Midnight Caller Page 9

  Unconsciously rubbing her hands against the sides of her slacks, she stared at the car, trying to bring back memories of terror, of what it felt like to be trapped inside with rocks raining down around her, blocking the road.

  But there were no memories. Nothing. And the void in her mind was devastating. Terrifying.

  “I can’t—” Suddenly unsteady on her feet, she reached out to brace herself against the black metal. When the contact sent a jolt through her, she snatched her hand back.

  Bridgman was at her side, his arm coming up to steady her. “What?” he asked in a strained voice. “Did you remember something?”

  “No,” she whispered. “But it made me feel—” She stopped abruptly.

  “What?”

  “Bad.” The syllable oozed out of her like dirty oil oozing from a broken crankcase. The steady beat of the music made her nerves vibrate, and she wanted to scream at the guy called Shipley to turn it off. But she managed not to direct her fear and frustration at him.

  “‘Bad’?” Bridgman questioned, his eyes drilling into hers. “Tell me what you mean.”

  She forced herself to focus on the feeling, to articulate. “A bad sensation. Evil,” she added with a catch in her voice. “This car is evil.” Realizing what she’d said, she blinked.

  He was looking at her, expecting more.

  “I…I…don’t know what I mean, exactly,” she stammered.

  The muscles flexed in Bridgman’s arm as he gripped her, and she felt clammy sweat gathering at the back of her neck and trickling down her spine. “You said I had plants in the trunk?”

  He nodded.

  “Can you open it?”

  “It’s unlocked.” He strode to the back and pulled up the door. She stared at the thick carpeting inside—and saw nothing familiar.

  “Do you remember?” he demanded, and she knew he’d been hoping for more. She was only hoping for escape. But that wasn’t an option.

  “No.” She turned her back on the gaping cavity of the trunk.

  “Maybe if you sit behind the wheel.” It was more an order than a suggestion.

  She wanted to refuse. Instead she moved to the driver’s door and started yanking. It wouldn’t open, and she looked questioningly at Bridgman.

  “We had to get you out from the other side.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, her voice high and sharp. So this was a kind of test. He was trying to find out if she’d slip up and reveal she already knew that little fact—reveal that she was lying through her teeth about her memory loss.

  Grimly putting one foot in front of the other, she circled the car again.

  A sudden noise made her jump, and she looked up to see that Bridgman had pressed a series of buttons that opened the garage doors.

  “More light,” he said.

  “Thanks.” Before she could chicken out, she pulled open the passenger door and sank onto the leather seat

  As she raised her eyes and studied the spiderweb of cracks that marred the windshield, she felt her throat close. The texture of the leather against her flesh made her skin crawl, and she wanted to leap from the vehicle. She might have done it if she hadn’t been so aware of the man watching her every move. When his portable phone rang, she jumped. Couldn’t they blow their noses around here without consulting him?

  Scowling, he pulled the instrument out of his pocket and jabbed at the receive button. “I’m busy. This had better be good,” he snapped.

  She heard a voice jabbering on the other end of the line, loud and excited.

  Bridgman glanced at her, then moved away from the sound of the radio. “Speak slowly. I can’t understand what you’re saying. What about the dogs?”

  Apparently he couldn’t hear the answer, because his face contorted in frustration.

  “I’ll be right back,” he called to Shipley, then stepped into a small glass-enclosed office and shut the door. Turning his back, he hunched over the phone.

  Through the cracked windshield, she and the guard exchanged uncertain glances.

  He took a step toward her, pitching his voice over the radio music. “You’d better wait over here where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, glad of the excuse to climb out of the sedan. Over Shipley’s shoulder, through the open garage doors, she caught a glimpse of a low, dark shape streaking toward them across the blacktop parking area.

  Eyes narrowed, she focused on the blur. As it came closer, it resolved itself into a whir of churning legs, a snarling face, bared teeth. It was a dog. A very large dog with a demonic look in its eyes that made her skin go cold.

