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.”
“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 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:
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 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?”
Twenty-three
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.
