THE NEXT TO DIE (29 page)

…nine, ten
.

Avery quickly reached over the counter and scooped up his credit card and license. He swiveled around and walked as quickly as he could to the nearest exit. He didn’t dare look back.

A blast of cold air hit him as he came outside. It chilled the beads of sweat on his forehead. He kept walking—toward a shuttle van for the Red Lion Motor Inn. The sliding passenger door was open while the driver loaded up someone’s bags in back. Avery approached the driver. “I didn’t call for you, but I have a reservation with the Red Lion,” he said, out of breath. His heart was racing. “Can you take me?”

“Sure can. Climb aboard. Sit back and relax.”

“Thank you.” He ducked into the warm van, then plopped down in the backseat. The only other passengers were a middle-aged couple. Avery wiped his sweaty forehead, and turned to the window. He expected to see the walkie-talkie man out by the curb—or perhaps the car rental woman. But he didn’t spot either one. Maybe he’d hear on the local news tonight about someone seeing Avery Cooper in the Spokane airport. Then again, maybe not.

He’d brought enough cash along. He’d take a room at the Red Lion tonight, and try again for a rental car in the morning.

Avery heard the front door shut. The driver settled into his seat, and a moment later, they started moving.

Riding to the studio in her limo, Dayle had a copy of the shooting script on her lap. But she kept peeking up at the two men in front of her—on the other side of that window divider. Ted sat with the driver—another in a series of strangers acting as her temporary chauffeur.

Now Dayle felt stupid for having such blind trust in him. She’d barely slept last night—uncertain about the man just down the hall from her bedroom. Any tolerance points he’d earned protecting the notoriously gay Gil Palermo laid in the balance. Dayle still hadn’t received a call back from Gil’s friend, Jonathan Brooks. She’d left him another message this morning.

Dayle stared at Ted and the driver. She closed her script, then pressed the button to lower the divider window. Ted looked over his shoulder as the glass partition descended. “I was just thinking, Ted,” she announced. “You don’t need to stay with me tonight. I’ll be okay with the extra guards in the hall and the lobby.”

He shook his head. “You need someone in the apartment with you.”

“Well, I’d like some privacy tonight. I’d rather be alone.”

“You hired me to guarantee your safety, Dayle,” he said, a bit patronizing. “Sometimes that means I have to be a pain in the ass. Let me do my job tonight. I’ll make sure you have the breathing space you need.”

“Of course you will.” Dayle gave him a pale smile, then pressed the switch to raise the partition. “Thanks, Ted.”

“You’re just nervous, that’s all,” Hal assured him.

Tom’s aim had been miserable for the last half hour. He’d gone through nearly fifty bullets trying to hit ten lousy bottles off the ranch house railing.

“Isn’t there some show business saying?” Hal continued. “‘Bad dress rehearsal, great show’? You’ll do fine tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Tom muttered. He shot at another bottle and missed. “Guess I’m still worried about getting past her bodyguard. Is he good?”

“Oh, yes, and he’s an excellent shot too. But quit your worrying, Tom. He’s with us—one of our best men, Ted Kovak.” He sighed. “Some of the triggermen in SAAMO aren’t exactly Rhodes Scholars. Like our late friend Lyle, they’re dedicated, but ignorant. Still, we need these bottom-of-the-barrel types for certain jobs. But Ted Kovak is good, top of the heap. He’s the one shooting you with blanks tomorrow.”

Hal patted Tom on the back, then pointed to his fake mustache. “You need more glue on that lip warmer. It’s starting to peel off.”

Tom wiped his brow, and pressed on his upper lip to secure the fake mustache. “Will I need to wear this disguise for the plane ride tomorrow?”

“You’re probably better off without it.” Hal kicked at the dirt. “Have you made a decision where you’d like to go?”

“Yes, Rio de Janeiro.” Just saying that made Tom feel better.

“Good choice. You’ll be on your way in twenty-four hours. We’ll supply you with a passport. We’ll take care of everything.”

“Won’t you need a picture of me for the passport?” Tom asked.

“Right you are. Remind me later, okay? Now, try that target again.”

But Tom couldn’t get his mind off tomorrow. Hal had gone over the assassination of Dayle Sutton several times—down to the smallest detail. Tom knew what to expect—until the moment his “corpse” was carried into the fake ambulance. Then the plans became vague, and he didn’t like that uncertainty.

He aimed at the bottle, carefully squeezed the trigger, and missed.

“Cut!” yelled the assistant director.

Dayle’s character, struggling with alcoholism and middle age, sat through her first AA meeting at a “town hall” set. About thirty extras surrounded her. With her gray tweed suit and a matronly makeover, Dayle perched on a folding chair and listened to speeches. Tomorrow, they would film her turn at the podium—a long, very emotional speech, Best Actress Oscar bait.

