Читаем Purgatory Ridge полностью

LePere remembered everything up until coming into the fish house. “He knocked me cold?”

“He hit you with a big flashlight,” the O’Connor woman explained. “We were afraid you might be dead.”

The back of his head hurt. He tried to wiggle free of his bonds, but the rope was so tight that it bit painfully into his muscles and cut off the circulation so that his hands were numb. He was hog-tied, several coils looped around his arms and chest, his hands pulled behind him and secured to his bound ankles.

“How long have I been out?” he asked.

“Two or three hours,” Jo O’Connor replied.

LePere looked toward the door. “Has he been back?”

“No. He took a bunch of things from the shelves that he apparently thought we might try to use to escape, and he left. We haven’t seen him since.”

“Did he say anything?”

The Fitzgerald woman gave a short, unhappy laugh. “He looked down at you and said something about landing a bigmouth bass. Who is he?”

LePere hesitated before he said, “His name is Bridger.” Between the stuffy air and the rope that squeezed his chest, he could barely breathe. “It’s hot in here.”

“Your friend Bridger shut all the windows,” Grace Fitzgerald told him. “I guess he was afraid we might scream and be heard.”

“There’s no one to hear you out here,” LePere said.

The sound of gravel underfoot came from just outside the door, and then the rattle of the lock being undone. Wesley Bridger stepped inside and switched on the light. “Back among the living, Chief?” He held a filet knife in a gloved hand. LePere recognized the knife as one from the kitchen in his cabin on Iron Lake.

“What’s going on, Wes?”

“Just dropping a few more crumbs for the cops to follow.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You never did. And that’s been the beauty all along.” Bridger looked everyone in the fish house over carefully. “Who goes under the blade of old Doc Bridger? Let me see.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” LePere demanded.

“Just following the plan. Mine, not yours.” He laughed when he saw the look on LePere’s face. “You look so lost, Chief. Let me explain a few things.” He grabbed an old wooden crate, turned it over, and sat down. He tugged the glove off his left hand and tested the tip of the filet knife against his thumb. When he’d easily drawn blood, he smiled and wiped the blade clean on his pants. “Chief, it never was what it seemed. That wreck you’re so goddamned interested in was never anything to me except a door to your trust.”

“What was so important about my trust?”

“Two million dollars.” Bridger opened his arms toward the women and the boys. “See, Chief, I knew about you and the Teasdale. And there you were, right across the cove from the last of the Fitzgeralds. All I had to do was stir up the hate that was bubbling inside you.”

“It was a lie, all that about the Teasdale being sabotaged?”

“Not all of it. I did help sink a Libyan freighter. So I suppose the Teasdale could have been sabotaged in the same way, but it really didn’t matter. I gave you what you wanted, someone to blame for all your misery. Oh, and by the way, it was me who destroyed all your equipment here. I needed you to be desperate enough to agree to help me.”

“There never was a boat watching us when we dived?”

“It’s been my experience that if you tell someone the grass is full of snakes, even a crooked stick looks dangerous.” A mock sadness came into his voice. “And now, the unkindest cut of all. You were always going to die, Chief. Just like them.” He nodded toward the others. “You see, the only way for two people to keep a secret is if one of them is dead.” Bridger stood up. “Time to spill a little blood.”

“No,” LePere said.

Bridger laughed. “Relax. I want only a little blood. The cops will look your way eventually, and I need enough blood to let them know you brought your hostages here. What happened to the women and children after that”-he shrugged-“will always be a mystery. So… who will it be?”

“Take my blood,” Grace Fitzgerald said.

“Ah, you saw me looking at young Scotty there, didn’t you? I wish I’d had a mother like you. Maybe I’d have turned out differently. What do you think?”

“Just do it,” the Fitzgerald woman said.

Bridger put the glove back on his hand and reached behind her with his knife. She gave a small gasp. He lifted the blade that was bright with a glistening of crimson. “You’ll bleed a bit more onto the floor, but it’s only superficial, Grace. And I wouldn’t worry about infection. There’s not really going to be enough time for germs to get a foothold.” He walked back to the door. “I need all of you mobile for a while longer. If you’re inclined to believe in God, I’d start right now making amends.”

“You enjoy this,” the O’Connor woman said.

“More than you can imagine.”