A husky, blond woman with airport security sauntered by and scrutinized him with a narrow gaze. He tried to avoid eye contact with her.
The older couple were still talking to the ticket agent, whose name tag read SERGI. He was shaking his head and apologizing to them about something. Perhaps Sergi would be so rushed and haggard after these two customers, he wouldn’t notice that he was sending a famous fugitive to Spokane, Washington.
The security guard wandered by again, glancing back at him over her shoulder. She unhooked a walkie-talkie from her belt and whispered something into it as she strolled away.
The man in front of him stepped forward. The old couple shuffled off with their tickets, thank God. Maybe the line would start moving now.
He spied the security guard near the outside doors. She was talking to a cop, and pointing directly at him. Avery’s heart seemed to stop. His first instinct was to run, but all he could do was watch the policeman and the security guard descend on him. The cop had something in his hand. “Hey, mister, you’re not going anywhere,” he said.
Avery started to shake his head. But the policeman passed him by. “Your ticket,” the cop said, grinning at a man in the line, four people in back of Avery. “You dropped this when you got off the shuttle bus. Can’t go very far without a ticket. I’ve been trying to track you down….”
Avery felt himself crumble a little inside. He wanted to sit down someplace, but Sergi waved him forward. “Next?”
Approaching the counter, he tried to smile at the ticket agent. “Hi, how are you?” he said. With a shaky hand, he reached for his wallet. “I need to go to Spokane, Washington, today.”
Sergi started typing on the computer. “How many people are traveling?”
“Just one, me.” He set his credit card on the counter. The card used his full name: Avery O’Reilly Cooper.
“Do you have any bags going to Spokane, Mr.—” he glanced at the credit card. “Mr. Cooper?”
“No, I—I don’t.” He wiped the perspiration from his forehead again.
“I’ll need to see some photo ID, sir.”
Avery nodded more than necessary. “Yes, of course.” He set his driver’s license on the counter.
Sergi studied the license, then handed it back to Avery. “Thank you, Mr. Cooper. Will you be returning from Spokane?”
“Um, I don’t know when. So—it’s one way—a one-way ticket.”
Sergi went back to his keyboard and computer screen. “Hmmm, I can book you on our Portland flight, leaving in thirty-five minutes. You’ll have an hour layover for your connection, which arrives in Spokane tonight at eight-eleven. Does that sound good, Mr. Cooper?”
Avery smiled gratefully. “Yes, that’s—just fine.”
He hadn’t anticipated any problems at the boarding gate. But then he learned his flight would be delayed by forty-five minutes, and one of the biggest attractions at the airport newsstand was People magazine—with Joanne and him on the cover. The issue was displayed—one after another—behind a plastic case above the entire length of the periodical section. Avery saw two customers buying the magazine in the shop, and he counted three more people slouched in the boarding area seats reading it.
He ducked into the men’s room and hid in a stall. Sitting on the edge of the toilet, he waited out the next forty-five minutes.
They were boarding his row number when Avery emerged from the lavatory. The plane wasn’t too crowded. He had a row to himself. For most of the flight—and through the dinner service—he turned his head toward the window and feigned sleep. But he was too wired to nap. He kept wondering if someone had recognized him in the boarding area and called the police. Would a bunch of cops be waiting for him at the gate in Portland?
It seemed like the longest flight he’d ever taken, and he still had to switch planes. When they finally landed in Portland, he was relieved to find no welcoming committee of cops. He got cash from the ATM, bought supplies, then hid out in the men’s room again until his Spokane flight was boarding.
Once they’d landed in Spokane, Avery quickly threaded around a barrage of people and carts in the terminal. He followed the signs to the rental car area. He hadn’t made reservations, figuring some customer service representative might blow the whistle on the “Beverly Hills Butcher.”
Avery caught his breath, and came up to the car rental counter. The attendant was a thin, thirtyish woman in a burgundy jacket with PEGGY on her name tag. She had bright red lipstick and tinted auburn hair that might have been a wig from the cut of her bangs and the way the sides perfectly framed her head, curling in at the shoulders. She greeted him with a professional perkiness. “How can I help you today, sir?”