  Rabid.

  Seeing the expression on her face, Shipley whirled, then drew in a startled breath as he fumbled for the gun in the holster at his side. But he wasn’t quick enough. Before he could free the weapon, before Meg could scream, the animal gave a mighty leap through the doorway. What looked like a hundred pounds of crazed canine flesh struck the man in the chest, knocking him to the ground.

  Shipley made a high, frightened sound as his hand came up to ward off the viciously snapping mouth. The foaming jaws clamped themselves to his arm and began to chew.

  Taking a running step in the direction from which she’d come, Meg made it around the desk in seconds and snatched a rifle from the rack. It felt heavy, but the weight was reassuring in her hands. Coolly, as if she were watching herself from somewhere beyond her body, she checked the action, then slid a shell into the chamber. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bridgman materialize from the office where he’d been talking.

  “Meg!”

  His view of Shipley was blocked by the desk, but he’d spotted the weapon in her hands. Stopping short, he stared at her, anger and confusion warring for control of his features.

  “Put that down,” he commanded.

  He thought—It didn’t matter what he thought.

  “No time,” she managed, even as she saw him scrambling toward the desk.

  Animal snarls, punctuated by a scream, reached them, cutting off whatever he was going to say. As if in slow motion, she moved to the side to give herself a clear line of sight, her gaze focused on the man and dog where they writhed together on the concrete floor of the garage. The big dog was on top, his body covering the man from neck to knees.

  For a split second she hesitated. Then some force beyond her control seemed to take over. Raising the weapon and bracing it against her shoulder, she sighted down the barrel, aiming for the animal’s head.

  With a jerky motion, she pulled back the trigger.

  Chapter Seven

  In the confines of the garage, the blast was deafening. The ejecting shell startled Meg, and the weapon’s recoil knocked her back, making the shot go high, whizzing far above its target

  Take it easy, girl, a voice in her head warned. Easy does it. The words were part encouragement, part gruff warning.

  She clung to the advice—and to the sound of the familiar voice—though her heart threatened to pound its way through her chest as she cocked the weapon and slid in another round. Again she aimed carefully and fired—this time prepared for the recoil. The blast came almost simultaneously with the sound of another shot from behind and to the right. The double burst of gunfire made her stiffen, even as the dog went limp, its body collapsing on top of Shipley.

  Bridgman ran forward, past her, a pistol in his hand. He hadn’t been wearing one; it must have been in the desk, her dazed brain decided. He’d shot at almost the same time she had.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, desperate to recapture the voice of the man who had helped her shoot. It had evaporated—like a figment of her imagination.

  Reality was a man gasping in pain. Snapping her eyes open, she saw him writhing on the cement floor of the garage.

  Bridgman knelt beside him, grabbing the dog’s muzzle with two hands and prying apart the vicious-looking teeth.

  The deep bite-marks in the man’s flesh made her stomach turn over. Shipley’s face was drained
of color, and he rolled to his side, drawing his legs into a fetal position. When he moved, Meg saw blood pooled on the concrete.

  “Is he going to be all right?” she gasped, her hands clenching and unclenching on the rifle.

  “We have to stop the bleeding,” Bridgman said, yanking off his shirt and using it to press against the wound. Immediately, blood soaked the makeshift bandage. “There’s a first-aid kit in the bottom-right desk drawer. Get it!”

  Realizing she was still clenching the rifle, she fixed the safety catch, then set the weapon on the ground before running back to the desk. For a panicked moment she didn’t see the kit. Then her eyes found the red cross on a dull metal box. Yanking it from the drawer, she dashed back to the men.

  “Open it,” Bridgman commanded, both hands clamping down on the wound. “Get me a large bandage. And tape.”

  Shipley lay very still, his skin beaded with perspiration, his breathing shallow.

  “Am I going to lose my arm?” he whispered.