While they set up another shot, Dayle headed for her trailer. Dennis stood by the door. He gave a long look at her middle-aged makeover. “Here you go,
Mom
,” he said, handing her a bottle of Evian.

“Thanks,” she muttered, not smiling at his Mom crack.

“You okay, Dayle?” he asked. “All morning long, you’ve been on edge—”

“I’m not okay,” she sighed, pausing on the steps to her trailer. “Nick Brock was killed on Friday.”

“What?” Dennis seemed genuinely stunned. “You’re kidding.”

“Someone set fire to his hotel room. He burned to death.”

“My God, Dayle,” he murmured.

“I’m trying to figure out how this hate group knew where to find Nick. Did you tell anyone that he was in Opal?”

“No, of course not. Shouldn’t you talk to the police about this?”

She shook her head. Dennis seemed so concerned and earnest. Was it just an act?

“I don’t want to involve the police yet,” she said steadily. “A cop shot Hank and Bonny. They could be part of the conspiracy. I can’t trust the police. I can’t trust anybody.” She opened the trailer door.

Dennis gave her a wary glance. “Even me?”

“Even you,” Dayle said.

“You goddamn idiot,” Avery muttered to himself. He never should have turned off Highway 95. But on his map, the rural route looked like a quicker way to Opal. But he’d been on this road for an hour now, and still no Opal, just a long, deserted, snaky highway without any markings. For all he knew, he could be driving
away
from Opal. The fuel needle hovered near empty. On the radio, just static. He couldn’t get anything on his cellular phone. No surprise, he was outside a roaming zone.

Avery sat at the wheel of a six-year-old Lincoln Town Car. It was like steering the
Titanic
, the thing felt so big. But it had been the only car with snow tires at Merv’s E-Z Auto Rentals.

Avery had first noticed the car rental sign last night—half a block from The Spokane Red Lion. Merv’s didn’t open until 9:30 in the morning, and it looked like a fly-by-night outfit. But Avery figured they might not be so particular about who he was once the credit card cleared.

They had a room available at the Red Lion Inn. No one at the front desk recognized him. The eleven o’clock news didn’t report any sightings of Avery Cooper at the Spokane airport. But the warrant for his arrest was one of the lead stories. He telephoned Sean, and they arranged to meet tomorrow in the lot outside the Opal post office.

In the morning, he called Glenhaven Spa for a progress report on Joanne, but then he remembered his status with the law, and hung up.

At Merv’s E-Z Auto Rentals, the puffy, middle-aged man behind the counter didn’t seem to recognize him. After climbing inside the Lincoln Town Car, which smelled of stale coffee and cigarettes, Avery glanced at the rental paperwork. The salesman had filled in his name as Andrew O. Cooper.

The snow tires were a good call. Compact snow, slush, and ice covered the road. With white knuckles, Avery clutched the steering wheel and wove through the mountain passes. Along the way, he drove by several abandoned cars that had spun out and stalled in ditches. Finally, the highway dipped to a lower altitude and straightened. No more snow—at least for a while.

Then he’d decided to try this shortcut.

The short cut to hell
, was more like it. Except for an occasional farm house in the distance, there was no sign of civilization. Up ahead, he saw more mountains—more snow and ice. He checked the fuel needle again. He’d passed a service station about an hour ago on Highway 95; perhaps this gas-guzzler could make it back. At least he’d know where he was headed.

With a sigh, Avery slowed and made a U-turn. He heard gravel grinding beneath the tires as he swung the Town Car around. After a few minutes, the road beneath him began to feel bumpy. It sounded as if something was dragging along his right front tire. The car listed to one side. “Oh, God,” Avery whispered. “Please, don’t let it be a flat. Not here….”

He pulled over to the roadside and climbed out of the big car. He could see his breath as he walked around to inspect the tire. It was totally deflated, with the hubcap digging into the gravel. “Shit,” Avery growled. He kept spitting out the word—again and again. He went back into the car, threw on his sweater, then checked the trunk for a spare tire. He wasn’t sure Merv’s E-Z Auto Rentals would have one. But they did.

What they didn’t have was a jack. “GODDAMN IT!” he bellowed. He kicked a dent in the car door. He let a few more expletives fly as he searched for the jack: in the trunk, under the seats, in the front hood. He was still searching in vain when he spotted in the distance another car down the road, coming his way.

Avery started waving for help. He caught a better look at the approaching vehicle, a Corsica. Along with the Ford Taurus, it was the automobile of choice for the “rental mentals.” He stopped waving for a moment. The Corsica slowed down. Avery saw only one person in the front seat. It looked like a woman. The car crawled to a stop and she rolled down her window. The driver was a brunette in her late twenties. She had a long, thin, pretty face, and wore a red sweater. “Are you okay?” she called.