“Hello.” He dug out his driver’s license and credit card. “I don’t have a reservation. Do you have any cars available?”
“Of course, sir,” she said, her fingers poised on the computer’s keyboard. “For how many days?”
“Um, just two days, I think.”
Peggy started typing. She glanced down at Avery’s credit card and license. Her smile seemed to freeze, then immediately wither. She stopped typing, and her eyes met his for a moment.
Either she was starstuck or suddenly very aware that she was face-to-face with a man accused of rape and murder. Avery did his damnedest not to appear rattled. “Is there a problem?” he dared to ask.
She quickly shook her head. “No, not at all.” She went back to her typing. But she kept peering up at him nervously. “Um, I think I can upgrade you, Mr.—Cooper,” she said. “Could you excuse me for a moment?”
Avery nodded.
Peggy turned and stiffly retreated into an office behind the counter. She glanced over her shoulder at him before closing the door. Avery caught a glimpse of a middle-aged woman seated at the desk in the office. She also wore a burgundy jacket. Now he stared at that closed door. A voice inside him said: Get the hell out…now.
He peeked over the countertop—to where Peggy had left his credit card and license by her keyboard. He decided to count to ten. If she wasn’t out of that office by then, he’d find the nearest exit. One, two, three…
Avery turned and looked around. He noticed a tall man in a blue uniform, standing by the far baggage carousel. Avery couldn’t tell if he was with the Spokane police or airport security, but someone just called him. The guard unhooked his walkie-talkie from his belt, then spoke into it.
Avery glanced back at the closed office door. …six, seven…
The walkie-talkie to his ear, man in the blue uniform seemed to be searching the crowd, his gaze shifting to the row of car rental booths.
…nine, ten.
Avery quickly reached over the counter and scooped up his credit card and license. He swiveled around and walked as quickly as he could to the nearest exit. He didn’t dare look back.
A blast of cold air hit him as he came outside. It chilled the beads of sweat on his forehead. He kept walking—toward a shuttle van for the Red Lion Motor Inn. The sliding passenger door was open while the driver loaded up someone’s bags in back. Avery approached the driver. “I didn’t call for you, but I have a reservation with the Red Lion,” he said, out of breath. His heart was racing. “Can you take me?”
“Sure can. Climb aboard. Sit back and relax.”
“Thank you.” He ducked into the warm van, then plopped down in the backseat. The only other passengers were a middle-aged couple. Avery wiped his sweaty forehead, and turned to the window. He expected to see the walkie-talkie man out by the curb—or perhaps the car rental woman. But he didn’t spot either one. Maybe he’d hear on the local news tonight about someone seeing Avery Cooper in the Spokane airport. Then again, maybe not.
He’d brought enough cash along. He’d take a room at the Red Lion tonight, and try again for a rental car in the morning.
Avery heard the front door shut. The driver settled into his seat, and a moment later, they started moving.
Twenty-two
Riding to the studio in her
limo, Dayle had a copy of the shooting script on her lap. But she kept peeking up at the two men in front of her—on the other side of that window divider. Ted sat with the driver—another in a series of strangers acting as her temporary chauffeur.
Now Dayle felt stupid for having such blind trust in him. She’d barely slept last night—uncertain about the man just down the hall from her bedroom. Any tolerance points he’d earned protecting the notoriously gay Gil Palermo laid in the balance. Dayle still hadn’t received a call back from Gil’s friend, Jonathan Brooks. She’d left him another message this morning.
Dayle stared at Ted and the driver. She closed her script, then pressed the button to lower the divider window. Ted looked over his shoulder as the glass partition descended. “I was just thinking, Ted,” she announced. “You don’t need to stay with me tonight. I’ll be okay with the extra guards in the hall and the lobby.”
He shook his head. “You need someone in the apartment with you.”
“Well, I’d like some privacy tonight. I’d rather be alone.”
