I'd gone 2 of the 2.4 miles indicated when Richmond did a strange kind of left bank, merging with another road, and try as I might I couldn't get a glimpse of any sign telling me if the names had changed. On my right-hand side I could see a huge and well-tended golf course, but nothing said what I should call that, either.
"I think I'm off Richmond," I radioed. "I've got a golf course on my right, now, but I don't know what it's called."
There was a storm of static, and Corry's voice came through choppy, the words broken. I heard "Richmond" and "club," but the rest of it was garbage.
"Corry, you're breaking up, I've got you at five by two, best. Can you hear me?"
More static, and this time I didn't understand anything he said.
She can't be doing this, I thought. She can't be jamming us like this, not unless she's very close.
"Bridgett?"
"Still here."
"Corry and Moore must have hit a dead zone."
"Could be on the bridge, it could be eating the signal. I'm still with you, don't fret. "
"I've got another right coming up, Step 14, here…" I braked to a stop on the side of the road and stared at where Drama meant me to turn. I double-checked the paper and the odometer to be certain.
"Atticus?"
Once again, despite everything that was happening, I had to admire the skill of it. She'd picked the perfect place, just secluded enough to keep wandering eyes at bay, just public enough that our presence wouldn't raise suspicion. Large open areas, and over the stone wall along the side of the road I could see the tops of trees, and that meant there'd be cover at the fringes, too.
"Atticus, please respond, " Bridgett said, her voice harsher.
I put the car back into drive and moved forward, taking the right turn dictated on the paper.
"It's a cemetery," I said.
Chapter 14
Steps 15 through 29 came quickly, one after another, miles in tenths, left and right turns along narrow roads that wound through the tended grounds. The entrance was past a set of wrought-iron gates into a wide gravel semicircle, with smaller roads spanning off it like spokes jutting from a broken wheel. To the left I could see the administration buildings, the chapel, painted a depressing and smudged white. The cemetery was sprawling, and the plots spaced across sculpted hills and valleys, planted with grass and hundreds of trees of varying sizes. At one point a small bridge spanned a shallow pond with a fountain spewing a fan of water into the air. Picturesque. Most of the roads were unmarked, but a couple were named – Moldavia, Centennial, Restoration.
Cute.
Step 28 had me parking by a marble mausoleum on a slope, in the shade of several trees. I was at least half a mile from the entrance, and the buildings, the pond, all of it was hidden behind the foliage and monuments spread along the grounds. I killed the engine and set the emergency brake. A breeze had started up, making the leaves around me shiver. Through the open window, that was the only sound. There was no sign of anyone else, no mourners, no attendants, no one.
I got out of the car, and the pager started beeping.
BENCHBEHINDMAUSOLEUM… HAVEASEAT… HURRY…
"I'm out of the car," I radioed. "Moving around the back of a mausoleum marked Griffith."
"Wait!" Bridgett snapped. "I'm not there yet, get back in the fucking car! Damn you, wait for me! I'm almost there!"
"She knows I'm here," I said. "I don't have a choice."
"I'm coming up on the entrance, I'll be there in a minute, less, just wait for me, dammit!"
"Can't," I said.
A short stone bench, its back to the mausoleum, was positioned to look over a row of headstones running along the slope. As I was sitting down another page came through.
It took half a second before the letters carved in the granite made sense to me, and the fear burst so hard and intense it tried to steal my breath, tried to double me over. In my ear, Bridgett was snarling at me to stop, to wait, saying that she was past the gate, she was parking, she was getting out.
The name on the headstone was Logan.
I pressed my transmit button. "Get out of here."
"Fuck you, I'm coming to…" and then she shrieked, a noise I'd never heard her make, part fear and part surprise and so loud and so unexpected that I jerked my head instinctively to get away from the sound. She had kept her line open, and in my ear I heard the sound of breaking glass, a distant noise like the popping of a paper bag, and I was on my feet, turning to run, to try and reach her and in my hand the pager was shrieking, too.
"…shot at and took out the window. I don't know where it came from."
"Just stay in the car, stay down!"
"Like I have a fucking choice."
I silenced the pager, read the message. My hands were shaking as I pressed the button to scroll the LCD.
NEXT1INHERHEAD… MAKEHERGOAWAY… 60 SECONDS
"Bridget!:."
"I can't see her, Atticus. "
"You've got to go."
There was a pause, and then she asked, softly, "What'd she say?"
"She's got a headshot. You've got under a minute."
"Oh. " She said it as if I'd told her something of only minor interest.
"You've got to go," I repeated.
"Corry and Dale and Moore, they're not here yet, they're not responding to the radios, if I leave you alone… "
"She'll kill you."
"Atticus."
"Go. There's no time."
Seconds passed, marking her life.
I repeated myself, I shouted, I said, "Go!"
And she said, "I'm going. "
Through the trees, I heard the growl of the Porsche starting again. I closed my eyes, listening for the gunshot.
Another page came.
I set the pager on the bench, pulled the radio off my belt and switched it off. I disconnected the leads, pulled the cords from inside my sleeve and under my shirt. I put them on the bench, added my cellular phone to the pile, switching it off first. On my hands and knees I looked under the bench, found a clear plastic bag stuck to the granite with duct tape. Inside the bag was a set of three keys and another printed note, cut into a small strip.
Up the slope. Ford Escort. Start the engine.
Leave the pager.
The car was last year's model, black, used, and parked just out of sight over the lip of the slope. One of the keys opened the door, and the same key started the engine. As soon as the power came on, there was a click from the cassette player, and her voice filled the car.
"Put it in drive. Accelerate to twenty. Follow the road, second right. Do it now."
The Escort was another automatic. She fell silent as I started moving, and I took the second right, and as soon as I did, she spoke again.
"The timing on this is absolute. No delays. I am watching you. Accelerate to thirty. "
I was still in the cemetery, the roads still narrow, rising and falling, and thirty seemed about ten miles too fast for me. There was a bend at the foot of a long hill, and I moved my foot to the brake.
"Don't slow down, " she warned.
It took an effort to get my foot back to the gas. The Escort sunk on its shocks as I made the bend, the wheels whining softly.
"First left, then straight. Accelerate to fifty until the gate. "
The edge of the cemetery came into view, a service entrance. The gate was open. I slowed as I approached, and her voice told me to make a left and go with the flow of traffic. At the first light she told me to make a right again, and then, three blocks later, a left.