The Next to Die

“The entertainment world is shocked and saddened today by the passing of one of its most durable talents. Academy-Award-winning actress Maggie McGuire was shot to death in her Beverly Hills home last night….”

Tom kept having to go back and forth from the broadcast to the videotape until he finally found the end of his western. Then he switched back to the broadcast and started recording. They were showing Maggie’s ranch house, police cars jammed in the driveway. “…as investigations continue,” the anchor-woman said. “Maggie McGuire’s career spanned four decades. She played a Mafia mistress in her first movie, Hour of Deceit….”

“My God, there I am!” Tom gasped. He stared at a scene from the movie. He’d cornered Maggie in a bar. His back was to the camera, but his face was visible in partial profile. “I’m not gonna sing to any cop,” Maggie said, puffing a cigarette. She wore a sexy, off-the-shoulder cocktail dress. It was before Hollywood had groomed her for stardom, and she looked so fresh, raw, and beautiful. Her wavy black hair fell down to her bare shoulders. Tom now remembered why he’d fallen in love with that gorgeous young girl. “I’ve had a bellyful of you cops,” she continued. “Besides, Frankie treats me nice….”

Tom still remembered his line that followed: “I think you’re scared of him, Miss Gerrard.” But they cut to another film clip. “More bad-girl roles followed for McGuire,” the anchorwoman announced. “She received a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for Strange Corridor, in which she played—”

The telephone rang. For a moment, Tom was torn. Was it a friend who had just seen him on TV? His agent? A reporter? A movie offer?

He pressed the mute button on his remote and reached for the phone. “Hello?” he said, tentative. He watched a clip of Maggie with Robert Mitchum.

There was a mechanical click on the other end of the line. A strange humming sound followed, and over this, a muffled barking—as if a dog was outside the caller’s house.

“Hello?” Tom said again. “Who’s there?”

The dog continued to bark, only louder. Tom realized it was a recording. Someone turned up the volume. Why would anybody want to tape a dog howling and yelping repeatedly?

He was ready to hang up. The barking was like some sort of alarm that wouldn’t shut off. Then he realized that he was listening to Maggie’s dog, Tosha. The recording must have been made yesterday, at just around the time when he was killing her.

“Hello?” Tom whispered. He could hardly breathe.

The volume went down on the tape, and the dog’s barking faded away. Tom listened to the quiet for a moment. Then he heard another click, followed by Maggie’s recorded voice: “Tom. You’re pathetic, you really are.”

Entertainment Tonight had another headline story—besides Maggie McGuire’s death. Behind the anchorwoman’s right shoulder appeared a blowup photo of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane. “Doctors released Joanne Lane from Cedars-Sanai Medical Center today after emergency treatment for an undisclosed ailment,” she announced. “The Broadway actress and her husband, Avery Cooper, have been embroiled in a media furor over the public release of their very private home-video sex tape. E.T. correspondent, Charles Platt, has the story from outside the Coopers’ home in Beverly Hills.”

A swarthy, square-jawed young man stood by Avery and Joanne’s front gate. “Sally-Anne, I’m here outside the home of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane,” he said into his microphone. “The couple had just filmed a segment for The Tonight Show, and while backstage at NBC studios in Burbank, Avery Cooper telephoned for an ambulance for his wife. Joanne Lane was rushed to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. There have been conflicting reports as to the nature of this medical emergency. However, sources at the Cedars-Sinai have unofficially told E.T. that Joanne Lane suffered a miscarriage….”

The picture switched to a clip of Avery helping a shaky, frail Joanne into a black BMW at the hospital’s side entrance. Camera flashes illuminated them like a flickering strobe. “The Coopers left the hospital together at two- thirty this afternoon,” the reporter continued. The camera pulled back to show him standing in front of Avery’s driveway—along with about a hundred people. Bouquets of flowers and cards had been left by the front gate. “The Coopers’ house here in Beverly Hills is far from quiet tonight—”

“Which explains why the Coopers are here,” Sheila Weber said, switching off the TV set on their kitchen counter. Demurely pretty, Sheila had a creamy complexion and curly blond hair. She was five months pregnant with her first child. “How are you holding up?” she asked, refilling Avery’s wineglass.

