THE NEXT TO DIE (20 page)

Dayle read on, cringing at the details surrounding the stabbing deaths of two-year-old Sunshine Zellerback and her father, Andrew, a 29-year-old motorcycle repairman. Cindy had been convicted of the murders in 1988. Claiming she’d been reborn to Christ while in prison, the “reformed” Cynthia Zellerback blamed her earlier actions on drug use and a promiscuous lifestyle, which had included lesbian sex.

It was the type of stuff tabloids devoured and spit out at the public with relish. Dayle imagined the headlines:
DAYLE SUTTON IN LESBIAN LOVE-NEST WITH CONVICTED CHILD-KILLER
! The murders had occurred only a few years after that episode on the boat down in Mexico. Dayle showed the fax to Sean. “This is the girl I was with,” she said.

Sean took a couple of minutes to read the news article, then shrugged. “Well, it’s not like
you
murdered anybody.”

Frowning, Dayle shook her head and sighed. “I had sex with a child killer. It’s guilt by association. The tabloids will eat it up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Dayle muttered. “I’ll probably spend tonight drinking too much and sleeping too little while I fret about it. And after that break-in today, I don’t feel very safe there. Maybe I should check into a hotel—”

“Don’t be silly,” Sean said. “Come spend the night with us in Malibu. My husband, the movie fanatic, will be so excited to meet you, he’ll probably climb out of his wheelchair and do the hokeypokey.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose,” Dayle said.

“Nonsense,” Sean said, dismissing her with a wave of her hand. “My in-laws would love to have you. Phoebe can bunk in with Danny, and you can have her room. You and I can burn the midnight oil and hatch a strategy to deal with this Cindy business. You shouldn’t be alone tonight, Dayle.”

She gave her a fleeting smile. “Thanks, Sean. But…” She turned toward the window. Three stories below, a white Taurus was parked half a block away on the other side of the street from Hank and her limousine. She could barely see the man sitting behind the wheel. “If I came over tonight, I’d be bringing some excess baggage—and possibly endangering your family.”

Sean stepped up to the window. She stared at the rental car. “You could leave now—and lose him somehow. Then come back here, and we’ll drive to Malibu together.”

“I’ll phone my friend, Bonny,” Dayle said. “Maybe she’s available to play decoy again. After we make the switch, I’ll circle back here by cab.”

Sean nodded. “Use the delivery entrance. I’ll give you my cell phone. Call me, and I’ll let you in.” She dug the tiny phone from her purse, then handed it to Dayle. “It’s good that you’re getting a professional bodyguard. Your driver, Hank, seems very nice, but well…”

“I know,” Dayle replied.

Sean took her hand and squeezed it. “Be careful, okay? I have a weird feeling about tonight. It’s one reason I think you shouldn’t be alone.”

“It’s really not fair to you, Hank,” Dayle said from the backseat of the limo. The divider window was down. “You didn’t hire on as a bodyguard, and that’s what I need right now. Dennis says this guy is a pro, with years of experience. The people who are out to get me, they mean business. They may have hired professional killers. So I need a professional bodyguard, some guy who’s a real pain in the ass. And I’m not going to like him, because he’ll make me take all sorts of silly precautions. But most of all, I’m not going to like him, because he won’t be you.”

Hank’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “I understand,” he said, nodding. “Is it okay if I don’t like him either?”

Dayle patted his shoulder. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Hank.”

They pulled into Bonny’s apartment complex. The Taurus had kept a steady pace behind them. Dayle made out only one person in the car. The driver turned off his headlights as he followed them into the parking lot. He took a spot near one of the other buildings.

Dayle quickly donned her trench coat and sunglasses. Hank walked her to the front door, and she rang the buzzer.

“Sunglasses at night? I’ll be as blind as a bat.” Bonny stood in front of the mirror in the hallway, arranging her hair to look like Dayle’s.

“Sorry,” Dayle said. “They’re parked pretty close. I didn’t want to take any chances they’d see a switch.”

Bonny laughed. “Make them wear these shades. They won’t see squat.”

“Be extra careful out there tonight,” Dayle said. “I think they might try something pretty soon.”