“You hired me to guarantee your safety, Dayle,” he said, a bit patronizing. “Sometimes that means I have to be a pain in the ass. Let me do my job tonight. I’ll make sure you have the breathing space you need.”
“Of course you will.” Dayle gave him a pale smile, then pressed the switch to raise the partition. “Thanks, Ted.”
“You’re just nervous, that’s all,” Hal assured him.
Tom’s aim had been miserable for the last half hour. He’d gone through nearly fifty bullets trying to hit ten lousy bottles off the ranch house railing.
“Isn’t there some show business saying?” Hal continued. “‘Bad dress rehearsal, great show’? You’ll do fine tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Tom muttered. He shot at another bottle and missed. “Guess I’m still worried about getting past her bodyguard. Is he good?”
“Oh, yes, and he’s an excellent shot too. But quit your worrying, Tom. He’s with us—one of our best men, Ted Kovak.” He sighed. “Some of the triggermen in SAAMO aren’t exactly Rhodes Scholars. Like our late friend Lyle, they’re dedicated, but ignorant. Still, we need these bottom-of-the-barrel types for certain jobs. But Ted Kovak is good, top of the heap. He’s the one shooting you with blanks tomorrow.”
Hal patted Tom on the back, then pointed to his fake mustache. “You need more glue on that lip warmer. It’s starting to peel off.”
Tom wiped his brow, and pressed on his upper lip to secure the fake mustache. “Will I need to wear this disguise for the plane ride tomorrow?”
“You’re probably better off without it.” Hal kicked at the dirt. “Have you made a decision where you’d like to go?”
“Yes, Rio de Janeiro.” Just saying that made Tom feel better.
“Good choice. You’ll be on your way in twenty-four hours. We’ll supply you with a passport. We’ll take care of everything.”
“Won’t you need a picture of me for the passport?” Tom asked.
“Right you are. Remind me later, okay? Now, try that target again.”
But Tom couldn’t get his mind off tomorrow. Hal had gone over the assassination of Dayle Sutton several times—down to the smallest detail. Tom knew what to expect—until the moment his “corpse” was carried into the fake ambulance. Then the plans became vague, and he didn’t like that uncertainty.
He aimed at the bottle, carefully squeezed the trigger, and missed.
“Cut!” yelled the assistant director.
Dayle’s character, struggling with alcoholism and middle age, sat through her first AA meeting at a “town hall” set. About thirty extras surrounded her. With her gray tweed suit and a matronly makeover, Dayle perched on a folding chair and listened to speeches. Tomorrow, they would film her turn at the podium—a long, very emotional speech, Best Actress Oscar bait.
While they set up another shot, Dayle headed for her trailer. Dennis stood by the door. He gave a long look at her middle-aged makeover. “Here you go, Mom,” he said, handing her a bottle of Evian.
“Thanks,” she muttered, not smiling at his Mom crack.
“You okay, Dayle?” he asked. “All morning long, you’ve been on edge—”
“I’m not okay,” she sighed, pausing on the steps to her trailer. “Nick Brock was killed on Friday.”
“What?” Dennis seemed genuinely stunned. “You’re kidding.”
“Someone set fire to his hotel room. He burned to death.”
“My God, Dayle,” he murmured.
“I’m trying to figure out how this hate group knew where to find Nick. Did you tell anyone that he was in Opal?”
“No, of course not. Shouldn’t you talk to the police about this?”
She shook her head. Dennis seemed so concerned and earnest. Was it just an act?
“I don’t want to involve the police yet,” she said steadily. “A cop shot Hank and Bonny. They could be part of the conspiracy. I can’t trust the police. I can’t trust anybody.” She opened the trailer door.
Dennis gave her a wary glance. “Even me?”
“Even you,” Dayle said.
“You goddamn idiot,” Avery muttered to himself. He never should have turned off Highway 95. But on his map, the rural route looked like a quicker way to Opal. But he’d been on this road for an hour now, and still no Opal, just a long, deserted, snaky highway without any markings. For all he knew, he could be driving away from Opal. The fuel needle hovered near empty. On the radio, just static. He couldn’t get anything on his cellular phone. No surprise, he was outside a roaming zone.
