"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.