BRIDGER'S LAST STAND

by Linda Winstead Jones

  He lifted his eyebrows.

  "It's been a long time, a very long time since I had any use for one." Her smile faded.

  For some reason he couldn't explain he was very, very glad to hear that. He didn't like the idea of any man touching Frannie the way he had. It was a curiously possessive feeling.

  "There's an all-night drugstore around the corner. Shouldn't take me more than ten minutes to get there and back."

  She smiled again, and it was a real, true, unfettered grin that tried to grab at his heart.

  "I'll make breakfast while you're gone. I don't know about you, Bridger, but I'm starving."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Frannie put coffee on, then scrambled eggs and made toast. Bacon or biscuits would take much too long.

  She went about making breakfast with a smile on her face. She'd never in her life experienced anything like last night, hadn't even known it was possible. She ached everywhere, in spite of her hot soak, but she wouldn't change anything that had happened, or anything that had yet to happen.

  She set two plates of eggs and toast on the table as Bridger let himself in with the key he'd taken with him. He strolled into the kitchen, in his rumpled trousers and white shirt, and slapped an entire box of condoms on the center of the table.

  Frannie stared at the box as she placed two white coffee mugs beside the plates. "Now, that's optimistic."

  "Well, I figured if we could extend the one night to noon, we might as well make this a day instead of a night, and a day is twenty-four hours."

  He eyed her over scrambled eggs and coffee, pretty much ignoring the box that sat between them. His eyes were harsh and his face was hard, but there was tenderness in him, too, in his touch and in his heart. Oh, if she thought they could make this work…

  She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang. Bridger stood to answer, checking the caller ID box he'd attached to her kitchen phone yesterday afternoon.

  "They don't have it working yet," he said as he placed his hand on the receiver. "Do you usually get phone calls at six-thirty in the morning?"

  Frannie shook her head slowly as he lifted the receiver. "Yeah," he barked into the phone. "Who is this?" Very quickly his entire body relaxed, the tension leaving his shoulders and his arms. He turned to face Frannie. "It's for you," he whispered. "Your mother." He mouthed the silent words.

  Frannie rolled her eyes as she left her chair. In a way, she'd rather carry on a one-sided conversation with a cold-blooded killer than have this talk with her mother. At least, as long as Bridger was around. He could protect her from the bad guys, but no one could help where her mother was concerned.

  Bridger didn't return to his breakfast, but stood very near and listened. She didn't mind. In fact, she rather liked it.

  "Hi, Mom," she said as she placed the receiver to her ear. "What's up?"

  "Who was that who answered the phone?"

  Frannie closed her eyes at the sharpness of her mother's tone. This was not going to be pretty. "Just a friend. You don't know him."

  "I knew it wasn't Reese. He was always so polite when I spoke to him on the phone. Have you managed to patch things up with him yet?"

  Not again! "No, I thought I made it clear—"

  "You did, you did," her mother said, and then she affected the long-suffering sigh that came over the phone lines so well. "So, this rude man who answered the phone, he's the new boyfriend? It's about time, Frances Marie, that you got serious and—"

  "Detective Bridger is just a friend, Mom."

  There was a long, telling silence. "You're dating a cop?"

  Frannie could almost smile. She did lock her eyes to Bridger's, and as she'd known it would, that simple connection made this conversation easier. "No, I am not dating a cop. Bridger and I have never been on a date and we never will." More's the pity. "He's just a friend."

  There was no real change of expression on Bridger's face, but he did lift his eyebrows slightly.

  "You're in some kind of trouble," her mother accused softly, her voice lowering to a harsh whisper. "What's going on?"

  "Nothing." Frannie felt not a twinge of guilt as she lied. She'd been doing it for so long it was second nature to tell her mother what she wanted to hear.

  "You're sure?" Frannie could almost imagine a hint of maternal affection in the question.

  She took a deep breath. Telling all would only worry her mother, and heaven forbid, she might decide to come to Decatur to help. "I'm sure."

