The Next To Die Part 23

Avery washed out the policemen's coffee cups, then called the hospital. The news from Dr. Wetherall wasn't good. He advised Avery not to visit Joanne today. She'd tried to attack a nurse yesterday, and was still under sedation. Had he given any more thought to Glenhaven Spa?

Avery said that he'd have a decision for him by tomorrow. In other words, he was hoping for a miracle within the next twenty-four hours.

Munching his Lifesaver, Avery wandered up the corridor, past offices and editing rooms. He found Sean, seated at the video controls and talking on her cell phone.

"I have nothing to tell you," she was saying. "No, you're way out of line...and please, don't call me again." She clicked off, then tucked the phone in her purse.

Avery tossed the red licorice vines on the desk. "Thought you could use a sugar fix," he said. "Who was that?"

"Some a.s.shole reporter-if you'll pardon me. I don't know how he got my cell phone number." She picked up the red vines. "Thanks."

"What did he want?"

Sean tore at the cellophane wrapper. "I'm not even sure he was a real reporter. h.e.l.l, he could have been part of this hate group. He wanted to know if you'd been formally charged with Libby Stoddard's murder yet-the yet yet part really burned me. He also wanted to know how we intended to plea." part really burned me. He also wanted to know how we intended to plea."

She got to her feet. "Listen, you were right earlier. I could really use a break. Let's go for a walk."

They strolled through a studio back lot, which depicted a small town circa 1958. Long, fin-tailed cars lined the curb, and the Movie Palace played Vertigo Vertigo. Down the block were Smitty's Malt Shop, Deedee's Millinery, and Christoff's Five-and-Dime.

Sean pulled a very anachronistic cellular phone out of her purse, then checked the last call. The reporter from before had a blocked number. Frowning, she slipped the phone back in her purse. "That stupid call still bothers me. Do you think it was really a reporter?"

"Maybe even a reporter working for them," Avery said. They strolled past Tony's Barber Shop. "If this group wants to ruin certain celebrities' reputations, they'd need media people on their payroll. Yeah, that was probably a legitimate reporter just now. And I can tell you how they describe a conversation like the one you just had: 'When asked about Avery Cooper's homicidal tendencies, his attorney, Sean Olson, offered no comment.'" He shrugged and grinned. "That's typical in this business."

Sean found herself half smiling back at him. Avery didn't seem to have let the business the business corrupt him. He was more worried about his wife than his career. In a town dominated by phonies often trying to pa.s.s themselves off as "just plain family folk," this guy was the real thing. His sweetness and his wholesome good looks were perfectly suited for this small town setting from the fifties. He even looked a bit like Ricky Nelson. Sean almost wanted to hold on to his arm as they continued walking down this magical street together. corrupt him. He was more worried about his wife than his career. In a town dominated by phonies often trying to pa.s.s themselves off as "just plain family folk," this guy was the real thing. His sweetness and his wholesome good looks were perfectly suited for this small town setting from the fifties. He even looked a bit like Ricky Nelson. Sean almost wanted to hold on to his arm as they continued walking down this magical street together.

Her cellular rang, jarring her from the momentary daydream. She pulled the phone out of her purse again and clicked it on. "Sean Olson speaking."

"Ms. Olson, it's Doug Nathan at the clinic. I have the results from the lab tests on those nine sperm samples from Avery Cooper."

"Yes, Dr. Nathan," she said, her eyes meeting with Avery's.

"All nine samples match," he reported.

Sean turned away from Avery. "Are you sure?" she said into the phone.

"Yes. All nine samples are from the same subject-donor: Avery Cooper. Also, I'm trying to untangle some red tape from administration for those employee records you requested. Could I call you tomorrow on it?"

"Yes, of course," Sean murmured. "Thanks, Dr. Nathan."

"Talk to you tomorrow. Bye." Then he hung up.

Sean clicked off the phone, then slipped it back into her purse. She couldn't look at Avery. "All the sperm samples match," she said.

"You're kidding," he muttered. "Are they sure?"

"They're sure."

Avery said nothing. Shaking his head, he backed away until he b.u.mped against a Studebaker Coupe parked along the curb.

Sean rubbed her forehead. "Avery, is there something you haven't told me? Did you have s.e.x with Libby? Maybe consensual s.e.x?"

Leaning against the car, he rolled his eyes. "G.o.d, no. The only time I even met Libby Stoddard was with our lawyers at that hearing. I didn't even shake her hand."

"Okay," Sean said, nodding patiently. "And you're pretty sure the police will find a match with the victim if you furnish them with a sperm sample?"

"Yes. I don't think these people would go to all the trouble of murdering Libby and setting me up for it without somehow matching up that important piece of evidence. They must have paid off someone in the lab." He shook his head. "I'm stalling for time here, Sean. Don't you see? If I give the cops a sperm sample, and it's a match, I'll be thrown in jail immediately, right? I won't be able to see my wife or do anything to help with this investigation."

