The Next To Die Part 31

"Do as I say, Mr. Cooper," the patrolman replied, his hand poised by his gun belt. "Lean forward, hands behind you, legs apart."

In a daze, Avery obeyed him. The once-friendly policemen tugged at his arms, then slapped a pair of cuffs around his wrists. At the same time, he felt the cop leaning up against him, and his mouth touched Avery's ear. "You're in a h.e.l.luva lot of trouble," he whispered. "You know that, mister big shot movie star?"

The following Internet conversation occurred at 1:42 P.M. P.M., on Monday, November 18, on the Recipe Hot-line: HANNAH: The big difference is using beef stock instead of water. That's what makes it so flavorful.VICKI: Is it really rich? If it's too rich, my husband won't want it. Lyle has a delicate const.i.tution.PAT: Request private chat with Vicki.

Dialogue from a private mailbox between "Vicki" and "Pat," one minute later: PATRIOT: What's going on? R-U OK?VICTORY: I saw A. Cooper's lawyer in the parking lot when I got mail hour ago. I'm certain it was her. It was almost like she was looking for me.PATRIOT: Where are U now? Did she follow U?VICTORY: I'm home. If she was following me, I didn't see.PATRIOT: OK, Vicki...thanx for reporting...This confirms Ray D. thinking he saw her at Flappin Jacks yesterday...I'll let Hal know.VICTORY: Have U heard any more about Lyle? So worried...PATRIOT: I'm sure Lyle OK...Maybe Hal has news...stay home til U hear back from me...G.o.d Bless.

It always threw Tom for a loop whenever that newfangled little phone of Hal's rang. They were in the car, diving back to the city after target practice and lunch at a seafood place. Hal sat at the wheel. He didn't flinch at all when the phone went off. He fished the gizmo from the pocket of his fancy jogging suit, then unfolded the thing. "Yeah, Hal here."

Eyes on the road, he frowned. "Okay," he said after a moment. "Call Vicki back. I need a full description of what Cooper's legal wh.o.r.e is wearing and the type of car she's driving. I want her under surveillance within the hour. But no one is to touch her...."

Pressed against the pa.s.senger door, Tom watched him. Hal's jaw seemed to clench at the news he was hearing. "So you're telling me that both Avery Cooper and his lawyer are there?" he asked hotly. "What is this? First Dayle Sutton's private detective, and now these two...."

Hal listened for a moment. "We have Cooper in custody? Who's with him?" He grimaced. "Taggert? s.h.i.+t. Taggert's a loose cannon, he's worse than Lyle Bender. Tell him I don't want anything happening to Cooper until we've come up with a plan. No rough stuff. Have someone relieve Taggert of the prisoner ASAP. We need Cooper alive-for now. I don't trust the stupid, trigger-happy son of a b.i.t.c.h. Only reason Taggert's on the payroll is because he's a cop...." Hal listened for a moment. "I don't care how far away he is. Send somebody out there to take over. And I want this lady lawyer tracked down. I'll expect your call within an hour. All right?"

Hal smiled. "Good boy," he said. "Over and out."

He managed to keep steering while he folded up the little phone and slipped it back into his pocket. The car started to gain speed. He grinned at Tom, very confident, almost smug. "Interesting developments at home," he said. "And on the eve of your eliminating Dayle Sutton. Huh, we just might end up with two two movie stars dead tomorrow-and one dead b.i.t.c.h-lawyer." movie stars dead tomorrow-and one dead b.i.t.c.h-lawyer."

Sean watched the two-story, tan brick house across the street. The place had brown shutters and THE BENDERS THE BENDERS wood-burnt on a plaque hanging over the front door. The lawn was littered with a dozen soggy boxes that must have been part of a kids' game a while ago. With the sun starting to set, Sean felt the late autumn chill creep inside the parked car. She'd been staking out the house for close to three hours. wood-burnt on a plaque hanging over the front door. The lawn was littered with a dozen soggy boxes that must have been part of a kids' game a while ago. With the sun starting to set, Sean felt the late autumn chill creep inside the parked car. She'd been staking out the house for close to three hours.

She wondered if Avery was waiting for her in the post office parking lot, or if he'd gone on to the hotel.

