BRIDGER'S LAST STAND

by Linda Winstead Jones

  She glanced at the card by the glow of the lighted dial, and without hesitation dialed Bridger's number. Surely he was home, surely he wasn't such a sound sleeper that the phone wouldn't wake him up. He picked up the phone on the second ring, and his hello was clear and alert.

  "Bridger," she whispered. "There's somebody in my house."

  "What?"

  She didn't dare talk much louder, but she raised her voice a little bit. "There's somebody in my house!"

  "Frannie?" He didn't sound so cool now. "Have you called 9-1-1?"

  "No," she breathed.

  "I'm calling right now from my cell phone," he snapped. She could hear him dialing and speaking in the background, his words clipped and commanding. She listened to the distant words, which were almost as loud as the pounding of her heart. When he was finished, he came back to her, his voice comforting in her ear. "I'm on my way."

  "No!" she said, a whole new panic welling up. "Stay on the line, please. Don't leave me."

  "Frannie…"

  "Don't leave me," she whispered again, hating the desperation she heard in her own voice, unable to deny it. The only thing worse than waiting in the dark for the intruder to find her would be waiting alone. She clutched the phone the way she wanted to clutch Bridger; she held on for dear life.

  "The patrol cars will be there soon," he assured her, his voice tight but calm. The very sound of his voice made her heart rate slow, and she was able to take a deep breath. "And as soon as they arrive and you're safe, I'm going to hang up the phone and come over there, all right?"

  "Yes," she whispered, leaning against the mattress and closing her eyes. She'd been right all along. She wasn't delusional, after all. Bridger really was a six-foot-plus guardian angel.

  She waited to hear the wail of sirens; all was silent but for Bridger's soft voice in her ear. He reassured her, telling her the patrol cars would be there soon, advising her to breathe deep and easy. Amazingly the sound of his voice, the fact that he was here, comforted her, and she was able to do as he instructed. She could breathe again.

  She didn't hear the intruder again, and she thought—she hoped—that maybe he'd left, sneaking out of her house as silently as he'd sneaked in.

  And then she heard the shuffle again, a shoe against her hardwood floor. Only this time it was closer. This time it was in the hallway outside her room. She was afraid even to whisper into the phone.

  If he would step into the spare bedroom, maybe she'd have a chance to pass him, to run down the hall and make it to the front door before he came into this room. She wasn't very brave, and the idea of running past the open door while he searched that room full of junk terrified her. But if that was her only way out of here she'd do it. She listened carefully, waiting for her cue.

  She saw the shadow first, a long shadow blocking the light from the bathroom, a shadow that moved and danced across her wall and floor. He wasn't going into the spare bedroom after all, but was stepping into this room. Hiding here beside the bed, she was trapped.

  The figure of a man came into view, and somehow he knew right where to look for her. His face was hidden behind a stocking cap with crudely cut holes for his eyes and mouth. With a gun in one hand pointed steadily at her, he stooped to take the phone cable in the other.

  "No," she whispered, and he yanked forcefully at the cord, ripping it from the wall jack. The phone went dead.

  * * *

  "No." The single word was not much louder than the breath he'd been listening to, but it sent a shiver down his spine.

  Then there was a sharp click, a moment of dead silence, and a dial tone.

  Mal was ready to go, since he had slipped on his shoes and grabbed his car keys while he'd been whispering to Frannie. Now he dropped his phone, grabbed the cellular and rushed out the door. He was dialing as he ran down the steps outside his apartment.

  "Where the hell are they?" he shouted into the phone when the dispatcher picked up. "There's someone in her house, did you not understand that? He's in her house!"

  "The officers are on their way, Detective Bridger," the dispatcher said, insanely calm.

  "If anything happens to her I'm going to get some badges and some butts, you hear me?"

  He punched the end button before she could respond, and jumped into his car. As he peeled out of the parking lot, the dead body he'd seen that morning flashed into his mind.

  * * *

  Bridger wasn't there anymore, but Frannie continued to grasp the phone as if it were her lifeline.

