The Next To Die Part 2

The film, called Intent to Kill Intent to Kill, tapped into Avery's nice-guy image. He played a doctor, paralyzed after being gunned down by protesters outside an abortion clinic. The controversial "network event" won him critical raves-along with piles of hate mail, even some death threats.

Avery got to his feet and grabbed a couple of thirty-pound dumbbell weights. "A lot of the letters were very supportive," he pointed out.

"And a lot of them were d.a.m.n scary," Louise said.

Someone knocked on the trailer door. "C'mon in," Avery called.

Bob, a studio gofer, stepped into the trailer, and set a package on the sofa. "This arrived for you special delivery a little while ago, Avery. Looks kind of personal. I don't know."

Avery put down the weights. "Great. Thanks, Bob."

Bob ducked out of the trailer, not closing the door entirely.

"What did you get?" Louise asked over the speaker phone.

"I don't know yet," Avery said, reaching for the box. He tore off the brown wrapping. "There's no return address."

"Well, wait a minute!" Louise barked. "What if it's a letter bomb or something? You already have all these nuts wanting you dead. Wait-"

"Too late, Louise," Avery said. The box bore a Ralph Lauren polo insignia. He set the top aside, parted the folds of tissue paper, and found a card resting on a gray hand-knit sweater.

"What it is?" Louise asked.

"It's a sweater that must have cost a few hundred bucks." Frowning, Avery read the card insert. "Here's what the enclosure says: I bet it's cold up there in Canada. Thought you'd need this. Love, Libby. P.S. Did you like the tie? Why haven't I heard from you? I bet it's cold up there in Canada. Thought you'd need this. Love, Libby. P.S. Did you like the tie? Why haven't I heard from you?"

"My Lord," Louise muttered. "She just won't give up, will she? You're too nice. You should let me or someone from the studio write and tell her in a polite way to p.i.s.s off."

The sweater was the most recent in a long line of gifts Avery had received from an obsessive woman named Libby Stoddard, who claimed to be his biggest fan. She'd sent the first present a year ago, a book on Bob Hope, because Avery had said in an interview that he was a sucker for old Bob Hope movies. He thanked Libby in a letter and included an autographed glossy. She thanked him right back with a video of Son of Paleface Son of Paleface. After that, her presents became more extravagant. Avery started sending them back. He stopped enclosing "No Thank You," notes with the return packages, figuring they fed something in her. Shortly before Avery had left for Vancouver, he got a call at home, and was stunned to hear a woman on the other end of the line say, "I can't believe I'm actually talking to you! This is Libby."

He probably should have hung up on her right away, but he was stupid enough to think he could talk sense to her. "Um, h.e.l.lo," he managed to say. "How did you get my home number?"

She laughed. "I hired someone to find out for me, that's all. I have a lot of money, you ought to know that from the presents I send. This is so neat! How are you, Avery?"

"Well, ah, Libby, I'm-not too happy about this call. I know you're probably a really nice person, but this is an invasion of my privacy. The gifts you've sent are very generous, but-"

"I thought for sure you'd keep the aviator jacket. It cost a lot."

"I'm sure it did. That's why I sent it back to you. This has to stop. I can't have you buying me all these clothes-"

"But I want to...."

"Well, what you're doing borders on hara.s.sment. And I don't think that's your intention."

"What do you mean?" she asked, in a hurt little-girl voice. "Is your wife there? Is that why you're saying these things? Should I call back later?"

Avery took a deep breath. "I'm asking you not to call me or send me any more gifts. I'm sure your intentions are good, but-"

"I can't believe you'd be this ungrateful," she said. "I must have caught you at a bad time. Listen, it's okay. I'll call back later-"

"No-"

"Don't worry, I still love you, Avery." Then she hung up.

Avery had left for Vancouver two days later. There had been several hang-ups on his answering machine during those forty-eight hours. His caller ID showed seven of those calls were from "L. B. Stoddard: 555-1939."

Now she'd discovered the film location address here in Vancouver. Avery stared at the sweater. "Christ," he muttered. "Think she'll ever give up?"

"Highly doubtful," Louise said. "I told you last year when you left the show-you need someone to run fan interference. The network did it for you for five years. You can't be Mr. Nice Guy all the time, Avery. Let me handle this Libby character, okay? I'll have my a.s.sistant, Nola, send her a very officious letter telling her to knock it off."