  "Good. The reason I called…"

  Of course there had to be a reason she was calling at this hour. Lois Annette Wylie Vaughn Henderson Stone McAnally Barry had never been a morning person.

  "I'm getting married!"

  Frannie felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of her. Her knees went weak, and she very gingerly fell against the wall. Why was she surprised? It had been what, six months since her mother had managed to get rid of the last loser in her life? "Again?" she whispered. "To who?"

  "Oh, you don't know him. His name is Charlie Bedfield, and I met him a couple of weeks ago at a—"

  "You met him a couple of weeks ago and you're already talking about getting married?" Frannie snapped.

  "He asked me last night," was the dreamy answer. "We're flying to Las Vegas this morning, that's why I had to call so early."

  All her life, Frannie had felt she was the adult and her mother was the naive child. Lois was not a bad person, she was just a terrible judge of character and a dreamer who believed that every flutter of her heart was true love. In her kinder moments, Frannie tried to convince herself that her mother had known love once, with Joey Vaughn, and had been trying to recapture that feeling since the day he'd died too young and without warning. But she couldn't escape the fact that when it came to boyfriends and husbands, Lois had the worst of luck.

  "You should think this through," she said calmly. "Get to know this guy a little better before you do anything rash. A couple of weeks, Mom? Really, how…" Frannie's eyes found Bridger's and stayed there. Realization hit her like a ton of bricks. Dear God, what had she done? After all these years of being so careful, now she finds out she's just like her mother. How long had she known Bridger? Two days. Two days! And here she stood thinking these impossible romantic thoughts, just like her mother, convincing herself that the flutter of her own heart when Bridger looked at her was love. "How foolish," she finished in a whisper.

  Her mother either ignored her or didn't hear. "I've got to go, baby. Charlie says we have to get to the airport an hour early. Love you."

  "Love you, too." She heard the dial tone in her ear before she said, even more softly, "Good luck."

  Frannie gently returned the receiver to the hook, and for a long moment she stared at the phone. "She's getting married again," she said to Bridger without turning to face him. "This will be hubby number six. My mother is a hopeless romantic. She keeps finding these guys she thinks she can change. Drunks, one druggie, bad boys with mean tempers, she convinces herself that all they need is the love of a good woman." She could hear the bitterness in her voice. "The problem is, love is never enough."

  "Frannie." She stiffened as Bridger's hand touched her shoulder. As if he felt and understood her response, he removed that hand quickly. "You're not responsible for your mother's decisions."

  No, but she was responsible for her own, wasn't she? "I never thought I could be as reckless and foolish and downright stupid as my mother. After all, I had the perfect bad example in front of me every day for eighteen years. But last night…"

  "Don't you dare say last night was a mistake."

  She turned to face him, then. "No," she admitted softly. "I won't say it was a mistake." Thinking she was falling in love with Bridger, that was the mistake. Confusing gratitude and lust with love, that was a mistake. All her life she'd been searching for a love that was safe and sure, something that wouldn't fade in the sunlight or disappear in the night.

 
Bridger made no secret of the fact that he wanted her body, but that was all. They'd had one night, and that was all she could afford. Anything more would surely destroy her, because in the end, loving and losing Bridger would be more than she could stand.

  He cupped her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. "But it is over, isn't it?"

  "Yes," she said, relieved that he saw it as well as she did. "It's over."

  He scooped the box of condoms off the table—maybe he didn't want to look at it any more than she did—and headed for the bathroom. She heard the cabinet door beneath the sink open noisily and bang shut, and she placed her forehead against the doorjamb and closed her eyes tight.

  * * *

  The Riverwatch Hotel looked even worse by daylight than it did at night. Every chipped brick, every suspicious stain and winding crack in the sidewalk, screamed rat trap. Frannie had wanted to stay home while he visited the site of the murder, but there was no way Mal was leaving her alone again—not after yesterday's disasters. He knew at least part of the reason she wanted to stay home was her reluctance to face that jerk Clarence Doyle. That was one reason for the timing of this visit. Harry had assured him that Mrs. Doyle was on desk duty during the afternoons.

