The Next to Die

Everyone wanted to quote him, and take his picture. Suddenly Tom Lance mattered. Several video companies were now vying for the rights to his old films. At last he’d be in video stores. There were job offers too: playing Tom Hanks’s guardian angel in a comedy-fantasy and as an aging mob boss in a Harrison Ford movie. His dreams were coming true.

“Continuing with our top story,” the handsome, sporty E.T. anchorman announced. “The man who saved Dayle Sutton’s life and blew the lid off an extremist conspiracy is a seventy-six-year-old film- acting veteran named Tom Lance. According to Lance, an organized hate group used extortion and intimidation to get his cooperation….” Tom watched the same clip of himself from all the other evening newscasts. It was taped outside the police station. The seersucker suit didn’t photograph well, and he looked a bit tired. Still, he relished seeing himself on TV.

The telephone rang. It was the hotel operator. She’d been screening his calls. He’d taken only a handful since checking into the hotel: a couple of talent agents, someone from People magazine, and somebody at The Today Show. With the remote, Tom muted the TV, then picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“Hello, Mr. Lance. Do you want to take a call from an Adam Blanchard?”

Tom frowned. “Who’s he with?”

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Lance. He didn’t say.”

He sighed. “Well, I don’t know this Blanchard fella. Take a message and…” He trailed off. Blanchard. Maggie’s first husband. Adam was the son.

“Mr. Lance?”

“Um, yes. On second thought, put him through. Please.”

He heard a click, then: “Hello, Tom Lance?”

“Yes?”

“Tom, you don’t know me, but I’m Maggie McGuire’s son, Adam.”

“Oh, well, hello,” Tom replied, feeling awkward.

“I want to thank you for helping put a stop to this hate group. They killed a lot of good people—including my mother. If it weren’t for you, they’d have gone on killing. Anyway, I’m very grateful to you.”

“Well, I don’t know what to say. I don’t deserve any gratitude, son.”

“Just the same, thank you, Tom. I’ve always wanted to meet you. I’ve seen Hour of Deceit several times. I know you helped my mom get her start in films, she told me.”

“She did?”

“Oh, yeah. Anyway, you’re probably swamped with calls. I don’t want to keep you.”

“How’s your health?” Tom suddenly asked, remembering his HIV status.

“Good, thanks. I’m taking a new drug. It’s supposed to help.”

“Son, I wish more than anything your mom was still alive.” Tom struggled to say the right words. “I—I wrote a letter to the L.A. Times, and they’ll probably print it in tomorrow’s night edition. You should know, I meant what I said in that letter.”

There was a dubious chuckle on the other end of the line. “Well, I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand.”

“You will tomorrow night,” Tom said. “I’m glad you called, son. Thanks.”

“Thank you, Tom,” he said. “Take care.”

Tom hung up. He didn’t want to think about tomorrow. In the past few hours, he’d basked in the knowledge that they wanted him again. He was important, a hero to millions of people. But by tomorrow afternoon, his letter —with its full confession—would reach someone at the Los Angeles Times. That letter was supposed to be read after his death.

Tom tossed back his glass of champagne, then poured another. Grabbing the remote, he channel-surfed for more news coverage of the assassination attempt, another story about Tom Lance. He had only tonight to savor the glory—before it turned bad.

On one of the movie channels, he paused to watch Robert Duvall walking with another man around a chain- link fence. Tom turned up the volume. It took him only a moment to identify the older, raspy-voiced actor as Michael V. Gazzo from The Actors Studio. The movie was The Godfather, Part II. Duvall was explaining to his old Mafia chum how in Roman times, some generals, accused of plotting against the emperor, chose to die with dignity. They’d draw a warm bath, then slash their wrists and bleed to death.

Frowning, Tom switched channels. One of the news shows had a clip of him with Maggie in Hour of Deceit. With a sad smile, he watched and drank his champagne. Only two weeks ago, he’d been a forgotten film actor, ready to shoot himself by the Hollywood sign. His death would have gone unnoticed. But by tomorrow, his suicide would make headlines.

Another movie scene came to mind: George C. Scott’s speech in Patton, about how—again, in Roman times—during a victory parade, the general would have an aide-de-camp whispering in his ear: “All glory is fleeting.”

Tom had the speech in a book of movie monologues. He’d read it aloud a few times. But he’d never fully understood what it meant until now.

“All glory is fleeting.”

He went into the bathroom and found a disposable razor in the complimentary kit from the hotel. Tom broke off the plastic and took out the blade. Then he ran the hot water in the bath.

Stepping back into the bedroom, he called the hotel operator and asked her to hold all his calls. He poured himself another glass of champagne, and toasted Maggie.

Then Tom Lance went into the bathroom with his glass, a razor blade, and his dignity.

“Hello, I’m Mrs. Russell Marshall.”

“Hi, Elsie!”

Elsie Marshall sat behind her desk, surrounded by copies of her book, A Little More Common Sense. In the guest chair today sat a balding, pasty-faced man of fifty with a sparse, thin mustache that failed to draw attention from his small eyes and double chin. He wore a pinstriped dark-gray suit.

“If you’re just tuning in,” Elsie chirped. “You don’t want to touch that dial, because we’re talking some Common Sense with Mr. Roger Crayton, who decided enough is enough, and got certain filthy books banned from public libraries in his home state of North Carolina. Stay tuned!”

The studio audience applauded. Elsie glanced up at the sound booth and made a slashing gesture at her throat, indicating they should turn off the mikes. Then she turned to her guest. “Mr. Crayton, I hope you won’t mention how you tried to ban The Color Purple and A Catcher in the Rye from the libraries. I for one say bravo. But there are just too many bleeding-heart liberals out there who think that—well, if you pardon me—such crap has literary significance. Let’s stick to the books you actually had pulled from the shelves—like Heather Has Two Mommies, and that other horrible one—”

Mr. Crayton seemed distracted by something going on behind her. Elsie turned to see an Asian woman in a beige suit shaking her head at the production assistant, who was trying to keep her from coming onto the set.

Elsie glared at the intruder, then looked around at all her production people. “What’s going on here?” she demanded to know. “I’m taping a show, for pity’s sake. Somebody get this Oriental woman off my set!”

The audience became restless. A rumbling of whispers rose from Elsie’s subjects. She bristled at the disruption this trespasser was causing. “Who do you think you are?” Elsie said indignantly.

The “Oriental woman” pulled out a wallet and flashed a badge at her. “I’m Lieutenant Susan Linn, LAPD, homicide division,” she said. Then her quiet little smile widened. “Hi, Elsie.”

Judy had invited Avery to share Thanksgiving dinner with her family, but he preferred to stick around the hospital’s intensive care unit. He was still confined to the wheelchair. The press had been allowed to interview him and Officer Pete for an hour yesterday. Now the state patrol worked overtime—with holiday pay—to keep out the reporters. All visitors had to be screened.

A few thousand miles away, the Beverly Hills police had dropped Avery as a suspect in the murder-rape of Libby Stoddard. Their manhunt for Howard “Hal” Buchanan had ended late last night with the discovery of his body