"I don't want any fighting!" Mrs. Bender announced from her front door as she let the two children out. The boy ran to one of the boxes and kicked it, while the little girl shrieked. Sean rolled down her car window. Mrs. Bender was yelling: "I have important calls to make, and better not have to come out here for the next hour!" She ducked inside and shut the door.

After a few minutes, the kids calmed down. The boy started building a fort out of the boxes.

Sean watched an Oldsmobile crawl up the tree-lined street, then stop in front of the Benders' house. An old woman stepped out of the car, but left the motor running. "Scotty Bender!" she called angrily. "I saw you in my backyard this morning! That's private property, and not your personal shortcut to school. The same goes for your older brother. I'm sick and tired of it! You tell your mother I said so."

The kid shouted something back at her. Sean didn't catch what he said, but the tone wasn't particularly apologetic.

"Well!" the indignant old woman replied. "Next time I see any of you Bender children in my yard, I'm calling the police. I don't care if your father's friends with them or not!" She jumped back into her car and continued down the road.

Sean watched the Oldsmobile pull into the driveway of a modest white stucco. The garden in front had been covered with plastic tarp to fight frost. Here was a woman who knew the Benders and clearly had some issues with them. And right now, she was in a mood to vent.

Sean hunted through her purse, and found some old business cards rubber-banded together. She plucked one out: JOAN KINSELLA, ATTORNEY, MUNIc.i.p.aLITY OF EUGENE, OREGON JOAN KINSELLA, ATTORNEY, MUNIc.i.p.aLITY OF EUGENE, OREGON.

The Bender girl let out another shriek, then attacked one of the boxes as if it were a punching bag.

Sean climbed out of the car and started toward the white stucco house, where the old woman was hoisting a sack of groceries from the pa.s.senger side of her Oldsmobile. The overloaded bag ripped along the side, and several items spilled onto her driveway.

"Can I help?" Sean called. The woman barely had time to respond before Sean was on her hands and knees, retrieving a Campbell's soup can that had rolled under the car. "I hate it when they overpack those bags," she said, handing her the soup can.

Bracing the torn bag on the hood of her car, the woman nodded and gave Sean a wary smile. She had close-cropped brown hair that looked like a wig, wire gla.s.ses, and lipstick that had been applied with a shaky hand. She wore a wool coat, blue pants, and an ugly floral top.

"I'm from out of town," Sean explained. "Um, could you recommend a good, clean, family-type of hotel in the area?"

The woman shrugged. "There's Debbie's Paradise View off of Main Street. That's nice." Sean could tell she still had her guard up.

"Thanks very much." She nodded politely and started to walk away-for a few seconds. Then she stopped and turned around. "By the way, you don't happen to know the Bender family down the block, do you?"

Frowning, the old woman sighed. "Only too well, I'm afraid."

"Oh, really?" Sean pulled Joan's card out of her purse. "I'm Joan Kinsella, and I'm an attorney from Eugene. I'm conducting an investigation here on behalf of Mrs. Bender's aunt, who..." Sean trailed off and quickly shook her head. "Oh, you're too busy. I shouldn't bother you right now."

"It's no bother," the woman piped up. "What are you investigating?"

"Well, it has to do with the children and a discipline problem."

She nodded. "I happen to have had a few 'problems' with the Bender children myself, believe you me. They're wild little hooligans! The mother can't control them. And Lyle-Mr. Bender-he's never around, always out of town or on one of his hunting trips with the men's club...."

"Men's club," Sean repeated. She glanced back at the children in the yard. "Um, I don't want to impose," she said, turning to the old woman again. "But if you have a few minutes, I'd like to ask you some questions about Lyle and Mrs. Bender-and the children, all in confidence, of course."

"Oh, don't get me started on those kids," the old woman said. "Could you carry in the milk and orange juice for me, dear?" She handed the items to Sean, then hoisted up the torn bag and led the way to her door.

Tom watched Hal's Corsica pull away from the curb. Hal hadn't asked for a photo to use on his pa.s.sport tomorrow. Pa.s.sports, vaccinations, converting money-these were basic necessities for international travel, and Hal hadn't addressed them at all.

Tom swallowed hard and glanced at the front entrance of his apartment building. Stepping inside, he checked his mailbox for what would be the last time: only one letter, announcing he was a finalist in the Clearing House Million Dollar Sweepstakes. He lumbered up the stairs, then down the corridor to his apartment. Everything seemed so final.

