily. “Anyway, they found the missing buttons from your blouse. They’re sewing them back on down in the laundry.”
Bridget nodded. She took another gulp of coffee. Her head and throat were feeling a bit better. “Did Sonny tell you what we talked about?” she asked.
Rachel frowned. “Yes. Sonny can spin some pretty fantastic stories—”
“Something like this happened before with Olivia Rankin, didn’t it?” Bridget cut in.
Rachel nodded. “Sonny mentioned you were a friend of Olivia’s.”
“We weren’t that close,” Bridget admitted. “Olivia was hitting up Anastasia Fessler for money, wasn’t she? She’d gotten an earful of Sonny’s ‘fantastic stories.’ So Olivia received special treatment around here for keeping quiet—and finally, they gave her a nice severance package. But that wasn’t enough for her, was it?”
Rachel glumly shook her head. “How do you know all this?”
“A friend of mine did some snooping yesterday. Olivia’s mother faxed me a recent phone bill. Olivia was still calling Anastasia only a few weeks ago. What happened there?”
Rachel took a sip of coffee. “We advised Ms. Rankin to stop harassing our client.”
“And when Olivia didn’t stop, you had her killed,” Bridget murmured.
“God, no,” Rachel replied, staring at her as if she were crazy. “She committed suicide. And that was practically three weeks after we last talked to her.”
“What kind of talk did you have?”
Rachel Towles let out a wary sigh. “When we first started dealing with the ‘Olivia situation,’ we had private detectives following her—investigating her. After several months, we let her know that we had enough on her to—ah, well—put her on the receiving end of what she was doing to the Fesslers. That’s when we had Glenhaven Hills offer her a generous severance package. When Olivia started contacting Anastasia again last month, we tactfully reminded her that she was in no position to threaten us. And that was the end of that.”
“What kind of information did you have on her?”
“Let’s just say, Olivia Rankin was no saint, and we had enough on her that she took us very seriously. No reason to go into it now. No reason to speak ill of the dead.”
Bridget just nodded, then sipped her coffee.
“Sometimes, keeping things secret is the best choice,” Rachel Towles said, getting to her feet. “Sonny told you some stories tonight—stories about people who have been dead for a long, long time. Anastasia Fessler and this rest home would rather not have these stories repeated.”
“But they’re not just
stories,
” Bridget argued. “Sonny didn’t make all that up.
He killed nine people.
They had families—”
“Many of whom have since died or moved on with their lives,” Rachel Towles interjected. Then it must have been the lawyer in her who quickly added: “That is—
if there is any truth to Sonny’s stories
. Listen, Bridget. Do you think these families really want to relive their tragedies from over twenty years ago—all so a seventy-one-year-old mentally ill man can stand trial? Where do you think Sonny would end up? They’ll put him in a sanitarium. What difference would it really make? Sonny would just have to endure much worse living conditions, and the state would be paying for him to stay there. This way, if you forget about what happened today, and what Sonny told you, then at least he’ll remain comfortable here at Glenhaven Hills, where his sister pays for his room and board. And no one is hurting.”
She put her hand on the side rail to Bridget’s hospital bed. “Ms. Corrigan, I want to apologize for what happened to you. This incident you’ve just had with Sonny is a very isolated case. He’s really harmless. He’s kept in a private, locked area of this facility. What happened today was an exception. We’ll learn from it. We’ll change the codes and keep him on a tighter leash. Please, Ms. Corrigan, forget about what happened today—and what Sonny told you. I assure you, he’s never going to leave this place. It’s his prison, and it’s his home.”
Bridget tipped her head back against the pillow. “You know something, Ms. Towles? You’re a pretty damn good lawyer. Could you give me twenty-four hours to deliberate?”
Rachel Towles seemed to work up a smile. “Sure, take all the time you want,” she said. “Sonny isn’t going anywhere.”
No service available
came up on the cell phone’s little screen.
Standing in the forest clearing, Zach looked out through the trees—at the mountain wilderness. He’d figured he wouldn’t have any cell phone service out here, but it was worth a shot.
He glanced down at the half-naked man, lying beside the unfinished grave.
Norbert J. Siegel was still breathing—bloody and unconscious, but breathing. That second hit in the head with the shovel had knocked him out. Zach wasn’t sure if Norbert J. Siegel was the little ape’s real name, but that was what it said on the driver’s license and credit cards in his wallet. Zach had also found in the billfold some pieces of scratch paper with addresses scribbled on them. One of the addresses was Zach’s apartment in the Hawthorne district. Another was for someone named
Lassiter
on Van Buren Street in Eugene, and he realized it had been Cheryl Blume’s address. There was no address or phone number for someone named Clay.
Zach wondered if this
Clay
character had gotten to Bridget yet. His first order of business was getting to a phone and calling her.
Zach had taken Siegel’s shoes and socks—as well as his jacket and shirt. He’d figured he couldn’t fit into the short man’s jeans. As for the size 8 black Reeboks, Zach wore them like flip-flop slippers—with his sore, bleeding heels sticking over the smashed back edges. He’d removed the laces and used them to tie up Siegel’s wrists. Zach had also taken Siegel’s belt and strapped his feet together with it.
He left Norbert Siegel where the hit man had intended to leave him—alone in the forest clearing. He would call the police and tell them where to find the son of a bitch. Siegel would be all right there for a while—unless some forest creature decided to make an early dinner out of him.
Zach took Siegel’s gun, wallet, cell phone, and keys with him as he made his way through the darkened woods. He hoped he was headed in the right direction. It was hard to navigate the overgrown trial. Threading through shrubs, and stepping over rocks and tree roots, Zach kept looking for a dirt road ahead. Once he found the Volkswagen minibus—
if
he found the minibus—he would still have to figure out where the hell he was. He’d been unconscious during most of the drive here. From the floor of the minibus, he hadn’t been able to see any landmarks or signposts. He could be over by Mt. Hood, or up near Mt. St. Helens, or maybe somewhere near the coast. He had no idea. But Zach forged ahead and tried not to trip in Siegel’s little shoes.
