The Next To Die Part 20

"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 a.s.s. 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 b.i.t.c.h 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 Rick-or sometimes Americkan 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 sungla.s.ses, she still got a couple of lucky hits. But he managed to get her back, and he he was still alive. 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 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 s.h.i.+fted 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.

"f.u.c.k," 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 G.o.d, 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, f.u.c.k," 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. "d.a.m.n, 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 cus.h.i.+on.

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 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. 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. "h.e.l.lo?" she said, tipping her head back to the cus.h.i.+on. 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."

"Have you examined the registration records?" Dayle asked. "Did you talk to the desk clerk?"

Susan Linn let out a long sigh. "Yes, Dayle. He said those families registered here two days ago, and before that, the rooms were vacant. They haven't had any police staying there either."

"But that's not true-"

"Ms. Sutton?" the nurse whispered. "Please, keep pumping your hand."

Dayle nodded distractedly. "Listen, Susan," she said into the phone. "That desk clerk must be lying. Maybe they paid him off. Can't you check his bank accounts or something?"

"I'm sorry, Dayle. It's a dead end here."

"But I can prove..." Dayle hesitated. She had that list of license plate numbers. By tomorrow, Nick might have the credit card numbers, names, and addresses of those men. "Listen, Susan," she said. "I didn't send you on a wild-goose chase tonight. Give me a day or two at the most, and I'll prove that this group was there...."

"Well, you call me when you come up with that proof, Dayle."

She chose to ignore the slightly patronizing tone. "I will, Lieutenant." Working one-handed, Dayle clicked off.

The nurse removed the needle, then pressed a cotton swab to Dayle's arm. "Keep applying pressure there for a minute or two, Ms. Sutton," she said. "Just lie still, and I'll be back with some cookies and juice."

Following her instructions, Dayle managed to smile. "Thank you."

"Oh, thank you for donating, It's a very nice thing you're doing for your friend."

"She was doing a nice thing for me," Dayle whispered.

In her bloodstained clothes. Dayle sat alone in the hospital corridor, sipping her orange juice and eating a Chips Ahoy cookie. She looked like a little girl outside the school nurse's office after falling down on the playground. She tried not to cry. She'd checked with Frank a while ago; Bonny's sister had arrived, and was with him. Bonny was still in surgery.

Gazing down the hospital corridor, Dayle recognized Dennis in one of his Argyle sweaters. He carried a shopping bag, and walked alongside a tall, lean man with receding blond hair and a healthy tan. The man wore a sweats.h.i.+rt, plaid shorts, and sandals, very casual. He looked about thirty-five years old.

Dennis winced at the dried blood on Dayle's skirt and blouse. In the shopping bag, he had a change of clothes from her studio wardrobe. "Oh, boss, I was so sorry to hear about Hank," he said.

Dayle nodded. "Thanks for coming," she said.

"I brought you some new threads. I also brought you Ted Kovak. This is the man I was telling you about...."

She reached up and shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

"Hi, I'm Ted." He smiled. "Sorry about my appearance. Dennis called and said you needed me immediately." He casually lifted his sweats.h.i.+rt to reveal a taut, hairy stomach and a gun in a shoulder holster. "So I just strapped this on and flew. Dennis has my list of references. If you don't go with me, that's fine. But while you decide, I'll be happy to act as a temp."

Dayle nodded cordially. Was that flash of stomach supposed to impress her? There was something about him she didn't like. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Then again, maybe she just missed Hank, and wanted to make good her promise to dislike his replacement.

"Well, down to business," Ted Kovak said. "Our boys in blue have this hospital sealed pretty tight. How soon do you want to go home?"

"Actually, once I get an update about my friend in surgery, I was going to call a cab."

"Let me handle it," Ted said calmly.

Dayle nodded. "Thanks." She took the shopping bag full of clothes from Dennis, then retreated to the ladies' room, and ducked into the last stall. Quickly, she peeled off her soiled clothes. The blood had already dried to a dark rust color. Down to her bra and panties, she stopped for a moment, lowered the toilet seat lid, sat down, and allowed herself to cry.

"Are you okay?" Dayle asked, sounding anxious on the other end of the line.

"I'm all right," Sean said. "Don't worry. I'm just getting ready to go home."

She was alone in her office. The place was deathly quiet.

Two hours ago, when Dayle had called from the hospital with news of the shooting, Sean's building had been buzzing with activity: music from the salon downstairs, phones ringing, people in the hallway, someone's Xerox machine working overtime next door. Sean had had no reason to feel vulnerable. She'd only felt bad for Dayle and her friends.

While setting up her office computer, she'd periodically glanced out the window for what Dayle called the "rental mentals," but saw nothing suspicious.

She hadn't noticed how quiet the building had become until this second call from Dayle. Better news this time: her friend Bonny had made it through surgery all right; and Dayle wouldn't have to be alone this evening. Her a.s.sistant had come to the hospital with a new bodyguard for her, and both of them were staying over at her place tonight.

"But I don't like the idea of you all alone in that office," she said. "And it's getting late."

"I know. I'm about to head out of here right now. Don't worry, Dayle."

"Well, thanks for being such a good friend. You were there for me this afternoon, and I really appreciate it. Be careful on that drive back to Malibu. Call me if you-oh, I still have your cellular..."

"I'll survive without it for one night. You get some rest and I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

After Sean hung up, she glanced out her office window at the street below. She didn't see anyone sitting in a parked rental car. But that didn't necessarily mean they weren't out there.

In the window's reflection, she thought she saw a shadow pa.s.s behind her. Sean gasped. She grabbed a letter opener from her desk and crept out to the corridor. Her footsteps echoed on the tiled floor. No one. None of the other office lights were on.

"You're creeping yourself out," she muttered. "Quit it."

Ducking back in the office, she quickly collected her coat and purse. The telephone rang. The sudden noise hit her like a jolt. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver. "Yes, h.e.l.lo?"

Silence.

She didn't need this right now. "h.e.l.lo?" she said louder.

"Sean Olson?" The voice was raspy and guttural.

"Who's calling?"

He cleared his throat. "This is Avery Cooper. I-I'd like to make an appointment to see you tomorrow. I need a good lawyer."

Seventeen.