"I guess you better." Avery set the Ralph Lauren box on the sofa.

At that moment, someone stepped into the trailer. "Hey, nice..."

Avery looked up and caught Traci Haydn leering at him. The twenty-seven-year-old ash blonde with an angel's face was smoking a cigarette. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s stretched her blue T-shirt to its fiber limit. The shirt barely came down over her rib cage, exposing her toned belly and a gold ring piercing her navel.

"Traci, hi," was all Avery could say.

"Where have you been hiding that bod, Avery?"

She tossed her cigarette outside, then shut the door. "Is there a no-shirts policy in this trailer?" she asked. Then with a giggle, she shucked the tiny T-shirt over her head.

Avery backed into his dressing table. "Jesus, Traci..."

A bobby pin must have come out when she tossed off the shirt, because some of the blond hair fell over her eyes, and Traci looked d.a.m.n s.e.xy. But he loved his wife, and this woman was trouble.

"Traci, put your clothes back on. There are people outside-"

Sauntering toward him, Traci grinned. "If the trailer's rockin', they won't come knockin'."

"Lord, did I hear her right?" Louise asked over the speaker phone. "Did she really just say that?"

"What the f.u.c.k?" Traci's playful grin vanished.

"Traci, I'm on the speaker phone with my agent," Avery explained. He ran a hand through his wavy black hair. "Um, do you know Louise Farrell?"

"Hi, Traci," Louise piped up.

Traci Haydn rolled her eyes, then deliberately stepped up to Avery. Those firm, beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s rubbed against his sweaty chest. She stood on her tiptoes, and her nipples grazed his. "I'm going to get you, one way or another," she whispered. Then she gave his ear a long, slow lick. Backing away, Traci smiled at him.

Avery tried in vain to camouflage the erection stirring inside his jeans. "Traci, how many times do I have to tell you no?" he whispered.

Ignoring his question, she put her T-shirt back on. "Bye, Laura or whatever your name is," she said. "Nice talking to you."

"Oh, you too, Traci, dear," Louise replied.

Avery watched her go; then he sank down on the sofa. He sighed. "You still there, Louise?"

"Honey, I wouldn't hang up for the world right now. How many pa.s.ses does that make from your happily married costar?"

"That's the third one this week, and it was a lulu, about a five-point-five on the Richter scale. I tell you, she's worse than Libby."

"Sounded like she said something about 'no shirts.' Was she topless?"

"Yes. And my ear is still wet from her licking it."

"Well, Mr. Avery Cooper. Do you realize what you just experienced? Traci Haydn is the fantasy girl for millions of boys and men, the stuff wet dreams are made of. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I miss my wife," Avery replied.

"Hi, sweetie. I erased all the other messages, because we maxed out on the machine. Aren't we popular?"

Avery smiled. He sat at the desk in his suite at the Vancouver Four Seasons. Simply hearing Joanne's voice on the answering machine at home soothed some of his loneliness.

Joanne Lane was a stage actress. Twice nominated for a Featured Actress Tony, she'd made a name for herself on Broadway. Elsewhere, she was Mrs. Avery Cooper. Her latest play hadn't fared well with critics. Unless business picked up, the production would close next week, and she'd return home to L.A. Under such gloomy circ.u.mstances, Avery tried not to celebrate their reunions too eagerly. Joanne had bouts with depression. She was on medication, but still required kid-glove handling at times. Things were always a little touch and go whenever one of her plays failed, but it also meant they could be together for a while.

They'd met four years ago, during a summer hiatus from his TV show, Crazy to Work Here Crazy to Work Here. Avery had played a "nice guy" who has horrible luck with women. Quickly he'd become the star attraction among the ensemble cast of "wacky" characters employed at an ad agency. Comparisons to Jack Lemmon and Tom Hanks abounded for the former Northwestern drama major and Second City alumni. He was also a favorite guest on the talk show circuit. On Letterman, he stirred the studio audience into a sing-along frenzy with an impromptu rendition of "Wild Thing" on his harmonica. And to Rosie, when pressed, Avery humbly admitted, "I can count on one hand all my s.e.x partners-including the hand."

