BRIDGER'S LAST STAND

by Linda Winstead Jones

  She smiled, slightly crooked, slightly wide. "Part of it. I'm going to buy a new computer, set it up in my new place, and then I'm going to start looking for work as a contract programmer. I made a few phone calls this week, and there are lots of companies out there looking for programmers to rewrite programs that aren't Y2K compliant. That should keep me busy for a while, at least until the year 2000."

  "You're going to do contract work? That's risky." He wasn't purposely trying to scare her, not really, but he knew how careful Frannie was, how neat and secure she liked her life.

  He didn't scare her at all. "I know it's risky. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's time I stopped living so cautiously."

  Frannie was poised to flee, and he was certain that if he moved forward that's exactly what she'd do. He wasn't ready to watch her run away from him.

  "You could do that from here." Was he asking her to move in? Dammit, it sure sounded that way.

  She shook her head. "You know how I feel, but let's face it, Bridger. If there hadn't been a dead blonde in the stairwell of the Riverwatch Hotel, I never would've seen you again. You wouldn't have called, you wouldn't have come looking for me. I would've been a fuzzy, funny memory, a story to drag out now and again, maybe. The one-night stand that wasn't. I was dumped in your lap, and eventually you're going to remember that and resent it."

  "We haven't even discussed this."

  "What's to discuss? We've never been on a date, Bridger. You've never called me to see if I'm busy, or just to talk." She tried to smile again, but this time he could see it was an effort. "We need some time apart, I think."

  "You don't even have a car," he snapped. "What are you going to do, walk to Bank Street

  from here?" The question sounded bitter, and he didn't want her to know how hostile he felt right now. It revealed too much. "Never mind, I'll get dressed and drive you."

  "Newton dropped off my car bright and early," she said. "There's no need for you to drive me." And then she turned away.

  Mal followed her into the hall, watched her walk unerringly for the door. He wanted to ask her again to stay, but he knew what the answer would be. She was determined.

  She opened the front door, readjusted her tote bag and glanced over her shoulder. "Call me sometime," she said softly.

  * * *

  Frannie put the last of her things away in the antique dresser Terri was letting her use. There wasn't room for everything downstairs, and the dresser needed a few minor repairs before it could be sold for top dollar. Same with the oddly canted four-poster bed and the ugly orange chair that needed to be reupholstered, and the scratched cigarette table the tall skinny angel sat upon. As of now, that was the extent of the furnishings in her new apartment.

  She sat down in the chair, stretching out her legs and leaning back lazily, taking a deep, cleansing breath. Leaving Bridger had easily been the hardest thing she'd ever done. Harder than watching her house burn, harder than listening to her mother tell her she was getting married again, harder than facing a man with a gun.

  But what choice did she have? She couldn't stay with him, easing into his life so that before he knew what was happening she was there for good. She loved him, but she had to know that he wanted her in his life.

  With nervous fingers she plucked at the sweater she wore. Bridger's sweater. Taking it wasn't so bad. He never wore it, and besides, if he wanted it back all he had to do was ask.

  * * *

  Mal grumbled as he sifted through the papers on his desk. Thanks to the excitement of the past week, he had enough paperwork to keep him busy for a month.

  His mind wasn't on the paperwork, though. It was on Frannie. He was angry, he was confused. He missed her already, and she hadn't been gone a full day.

  She was right, of course. This was for the best. He'd never been looking for more than one night, and if it had turned out to be more spectacular than he'd expected, well, that was just a bonus. He could never give Frannie everything she wanted, he could never be the man she needed.

  Perversely, he thought he might like to try. Maybe in a week or so, when things died down and she'd had a chance to settle in her new place, he'd give her a call.

  Harry had asked about Frannie right away, as soon as Mal had come through the door that morning, wondering what her plans were and if she would continue staying at his apartment. The sergeant had apparently caught the matchmaking bug from his wife. He was so disappointed to learn that Frannie had moved out, you'd think he was the one who'd be sleeping alone tonight.