  “Not if I can help it, Terry,” Bridgman answered as his trained hand kept up the pressure. His voice sounded more like that of a reassuring father with an injured child than a commanding officer with a wounded soldier.

  Meg fumbled in the kit, finding the requested items and handing them to him.

  He made a sound that might have been meant as thanks as he worked, focusing all his attention on the young man.

  “It hurts.”

  “I know. I know,” Bridgman answered in the same low voice. “But you did fine. You kept him away from your throat.”

  Across the lawn, feet thumped toward them. They belonged to men with guns drawn—some of them pointed at the dog, some of them pointed at Meg.

  Her breath frozen in her lungs, she stared at the circle of hostile faces. God, did they think that somehow she was responsible for this?

  “Put the guns away,” Bridgman ordered. “The dog’s dead. The danger is over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the weapons lowered and the men’s postures relaxed a fraction, Meg remembered to breathe again.

  Bridgman kept issuing orders. “Tracy, call a medical team.”

  A man headed for the wall phone.

  “Larock, Graham, Peterson, Hastings, secure the area.”

  They snapped to follow the command.

  “What happened?” one of the remaining men asked.

  “Columbo went crazy,” a distraught voice answered.

  Meg’s gaze swung to a short, muscular man, whose face held a mixture of bewilderment and self-accusation as he stared from the wounded young man to the body of the dog. “He was fine. I tell you, he was fine when he did his shift this morning. Then I opened the cage to feed him and he knocked me down and took off.”

  “He’d had his rabies vaccination?” a new voice asked, sending Meg’s gaze darting to Bridgman’s fingers. He’d had his hands in the dog’s mouth. If he had a cut or something—

  Before she could finish the thought, the handler snapped an answer. “Certainly he’s had his vaccination! That’s standard procedure.”

  The knot uncoiled in Meg’s stomach, but Bridgman wasn’t going to take the man’s word for it. “I’ll want to see his certificate,” he demanded. “And get blood and saliva samples to the lab right away.” Still on the ground, he turned to the injured man. “You’re going to be okay. Everything’s okay,” he said in a calm, reassuring voice. Still, she saw the relief on his face when two men ran forward with the stretcher he’d requested. He helped move Shipley to the stretcher, then leaned over him, still talking quietly, and she knew that taking care of the injured man had become his top priority.

  “The excitement’s over,” a hard voice announced. It came from Claymore, and the crowd began to disperse. “Who shot the dog?” the security chief asked.

  “I did,” Bridgman and Meg both answered.

  The chiefs gaze waffled between them.

  “I got off a shot with the Beretta in the desk drawer. Right after she got him with a bullet from the Winchester,” Bridgman clarified.

  Claymore looked from Meg to the rifle lying on the ground. “So you know how to handle one of these?”

  She spread her hands helplessly. “All I know is that I saw the dog leap on. him and knock him to the ground. It was only a matter of time before he went for the throat. So I—I grabbed a rifle. I guess I know how to use it.”

  “Yeah,” Claymore replied, his narrowed gaze sweeping over the dead animal.

  Meg looked away—in time to see Bridgman running to catch up with the stretcher, then disappear behind a door at the other end of the garage.

  Her throat went dry as she realized she was alone with Claymore—and a circle of hostile men. When she saw another flicker of movement, she whirled to face the new threat.

  It was a man, coming toward them—an older man in a motorized wheelchair.

  He stopped the chair about three feet away, eyeing her with interest. “Meg Wexler.”

  She gave him a tight little nod.

  “Hal Dorsey. I’ve been anxious to meet you.” He didn’t offer his hand, which was red and gnarled, the fingers painfully deformed. Her gaze dropped to his legs, which were set at an uncomfortable angle. When the older man saw her staring at his twisted flesh, he tightened his jaw and turned his head toward Claymore. “What happened?”

  “One of the dogs went crazy, sir,” the security chief answered. From his demeanor, it was obvious which one of them outranked the other. Dorsey might not be able to walk, but his physical infirmities didn’t dilute his power. For all she knew, he outranked even Bridgman in the hierarchy here.