That summer away from the show, Joanne Lane became the fifth woman in Avery's life. With l.u.s.trous shoulder-length light brown hair and blue eyes, Joanne had an undefinable star quality. Though no great beauty, she had a sultry voice and a toned, taut body. She oozed s.e.x appeal. The Broadway actress had landed a role in Avery's first "starring" feature film, a forgettable romantic comedy called Five Feet of Heaven Five Feet of Heaven. She played his s.l.u.tty sister, and outside of falling in love with her screen brother, she found film acting incredibly tedious. Joanne ran back to Broadway, and Avery reluctantly returned to Los Angeles and Crazy to Work Here Crazy to Work Here. But they couldn't stay away from each other. Avery used his clout to get Joanne some guest shots on the show. He spent summers and holidays on the East Coast; she took breaks between plays to be with him in Hollywood. All the traveling and scheduling became quite complicated. So they kept the wedding simple. They were married in a small chapel in Avery's hometown of Fairfax, Virginia.

One advantage to Avery and Joanne's bicoastal marriage was that the relationship never had a chance to grow stale. After two years, they still acted like newlyweds. If anything had grown stale it was all the traveling and the time apart. Before this recent theatrical misfire had lured Joanne back to Broadway, they'd been trying to have a baby-without much luck.

"I made us another appointment with the fertility specialist on Wednesday, the eighth," Joanne told him on the answering machine. "Also I committed us to another public service announcement for handgun control. They won't film until late December, so we can put that on the back burner for now. I miss you, sweetie. I wish it were next week already so we could be together. It's midnight here. I'm hitting the sheets. Good night, love."

Joanne had left the message an hour ago. Avery decided not to call and possibly wake her. Instead, he went to his suitcase in the closet. He snapped open the locks, and took out a video-a s.e.xually explicit video starring Mr. and Mrs. Avery Cooper.

Several months back, he'd been concerned about his first R-rated love scene-in this movie with Traci Hadyn. Joanne had playfully suggested they "rehea.r.s.e" together. At her urging, he'd broken out the video camera and tripod to tape their lovemaking. After some initial shyness, they began to have fun, and eventually forgot the camera was there. The resulting video was more silly than s.e.xy. Avery stashed the tape in his underwear drawer, and pretty much forgot about it.

But his first night on location here in Vancouver, he'd unpacked his bags, and found Joanne had taken their little s.e.x epic out of mothb.a.l.l.s. She'd hidden the video in his suitcase-along with a Post-It note: Dear Husband, Keep Rehearsing! Your Loving Wife Dear Husband, Keep Rehearsing! Your Loving Wife. She'd left for New York that same day.

Now Avery popped the ca.s.sette in the VCR connected to the hotel TV. He sat at the end of his bed and watched. He ignored his own video image: that dumb wiry guy with the erection and the birthmark on his b.u.t.t. Instead, he focused on Joanne's lithe body, the way she smiled and giggled. He felt himself grow hard.

Someone knocked on the door. Avery stood up and tried to adjust his erection. His first thought was: G.o.d, please don't let it be Traci Haydn G.o.d, please don't let it be Traci Haydn. He ejected the video and turned off the TV. There was another knock.

"Mr. Cooper? Turn down your bed?"

Stashing the video back in his suitcase, Avery went to the other room and checked the peephole. It was the old lady who pulled back the bedcovers every night. As far as Avery was concerned, her job was the most useless service a hotel could provide. But, h.e.l.l, she was a sweet woman of sixty who walked with a limp, and he didn't want her put out of commission. Besides, slipping her a Canadian five for a tug at the bedsheets and a mint on his pillow made him feel good. He opened the door.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Cooper!" she chirped. "Turn down the bed, aye?"

"Yes, thanks a lot," he said, stepping aside.

"I know you go to sleep late, aye, so I saved you for last," she said. With her basket of mints in tow, the uniformed woman hobbled into the bedroom. Then she let out a frail cry that escalated to a scream. It sounded as if she were having a seizure. Avery raced into the room. She was staggering away from his bed, her hand over her mouth. The basket of mints had spilled onto the floor.

"Are you okay?" Avery asked. Then he saw what the old woman had found beneath the quilted bedcover.