“Well, in that case I’ll bring a friend along.” Bonny pulled a gun and holster from her closet shelf. She strapped on the holster as if it were part of a backpack. Dayle watched her, amazed by the former policewoman’s cool composure. Bonny climbed into Dayle’s trench coat.

Dayle gave her a quick hug at the door. Then she phoned for a taxi. The dispatcher said a cab would be there in ten minutes. From Bonny’s living room window, she watched Hank, leaning against the limo. The white Taurus was still near the lot entrance. Dayle hadn’t noticed before, but a police car was parked only a few spaces down. It must have just pulled in. Someone stood outside the patrol car, talking to the cop inside.

Directly below, Bonny approached the limo. With the sunglasses and trench coat, she was Dayle’s duplicate. Hank opened the limo door for her.

Across the way, the person talking to the officer a moment ago was now gone. Dayle glimpsed a figure darting around some shrubbery by another building in the complex. Then he disappeared in the shadows.

Something’s wrong
, Dayle thought, pressing her hand to the window. Below, Hank was steering the limo toward the exit. At the same time, the police car started to move, but its headlights remained dark.

Dayle remembered Sean mentioning a cop car had been parked in the lot at that cheesy hotel where they were all staying.

“Oh, Jesus, no,” she gasped. She grabbed Sean’s phone out of her purse.

Five stories down, Hank pulled onto the road. The patrol car crept to the lot exit; then the headlights went on—as did the red strobe on its hood.

Dayle dialed the number of her limo. Helplessly, she watched the police vehicle speed up behind Hank, less than half a block from the lot exit. On the third ring, a recorded message told Dayle that the number she’d dialed was no longer in service.

“Goddamn it!” she hissed. She dialed again. Then she looked at the limo, now stopped by the side of the road, the cop car in back of it.
One ring
. The officer got out of the patrol car. He was reaching for his gun.

Two rings
.

“Pick up, Hank!” Dayle hissed. “Goddamn it, please pick up!”

The policeman had his gun out. He approached Hank’s side of the limo.

“Hello?” Hank said, on the other end of the line.

“Hank, it’s a trap!”

The cop was at his window now.

“What?” Hank asked. “Just a minute—”

“No, no, it’s a trap. Please, Hank! Don’t you see?”

She could hear him: “What’s the matter, officer?”

“Hank, get out of there!” Dayle screamed.

“Hey, wait a minute,
wait a minute, WAIT A MINUTE!
”

The noise on the phone was like someone hitting a knife against hollow pipe. A metallic echo. Three times. The cop, or whoever he was, had a silencer on his gun. She heard Hank dropping the telephone.

Dayle could see the cop firing into the open window of the limousine’s front seat. He must have shot poor Hank in the face.

A loud shot rang out. It had to be Bonny firing in self-defense. The cop reeled back, then managed to aim his gun again—this time, at the figure in the backseat.

Over the phone, Dayle heard two more of those metallic echoes. Then a loud pop from Bonny’s gun. The cop retaliated with another two shots.

Still, Bonny must have hit him, because he was clutching his side as he staggered back to his patrol car. He peeled away from the curb, passing her limousine and speeding up the street.

Meanwhile, the limo didn’t move. Dayle could hear moaning on the telephone line. She wasn’t sure if it was Hank or Bonny. But someone was dying.

The 9-1-1 operator told Dayle to stay by the phone.

“I’m on a cellular,” Dayle said. She rattled off the number as she grabbed a couple of towels from Bonny’s bathroom. “I’m headed out to the limo right now. Please, tell them to hurry.”

Dayle threw the phone in her purse and raced down to the lobby. Five floors. She couldn’t wait for the elevator. She ran out to the street. The limo was up ahead, under a street lamp. She could see the beaded windshield-like raindrops, only they were on the inside of the car, and the droplets were blood.

She saw Hank, and let out a strangled cry. He was slumped forward over the steering wheel. A steady stream of blood dripped off the tip of his nose and chin. The limo phone had fallen on the floor—beside Hank’s latest true-crime book.

“You called somebody, I hope,” she heard Bonny whisper.