  The light from the hallway fell on the gun the intruder held—a steady, dangerous, threatening gun that was pointing right at her. She couldn't see anything else.

  "Where is it?" he whispered.

  Something in her brain wasn't functioning. She felt detached, disoriented. "What?"

  "Where is it?" he asked again, louder this time, punctuating each word with a jab of his gun. Just like Phil, she thought distantly. A bully, a menace, an unpredictable bomb waiting to go off.

  Frannie took a deep breath. If she panicked, he would kill her. He wanted her fear, maybe he even needed it. Just like Phil. "Where is what?" she asked, trying to stay calm. Her voice shook, and she continued to grasp the dead phone.

  "Make this easy for both of us," he whispered hoarsely. "Just give me what I want and nobody gets hurt."

  Frannie huddled on the floor, trying to make herself small, trying to disappear. "This is a mistake," she breathed. "I don't know what you want."

  He took a single step forward, and then his head snapped to one side. As he was looking down the hallway Frannie heard what he'd no doubt heard first. Sirens, growing closer with every heartbeat.

  While he was distracted, she gathered every bit of courage she had. Tossing the phone aside, she jumped to her feet and ran. She didn't look at the intruder, sure that if she did the sight would paralyze her. She had to pass close, too close, to get past him and into the hallway.

  He reached out to grab her, his fingers brushing against her jersey as she passed. His grip slowed her for a split second, and then she was free.

  The sirens were louder now, they were on this street. She didn't look back, but she wondered, with every step, if the intruder would simply point the gun and pull the trigger. Her back made a clear target in this narrow hallway, the orange number seven on the jersey a bright bull's-eye.

  She heard a sharp crack, and waited for the pain and impact of a bullet in her back, but there was no pain, no impact.

  Until she stepped out of the hallway and into the living room, she didn't breathe. Her heart was pumping too hard her lungs ached, as she headed for the front door. The sirens were right outside now, and blue and red lights flashed mutely through the closed venetian blinds.

  She threw the door open seconds before the responding officers would have reached it. They ran, weapons in hands up the sidewalk from the street to her front porch.

  "He's in my bedroom," she said, but she was so panicked the words didn't come out quite right. She couldn't catch her breath and what came out of her mouth was utter nonsense, so she stepped aside and pointed, and the officers ran past her.

  Her legs wouldn't work right, either, so she sank to the top step and placed her head in her hands. One of the officers who had remained with the patrol cars came forward cautiously.

  "Ma'am?" he said in a surprisingly soft voice. "Maybe you'd better step over this way. Why don't you tell me what happened here tonight?"

  She glanced up at the young officer as he offered her his hand, and after a moment's hesitation she reached up and took it, and he helped her to her feet.

  The officers who had rushed into the house came out, guns holstered. "Nobody's in there," one of them said, sounding more disappointed than relieved.

  "He was in my room," Frannie insisted.

  The officers looked at one another.

  "He had a gun," she said, and the shakes started all over again.

  "The bedroom window was open," one of them said, and the
two of them took off again, circling the house in opposite directions.

  That was the crack she'd heard, Frannie thought with a shudder. Not a gunshot, but the sound of her window, painted shut, being forced open.

  The strength went out of her legs, and she sat down again. She glanced to the side, seeing the intruder in every shadow. There were lots of shadows at night, she realized. Dark, deep shadows where anyone could be waiting. Even with the flash of those eerie red and blue lights, there were plenty of places to hide. At the moment, Frannie saw them all.

  The officer who remained with her was trying to ask questions, but Frannie had a hard time concentrating. She heard maybe half his words, and even then…

  A screech of tires on the street in front of her house made Frannie lift her head. A gray sedan had come to a halt beside the two patrol cars, and Malcolm Bridger slid out of the car while the echo of the squeal was still reverberating in the air.

  His eyes were on her as he crossed the yard, and all of a sudden Frannie found the strength to stand.

