Last to Die: A gripping psychological thriller not for the faint hearted

by Arlene Hunt

  The clip then changed to a roving reporter giving an overview of the shooting. Footage taken on the day in question popped up on screen. Caleb watched a grainy video of Jessie Conway being wheeled out of the school on a stretcher, surrounded by SWAT officers.

  Caleb turned back to his weapons. Hero. People didn’t even know the meaning of the word. He glanced at the screen once more. They were now talking to another woman, a larger lady who a caption identified as Principal Carmichael. Caleb switched off the television and returned to his work.

  6

  Jessie opened her eyes and blinked at the brightness of the overhead lights. She was thirsty and her mouth felt dry and sticky. Her head hurt; she raised her hand to it and felt bandages under her fingers.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  Jessie turned her head slightly. Fay Conway, Mike’s mother, sat by the side of the bed on a plastic chair. Fay was a sprightly, rather glamorous sixty-four-year-old. She had ash-blonde hair cut in a chic bob, lived in pastel linen pantsuits and her glasses hung around her neck on a fine gold chain. Jessie could not recall a time she had ever seen her mother-in-law without makeup.

  ‘Would you like me call the doctor?’ Fay rose from the chair and reached for a red button.

  ‘No. No, thank you.’

  Jessie closed her eyes again. She was in pain and confused. She tried to remember where she was. She had no recollection of being moved into the room in which she now found herself. She tried to focus, but could only picture a yellow sundress. She saw the red stain spreading across it. She saw Tracy Flowers lying on her side by the drinks machine.

  She opened her eyes and looked at Fay.

  ‘Is Tracy dead?’

  Fay lifted Jessie’s right hand from the bed cover and held it in between her own. Jessie searched her mother-in-law’s face. She and Fay had never been close, but she knew Fay to be a woman of integrity. The expression on her face was almost more than Jessie could bear. More memories came now, rushing in like raging waters. Edwards’ fingers scrabbling on the floor, children screaming, the boy looking up at her, the blood staining his teeth.

  Jessie began to shake.

  ‘Oh!’ Fay looked alarmed. She jabbed the buzzer by the bed with her thumb.

  ‘Now Jessie, you listen to me. Everything is going to be okay. Mike will be back shortly. He was here earlier. He would have been here, but I sent him home to grab a shower and a change of clothes. We weren’t sure when you might wake up.’

  ‘Is Tracy dead?’

  ‘We can talk about this later honey, I think I should go find—’

  ‘Fay, please.’

  Jessie tightened her grip on Fay’s hand. Fay glanced towards the door, then her shoulders slumped.

  ‘She didn’t make it. I’m sorry … but she’s gone.’

  ‘How … many others?’

  ‘Three dead, five wounded.’

  Jessie squeezed her eyes shut tight.

  ‘Would have been a whole lot more too if it hadn’t been for you. What you did … what you did was incredibly brave. Jessie Conway, you saved them.’

  ‘Those boys … why did they do this?’

  ‘I don’t know. I heard they left some kind of tape, but I don’t know what was on it. Karen will know more. She’ll be here shortly.’

  Jessie choked back a sob. ‘I saw her. I saw Tracy in her dress. I couldn’t reach her.’

  ‘Oh no, Jessie, no, there was nothing you could have done. I am sorry for your friend but I believe she died instantly.’

  Jessie could no longer contain her emotions. She wept. Fay tried to comfort her, but nothing could stem her grief. A blonde nurse came in. She spoke awhile with Fay and left. When she returned, she was carrying a needle filled with liquid, which she injected into the drip by Jessie’s bed. Jessie closed her eyes, her body stopped trembling and she returned to the darkness.

  When she woke again it was dark outside. Fay was gone and Mike had taken her place. He sat twisted sideways, his head resting on the thumbs of each hand, one leg hooked under her bed. She watched him for a moment, letting her eyes roam over his weathered skin, his tousled brown hair. He wore a clean denim shirt open at the neck, blue jeans and, she knew without looking, tan boots, laced but one from the top.