Dayle opened the back door. “The ambulance is coming,” she said. She swallowed hard at the sight of her friend. The sunglasses had fallen on the car floor. Sprawled across the car seat, Bonny had a laceration above her eyebrow, along her right temple, where a bullet must have grazed her. Under the open trench coat, her pale green sweater was soaked with blood.

Dayle quickly reached into the limo bar and found some bottled water. She drenched a hand towel and pressed it to the side of Bonny’s face. Bonny shivered a bit. “I—I nailed the SOB, Dayle. Got him in the gut. He’ll bleed to death if he doesn’t get help soon.” She winced. “Damn, this hurts.”

“Oh my God, Bonny, I’m so sorry.” Dayle held her hand. “Hang on. The ambulance will be here soon.”

Bonny’s husband, Frank, had on his policemen’s blues. He’d been on patrol when Dayle called 9-1-1. Tall and lanky, Frank Laskey had receding, wiry black hair. At the moment, his blue eyes were bloodshot from crying. His wife was in surgery. He sat beside Dayle in the trauma unit waiting area, a drab room with orange Naugahyde couches, fake plants, and faded Norman Rockwell prints on the walls.

Dayle’s clothes were still stained with blood. She kept her arm around Frank. “She’ll pull through,” Dayle assured him. “Our Bonny’s a fighter. She’ll be okay. Can I get you anything? You want some coffee?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

She wandered out to the corridor in search of a vending machine. The place might have been mobbed with reporters if Frank’s buddies on the force weren’t guarding the hospital entrances and taking down names. The rumor among the press was that Dayle Sutton and a police officer had been shot.

Dayle had already talked to their chief of surgery on the phone. He’d promised to call in their best doctor for Bonny. Dayle had also arranged for a private room and notified hospital administration to bill her.

It was too late to do anything for Hank. His only family was a married brother in Milwaukee; no close friends except for a book group that met every other Sunday to discuss mystery novels.

Dayle couldn’t afford to break down yet. She hunted through her purse and found Susan Linn’s business card. With a shaky hand, she dialed the number, then got a recorded greeting: “…if you’d like to speak with another officer, press zero, otherwise—”

There was a break in the message. “Lieutenant Linn speaking.”

“Susan?” Dayle said. “Thank God. Listen, this is Dayle. Someone shot my friends. My chauffeur, Hank, he’s dead. And my other friend, Bonny, they shot her too—”

“Hold on,” Susan said. “Calm down, Dayle. Where are you?”

“I’m at the hospital,” she said. Dayle did her best to retell the shooting and keep her composure. “Listen, there’s a place I’d like you to send somebody, okay? Maybe send a whole squad if you can.”

“Where?”

“These people who have me under surveillance, I found out where they’re staying. A friend of mine followed one of them. They’re all holed up in this hotel in the Valley, a dive called the My-T-Comfort Inn. They’re in a bunch of rooms around the back—numbers fifteen through twenty, I think. I didn’t want to tell you about it until I had more information on these guys. I have a private detective working on it. But we shouldn’t wait anymore.”

“I’ll go check out this place right now. From what you tell me, I better give myself some backup.”

“Good,” Dayle replied. “Get those bastards, Lieutenant. Get them before they hurt someone else.”

“I’ve been hit,” Lyle Bender gasped into the pay phone.

“Where?”

“Twice in my gut. I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. Can you get someone?”

There was a pause on the other end. “We’ll find a doctor for you, Lyle. Can you still drive, or should we send someone to pick you up?”

“I’ll stay with my vehicle,” Lyle said resolutely.

“Good boy. Think you can make it to the designated spot?”

“Affirmative,” Lyle said. “Get me somebody good. No quack. I promised my son I’d take him hunting next week, and I don’t intend to let him down.”

“See you in twenty minutes?”

“Affirmative. Over and out.” Lyle hung up the telephone, smearing his blood on the handle.

Thirty-eight years old, Lyle Bender had a stubby build, straight brown hair, and a pale complexion. An hour ago, he’d thought he looked good in his police uniform. He’d always wanted to be a cop. Now the blue uniform was blood-soaked from the chest down to his knees. His belly was on fire. Lyle could hardly get a breath without it hurting. He staggered back to the police car and got behind the wheel, only to sink into a puddle of his own blood. Starting up the engine, he headed south toward Long Beach.