Wandering around his living room, Tom gazed at the pictures, furniture, antiques, and souvenirs he'd collected through the years. Already he felt homesick. It was sad saying good-bye to everything. He tried to convince himself that tomorrow night he'd be staying at a plush hotel in Rio de Janeiro. But the reward they promised still seemed so vague and unreal.

Tom headed to the kitchen cabinet where he kept the Jack Daniels. He had barely enough in the bottle for a couple of shots. He poured half, then quickly drained his gla.s.s. He'd need a lot more to make it through the night.

Since taking that first ride with Hal Buckman, Tom knew Hal's people were watching him. He'd noticed guys standing in the street below his window for hours at a time. Sometimes, they sat in their cars parked out front.

Tom wasn't surprised to find one of them now, smoking a cigarette by the front door. This kid was about thirty, with a handlebar mustache, s.h.a.ggy blond hair, and a ruddy complexion. He wore jeans and a rugby s.h.i.+rt. Smiling at Tom as if he were an old friend, the kid flicked away his cigarette. "Hey there, Tom. You gotta go back inside."

Tom stopped in the doorway of the building. "What do you mean?"

"Orders from Hal," the kid said, shrugging. "You can't go out tonight. They don't want you to run away or try anything stupid. Didn't you notice in your place? They took out your phone. It's tempting to call up certain people to say good-bye. But no can do, Tom. You can't call the police either. The phone will go back in after you leave tomorrow morning."

"But I just want to get some bourbon," Tom admitted.

"Sorry." He shook his head. "Now, go back inside. Okay?"

Frowning, Tom backed away and closed the door. He retreated up the stairs. The kid didn't understand how important the bourbon was at this time. Without it, Tom couldn't sleep; without it, he would have to face the clear, sober truth that he was doomed.

For a while there, he'd actually bought Hal's sweet talk, and the promise of a hideaway in Rio. It made him more willing to kill Dayle Sutton for them. And for the first time in a long while, he'd felt important.

But the sentry outside his building stood as a reminder that they'd actually trapped him. He had no choice in any of this. What was the term business people used? Cost effective? It wasn't cost effective to hire a phony ambulance and two drivers; to find a corpse that resembled him; to buy a ticket for Rio, and drop a quarter of a million on someone so expendable.

They had no intention of flying him to Rio tomorrow. He would be killed by that bodyguard seconds after murdering Dayle Sutton for them. He was their fall guy, and he couldn't do a d.a.m.n thing about it.

The following conversation appeared in a private mailbox on the Internet's Dog-Lover's chat line at 3:55 P.M. P.M., on Monday, November 18: PATRIOT: Subject is staying at Opal Lakeview Lodge, registered as Phoebe Daniels...No license plate number...but Vicki thinks it's a beige Tempo...subject dressed in jeans, black sweater & trench coat, hair pinned up...should have her located shortly...received call from Ray D. minutes ago, thinks he's spotted her.AMERICKAN: Have U talked to Taggert about Cooper?PATRIOT: Yes...Taggert enroute to designated spot & will call 4 relief upon arrival...so far, Cooper unharmed.AMERICKAN: B prepared to drive Spokane tonight: 3 cars-1 carrying captives Cooper and lawyer. Arrangements made for staging kinky murder-suicide in Spokane hotel room. Cooper's sperm samples still at our disposal & will B used on lawyer to show evidence intercourse before death...Also confirms Cooper's guilt in Stoddard crime. Should nicely close case 4 us. Details 2 follow...Notify me as soon as U confirm lawyer's location. SAAMO Lieut. signing off.

The old woman who lived down the block from the Benders was a widow named Mrs. Hildegarde Scott. But after fifteen minutes, she insisted that Sean call her Hildy. Her house smelled a bit like rotten cantaloupe, and the Lipton's tea she served was weak. But once Hildy started talking, Sean couldn't shut her up-which was just fine. Occasionally, Sean had to steer her back to a question: "Um, you were going to tell me about this men's club that Lyle belongs to..." But the old woman didn't need much prodding.