Avery sat at the wheel of a six-year-old Lincoln Town Car. It was like steering the Titanic, the thing felt so big. But it had been the only car with snow tires at Merv’s E-Z Auto Rentals.
Avery had first noticed the car rental sign last night—half a block from The Spokane Red Lion. Merv’s didn’t open until 9:30 in the morning, and it looked like a fly-by-night outfit. But Avery figured they might not be so particular about who he was once the credit card cleared.
They had a room available at the Red Lion Inn. No one at the front desk recognized him. The eleven o’clock news didn’t report any sightings of Avery Cooper at the Spokane airport. But the warrant for his arrest was one of the lead stories. He telephoned Sean, and they arranged to meet tomorrow in the lot outside the Opal post office.
In the morning, he called Glenhaven Spa for a progress report on Joanne, but then he remembered his status with the law, and hung up.
At Merv’s E-Z Auto Rentals, the puffy, middle-aged man behind the counter didn’t seem to recognize him. After climbing inside the Lincoln Town Car, which smelled of stale coffee and cigarettes, Avery glanced at the rental paperwork. The salesman had filled in his name as Andrew O. Cooper.
The snow tires were a good call. Compact snow, slush, and ice covered the road. With white knuckles, Avery clutched the steering wheel and wove through the mountain passes. Along the way, he drove by several abandoned cars that had spun out and stalled in ditches. Finally, the highway dipped to a lower altitude and straightened. No more snow—at least for a while.
Then he’d decided to try this shortcut.
The short cut to hell, was more like it. Except for an occasional farm house in the distance, there was no sign of civilization. Up ahead, he saw more mountains—more snow and ice. He checked the fuel needle again. He’d passed a service station about an hour ago on Highway 95; perhaps this gas-guzzler could make it back. At least he’d know where he was headed.
With a sigh, Avery slowed and made a U-turn. He heard gravel grinding beneath the tires as he swung the Town Car around. After a few minutes, the road beneath him began to feel bumpy. It sounded as if something was dragging along his right front tire. The car listed to one side. “Oh, God,” Avery whispered. “Please, don’t let it be a flat. Not here….”
He pulled over to the roadside and climbed out of the big car. He could see his breath as he walked around to inspect the tire. It was totally defl
ated, with the hubcap digging into the gravel. “Shit,” Avery growled. He kept spitting out the word—again and again. He went back into the car, threw on his sweater, then checked the trunk for a spare tire. He wasn’t sure Merv’s E-Z Auto Rentals would have one. But they did.
What they didn’t have was a jack. “GODDAMN IT!” he bellowed. He kicked a dent in the car door. He let a few more expletives fly as he searched for the jack: in the trunk, under the seats, in the front hood. He was still searching in vain when he spotted in the distance another car down the road, coming his way.
Avery started waving for help. He caught a better look at the approaching vehicle, a Corsica. Along with the Ford Taurus, it was the automobile of choice for the “rental mentals.” He stopped waving for a moment. The Corsica slowed down. Avery saw only one person in the front seat. It looked like a woman. The car crawled to a stop and she rolled down her window. The driver was a brunette in her late twenties. She had a long, thin, pretty face, and wore a red sweater. “Are you okay?” she called.
“I didn’t think anyone would come by,” Avery said, starting toward the car. “I have a flat. This is a rental, and there’s no jack….”
As he stepped closer, she inched her car forward a bit. She looked apprehensive, so he stopped in his tracks. “Um, if you have a jack, I could fix this tire in a few minutes. I’d really appreciate it.”
“I’d like to help,” she said, wincing in an apologetic way. “But my husband doesn’t want me stopping for strangers….”
Nodding, Avery managed to smile at her. “I understand. But—well,” he pointed to his car. “I’m kind of stranded here. I really do have a flat….”
He made the mistake of approaching her car again. The Corsica lurched forward. “Tell you what,” the woman nervously called to him. “I have a cellular. I’ll phone the police for you. It shouldn’t take more than an hour—”
The Next to Die Page 30
