The Next to Die

by Kevin O'Brien

  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.

  “Raise your hands above your head and turn toward your vehicle,” the cop announced over his speaker.

  Avery nodded, then did what he was told. He thought about what had happened to Dayle’s chauffeur and her stand-in. He heard the car door open, then the patrolman approaching, pebbles crackling underfoot.

  “I’ve been stranded here with a flat for an hour,” Avery called. “This is a rental car. They have a spare tire, but no jack.” He glanced over his shoulder. “This woman stopped earlier. I must have scared her. She might have called you. Anyway, I’m glad you showed up.”

  “Oh, really?” the policeman finally replied. He sounded all congested. “This lady told us you didn’t want her calling the police.”

  “I didn’t want her bothering the police,” Avery said. “All I need is a jack to change this tire.”

  “That sure looks like a flat to me. You can lower your arms, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Avery sighed. Hesitating, he turned and managed to smile at the patrolman. He prayed the guy wouldn’t recognize him.

  The officer tipped his hat, then pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. Avery guessed he was around thirty, and with a cold in full bloom. Against his pale complexion, his nose was almost as red as his neatly trimmed hair, and those blue eyes were bloodshot. He stood about six feet tall, and had a solid build. He sneezed loudly.

  “God bless you,” Avery muttered.

  “Thanks.” The cop moseyed over to the flat tire. “Where are you from?”

  “California,” Avery said. “I’m headed for Opal, but I think I took a wrong turn. My aunt lives there. I’m spending Thanksgiving with her.”

  “That’s nice.” He blew his nose again, then squinted at Avery. “Say, anyone ever tell you that you look like that movie star, Avery Cooper?”

  Avery shrugged. “I don’t follow the movies much.”

  The cop studied his face for another moment, then cleared his throat and spit. “Yeah, well, Opal’s about two hours from here. I have a map in my squad car. Sit tight for a second, and I’ll show you how to get there.”

  Avery watched him start back toward the patrol car. “If you have a jack,” he called, “I could change this tire in no time….”

  The policeman didn’t look back at him, but waved, then ducked into the front seat. Avery strained to catch a glimpse of him through the windshield’s glare. The guy must have had a hard time finding his road map, because he was in there at least five minutes. Finally, Avery started toward the patrol car. “Um, excuse me?” he called.

  The cop climbed out of the front seat. He let out a guttural roar to clear his throat and spit once again. “I can’t find the stupid map anywhere.”

  Avery smiled. “Hey, listen, it’s okay. I have a map in my car. If I head back to Highway 95, I should find Opal pretty easily.” He glanced over his shoulder at the lopsided Lincoln Town Car. “You know, if you have a jack I could borrow for a few minutes, I’d be on my way.”

  The policeman took a deep breath that puffed out his chest. “No, I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do here. You’re gonna lean against this vehicle and put your hands behind your back.”

  Bewildered, Avery stared at him. “What?”

  “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 helluva lot of trouble,” he whispere
d. “You know that, mister big shot movie star?”

  The following Internet conversation occurred at 1:42 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 constitution.

  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 ½ 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…God 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 whore 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 passenger 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? Shit. 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 bitch. 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 movie stars dead tomorrow—and one dead bitch-lawyer.”

  Sean watched the two-story, tan brick house across the street. The place had brown shutters and 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.

  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, MUNICIPALITY 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 passenger 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 glasses, 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 passport tomorrow. Passports, vaccinations, conve
rting 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 glass. 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, shaggy blond hair, and a ruddy complexion. He wore jeans and a rugby shirt. 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.”