Avery nodded. “I’ll be okay.” He sat at the Webers’ breakfast table. George Weber stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders. With dark eyes and prematurely gray hair, he was a handsome guy. A psychologist, he must have had patients constantly falling in love with him. “Relax, eat something, buddy,” he said. “You look like shit.”

Avery managed to chuckle. He patted his friend’s hand, but didn’t touch the sandwich in front of him. Joanne was asleep in the Webers’ guest room.

George and Sheila Weber were his closest friends—and in a way, his second family. Avery had known George since high school. When he’d moved to Los Angeles, Avery stayed in George’s one-bedroom garage apartment. He’d had a roll-out futon in the living room, and paid half of the rent. For three years, the struggling actor and the medical student had lived together.

Avery had been best man at George’s wedding. The Webers had already asked him to be godfather to the baby. Sheila’s sister would be godmother. Avery hated seeing Joanne left out of the loop. Yet he had a hunch Joanne merely went through the social motions with the Webers, the same way he couldn’t quite bond with her Broadway cohorts. Maybe bringing her here wasn’t such a smart idea, what with Sheila so healthy, happy, and pregnant.

In the hospital emergency room, Joanne had told him that she’d taken a home pregnancy test last week. The results had been positive. She’d planned on seeing their doctor once this media blitz campaign was over. The Tonight Show was their last obligation. “I wanted to tell you tonight, honey,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I wanted to surprise you.”

As he and Joanne had left the hospital, photographers had fought each other for a good shot. One of the most painful times of their lives needed to be recorded for the public by these vultures. Pulling away in the black BMW, they’d had at least a dozen cars on their tail. Steve Bensinger had quickly assigned several other black BMWs to converge with Avery’s car on their escape route from Cedars-Sinai. The strategy worked. By the time Avery and Joanne reached the Webers’ block in Brentwood, they’d lost the bloodhounds.

“Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” George suggested, sitting down at the table with Avery. “You can crash in our bedroom. You won’t wake Joanne.”

“No,” he said. “I need to pick up some things from home if we’re spending the night.”

George offered to come along, but Avery said he wanted to be alone for a while. Before leaving, he checked in on Joanne once more. She was still napping. Neither of them had caught much sleep during the last three days. In fact, the strenuous schedule had probably contributed to her miscarriage.

Curled up beneath the blanket, she lifted her head and squinted at him.

“I’m going home for some stuff,” he said. “You need anything, honey?”

Joanne shook her head.

He leaned over and kissed her. Joanne’s cheek was wet with tears. Avery took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “You—you just rest, okay? I’ll be back in about an hour.”

He didn’t drive directly home. He swung by a small, secluded ocean-view park, halfway between home and the Webers’. There wasn’t much to the place: a couple of wooden benches, and a low rock wall at the bluff’s edge. Avery sometimes came here when he felt blue. He sat down on one of the benches. The smog made for an achingly beautiful sunset: layers of bright pink and topaz streaked the darkening sky, and reflected in the choppy waters of the Pacific. A cool ocean breeze stung the tears in his eyes. He could cry here. He didn’t think anyone was around to see him.

But a rented white Taurus idled at the side of the road less than half a block from the little park. Avery and Joanne had lost the pursuing reporters after leaving the hospital, yet this car had managed to remain inconspicuously on their tail. One of the two men in the Taurus was now talking on a cellular phone. He had urgent instructions regarding Avery Cooper’s exact location.

Avery had no idea how much time had passed while he sat on that park bench, but a drab darkness had consumed the beautiful sunset. He’d been so worried about Joanne grieving around the very pregnant Sheila. But he