"I understand," Sean said, patting his arm. "Well, I can question people at the lab. Maybe somebody's lying. You're not a sperm donor, are you?"

He kicked at the pavement. "No."

"Can I get personal?" Sean asked.

"h.e.l.l, we're talking about my sperm. We've already gotten gotten to 'personal.'" to 'personal.'"

"You and Joanne spend a good deal of time apart. Is it possible you were with someone who might have kept some of your s.e.m.e.n from a diaphragm or a condom?"

Avery shook his head.

"The truth, Avery," Sean said. "You haven't strayed once?"

"I'm sorry. I haven't been with anyone else since I met Joanne."

"Well, don't be sorry," Sean managed to say. "It's actually very sweet."

He looked at her again with the same guileless expression that had first won her over. "Sean, you don't really think I killed Libby Stoddard, do you?"

"No, I believe you're telling the truth, Avery." It was beyond all logic, but Sean meant what she said.

Eighteen Tom Lance emerged from Lowell's Guns & Ammo Stop, carrying a .38 caliber and a box of bullets in a brown paper bag. This was the gun he would use to kill Dayle Sutton. Authorities would trace its purchase here by a Tom Lance whose appearance was slightly altered.

He wore his disguise for next week's mission: nonprescription gla.s.ses with black frames, and a gray mustache. Hal, standing under the awning of a nearby p.a.w.nshop, joked that he almost didn't recognize him. He suggested that they grab a late breakfast at the McDonald's across the street.

"I see you've made a purchase," Hal said, nudging Tom as they headed toward the restaurant. "Have any trouble? Any sticky legal red tape?"

"No, not at all."

"Well, good. You know, Tom, if people like Dayle Sutton get their way, we won't be able to buy a gun anywhere-except from criminals."

They ordered Egg Mcm.u.f.fins. For a moment, Tom harkened back to his glory days months earlier, when-because of his TV commercial-the folks at his local McDonald's gave him a free apple pie with lunch. He almost told the haggard-looking black girl behind the counter about the ad, but she wouldn't have given a d.a.m.n.

The bag with the .38 caliber sat on the table between them. Hal had insisted Tom take it inside the McDonald's. "You have to feel comfortable carrying it around."

Hal now folded his hands in prayer over his Egg Mcm.u.f.fin. Some teenagers at the next table seemed to think this was pretty d.a.m.n funny. Snickering, they imitated Hal, who became red in the face as he crossed himself. He glared at the kids, then picked up his sandwich.

He started to review their itinerary for the next few days. But after a while, he practically had to shout to compete with the loud teenagers across from them. "I can't talk over these foul-mouthed n.i.g.g.e.rs," he grumbled.

Tom pushed away his Styrofoam plate and he too glared at the kids.

"What the f.u.c.k you looking at, a.s.shole?" one of the boys sneered.

Tom turned away, but his face flushed with bottled-up rage.

"Little do they know," Hal whispered. "You could just reach into this bag here, couldn't you? Erase Erase them. What good are they? Look at those ones." Hal nodded at three punk teenagers at another table. Their clothes were filthy and they had pierced eyebrows and noses. One of them, an Asian girl, had blue hair. "Who would miss them?" Hal asked. "Killing them is just a reach away." them. What good are they? Look at those ones." Hal nodded at three punk teenagers at another table. Their clothes were filthy and they had pierced eyebrows and noses. One of them, an Asian girl, had blue hair. "Who would miss them?" Hal asked. "Killing them is just a reach away."

Tom stared at the bag.

"And check out the two queers over there," Hal whispered, his eyes darting toward a couple of young men with dyed-platinum hair, pierced ears, and white T-s.h.i.+rts that were a little too clean and a little too tight.

"In a way," Hal went on, "when you eliminate Dayle Sutton, you'll help rid our country of this sc.u.m we're now forced to share breakfast with. We're waging a war against these degenerates, Tom. The queer sodomites, these slant-eyed aliens, welfare blacks, you name it. Would you take your child or grandchild to eat here among these creeps?" Hal nodded at the bag between them. "I mean, without that for protection?"

Tom glanced over at the teenager again, the one who called him an a.s.shole. The kid was arguing with his girlfriend. "They have no idea how close to death they are right now," Hal was saying. "Doesn't that make you feel powerful, Tom? Knowing what you could do?"

Tom smiled and nodded.

Carrying a flower arrangement and a small boom box, Avery stepped inside the hospital room. The blinds were open, baking the place in sunlight. A pine-scented air freshener failed to completely camouflage the sharp smell of urine. Someone had cranked up the bed, so Avery's night-owl wife had no choice but to sit there, squinting in the harsh morning glare. They'd combed her unwashed hair back behind her ears. Her wrists were still bound, but now a padded material cus.h.i.+oned the encircling straps to prevent bruises. As Avery walked into the room, Joanne didn't seem to notice. She continued to stare out the window, her pale face pinched up.