  The frustrated officer who had been trying to take her statement said, rather softly, "We didn't call for homicide." Bridger passed him without so much as a glance.

  He stopped directly in front of her and looked her up and down quickly. "You're all right," he said, as if he didn't believe it any more than she did.

  With trembling fingers, Frannie reached out and grabbed the narrow tie that hung limply from his neck. "There was a man in my house, Bridger." She held on tight. "He had a gun."

  Bridger placed a warm and stilling hand on her shoulder, and another on her cheek, and Frannie allowed her eyes to drift closed. Her panic subsided slowly but surely.

  Just as slowly and surely, Bridger's arms stole around her. Some part of her brain knew she should protest, but she didn't. She found herself melting against him, hiding her face against his chest, and with every Bridger-filled breath she took, she felt more herself. There was nothing to fear, here, no reason to be afraid.

  "I was so scared," she whispered.

  "I know."

  "Don't leave me." The words were so low she didn't know if he would hear her or not. Maybe it would be best if he didn't. But after the span of a heartbeat or two, no more, he answered just as softly.

  "I won't."

  He remained silent for a long moment, and then she felt a subtle shift of his body. He continued to hold her, but now he was tense, rigid.

  "What the hell took you so long?" he hissed.

  Frannie didn't move as the officer who'd been questioning her answered. This probably looked very strange, but she didn't care.

  "We had another call on the other side of the district," the officer said defensively. "We got here as soon as—"

  "When you get a call that there's an intruder in someone's house, you drop everything, do you hear me? Everything!" Bridger delivered this instruction in a commanding voice that was full of controlled rage and unbending authority. It was the kind of voice Frannie usually shied away from, but tonight … tonight that voice soothed her.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  How was it that this woman he'd known less than thirty-six hours had given him the two most frightening moments of his life?

  Mal was kicked back in an overstuffed chair, his eyes fastened on the sleeping woman on the couch. Frannie had finally dozed off about an hour ago, her head on the arm of the couch, her legs drawn up and hidden beneath a crocheted afghan he'd bet money she had made herself. He was surprised she could sleep at all, after the scare she'd had, but she'd taken one last glance at him awhile back, and then she'd closed her blue eyes and drifted off.

  The intruder had been looking for something, and that worried him. The contents of Frannie's purse had been dumped out on the kitchen table, but nothing was missing, she said. Credit cards, cash, and an expensive watch with a broken band were left in a jumble on the small oak table.

  Drawers were opened, closets rearranged, but nothing was missing. Frannie said she had no idea what the man had meant when he'd asked, "Where is it?" and Mal believed her. The confusion that accompanied her fear and anger was evident.

  He had a sneaking suspicion, one he didn't like at all, that this break-in was somehow related to the murder in the Riverwatch Hotel, that the man who'd held a gun on Frannie was the murderer. She thought maybe the man had the wrong house, that the break-in was a simple case of mistaken identity, a wrong turn on a dark street, but Mal didn't quite buy it.

  The dead blonde had slipped something to Frannie, perhaps, and she didn't even know it. When he thought it through it made sense. Two women running in opposite directions collided on the stairs, the blonde slipped something to Frannie, and the man who'd broken into this house tonight had been looking for it. That's what the blonde's inquiry about Frannie's haircut and the request for her name had been about. A way to find her after the danger had passed.

  Only the danger to the blonde hadn't passed. The killer had caught up with her in the stairwell. Thinking, maybe, that he wouldn't kill her if she told him what he wanted to hear, the woman had told him everything.

  It all fell together so easily. There was only one problem—the woman hadn't given Frannie anything. There was nothing in her purse, nothing in the pockets of her raincoat, and there were no pockets on the skirt or the sweater she'd been wearing. So, they were exactly nowhere.

  It occurred to Mal that the blonde in the stairwell might have told the murderer a lie, something to appease him so he'd let her go. If that was true, they had nothing and Frannie was still in danger.