On his pillow, someone had left four dead mice, two of them cut in half. And there was a note-on hotel memo paper: You played a monster who kills little babies that aren't even this big. He deserved to die, and so do you You played a monster who kills little babies that aren't even this big. He deserved to die, and so do you.

The old woman was still a bit shaken when someone from hotel security led her out of Avery's suite. The manager on duty kept apologizing to Avery. He didn't understand how this could have happened-what with the high security and the professional staff. Could they move him to another suite?

Avery told them that would be nice. "And could you please make sure that lady gets a ride home tonight?"

Later he left a message at the house for Joanne, telling her that he'd switched hotel rooms. He didn't explain why. He said that if she woke up in the middle of the night, she could call him here. It didn't matter what time. He probably wouldn't sleep very well tonight anyway.

During a break in filming the next day, Avery retreated to his trailer, sat on the sofa, and telephoned Joanne. "Has anything kind of weird happened to you lately? Have you received any hate mail or strange phone calls?"

"Why do you ask, Avery? Did something kind of weird happen there?"

"Yeah, just a creepy note in my hotel room," Avery said. "It's these nuts who didn't like the TV movie. I'm concerned about you, that's all."

"Avery, I can take care of myself," Joanne calmly pointed out. "That said, okay, yes, something happened last week after the show. I came back to my dressing room, and on the vanity, someone had left a-well, it was a small Gerber's baby food jar, only they'd stuffed a dead mouse in it."

"Jesus," Avery murmured. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"Because you would have freaked out," Joanne said. "I know what a worrywart you are. Nothing has happened since. They've kept a lookout for me backstage, and I've been careful. So don't sweat about it. Okay?"

Avery got to his feet and started pacing around the trailer, the phone to his ear. "Listen, I'm hiring you a bodyguard. Let's not take any chances-"

"Sweetie, I reiterate, nothing has happened since nothing has happened since. Someone didn't like your movie, and I had a little scare. End of story. I don't want a bodyguard."

"Joanne, we aren't seeing each other for another six days. Until then, I need to make sure you're safe."

So when Joanne Lane Cooper arrived at the theater that night, a bodyguard her husband hired introduced himself and showed his credentials. The man, whom Joanne would describe as "a pain in the a.s.s," guaranteed her safety for the next six days.

Three.

A number of bomb threats didn't keep fourteen thousand people from filling Portland's Colosseum for the benefit concert. Dayle Sutton read letters of remembrance from several of Tony Katz's friends and costars. Many of the letters were from AIDS patients he'd visited regularly, a few of them children.

Another actress might have manufactured some high emotion for the presentation, adding her own pregnant pauses and dramatic sighs, or allowing her voice to quiver. But Dayle chose a simple, dignified approach that focused on the letters, not on the celebrity reading them. When she finished, the audience stood and applauded. Dayle walked off stage left. The ovation continued, but she would not return for a bow. They were applauding the letters, not her.

On the other side of the stage, she glimpsed Leigh Simone, waiting in the wings. Dayle still hadn't met the force behind this benefit fighting discrimination against gays and lesbians. Two women hovered around Leigh, both of them rather chubby: one, a makeup girl, and the other, an older brunette who held a cellular phone and a clipboard. Dayle wondered if this was the a.s.sistant, Estelle Collier.

Leigh broke away from the two women, and waved to her. She was so charismatic, and full of energy. She wore a sleeveless, brown sequined dress with a scooped neck and a jagged hem serrating at her upper thighs. Her legs were long and tapered. The thirty-eight-year-old singer could have been an Olympic athlete with her taut, lean body. The cinnamon skin was flawless. She wore her hair pulled back in a long curly ponytail, which had become her trademark. Her smile could dazzle the recipient a hundred feet away.

Dayle waved back at her. Leigh blew her a kiss, then yelled something. But the applause had yet to die down. She took a pen from her a.s.sistant, then wrote something on the clipboard, and sent her off. Leigh waved to Dayle again, then shimmied and shook her way onto the stage. A thunderous applause greeted her, and The High Priestess of Rock began to turn her seductive powers on the audience. She sang an electrifying rendition of Elvis Presley's "Suspicious Minds." Mesmerized, Dayle watched her.