  He hadn't mentioned Frannie since then, not as they'd shared a quick lunch together, and not as they'd each pored over their stacks of paperwork. Harry had been restlessly in and out of the office all day.

  It was late afternoon when Harry burst into the detectives' room, his face red as he threw open the door and headed straight for Mal's desk. "Frannie," he said breathlessly, and Mal's heart stopped. Something was wrong. Something had happened to her or Harry wouldn't be looking at him this way.

  Mal slowly came up out of his chair.

  "Where is she?" Harry finished. He was winded, as if he'd run all the way here.

  Where is she? Didn't he know? Mal's heart rate slowed considerably. "At the antique shop, I guess. What's wrong?"

  "I just got off the phone with Birmingham. Martin Blake didn't commit suicide, though somebody went to a helluva lot of trouble to make it look like he did. He had enough codeine in his blood to kill him, and the coroner says there's no way in hell he pulled that trigger himself."

  "Somebody did it for him."

  "That's not all," Harry snapped. "The tattoo on Blake's arm is only a few days old. The skin was still irritated."

  "It was a setup."

  He'd known it was too good to be true, too damn neat. Mal thumbed through the phone book quickly, easily finding Terri's Trash and Treasure. He dialed the number but got a busy signal.

  He cursed as he slammed down the phone. "I'm headed over there. Send a car that way, but keep trying to call, and if you get Frannie, tell her to stay put until I get there."

  "Will do."

  The uniformed officer from the evidence room blocked his exit, and he was waving a small flat package. He hadn't overheard, couldn't know that Mal was about to run him down if he didn't get out of the way.

  "You want those pictures, Detective Bridger?"

  Pictures, what damn pictures? He was in such a panic he almost forgot. "Yeah."

  On the chance that there was something valuable here, he took the time to open the envelope, and flipped restlessly through the stack of photographs. These shots were so off kilter and occasionally out of focus that he assumed they'd been taken secretly, at a meeting of the Decatur Legion for Liberty. Fossett was there, as well as a few faces he recognized as known criminals and … as he leafed through … one face he hadn't expected to see.

  "Harry, where's Kruse?"

  "He took off early. You need his help?"

  "No," Mal didn't take time to explain. He tossed the pictures to Harry and took off.

  * * *

  Frannie dusted a display of figurines while Terri chatted on the telephone. She'd been on the phone all afternoon, talking to one friend and then another. It had been slow. A few customers had stopped by earlier, but in the past couple of hours it had been just Terri and Frannie. Terri had already assured her that Saturday was their busy day, and the rest of the week was erratic, at best.

  When the bell above the door jingled, both Frannie and Terri lifted their heads to see who the new customer was.

  "Jerry," Frannie said with a wide grin. At that, Terri returned to her conversation.

  He returned her smile and headed in her direction, hands in his pockets. "Hi."

  She continued to dust the figurines. "What are you doing here? You don't strike me as the kind of guy who goes in for antiques." She glanced at the array surrounding her. "Or junk."

  "I'm not. I heard Mal telling Harry this morning that you were here, and I thoug
ht that maybe, if you guys aren't serious or anything, you might like to reconsider that Chinese. Maybe a movie afterward, or dancing, if you prefer."

  A couple of weeks ago she would have jumped at the chance to date a guy like Jerry Kruse. He was handsome, he had a nice smile, and he seemed to genuinely like her. But Bridger had spoiled her.

  "Thanks, but I think I need to step back and spend some time alone, for a while."

  "That's too bad." Jerry picked up an old wooden box, turned it over in his hand and studied the wood grain carefully. "If you change your mind…" he began in a soft voice.

  "Frannie, I'm heading home early," Terri said as she hung up the phone. Her smile widened. "Oh, I'm going to like having you around. I haven't been able to take off early in ages."

  The phone rang before she'd taken two steps. "Terri's Trash and Treasure." She held the receiver aloft. "Frannie, it's for you. A man," she added as Frannie approached. "Sounds important." She winked as she handed over the phone and grabbed her purse from beneath the counter. Frannie waved as Terri sauntered out the door.