Mrs. Bender's name was Vicki. The husband, Lyle, was hardly ever home. A while back, he'd tried to become a state trooper, but had been rejected. He was a part-time security guard for the city, which around these parts meant that they let Lyle direct traffic for parades, graduations, funerals, and weddings-probably with a .45 strapped to his belt, if his b.u.mper sticker were any indication. During the summer, he taught driver education at the high school.

Sean asked how Lyle Bender could support a wife and three kids, manage house payments, and buy a new station wagon-all from two low-paying part-time jobs. Hildy didn't have an answer for that.

Lyle had a group of pals he met regularly for hunting expeditions. Most of the men were married with kids, and none of them held steady full-time jobs. A couple were railroad workers, laid off last year. Yet they all had nice homes, new cars, and enough leisure time for frequent trips out of town with their buddies. Hildy mentioned several of Lyle's friends by name. Sean wanted to take notes, but feared that would make Hildy uncomfortable.

She'd found a spot to sit in the living room that allowed her to view the Benders' front yard. The children continued to play and fight out there for nearly forty minutes. It had become too dark to see them now, and Sean took that as her cue to leave. Besides, Hildy started venting again about the Bender children using her yard as a shortcut to and from school.

Sean asked for Hildy's phone number so they could talk later. Thanking her profusely, she slipped out the door and trotted toward her car. She climbed into the front seat. The Bender kids didn't seem to notice her.

She needed to write down the names of Lyle's friends-before she forgot. Digging a pen and notepad from her purse, Sean glanced out the pa.s.senger window, and realized something was new. Another vehicle had parked across the street. It took a moment for her to recognize the Chrysler LeBaron. She squinted at the blue car and the fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. "What the h.e.l.l?" she murmured.

All at once, Sean knew she wasn't alone. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a pair of eyes fixed on her.

The man in the backseat grinned. "Hey, chickie," he whispered. "Where do you think you're going?"

Twenty-three.

The policeman sneezed.

Avery didn't say "G.o.d bless you." He'd given up trying to communicate with the creep about three hours ago. That was how long he'd been riding in the back of the squad car with his hands cuffed behind him. The grate part.i.tion between him and the front seat made him feel as if he were in a cage. The car was muggy, and smelled of Vicks Vaporub and B.O.

Avery had asked the policeman for his name. He'd asked why he was being arrested, and where he was being taken. The husky cop with the runny nose didn't respond. He sat at the wheel, and occasionally those red-rimmed eyes glanced at his prisoner in the rearview mirror. Mostly, he watched the road ahead, and as the chilly afternoon turned to dusk, he must have sneezed, coughed, blown his nose, and spat out the window about fifty times.

He drove the back roads. His police radio came on from time to time, but he always rolled down his window before grabbing the mike and mumbling into it. The howling wind drowned out his conversation.

Avery leaned forward, moved his cuffed hands, and glanced back at his wrist.w.a.tch: 6:10. If the lights of a gas station and a neighboring burger joint were any indication, they'd reached some semblance of civilization. But the cop kept driving, and the cl.u.s.ter of sleepy stores and streetlights gave way to darkness again.

Then they slowed down, and the squad car bounced over a set of railroad tracks. Avery saw a deserted train depot and a neglected Tudor station house. Two box cars sat in the depot, so old and ravaged they were mere sh.e.l.ls. The policeman pulled up alongside the station house. "The Great Northern used to run through here," he said. "This was a major freight stop. But not anymore. f.u.c.kin' Jews on Wall Street put an end to that."

He stepped out of the squad car, then opened Avery's door. "All right, O-U-T," he said, grabbing Avery's arm and pulling him from the cop car.

Avery finally caught a glimpse of the cop's name tag. "Listen, Officer Taggert, you haven't even told me what I'm being charged with. I think-"

He didn't finish. Without warning, Officer Earl Taggert punched Avery in the stomach, a hard wallop that knocked the wind out of him. Avery doubled over. "That's enough out of you," Taggert said.

He led Avery up some steps to the train platform and station house. The battered door looked painted shut, and cobwebs clung to the top corners. But Taggert unlocked the door and pushed it open. The place had a musty odor. Taggert shoved him, and Avery stumbled across the dusty floor and b.u.mped into a bench. "Sit," the cop said.