“I didn’t think anyone would come by,” Avery said, starting toward the car. “I have a flat. This is a rental, and there’s no jack….”

As he stepped closer, she inched her car forward a bit. She looked apprehensive, so he stopped in his tracks. “Um, if you have a jack, I could fix this tire in a few minutes. I’d really appreciate it.”

“I’d like to help,” she said, wincing in an apologetic way. “But my husband doesn’t want me stopping for strangers….”

Nodding, Avery managed to smile at her. “I understand. But—well,” he pointed to his car. “I’m kind of stranded here. I really do have a flat….”

He made the mistake of approaching her car again. The Corsica lurched forward. “Tell you what,” the woman nervously called to him. “I have a cellular. I’ll phone the police for you. It shouldn’t take more than an hour—”

Avery automatically shook his head. “No, not the police, I—I—”

The woman glared at him. She quickly rolled up the window.

“No, wait!” Avery shouted over the Corsica’s screeching tires. He watched her speed down the road. At this moment, she was probably describing her would-be attacker to a 9-1-1 operator.

“You goddamn idiot,” Avery muttered to himself.

At first, Sean hardly noticed the woman coming out of the video store with her two children. Even when she saw them go into the post office, Sean ruled out the haggard-looking mother as a candidate for PO Box 73.

All morning long, she’d been sitting in her Chevy rental, parked in the minimall lot. With the video store, U-Pay-Less Shoes, Pizza Hut, Sheer Delight Hair Stylists, and the post office as its main attractions, the little mall did a brisk business. Avery still hadn’t shown up. Occasionally, Sean started up the car to get the heater going, or she’d step out to stretch her legs. Three times, she’d ducked into the post office to make certain Box 73 hadn’t been cleaned out, three false alarms.

The mailboxes in Opal’s post office were the old-fashioned kind, brass with numbers on little windows. Box 73 was crammed with several large manila envelopes—along with some bills. Anyone emerging from the post office with a bundle like that was an immediate suspect.

Sean drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She watched the woman come out again with her kids—a thin, dark-haired, preteen boy, and a chubby little urchin with her blond hair in braids. The kids fought, not just pushing and shoving, but with fists swinging. Their poor mother tried to break it up without getting coldcocked. The sallow-looking blonde wore a pink down vest over her white turtleneck, and a pair of jeans that didn’t flatter her pear-shaped figure. She was screaming at her kids, and clutching a big bundle of mail—several manila envelopes and some bills.

Sean climbed out of her rental, and she could hear the woman: “I’ll tell Daddy about this when he comes back from California. You’ll be sorry. You know how he gets when he’s angry….” She prodded them toward a brand-new station wagon, which bore two bumper stickers:
MY FAMILY, MY COUNTRY, MY GUN
, and
JESUS CHRIST: NOW MORE THAN EVER
. The woman was still screaming and threatening her kids when Sean ducked into the post office.

Box 73 was empty.

Sean hurried back out the door, across the lot toward her rental. Suddenly, something came at her. Tires screeched. She spun around and almost collided with the from fender of an old-model blue Chrysler LeBaron. She reeled back, momentarily stunned.

Sean couldn’t see the driver past the sun’s glare on the windshield. But she noticed a pair of fuzzy dice dangling from the rearview mirror. Whoever sat behind the wheel didn’t yell or honk. Catching her breath, Sean waved at the driver and stepped aside.

She glanced over her shoulder at the mother. The frumpy blonde stood by her station wagon, staring back at her.

Sean quickly looked away, then walked up to a beige Tempo that wasn’t hers. She paused by the driver’s door, then pretended to search through her purse for the car keys. After a minute, the woman climbed into her station wagon, pulled out of her space, and started toward the lot exit. Sean ran back to her rental car, jumped inside, and gunned the engine.

She caught up with the station wagon at the stoplight by the mall exit. The woman swiveled around to swat at her kids in the back. When the light changed, she turned left. Sean followed, keeping about three car lengths behind her. They drove by a McDonald’s, then past Debbie’s Motor Inn, where Sean once again glimpsed the police tape in the parking lot. She checked her rearview mirror. An old lady in a Buick was behind her. Sean didn’t notice the next car back. She didn’t see the blue Chrysler LeBaron that had almost run into her a few minutes ago.

Somebody was coming, but at this distance, Avery couldn’t tell if it was a police car. He’d taken out the spare tire and leaned it against the fender to advertise his predicament. In the past forty minutes, only three people had driven by; and none of them had even slowed down for him.

The approaching vehicle came into view. Avery noticed the police lights on the hood. He stepped in front of his disabled rental and waved. The squad car slowed to a stop about a hundred yards in front of him. Avery couldn’t see what the cop inside was doing, but figured he’d better not move. He stood there for at least two or three minutes.