  No one knew where she was but Bridger. She'd hoped he would call, but never expected that he'd seek her out so soon. "Hello?"

  "Frannie, thank God."

  "Harry?"

  She could hear him take a deep breath. "It was the wrong guy," he said softly. "The killer's still out there. Mal is on his way over right now, and—"

  No. "What do you mean, the wrong guy?"

  "Just hang on until Mal gets there. He'll explain everything."

  Frannie tried not to be alarmed. "I'll be fine until then," she said, leaning against the counter. "Jerry Kruse is here."

  Harry uttered the filthiest curse Frannie had ever heard. "Listen carefully. You've got to—"

  "Harry?" Frannie spoke into the dead phone, then. moved it away from her ear in time to see Jerry Kruse drop the severed phone line and turn the knife he held in her, direction.

  "I was hoping this was finished," he said softly. "But I can see by the look on your face that it's not. Too bad. I like you Frannie, I really do. Do they know it's me?"

  Frannie took a deep breath. She wanted to scream but couldn't find enough air. She wanted to run, but her legs shook too much. Jerry stood between her and the door. No matter what, she would not turn and try to run upstairs to her apartment. She remembered too well what Jerry had done to the last woman he'd caught on a stairwell.

  "It was you standing at the elevator, wasn't it?" she asked softly.

  He nodded once and took a step closer. "Miranda got greedy. What was I supposed to do? She'd been blackmailing me for months. I tried to romance her into behaving herself, but it didn't work. She just wanted more, and more, and more." He took another step. Frannie answered with a sliding step back.

  "And all those other people?" Bridger was on the way. If she could just keep Kruse talking…

  "The old lady and the guy from the tattoo parlor had seen me with Miranda. Blake was just easy. He even cooperated when I got him drunk and suggested he get a tattoo in Miranda's honor."

  "But what about—"

  "We don't have time for this," he said, and with the hand that didn't hold a knife he motioned her forward. "You really did have the film and the letter she was blackmailing me with, didn't you? I'd about decided that Mal had it right, that Miranda lied to me so I wouldn't kill her and all this time you had nothing. But no, I was right from the start. Where was it?"

  "I didn't know I had it." Somehow she had to get past Kruse and to the door. So far he threatened her only with the knife and not with the revolver he wore on his belt. Blades were silent.

  "Where is it now?"

  Frannie took a step back. "Bridger has it." She could scream for help, but it would do no good. The coffee shop next door had already closed, and the space on the other side was vacant. No, she was on her own.

  Kruse tilted his head to one side. He was calm, still, emotionless. "That's what I was afraid of. So if he doesn't know yet that I'm the one he's looking for, it's just a matter of time."

  He'd been walking so slowly his sudden lunge caught Frannie by surprise. She dropped to the floor and scrambled away before Kruse reached out. The knife in his hand missed her arm by inches.

  She had one advantage. She knew this store, inch by inch. As Kruse came down the aisle after her, she slipped beneath one long table, across another aisle and hid beneath a mahogany occasional table with fat, ornate legs. The space was small, and she was partially hidden by a lace tablecloth that was draped over one edge.

  "Come on, Frannie," he cajoled in a sweet voice. "Don't make this difficult."

  She held her breath. His voice was close, and as she held her breath he walked right past her. His shoes passed not ten inches from her knee.

  "I have to run now, change my name, hide for a while, but before I go I want to leave Mal a present. You." There was a touch of glee in his voice, and it made Frannie shudder. "If he hadn't taken this case so personally, if he'd just let it go, everything would have worked out for the best."

  His footsteps faded and became louder. Frannie winced at the loud screech of wood against wood as he shifted furniture to look for her. "Miranda would be out of my hair, and in just a few months the legion would be in full swing again. Do you have any idea how much money there is in misdirected patriotism? More than I'll ever make as a cop, that's for sure. Come on, Frannie." He was losing his patience, she could tell. "Mal ruined everything. He had to get involved, he had to take it personally just because he was in the hotel when I killed Miranda." He took a deep breath. "Though I think he took it even more to heart when I broke into your house."