In the darkness, Avery plopped down on a bench. He was still bent forward, trying to catch his breath after Taggert's sucker punch. He watched the cop move amid the shadows to an office alcove caged off from the waiting area. Taggert switched on an overhead, and the light spilled into the main room. Avery sat on a long, dusty bench with a curved back. Across from him were doors to the men's and ladies' rooms, and a ticket window with bars.

Sitting on the edge of a beat-up metal desk, Taggert made a call on a beige Touch-Tone phone. Avery stared at the ring of keys he'd casually tossed on the desk. He wondered which one worked his handcuffs. For the last two hours he'd been trying in vain to squeeze his hands free.

"Okay, we'll be here," Taggert said, then he hung up. Grabbing his keys, he swaggered over to the radiator. He gave the k.n.o.b a twist, and Avery heard the sound of steam building up in the old pipes. "We might as well be warm while we wait for the federal men to come pick you up, Mr. Avery Cooper Mr. Avery Cooper." He sneezed, then blew his nose. "Murder and rape. If it were up to me, I'd put a bullet through your head right now."

"I didn't kill that woman," Avery said. "I never even touched her."

"Shut your pie-hole," Taggert grumbled. He wandered back to the tiny office and picked up the phone again. "Move one muscle, and it's just the excuse I need to put you down. Okay?"

His hands cuffed behind him, Avery stared at Taggert. Cop or no cop, he obviously worked for the group in Opal. There weren't any "federal men" coming. Taggert was just biding time, waiting for his friends to arrive.

Avery tugged and pulled at the cuffs until his knuckles felt raw. He'd never picked a lock in his life. Still he checked the station house floor for a lost bobby pin or piece of wire.

His only hope was acting dumb and obedient, placating Taggert until he found the right moment for a sudden attack-a head-b.u.t.t or a kick to the groin. He hadn't slugged it out with anyone since breaking Steve Monda's nose in ninth grade. But recently, the stuntman who trained him for his fight scenes in Expiration Date Expiration Date, had said he was a "natural." Avery figured the guy was just yanking his chain. And besides, in these cuffs, he didn't stand much chance of overpowering anyone. Still, he had to try something.

Taggert raised his voice in the next room: "You tell that son of a b.i.t.c.h, Hal, that I'm the one who caught him, I should be able to take him to Spokane and do the job there...." A minute later, he hung up the phone.

Through the barred windows, a beam of headlights swept across the musty waiting room. "What the h.e.l.l..." Taggert stomped over to the window. Avery twisted around to look at him.

"Ah, c.r.a.p. It's Tonto. G.o.dd.a.m.n pain in the a.s.s." He turned and glared at Avery. "Want to get yourself into deeper s.h.i.+t? Go ahead and talk to this guy. But if you're smart, you'll shut up."

Avery watched the headlights go out; then after a moment, a tall figure walked past the dirt-smeared window. Slowly, the door opened. A policeman stood at the threshold, one hand poised at his gun. The cop was a Native American in his late twenties, with neatly trimmed black hair, and almost too brawny a physique. His muscles bulged against his blue and gray uniform. He seemed to recognize Taggert and stepped inside. "Earl?" the young policeman said, cracking a wary smile. "Hey, what's going on?"

"Pete, how's it hanging, buddy?" Taggert gave his shoulder a punch.

"I saw your squad car outside...." He looked at Avery, eyes narrowed.

"I'm hauling this joker to Lewiston," Taggert said, pulling out a handkerchief to blow his nose again. "He raped a teenage girl there on Thursday night. I just stopped here to take a pee."

Pete seemed puzzled. Hands on his hips, he glanced at Avery-and then at Taggert. "I didn't hear anything about a rape in Lewiston on Thursday."

The other cop laughed and scratched his head. "h.e.l.l, then you must be slipping, Pete."

He chuckled along. Stepping in front of Avery, he stared at him again. "Wait a minute," he murmured. "My G.o.d, you're Avery Cooper. What are you-"

A loud shot rang out.

The young policeman gasped. He seemed paralyzed for a moment, standing there with a dazed look in his brown eyes, Then he twisted around and keeled over, slamming onto the dusty floorboards.

Avery gaped down at the bullet hole in his back, the blood slowly blooming dark crimson on his gray s.h.i.+rt.