THE NEXT TO DIE (31 page)

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 damn 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.
, on Monday, November 18:

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 bumper 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 passenger 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 hell?” 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?”

The policeman sneezed.

Avery didn’t say “God 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 partition 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 wristwatch: 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 cluster 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 shells. 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. Fuckin’ 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 bumped 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 knob 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
.” 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-butt 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
, 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 bitch, 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 hell…” Taggert stomped over to the window. Avery twisted around to look at him.

“Ah, crap. It’s Tonto. Goddamn pain in the ass.” He turned and glared at Avery. “Want to get yourself into deeper shit? 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. “Hell, 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 God, 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 shirt.

Officer Taggert still had the gun in his hand. “Now look what you’ve done, trying to resist arrest,” he said. “You just shot a police officer.”

“I asked you a question, doll face.”

Sean didn’t turn to look at the stranger in the backseat. Gripping the wheel, she studied him in the rearview mirror. “What do you want?”

“I just want to know you better.” He brushed her ear with a gun.

“Okay,” she said calmly. “Then let’s go some place and talk over coffee.” She started the car.

“Turn off the goddamn engine,” he growled.

Sean obeyed. Leaving the keys in the ignition, she slowly sat back.

“I almost ran you down a few hours ago—outside the post office. You ought to be more careful, honey. Why were you in such a hurry?”

“I had to meet an old friend of my mother’s. She lives in that white stucco.” Sean nodded toward Hildy’s house. She furtively slid her hand toward her purse. There was a pocket-knife inside, within her reach.

“Bullshit. But say something else in that high and mighty tone of yours. Say: ‘I’m not supposed to hang up on you, though I’m sorely tempted.’”

Sean stared at him in the rearview mirror.

“We talked on the phone night before last. You’re Dayle’s lawyer friend, Sean Olson.”

Sean swiveled around. The stranger was a handsome guy, despite his unwashed long, black hair. In that leather jacket, the jeans and T-shirt, he had a certain cheap, lounge-lizard sexiness. Beside him on the backseat was a big, black leather satchel. “Are you Nick Brock?” She murmured.

“Pleased to finally meet you, babe,” he said with a cocky smile.

She gaped at him. “You’re supposed to be dead. That hotel fire—”

“Oh, yeah.” He reached inside his bag and took out a wallet. He flipped it open and glanced at something. “The guy toasted in the fire was Charles W. Stample, age forty-nine. I figure, with the police force here, I have another day before Sheriff Andy and Barney Fife figure out the charcoal briquette in their morgue is actually one of Opal’s most eligible bachelors. Meanwhile, I’ll take advantage of them thinking I’m dead.” He slipped the wallet and his gun back inside his bag.

“Charlie,” Sean murmured. “Hildy mentioned him. He’s one of Lyle’s hunting buddies.” She scowled at Nick. “Did you kill him? Are you the one who set fire to that hotel room?”

“No, Charlie did. I stepped out for some ice, and the SOB pulled a gun on me by the vending machines. We went back to my room, and he conked me on the head. But what he didn’t know is that Nick Brock has one hell of a thick skull. While I was down, he started to torch the place. So I jumped up, punched him in the throat, grabbed his wallet and keys, and got the hell out. The joint was already on fire.”

“And you left him there to burn to death?”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I feel really bad about it too. I mean, hell, lady, check out what this bozo did to me.” He bowed his head and parted a clump of hair to reveal a fresh, ugly scab. “You ought to feel this bump. The guy was trying to ice me, for Pete’s sake. Go ahead, feel it.”

“That’s okay. I’ll take your word.”

“I checked out his apartment. Lots of expensive shit: a big-screen TV, state-of-the-art computer, jacuzzi in the can, the works. Yet the guy lived like a pig. The place was a sty. And old Charlie had a stash of porn tapes and magazines that would curl your hair. Real kinky stuff. I kept only a couple of the videos. The rest, forget about it. Too out there, even for Nick.”

Sean glared at him. “During this
exhausting search for evidence
, did you uncover anything useful?”

He nodded. “With the porn stash, I found some Polaroids he’d taken of naked hookers. And this was among them.” Nick pulled a photo out of his vest pocket. “I’m not sure I should show you, honey. It’s of Charlie Stample—with Tony Katz after they finished with him. It’s pretty sickening.”

“Give,” Sean said, her palm out. But as soon as he handed her the color snapshot, she regretted even glimpsing it. Like a proud hunter, Charlie Stample grinned for the camera and held Tony’s head back by the scalp so his face was visible. Tony’s eyes were open in a dead stare. The handsome movie star had been stripped naked and tied to a tree. Lacerations covered his limp body, and long streaks of blood ran down his chest, torso, and legs. It looked as if his genitals had been mutilated. Charlie Stample brandished a pistol in his other hand, and aimed it at Tony Katz in a jocular fashion.

“Oh, my God,” Sean muttered in horror.

“Still feel bad about good ole’ Charlie the Crispy Critter?”

Handing the Polaroid back to him, Sean quickly shook her head.

Nick tucked the photo back inside his pocket. “I combed through his place, but couldn’t find an address book. I don’t know who his buddies are.”

“I have some names from the old woman across the street,” Sean said. “She gave me a lot of useful information about her neighbors. Mrs. Bender picks up the mail for this group.”

“Mrs. Bender? You mean the heifer with the two brats?” Nick asked.

Sean winced. “You’re really offensive, you know that?”

Nick chuckled. “Oh, a tough classy broad, just like Dayle Sutton.”

“Dayle’s not so tough. In fact, she was pretty broken up over your premature demise. God knows why. But she actually cried.”

He smiled. “Really? Well, let’s not mend her broken heart just yet. These jokers have somebody working close to Dayle. I’m better off if she thinks I’m toes up.” He nodded up ahead at the LeBaron. “Guess that’s as good a place as any to ditch his car. I’ve been driving it around since yesterday morning, scared shitless someone would mistake me for Charlie. I high-tailed out of town after the fire. Came back this morning to watch the post office. I had a hunch about you when I saw you hanging around—”

“Heads up,” Sean said.

Vicki Bender emerged from the house with the bundle of mail. She said something to the two children, then headed into her station wagon.

“Looks like she’s going to make her delivery,” Sean murmured, starting up the car. “I can’t believe she’s leaving those two kids alone.”

“Oh, you missed it,” Nick said. “About twenty minutes ago, while you were with Grandma, this older kid came home on his bike. Mama met him at the front door, and jumped on his skinny ass about something. From what I could hear, the twerp was supposed to baby-sit for the other two brats.”

Nick put a hand on her shoulder. “Listen, let Mama go for half a block, then start to follow. It’s how I tailed you.”

Sean let out an exasperated sigh, but took his advice. She watched Vicki Bender back out of the driveway. Then she followed a safe distance behind the station wagon. She wished Avery were with her now—instead of this rude, cheese-ball detective. Wherever he was, Avery had to be worried about her. She hated leaving Dayle in the dark too.

“You know,” she said, watching Mrs. Bender’s station wagon. “If I don’t get in touch with Dayle by tomorrow morning, she’s sending in the FBI.”

Nick let out a defiant laugh. “Tomorrow morning? Listen, counselor, the shit’s going to hit the fan a hell of a lot sooner than tomorrow morning. Let’s just try to survive the evening, okay?”

Sean studied him in the rearview mirror for a moment. Then she nodded, because she knew he was right.