  Mal took Frannie's arm as they stepped into the lobby and faced a different desk clerk than they had the last time they'd come to the Riverwatch.

  The woman was as wrinkled and openly suspicious as the old man who'd been working here that rainy Tuesday night, watching the two of them through narrowed, colorless eyes. Her loose paisley dress from another era was faded and shapeless, but her steel gray bun was neat as a pin. Harry's description of Violet Doyle had been right on target—if perhaps a little kind.

  Mal released Frannie's arm and flashed his badge. She stayed silently behind him as he faced the desk clerk. "Mrs. Doyle, I'd like to ask you a few questions."

  The old woman sighed and leaned against the counter. "All I've done the past three days is answer questions."

  Mal smiled. "I'm sure you won't mind answering a few more."

  Violet sighed again. With her gray bun and polyester paisley dress, she looked like someone's grandmother, a sweet old lady who should be baking cookies and reading bedtime stories. But there was something bitter in her eyes, and her wrinkled face sported more frown lines than laugh lines. Her bedtime stories were likely to give any kid nightmares.

  "The girl who was murdered paid cash," she said as he drew near, "received no visitors that I know of in the three days she was here, and she signed her name in the guest book as Jane Doe. No," she said tiredly, "I did not ask for identification. No, I did not see her driving a car and I did not see her with anyone else at any time. Once I got a look at her, I knew who she was and the cops searched her room good. There wasn't nothing there but a few clothes and a ton of makeup."

  "Thank you," Mal said, leaning against the counter casually. "I just have a couple more questions."

  "And by the way," Violet added angrily, "the city of Decatur will be getting a bill for what I paid to have that room put back in order. There was no call to rip it apart the way they did."

  "That shouldn't be a problem," Mal said calmly. "Now, just a few more questions."

  Violet glowered in his direction. "Well, let's get it over with."

  "Were there any other unusual guests here the same time as Jane Doe?"

  The old woman positively cackled. "You and your girlfriend, Detective Bridger." She shot a glance at Frannie. "Yeah, my husband Clarence described you both real well. He thought it was a hoot that there was a homicide detective sleeping upstairs while the first murder ever in the Riverwatch Hotel takes place."

  Mal did not think it was funny, not at all, but he wasn't about to let the old woman make him lose his cool. A small smile silenced her laughter. "Yeah, that's very amusing," he said flatly. He reached out and snagged the leather guest book, and before Mrs. Doyle could so much as complain, he flipped through a few pages. "Oh, look. Jane's brother John was staying here," he said, pointing at a sloppily scrawled John Doe. "And damn near the entire Smith family, it seems. Bob, Joe, little Billy." He slapped the book shut. "Do you have any customers who sign their own names?"

  She wasn't intimidated. "Just you, Detective Bridger."

  He leaned slightly forward and lowered his voice. "You know, if I can't get the answers I want out of you, I might just have to knock on every door in this hotel. Your clientele seems to come and go with great frequency, so I might have to come back every night for, oh, a couple of weeks."

  Finally the crone was worried. "I won't have no business left."

  "Probably not." It was a promise, to her and to himself.

  She straightened her spine, but there was a hint of reluctant surrender in her eyes. "She's been here before."

  "Jane Doe."

  "Yes, Jane Doe," the old lady snapped. "Only the other time she was here she wasn't Jane Doe, she was Jane Smith. It was a few weeks back, I can't rightly remember exactly when. She had a male visitor. I saw them come in one night, late, when Clarence was sick and I had to cover his shift."

  "I don't suppose you got a name for this male visitor." It was too much to hope for, but he had to ask.

  "No, but I'd recognize him if I ever saw his face again." She smiled. "He was a purty one. Looked kinda like Tyrone Power, when he turned his head just so. He had dark hair, cut nice and neat, and he was dressed right sharp."