This was a test of his strength. He’d deliver his vehicle to the designated spot. Hal and the doctor would marvel at his dedication and stamina. Hal might even admit how wrong he was about a lot of things and apologize. Lyle resolved to forgive him. It was the Christian thing to do.

Hal had accused him of getting “carried away” with his job. Maybe he was overzealous at times, but he believed in what they were doing. He believed Tony Katz had to be taken down a few notches after they drove him and his fellow deviate to the forest. So he whittled a tree branch and shoved it up the pervert’s ass. But Hal didn’t understand; he was too concerned about following the SAAMO big shots’ instructions to the letter.

Hal just didn’t get it. In that hotel room with Leigh Simone, after they’d dragged her in from the corridor, Lyle had threatened to rape her. He had no intention of actually going through with it. He was simply having a little fun, as guys do. And the threat worked. When he began to feel her up, that smug black bitch suddenly seemed terrified. She looked as if she might whimper an apology for promoting her twisted lifestyle to the youth of America. But Hal pulled him off her, whispering that there couldn’t be any evidence of an attack. Her death had to look like a suicide.

He could tell Hal looked down on him. It was the way some of those SAAMO higher-ups treated the guys in the trenches. They were too full of themselves and their college educations to get their hands dirty. Hal was a SAAMO lieutenant. All he ever did was give orders and handle communications on the Internet, calling himself
Rick
—or sometimes
Americkan
. Lyle knew the real backbone of the organization was made up of people like himself, the soldiers. And after all, they called themselves Soldiers for An American Moral Order. There were fourteen SAAMO chapters in various cities and small towns throughout the United States, with a total of fifty-three members. But those thirty-nine men in the field, all soldiers like him, they were the unsung heroes.

Hal hadn’t wanted him to pull the job tonight. SAAMO had enlisted an amateur from the outside to do it next week. Hal kept saying that Dayle Sutton was too much in the spotlight right now. It was too risky for one of them to handle the job.

Lyle had set off tonight to prove Hal and the SAAMO big shots wrong. He’d expected some interference from the bodyguard; but he hadn’t counted on Miss Lesbo Pro-Abortion Gun Control to be carrying a piece. He’d put down the bodyguard, close and fast, almost a mercy killing. The guy didn’t even know what hit him. Then suddenly from the backseat, Dayle Sutton was firing at him. In those silly movie star sunglasses, she still got a couple of lucky hits. But he managed to get her back, and
he
was still alive.

“Stay with me, Jesus,” Lyle whispered. His knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. It was as if something were eating away at his gut, sharp teeth gnawing at him. He was losing a lot of blood. He felt it slithering down the back of his legs, wetting his socks.

Lyle pressed hard on the accelerator. Switching on the siren and red strobe, he headed for the highway exit. He ran a light at the end of the off-ramp, then made a sharp turn, almost tipping over the car. A stop sign didn’t slow him down. He sped through it, heading into an industrial area. Only a few more minutes, and he’d be at the prescribed meeting place.

“You better be there with a doctor, Hal,” Lyle whispered, gritting his teeth at the agonizing pain. He’d bleed to death if he didn’t get help soon. Up ahead, he saw Newell Avenue, and he turned into the cul-de-sac.
NO OUTLET
, the sign said. He drove over a set of railroad tracks. The full moon illuminated a silo and a couple of smokestacks in an abandoned chemical plant. Lyle saw the entrance gate, closed and padlocked; and he saw the Corsica, parked across the street, waiting for him.

“Thank you, Jesus,” he murmured, tears in his eyes. Lyle killed the police lights on his roof, then straightened up the best he could. He imagined the bullets lodging deeper inside him with every movement. Despite his agony, he had to smile when the Corsica’s headlights flashed on and off.

Lyle shifted to park and shut off the engine. He started counting the seconds as he waited for his friends to climb out of the car. He counted up to seventy. The puddle of blood in which he sat had turned cold. He was losing feeling in his legs. “C’mon, guys,” he grumbled. “I’m dying here.”