  He should have Frannie call a friend and arrange for a place to stay, or maybe call her mother and get out of town for a while. She wasn't safe in Decatur, not until they caught the killer and the man who had broken into her house.

  Yes, he should advise her to do just that, but he knew that he wouldn't. She was going to stay right here, and he would be right beside her, like it or not. Keeping an eye on Frannie, knowing that she slept peacefully only because she knew he was here watching over her, Mal knew he was already in way too deep.

  He shouldn't have to remind himself of the reason this was a bad idea, but he found himself doing just that.

  Frannie Vaughn was not his type. She was open and honest, too naive, the girl next door who was no doubt looking for the boy next door and happily ever after. He knew all about her breed; he'd been engaged to one, years ago.

  Daphne had been every bit as trusting and squeaky clean as Frannie Vaughn: wide-eyed and innocent, full of hope and plans for an ideal future of white picket fences and babies. She was a kindergarten teacher, for God's sake, a baker of pies and cookies and a really sweet girl. She'd also been terrified of marriage to a cop.

  Mal had known it was falling apart when Daphne asked him to stop wearing his gun in her house. She didn't want to be reminded, she said, of what he did every day, and in order to keep peace he'd done as she asked. When she'd asked how his day was she wanted a generic "fine," and nothing more. No ugly details for Daphne, thank you very much, no tales of death over supper.

  And then one night he'd been late for a special home-cooked dinner she'd planned. An hour or two, if he remembered correctly, no more. Daphne had met him at the door in tears, and she'd offered her ultimatum before he even had a chance to remove his offensive weapon. It all boiled down to this—her or the job. He couldn't have both.

  It had been an easy choice for Mal to make. A relief, if he was to be honest. These days, he removed his gun at the door for no man and no woman. It was too much a part of who he was, a symbol of his profession and his independence. Being caught without his weapon would be like being caught with his pants down.

  Dammit, all he'd been looking for with Frannie was one night. One night of coming together for pleasure and comfort and release. Sex. An interlude. One night. It hadn't happened, and right now he wondered if he'd rest easy again until it did.

  Her eyes snapped opened and her body jerked slig
htly, as if she'd awakened from a bad dream. Blue eyes settled on him instantly, she smiled, and her eyes fluttered closed again.

  Damn.

  * * *

  Frannie knew by the faint light through the blinds that it was early morning. She couldn't have gotten more than a couple hours of sleep on the couch, but she felt oddly well rested.

  Her eyes lit on Bridger, who slept pretty deeply himself. His head was back, his eyes were closed, his long arms had fallen over the fat arms of the chair. The posture left him looking unusually vulnerable.

  She sat up slowly, and that was all it took. At the small creak of the couch, Bridger's eyes flew open. In an instant he was vulnerable no more, but instead was wary, on guard.

  "I'm so sorry," she said as she stood. She was tempted to bring the afghan with her, to wrap it around her shoulders and let it hang over her jersey. Even though the blue and orange football jersey fell to her knees, and was thick enough to offer some modesty, she felt exposed at the moment, with her bare legs and bare feet. It hadn't bothered her last night, but it bothered her now.

  Bridger frowned. He was obviously one of those people who took a few minutes to get oriented in the morning, not one who came instantly awake as she did. "Sorry for what?" he grumbled.

  "I shouldn't have called you, and I shouldn't have asked you to stay." Everything looked different by the light of day. She'd panicked, when clearly the intruder had broken into the wrong house. She had nothing anyone would be searching for. By now the nasty gun-wielding burglar had surely realized his mistake.

  Bridger sat up, shaking off the sleep, stretching and rolling one shoulder, running his fingers through dark hair too short to be mussed much by sleeping in her easy chair. "You did just right. Well, except that you should've called 9-1-1 first and then me, but it worked out fine."

  How could she explain picking up the phone and dialing his number almost automatically? She couldn't. "Coffee," she said in a no-nonsense and very awake voice, heading for the kitchen. Oh, she was still a coward, wasn't she? Only this time she was escaping from the good guy instead of the bad one.