Chuck was yelling at the director of "Bikini Squad" at the top of his lungs. "I told you this idea was going to cost way too much!"
The director stuck a finger in Chuck's face. "It wouldn't have if you had let me do things my way!"
"Who's the producer of this show?" Chuck said as his cellular phone rang. He pulled it out of a pocket and handed it to his assistant Myra. "Me! *I* run things. Not you!"
"You pay me to get this show on the air!" the director yelled back. "I'm just doing what you want."
Chuck took a breath to yell some more when Myra interrupted. "It's a Lois Hobson," she said. "She says it's about your friend Gary."
Chuck took the phone. "Lois, honey!" he began then fell silent. "God no," he whispered. "When? ... I'll be there... Thanks for letting me know." He hung up the phone. "Myra, call Jade and tell her to get some things packed. Then make arrangements for a trip to Chicago." He started to turn away.
"Mr. Fishman," Myra said. "Is something wrong?"
Chuck turned. "My best friend was killed and I have to go to his funeral."
"I'll get right on it," Myra said and picked up her own cellular as Chuck turned to the shocked director.
"Just finish the episode," Chuck said and turned and walked away.
**************************************
Marcia Hobson's phone rang three times before she reached it to answer it. "Marcia Hobson," she said. "Mrs. Hobson." She smiled. It had been a long time since she had spoken to Lois. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The smile melted as Marcia listened for a few minutes then sat slowly in her chair. "I... I'm so sorry, Lois," she said. "When's the funeral?" she jotted it down on her desk pad. "I'll be there," she said. "Thanks for letting me know."
Slowly, she hung up the phone before turning and looking at the Chicago skyline. "I just can't believe he's gone," she muttered, a tear rolling down her cheek.
**************************************
Erica picked the Chicago Sun-Times up from her parents' front porch, carefully reading the headline, serial killer victim found. As she skimmed the article, she freaked.
"Mom! Mom!" she cried. "Mom!"
Her mother and son came racing into the entry to see what was wrong. Erica let the newspaper slip from her fingers and she pressed her hands to her face to try and stop the tears. "What is it?" her mother asked.
"It's Gary!" Erica said, the tears pouring down her cheeks.
Erica's son Henry picked up the paper and read the article before he, too, began crying. Erica took him in her arms and clung to him, trying to comfort him. Her mother wrapped her arms around both, just being a comfort to them.
*****************************************
Patrick Quinn sat down hard at his computer desk with a sigh. Mr. Hobson had been right. He loved teaching kindergarten more than he ever thought he would. He leaned forward to start his e-mail program. It said the quiet words, "You've got mail!" and he found a note from Henry. With a smile, he opened it.
As he read his small friend's note, the smile disappeared from his face. He leaned forward and reread it, wondering if it was true. He went to the Chicago Sun-Times webpage and checked the obituaries. Sure enough, there was an obituary for his friend Gary Hobson. His mouth hung open and a tear streaked its way down his cheek. He was too shocked and saddened to speak.
**************************************
Nick Sterling signed the last in a stack of papers authorizing the construction of a new hospital in South Africa as his assistant came in with a stack of newspapers. He set the files aside and smiled at her. "What do we have here?"
"The newspapers you asked for," she returned then dropped them on his desk one by one. "New York Times, LA Times, Chicago Sun-Times."
"Thank you, Laura," he said and picked up the top paper and began to read the story. The look on his face fell. "Laura!" he called, stopping the woman before she could get out the door.
"Sir?"
"Make arrangements for a trip to Chicago," he said. "Immediately."
"Is something wrong at the hospital?"
"No," Nick replied. "This is personal. I have to attend a funeral."
*****************************
"Man," Miguel Diaz said. "I can't believe the guy is dead."
"Who can?" asked Craig Denton, the new photojournalist for the Sun-Times. "I can't and I don't even know the guy." He bit into his hot dog as he and Miguel say at their desks in the newspaper photo office.
"Gary Hobson had this knack for knowing when something was going to happen," Miguel said as he leaned forward. "He saved my life and I for one will never forget him."
Craig finished his hotdog. "Good for you," he said around the mouthful. He swallowed. "I take it you're going to the funeral."
"I got to, man," Miguel replied. "He was a great guy."
"I'll be there too, man," Craig said. "I'm covering it."
"I heard there'll be a lot of people there," Miguel said. "Sports figures, cops, politicians."
"The guy knew a lot of people?"
"You got that right," Miguel said as he propped his feet up on the desk. "He gets around a lot... or so he said."
"I ought to get some good pics then," Craig said as he picked up his camera and began fiddling with the lens.
"You know," Miguel began. "I can get those shots."
"Not necessary," Craig said. "Besides, you ought to be concentrating on the loss of your friend."
Miguel gave him a dirty look. "Yeah. Right."
*******************************************
Gary stood away from the crowd with a bouquet of lilies in his hands. He watched until the rather large crowd began to break up. Watching them, he saw Naomi and pulled the dark fedora down further over his eyes. He turned back to Lucius Snow's grave and placed the flowers at the base of the stone. The paper hadn't come that morning and it had him a little worried. When he turned back to the funeral group, Naomi was looking right at him.
When Naomi's attention turned elsewhere, Gary turned to hurry out of the graveyard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar figure. He looked again and saw the man who had shot him in the dark. He held a camera and shot a picture every once in awhile. He turned once again and hurried away to a police car. It wasn't long when Brigatti joined him.
"Well?" she asked.
"I saw him," Gary said. "He had a camera and was taking pictures."
"Like maybe for the press?"
Gary nodded. "Yeah," he said. "He seemed to be hanging around Miguel Diaz."
"Diaz introduced me to the photographer covering the funeral for the Sun-Times," Brigatti said. "His names Craig something." She turned and started the car. "We'll get him at the wake."
***********************************
Brigatti went in the front door as Gary went in the back. He hid out in the back of the kitchen until the cooks' attention was on their cooking and snuck through to the stairway to his apartment. He had promised Brigatti he would hide out up there until the FBI got there and they could arrest the suspect.
When he got to the top of the stairs, Naomi was just coming out of the apartment. He took off the fedora and stood there waiting for the shock to appear on her face. She attacked him with a hug instead then slapped him when she finally pulled away. The paper had come to the door of his apartment instead of the safehouse where he had been staying.
************************************
A group of FBI agents pushed their way through the crowd and grabbed Craig Denton. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded.
"I'm Detective Brigatti," Brigatti said. "And you're under arrest."
"For what?"
"Murder," Brigatti said as she handcuffed Craig. "The murder of Alison Wilkes and the attempted murder of Gary Hobson."
"Attempted? There was nothing attempted about it," Craig said.
Agent Mills stepped up next to Brigatti as gasps of surprise began to come towards them. The crowd parted to reveal Gary, very much alive.
"You!" Craig exclaimed with shock. "You were dead! I saw you in your coffin!" He paused to look Gary up and down. "In that suit!"
"As a great author once said," Gary said. "'The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.'"
Death comes to everyone. But only the guy who gets tomorrow's paper today could ever find a way to get around it... for now.
The End