Hal and the doctor finally emerged from their vehicle. They were sure taking their sweet time about it.

“Fuck,” Lyle growled, and he punched the horn.

Startled, the doctor jumped a little. Lyle could see him now as he walked into the headlights: an old man in a loose trench coat. He seemed timid and scared. Hal must have bullied him into coming. He had a grip on the old guy’s arm as they approached the car.

Lyle fumbled for the handle, then pushed the door open. The interior light went on. Hal walked up to the car, practically dragging the old guy. “Lyle, my God, look at you.” His eyes widened at all the blood. “Well, listen, it’s okay. I brought someone who’s going to take care of everything.”

Slumped over the steering wheel, Lyle managed to grin at his friend. “Praise the Lord,” he said in a raspy voice.

“I also have some bad news,” Hal said, frowning. He let go of the old man’s arm. “Our source close to Dayle Sutton phoned a few minutes ago. She’s very much alive. That was her stunt double you shot. She’s the wife of a cop. It’s a real mess you’ve created, Lyle. Once again.”

“Oh, fuck,” Lyle said, clutching his stomach. “You can’t be serious—”

“It’s okay. We’ve already started the cleanup.” Hal grimaced and shook his head. “Damn, Lyle, you’re hurt bad. Pray for forgiveness of your sins, all right? You hear me, Lyle?”

“What do you mean?” Lyle started to reach out toward them. Then he saw the old man pull a gun out of his coat pocket. All at once, Lyle realized he was going to die. “No, NO, NO!” he screamed.

The old man shot him in the shoulder. Then he fired again, putting one more bullet into Lyle’s gut. Stunned and mute, Lyle gazed at Hal as if to ask why they were doing this to him.

“It’s part of the cleanup, Lyle,” Hal said soberly.

Lyle Bender barely felt an impact from the next bullet, which blew off the side of his head. He recoiled, and then his lifeless body flopped across the seat, blood splashed up from the wet cushion.

The old man dropped the gun. He staggered back to the chemical plant’s chain-link fence, bent forward, and vomited.

“Well, that’s that,” Hal said. He picked up the gun. “You’ll need some work on your aim, Tom. Otherwise, you did a fine job.”

Tom Lance wiped the dark spittle from his mouth with a shaky hand. “Is it Dayle Sutton?” he asked. “Is it Dayle Sutton you want me to kill?” He nodded at the corpse in the front seat of the patrol car. “I can’t do that again! I can’t! Please, don’t ask me…”

“We aren’t
asking
you, Tom,” Hal said. “When the time comes, you’ll do what you’re told. You understand that, don’t you?” Hal frowned. For a moment, his face was illuminated by headlights. A minivan cruised down the cul-de-sac toward them.

The cleanup guys. Hal had explained to Tom on the way to Newell Avenue that a couple of their men were handling disposal of the body, repainting the car, cleaning it up. They would do whatever was necessary.

“Just in time,” Hal said, with a glance at the approaching minivan. “C’mon, Tom. I’ll take you home. You did well tonight.”

The cellular phone inside her purse rang.

Dayle lay faceup on a padded examining table while they pumped blood from her arm. A stout, middle-aged black nurse tended to the needle and tubes. She wore a lavender sweater over her white uniform, and had a kind but homely face. Dayle had volunteered to donate blood for the hospital reserve, which Bonny was tapping. She was still in surgery. Meanwhile, they’d given their celebrity donor a private room.

“Could you hand me my purse, please?” Dayle asked the nurse. One-handed, Dayle managed to retrieve the phone and click on by the fourth ring. “Hello?” she said, tipping her head back to the cushion. The sudden movement had made her a bit dizzy.

“Dayle, this is Susan Linn. I’m here at the My-T-Comfort Inn. The characters you told me about, if they were here, they’ve checked out—”

“What do you mean, ‘if they were here’?” Dayle asked. She remembered to keep clenching and unclenching her fist for the nurse. “Did you check those room numbers I gave you?”

“I came up with a couple of families in those rooms. None of them looked like killers to me. Obviously, these guys cleared out.”