  It wasn't much, but it meant Jane Doe had a boyfriend in Decatur. It was better than nothing. Mal flipped a business card onto the counter. "You think of anything else, you call me. Leave a message at the number on the front."

  "Sure." She studied the card, holding it at a distance to read the words. "You wouldn't think a nice-looking clean-cut fella that looks like Tyrone Power would have a tattoo," she muttered.

  Mal had turned to leave, but her words stopped him in his tracks. "A tattoo?" It was better than a name, which probably would have been John Smith anyway.

  "Yep," she said conversationally. "That pretty Jane, she got one on her ankle, and her fella musta got his on his forearm. He was kneading on it like this." She demonstrated, rubbing her own forearm, "and they were laughing and talking about how much it hurt." She leaned forward with a gleam in her eye. This wasn't cooperating with the police, this was gossip, and she loved it. "I think they'd been drinkin' heavily."

  "You think so." He nodded knowingly.

  "I do. Pretty young girl like that, all that drinkin' will make her old before her time."

  Mal didn't remind the old woman that Jane Doe wasn't going to ever have a chance to grow old badly.

  * * *

  Frannie stepped out of the kitchen, leaving Bridger alone to make his phone calls. For the life of her she couldn't figure out why he was so excited about a tattoo. It was a clue, but not much of one in her opinion. Still, he said it was a step in the right direction. One step at a time, he said. One step at a time.

  At least the investigation took his mind off last night and this disastrous morning. They both ignored the recent past quite well.

  He wanted to fill Harry in on the news and then call the phone company and insist that her caller ID be operational within the next hour. Frannie didn't want to hover over him, so she puttered around the house, listening to the distant vibrations of his deep voice. She picked up and dusted a little, straightened the pillows on the sofa, and finally she had to make her way to the bedroom.

  The pillows were scattered all over the room, and her own discarded clothes were where she'd left them last night. She made the bed, snapping the sheets and trying to erase the too-clear memories that lingered here.

  She quickly decided not to bother. She'd never forget, and why should she? In her heart she knew she'd never feel that way again, so maybe she should savor the memories instead of trying to chase them away.

  She wouldn't make the same mistakes her mother had made again and again. Men didn't change. Bridger didn't want the same things she did. He didn'
t like kids, he didn't want to settle down, he thought the solution to her problems was to buy a gun, for God's sake.

  But, oh, last night had been so perfect, so beautiful and exciting and … unexpected. Frannie had never been one to trust her passion, but Bridger made her trust. He made her feel and want and love too much.

  The room looked almost normal again. All that was left was to remove the four foil condom wrappers from the floor. She scooped them up and balled her fist, and as she left the room a smile crossed her face. There had been a few hours when she thought she'd never be comfortable in her bedroom again. After all, an intruder had walked into this room uninvited and pointed a gun at her and threatened her life. She'd been terrified, sitting on the floor in a defenseless position.

  But last night had exorcised any demons that remained in the room. Love was stronger than fear, she supposed.

  She dropped the foil wrappers into the bathroom wastebasket. One night, and it was over and done.

  The ring of the doorbell made her literally jump. Dammit, she had to get over this! No man was going to make her afraid in her own home.

  Since she hesitated in the bathroom, Bridger was at the front door before she was. He looked through the peephole, one hand resting comfortably on the revolver at his waist.

  "Looks harmless enough," he said softly as he opened the door, but his hand remained over the gun.

  Frannie saw the familiar fair head long before Reese spoke. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath and silently swore, using every curse word she'd ever heard.

  Bridger filled the doorway, silently looming over Reese. Reese, at the disadvantage of his height and a single step from the doorway to the porch, craned his head to look into Bridger's face. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. His voice got a little whiny when he got excited, and it was very whiny now.

  Bridger leaned against the doorjamb, effectively blocking Reese's entrance and Frannie's exit. "No," he said calmly. "What are you doing here?"

  "Has something happened to Frannie?" There was real concern in that whiny voice, and Frannie realized that from where Reese was standing he couldn't see anything but Bridger, his badge and weapon on full display.