  He was coming up the same aisle, again, and Frannie held her breath, again. The clack of his hard-soled shoes were almost as loud to her as the thrum of her own blood rushing through her veins.

  "If he has your body to cry over, he won't come after me right away," Kruse said in a frighteningly sensible voice. "And by the time he recovers from the shock, I'll be long gone."

  Jerry didn't know Bridger very well if he thought he would cry over her. Maybe he'd toast her with Jack Daniel's, and maybe he would even miss her a little. But Bridger cry? No way.

  The shiny shoes stopped right in front of her, and before she could react Kruse dropped down and grabbed her arm. She set her feet so she'd stay beneath the table, but he was too strong. He dragged her from her hiding place and she kicked out hard. The first attempt glanced off his ankle. She tried again, putting all her strength into the simple move. Her foot connected with Kruse's shin but didn't slow him down. He hauled her into the aisle.

  Frannie didn't look up at the weapon she knew he held, and she didn't give up. She kept kicking, slamming her feet against his knees. Finally she was able to sweep Jerry's feet out from under him. He fell heavily, and she scrambled to her feet. All she had to do was make it to the front door and onto the street.

  Before she'd gone three steps Jerry tackled her from behind, and together with the knickknacks from a small table she bumped against they fell to the floor. All around her was the crash and tinkle of breaking fragile objects, the thud of a heavier item. She was roughly flipped onto her back. Kruse's weight crushed her as he breathed heavily into her face.

  She stared up into his handsome, indifferent face and knew he was going to kill her. "Don't," she whispered. She stared him straight in the eye, as one hand searched blindly for something, anything, to defend herself with. Her fingers fell over a solid object, and she lifted it carefully. "You don't gain anything by killing me."

  "I have no choice," he said, and he almost seemed to regret the decision.

  She brought the object in her hand up with all the strength she could muster, crashing it into Kruse's head. The blow wasn't massive, but she did manage to take him by surprise. A thin trickle of blood ran from his temple down his cheek, and Frannie was able to push Kruse away as he raised a hand to his wounded head. The broken mushroom salt shaker fell to the floor as she scrambled to her feet,
shards of glass cutting into the palm of her hand and even through her jeans to cut her knees.

  She ran for the door, while Kruse jumped to his feet and circled the table to cut her off. They were headed for the door from different directions, circling almost toward each other. If she ran fast enough, if she didn't look back… When the bell over the front door jingled, they both stopped.

  Frannie had a clear view of Bridger's profile as he walked into the store. Unfortunately, Kruse faced him head-on, and he must have seen Bridger coming for the weapon he wore on his holster was drawn and waiting. He fired once.

  She couldn't hear her own scream for the blast, but she could feel it in her throat, ripping and silently burning. Bridger grunted and flew back, falling heavily by the front door.

  Kruse turned back to her, the gun still in his hand. This time it was pointed at her, and she was frozen. "Sorry, Frannie," he said as his finger tightened, and she closed her eyes.

  The blasts were deafening, one and then another, and she waited for the blow to her chest, to be thrown backward and to the ground as Bridger had been. But nothing happened. She opened her eyes as Jerry crumpled to the floor. Blood stained the front of his shirt, and there was a neat hole in the center of his forehead.

  Bridger lowered his weapon.

  She ran to the door, falling to her knees beside him. Tears filled her eyes, blinding her, as she reached out and touched his face. "Weren't you supposed to wait for backup or something? Didn't you know there was a man with a gun in here? Dammit, Bridger, your mother will never forgive me if you die trying to save me."

  "I'm not … going to die," he said, his voice strained. A large, warm hand reached out to dry her tears. Her vision cleared and she gathered the nerve to look down. He wore a thick black vest beneath his jacket, and a bullet was embedded in the material near the center of his chest.

  "You're wearing a bullet-proof vest," she said, smiling weakly as she touched the protective gear.

  "Yep." He tried to take a deep breath but couldn't quite manage it. "Harry called … cell phone." Each word was obviously an effort. "He said Kruse was … here, so I … I…"