  Claymore gave a concise account of the incident, emphasizing Meg’s expert use of the Winchester. She wanted to interrupt and ask if he would rather have had Shipley chewed to death. Instead, she stood with her hands pressed to her sides and her knees locked.

  The man in the wheelchair studied her, his face hard and uncompromising. “Is that right?”

  She gave him a little nod, then managed, “I need to sit down.”

  “Yes.” He cocked his head, studying her, then barked an order to two of the men. “Bring her to the security center where we can have a nice, comfortable chat.”

  She made a strangled sound as two men moved to cage her between them. Claymore came into formation behind them. God, had he arranged the dog attack to create a medical emergency so he could get her away from Bridgman? Was he capable of tactics like that?

  “This way,” one of the guards ordered.

  If she didn’t go quietly, would they drag her? Stifflegged, she allowed herself to be escorted through another door and down a flight of stone steps. When they reached a metal door, one of the guards produced a key, metal clanging against metal as he worked the lock.

  They stepped into a damp corridor, and she jumped as the heavy door slammed behind them. After that, she tried to make her mind go numb.

  “Room two,” Claymore directed.

  Another door opened, and Meg stepped inside. She had expected to find herself in a cell. Instead there were three wooden chairs and a battered table.

  Claymore gestured for her to take the seat near the far wall. Stiffly, she complied, grateful that her legs had carried her that far.

  Moments later, Dorsey wheeled through the door and dismissed her escort.

  “Well,” he said with satisfaction as he saw her grip the arms of the chair.

  She tried to take in a steadying breath, but her heart was blocking her windpipe.

  “I want information,” he growled.

  She gave the barest shrug. “So do I.”

  “Well, you can’t fault her for guts,” Claymore murmured, his eyes hard. If Bridgman was the king of Castle Phoenix, then Claymore was the ogre. Or maybe the troll under the bridge.

  She kept her fairy-tale insights to herself and her eyes on Dorsey.

  “I hear you claim to have amnesia,” he said, tersely.

  “I do. You have to believe me,” she said, d
etesting the pleading sound that had crept into her voice.

  The old man tipped his head to one side, watching her. “There are ways to establish whether you are telling us the truth,” he said, his tone mild.

  “You mean sodium Pentothal?” she managed.

  He gestured with a gnarled hand. “I agree with Glenn that drugs might not be a good idea at this time. I think a polygraph test would offer a reasonable alternative.”

  She could have protested. Instead, she raised her chin and answered, “All right.”

  Claymore looked surprised.

  “I’m telling the truth. The sooner you believe me, the better.”

  “A practical woman,” Dorsey said. He turned to the security chief. “How soon can you get set up?”

  “I have the equipment ready to go. And a list of questions prepared. We can start in fifteen minutes.”

  Fast, super fast, Meg thought. Maybe he hadn’t set the dog on Shipley, but he’d been waiting for an opportunity to get her away from Bridgman.

  He stood and left the room, and she could suddenly breathe easier. “Is he going to do it?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She swallowed.

  “You don’t like him?” Dorsey asked.

  “And you don’t like me,” she observed.

  “It’s nothing personal,” he said, speaking more gently than before, his eyes softening several degrees.

  “You’d stand with Glenn Bridgman at the gates of hell.”

  He gave a bark of a laugh. “That’s right.”

  “So would I.”

  “After a few hours’ conversation?” he challenged. “That’s express-lane loyalty.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. Having amnesia is a strange experience. With nothing to go on but your immediate impressions, you get a pretty quick reading on people. If I had to personify duty and honor, I’d pick Glenn Bridgman.”

  He didn’t answer, only studied her intently.

  She swallowed. “Actually, I may have phrased my earlier comment incorrectly. I’d say Glenn Bridgman is standing at the gates of hell. And he needs somebody to pull him back.”

  “And you’re volunteering for the job?”