had vanished back to wherever it had been summoned from.
“We done, boss?”
“Yes, Jimmy. You can go back to bed.”
“After a hot bath, boss.”
Bridget didn’t see the creature in her bedroom either, and there was no sign of the briefcase. Indeed, the ward had a time limit. She poked her head out the window and looked down; the case wasn’t on the sidewalk, hadn’t fallen. Maybe Michael had managed to toss it out.
Maybe, but something didn’t sit right.
Bridget stripped and eased herself into bed and was tired enough that she fell instantly asleep.
***
Twelve
Bridget woke to an unrelenting tapping on her bedroom door. A glance at the clock: 2 p.m.; she’d slept for nearly a dozen hours. Stiff, but feeling considerably stronger, her bruised side only a minor annoyance, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the mattress.
“Miss O’Shea?” More tapping.
“Give me a minute, Michael.”
No doubt there was something Bridget needed to attend to; otherwise Michael would have let her sleep even longer. Bridget stretched and gagged. The stench and the monster were back. The creature and the briefcase sat side-by-side under the closed window … the creature must have shut the pane, Bridget thought. She’d remembered leaving it cracked open when she returned after the sparring match on the roof.
It fixed its five eyes on her and started babbling.
Bridget recalled alternately dreaming that she’d finally ditched the beast or that the past two days had been nothing but a nightmare. But she could still faintly taste the alcohol she’d foolishly downed last night.
More tapping.
“Yes, Michael.” Bridget raised her voice. “I said give me a minute!”
“It’s rather urgent. There are policemen downstairs.”
Bridget’s mouth went desert dry, and the monster babbled louder. She needed a shower, but wouldn’t take the time now. She dressed quickly, in casual, friendly attire—beige corduroy slacks and a slate blue sweater, thick socks and comfortable tennis shoes. She ran her fingers through her hair and tied it back, splashed some L'Eau d'Issey on her neck to cover the scent of her dried sweat, and came back to face the creature.
“Shut the feck up. Hear me?” Bridget kept her voice low, not wanting Michael to hear. “I can’t understand you. And I don’t give a damn what you’re trying to say.” She spun on her heels and went to the door. “And I am going to get rid of you today, you gobshite.” Bridget counted to ten, forced herself to breathe evenly. She actually worried more about the police than the monster, which appeared to be only a smelly, vexing aggravation, like a wart that wouldn’t dissolve. Bridget was meticulously careful with her smuggling operation, as one misstep would land her in prison forever—she’d done that many illegal things. She cracked the door.
Michael’s face gave her no clue as to how bad the situation was.
“How many?”
“Just two.” Michael paused. “Two policemen … and your son, Otter.”
Dear God, Bridget thought. Her son had shown the bejeweled cup to her ex-, Tavio, and in one of his fiery moods he’d decided to act on it, to turn her in. But Bridget could get around that one piece; having an antique shop, she could claim she’d bought the cup from someone who came in off the street, and she had no idea just how valuable or old it was. It could get ugly and uncomfortable, but the trail would end there and the cup would be eventually returned to whatever museum it had come from. Or maybe Otter had done something horrible. No, they would be at Tavio’s condo if that was the case. Tavio didn’t work during the day.
The police were in the entry room at the foot of the stairs, shoulder-to-shoulder with their hats in their hands, jackets unzipped. Otter leaned against the opposite wall, coat still fastened and scarf wrapped around his neck. His school backpack was on the floor near him.
“Dad’s dead,” Otter said as Bridget
“We done, boss?”
“Yes, Jimmy. You can go back to bed.”
“After a hot bath, boss.”
Bridget didn’t see the creature in her bedroom either, and there was no sign of the briefcase. Indeed, the ward had a time limit. She poked her head out the window and looked down; the case wasn’t on the sidewalk, hadn’t fallen. Maybe Michael had managed to toss it out.
Maybe, but something didn’t sit right.
Bridget stripped and eased herself into bed and was tired enough that she fell instantly asleep.
***
Twelve
Bridget woke to an unrelenting tapping on her bedroom door. A glance at the clock: 2 p.m.; she’d slept for nearly a dozen hours. Stiff, but feeling considerably stronger, her bruised side only a minor annoyance, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the mattress.
“Miss O’Shea?” More tapping.
“Give me a minute, Michael.”
No doubt there was something Bridget needed to attend to; otherwise Michael would have let her sleep even longer. Bridget stretched and gagged. The stench and the monster were back. The creature and the briefcase sat side-by-side under the closed window … the creature must have shut the pane, Bridget thought. She’d remembered leaving it cracked open when she returned after the sparring match on the roof.
It fixed its five eyes on her and started babbling.
Bridget recalled alternately dreaming that she’d finally ditched the beast or that the past two days had been nothing but a nightmare. But she could still faintly taste the alcohol she’d foolishly downed last night.
More tapping.
“Yes, Michael.” Bridget raised her voice. “I said give me a minute!”
“It’s rather urgent. There are policemen downstairs.”
Bridget’s mouth went desert dry, and the monster babbled louder. She needed a shower, but wouldn’t take the time now. She dressed quickly, in casual, friendly attire—beige corduroy slacks and a slate blue sweater, thick socks and comfortable tennis shoes. She ran her fingers through her hair and tied it back, splashed some L'Eau d'Issey on her neck to cover the scent of her dried sweat, and came back to face the creature.
“Shut the feck up. Hear me?” Bridget kept her voice low, not wanting Michael to hear. “I can’t understand you. And I don’t give a damn what you’re trying to say.” She spun on her heels and went to the door. “And I am going to get rid of you today, you gobshite.” Bridget counted to ten, forced herself to breathe evenly. She actually worried more about the police than the monster, which appeared to be only a smelly, vexing aggravation, like a wart that wouldn’t dissolve. Bridget was meticulously careful with her smuggling operation, as one misstep would land her in prison forever—she’d done that many illegal things. She cracked the door.
Michael’s face gave her no clue as to how bad the situation was.
“How many?”
“Just two.” Michael paused. “Two policemen … and your son, Otter.”
Dear God, Bridget thought. Her son had shown the bejeweled cup to her ex-, Tavio, and in one of his fiery moods he’d decided to act on it, to turn her in. But Bridget could get around that one piece; having an antique shop, she could claim she’d bought the cup from someone who came in off the street, and she had no idea just how valuable or old it was. It could get ugly and uncomfortable, but the trail would end there and the cup would be eventually returned to whatever museum it had come from. Or maybe Otter had done something horrible. No, they would be at Tavio’s condo if that was the case. Tavio didn’t work during the day.
The police were in the entry room at the foot of the stairs, shoulder-to-shoulder with their hats in their hands, jackets unzipped. Otter leaned against the opposite wall, coat still fastened and scarf wrapped around his neck. His school backpack was on the floor near him.
“Dad’s dead,” Otter said as Bridget
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