Setting the flowers and the boom box on her nightstand, Avery tried to smile. "I figured you might want to listen to some of those homemade tapes. You know, the ones you take on the road? Jesus, it's hot in here. What are they trying to do to you?" He moved to a window, opened it a crack, then lowered the blinds. "Is that better, Joanne?"

She said nothing. She didn't seem to know he was there. At least she'd stopped squinting. Avery returned to her bedside and kissed her cheek. "Do you feel like talking today?" he asked gently.

No response. She stared at the window.

"How about some music? This is your seventies tape." He pressed the b.u.t.ton on the boom box. Joni Mitch.e.l.l came on, singing "Morning Morgantown."

Grimacing, Joanne began to squirm. She sucked air between her clinched teeth. It was as if the music were fingernails on a blackboard.

"Oops, sorry." Avery switched off the recording. "Joni isn't cutting it, huh?" He felt so lame. He couldn't reach her.

Joanne sighed, then went back to gazing at the window.

He caressed her arm, and at least she didn't pull away. That faint, underlying smell of urine became more pungent. Avery realized that she'd wet herself. He kept stroking her arm. Joanne was gone. He could no longer hope that she was simply "playing to the balcony." This was real.

After a while, he rang for the nurse. A tall, big-boned, twenty-something blonde came to the door. "Yes, Mr. Cooper?" she said.

"Um, my wife wet the bed," Avery explained in a raspy voice.

"Oh, well, that's all right," the nurse said gently. "We have her in diapers. I'll change her as soon as you leave."

Avery hesitated. "Well, I-I'll take off now so you can do that. Thanks."

He leaned over Joanne and gently kissed her forehead. "See ya, honey."

She still didn't seem to know he was there.

Avery thanked the nurse again. He stepped out to the corridor, then started toward Dr. Wetherall's office, where he would sign the necessary papers to have his wife transferred to a mental inst.i.tution.

He aimed and squeezed the trigger. Something was off today. He missed the Dr Pepper bottle on the ranch's front porch railing. "d.a.m.n," Tom muttered. He was hot and sweaty. The Egg Mcm.u.f.fin from breakfast wasn't sitting too well in his stomach.

"It's okay, Tom," Hal said patiently. He stood behind him, nursing a Sprite from the cooler. He wore sungla.s.ses and a baseball hat. "It's a new gun. You need to become accustomed to the feel of it. That's why we're here."

Tom fired and missed again. "When am I supposed to do this for real?"

"Next Tuesday morning," Hal said.

Lowering the gun, Tom turned to gape at him. "My G.o.d, so soon?"

"It's six days away," Hal said, with an amused grin. "You'll be fine. It's all planned out. No room for error. We have a friend in Dayle s.l.u.tton s.l.u.tton's camp, which gives us access to her schedule-among many other things. On Tuesday morning, she'll be shooting scene eighty-seven, in which her character addresses an AA meeting with about twenty-five extras. All those people will provide just the right amount of commotion once you start shooting. She'll be at a podium, an easy target. We'll give you instructions where to stand." He gulped down some more Sprite, and stifled a burp. "Get in at least two shots. Go for the head. Before you even fire a third shot, our security guard will turn on you with the blanks, and you'll go down quick. That's the tricky part. You don't want any Johnny-come-lately guards wanting to get their two cents in."

"This sounds pretty complicated," Tom said warily.

"We'll practice. It's all ch.o.r.eographed and staged, Tom. You won't have to play dead for more than a minute before the second ambulance arrives. That'll be us. Remember, everyone will be paying more attention to Miss s.l.u.tton s.l.u.tton, and she'll get the first ambulance-though it might as well be a Hea.r.s.e picking her up. Right?"

Tom shrugged. "Well, I can't guarantee-"

"I have confidence in you, Tom." He finished off his Sprite, and tossed his empty can on the dusty ground. "An hour after pulling that trigger, you'll be cleaned up and on a plane with enough money to retire in Mexico or Rio de Janeiro or someplace. Not bad, huh? Can't you see yourself living out your golden years at a tropical villa-sipping c.o.c.ktails, a ceiling fan swirling overhead, exotic birds chirping? Take a day to think about where you'd like to go. By the way, we're paying you a quarter of a million for your efforts."

Tom stared at him in disbelief. Was this guy on the level? He wiped the sweat off his brow. "I had no idea," he managed to reply.

"Sure," Hal nodded. "Least we could do, Tom. Any more questions?"

"Only a ton," Tom said, with a dazed chuckle. It was all coming a little too fast at him. "I mean, how are you getting me on the set when they're shooting this scene eighty whatever it is?"

"Scene eighty-seven." Hal smiled rea.s.suringly. "Like I said, we have someone working close to Dayle Sutton. You'll have clearance. It's being taken care of right now, as we speak. You'll use the name Gordon Swann."

"His name is Gordon Swann," Dennis told the head of studio security over the phone. "Be sure they allow him on the set Tuesday morning."

"I'll make a note of it, Dennis."

"I've also cleared him with the a.s.sistant director, because I won't be around. I have Tuesday off. I'm helping my girlfriend move. Page me if there's a problem. Okay?"