At last, he saw a clearing through some trees ahead. But he had to walk around a gully and stream that didn’t look at all familiar. This wasn’t the way he’d taken with Siegel. Still, as he emerged from the thicket, Zach found a dirt road. He must have wandered off the trail and overshot where the minibus was parked. He tried the cell phone again, but still no service.
He treaded up the dirt road. Siegel’s little shoes had become more a hindrance than help, so Zach kicked them off. He spotted the VW minibus parked down the mountain lane in the distance, and he started running.
Inside the minibus, he found his cell phone and his pants on the floor—by the passenger seat. He tried the phone. No service there either.
Zach quickly put on his pants, started up the car, and drove down the dirt road. He had no idea where he was headed. He just knew he couldn’t go too fast, because he came upon one hairpin turn after another through the hilly forest. There were also several intersections with other dirt roads—none of them with signposts. Leaning forward, he kept a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and stayed on the same road. All the while, he prayed he’d soon come upon a paved highway—and some directional sign telling him where the hell he was.
He kept thinking of Bridget. She’d had that tour of Glenhaven Hills today at two o’clock. He hoped she hadn’t driven by herself up there. It was a two-hour trip each way. According to Norbert Siegel, this
artist,
Clay, had already stalked her in her car once before. Perhaps that was how he’d planned to trap and kill her.
He had to get to a phone, and hoped he wasn’t too late.
“Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus!” Zach called. Just when he’d thought he was driving around in circles, he saw the dirt path dip down and merge onto a paved road. But there was no signpost, so Zach just took a chance and turned right. For all he knew, he could be driving
back
toward where he’d left Siegel. He was going by sheer intuition. One thing for certain, he was pretty high up in the hills. From this section of the mountain highway, he had a view of the trees and the river trails—and the last vestige of a beautiful sunset.
Zach was still looking for a signpost on the roadside when he passed a little inlet and spotted a couple of hunters, strapping a dead deer to the front of a Jeep. He hit the brake, then backed up, rolled down the window, and called to them. “Excuse me! Please? Could you help me? I’m totally lost here.”
The older, stockier of the two men frowned at him. He held a rifle, and wore a hunter’s hat, boots, and a camouflage jacket. He seemed to be supervising his buddy on how to tie up their kill. The younger fellow, wearing a baseball cap, down vest, and Doc Martins, didn’t seem to be having a terrific time. It was the young guy who stopped what he was doing and approached Zach.
“Where are you headed?” he asked. Behind him, the older man remained by the Jeep with his rifle in his hand. He eyed Zach suspiciously.
“I’m going back to Portland,” Zach explained. “But I got totally lost and turned around, and now I don’t have a clue where I am.”
“Well, we’re near Rocky Top, at about 2,400 feet.” He nodded down the highway. “If you keep heading in that direction, you’ll see the sign for Detroit Lake and State Twenty-two. Follow the signs to Twenty-two West. That’ll get you back to the interstate.”
“Thanks, do you know the name of this road here?”
He nodded. “Rocky Top Road, Route 319.”
“One more thing,” Zach said. “Is there a grocery store nearby?”
“C’mon, hurry it up!” yelled the older man.
The younger man rolled his eyes. He nodded at Zach. “About fifteen minutes down the road, you’ll find a little mom-and-pop store called Rudy’s. Good luck.”
“Thank you very much,” Zach replied. “Good luck yourself.”
“I need it,” the man mumbled. “This son of a bitch is my boss. Thinks he’s Davy Friggin’ Crockett with a rifle. He’s driving me crazy.”
“Take care,” Zach whispered. He waved at him as he peeled away down Route 319. At least he knew where he was going now. And he could make some calls from Rudy’s. He’d be able to give the state police a pretty good idea of where they could pick up Norbert Siegel.
Rudy’s Last Stand Grocery & Fish & Tackle had live worms, “ammo,” an espresso machine, Rudy’s own homemade beef and pork jerky, and by the entrance, a phone booth. Zach still wasn’t getting any service on either cell phone. But he found that Rudy’s phone took AT&T credit card calls. He tried Bridget’s home first, and got her answering machine.
“Are you there?” Zach asked, after the beep. “Bridget, it’s Zach. If you’re around, please pick up. If you’re there alone, make sure that guard on duty isn’t asleep at the wheel. You could be in a lot of danger. Listen—just be careful. I’m going to try you on your cell. I’m out of a service area right now. But leave a message on my cell if you get this. Bye.”
He tried her cell phone number next. While counting the ring tones, he nervously tapped his foot.
“Hello?” he heard her say on the other end.
“Bridget? Thank God!”
“Zach? Are you okay?”
“I’m—alive, which is good. Listen, where are you?”
“Well, we just passed the Longview-Kalama exit, so I’m about forty-five minutes from home. What happened to you? I was so worried . . .”
Zach told her about his run-in with Norbert Siegel. He also warned her about the hit-man
artist
named Clay. “Whoever’s going to be guarding the house tonight, let him know about this guy. I’ll see if I get a last name on him and track him down. I’ll come over later.”
“Please be careful,” she said. Bridget paused; then her voice dropped to a whisper. “So—this other hit man, he just outright told you that they’d killed Gerry and Leslie, and Fuller—”
“And Cheryl and Olivia,” he finished for her. “Yeah. He figured I wouldn’t be repeating it to anyone. I also found out that he and his pal were—well, they were working for Brad.”
She didn’t say anything on the other end. He just heard her sigh.