  ‘Mike.’

  Mike turned his head. Jessie was shocked to see how exhausted and worn out he looked.

  ‘Hey.’

  He bent over her and kissed her forehead. She smelled soap and diesel on his skin and a faint trace of jasmine.

  ‘Is it true? Three dead?’

  ‘She had no business talking about that to you.’

  ‘I asked her. Is it true?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They were children, the shooters, Mike. They were just children.’

  Mike’s expression tightened. ‘There was a detective here earlier; he wants to talk to you, get your statement.’

  ‘I scarcely know what to tell him.’

  They sat in silence for a while.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Fuzzy. My head hurts.’

  Jessie studied her husband’s eyes. They were cool green, like the still water in the lake behind their house.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can’t believe this happened.’ Mike took her hand in his. He pressed his finger down on the soft spot between her thumb and her index finger. Jessie eased her way closer to him.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I don’t know, numb I guess. I can’t … there are gaps.’

  ‘I’m not surprised; you took a fair amount of shot to your head.’

  ‘The boy … Saunders, he started shooting at people, like we were animals or something. Like we were nothing.’ She swallowed. ‘He was laughing, Mike, he laughed the whole time.’

  ‘Shush, Jessie, don’t upset yourself.’

  ‘The other boy, the one I shot …’ She closed her eyes and waited until her voice was steady enough to ask the question she needed to ask. She pulled back and looked at her husband. ‘Who is he?’

  Mike smiled, but only with his mouth; his eyes remained troubled. ‘We don’t need to talk about that right now. What we need to concentrate on is getting you better and getting you home. I swear, that dog of yours is more work than one man can handle.’

  ‘Do they know why they did this? Fay mentioned a tape or —’

  ‘Jess.’

  ‘I want to know. I need to know.’

  Mike’s grip grew uncomfortably tight, but she gave no outward sign. After a prolonged silence he sighed and began to tell her what he had learned. When he was done talking she no longer cared that her head ached. She no longer cared about her hair or her ear.

  ‘He was fourteen?’

  ‘He was fourteen with a loaded gun. Jessie, he tried to blow your head off.’

  ‘But he was fourteen – a child.’

  ‘Three people are dead because of Kyle Saunders and Hector Diaz. Don’t you go feeling bad about the hand they forced. They had the school on lockdown; they meant business. From what I’m told, Saunders left some kind of video bragging about what he was planning to do. He would have slaughtered anyone who crossed his path.’

  Jessie thought of the boy – no, she knew his name now – she thought of Hector Diaz on his back, with his fingers curled by his side, the bubbles popping between his bloodstained teeth. She began to cry, silently at first, then harder, as sobs wracked her body.

  ‘Jessie, listen to me,’ Mike held her, his voice firm. ‘Everyone knows what you did. You prevented a massacre and that’s the fact of it. What you did was unbelievable, I don’t—’

  The door to Jessie’s room opened and a large shape in a powder-blue suit filled the gap.

  ‘Knock knock! May I enter?’

  Jessie wiped her eyes and blinked. She recognised Zachary Williams, pastor from the Church of the Risen Lord. Pastor Williams was something of a celebrity in Rockville. He had a weekly radio show and was as media-friendly as he was spiritually c
onnected to the Lord. Fay was one of his most ardent admirers and attended his services weekly.

  ‘Pastor,’ Mike nodded, smiling.

  Pastor Williams set a large garish bunch of flowers on Jessie’s bed.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, taking Jessie’s free hand in his massive, freckled paws. ‘It is truly a miracle to see you with us this day. The Lord in his infinite wisdom has watched over you.’

  Jessie attempted a smile but could not quite pull it off. She did not much care for Pastor Williams and had endured a number of run-ins with him over the years. He was on the board of Rockville High; she thought him to be a bully and a bigot behind his pious façade. Not that it mattered what she thought. He was a local, born and bred; adored by many from the tips of his expensive python-skin boots to his barley-coloured locks and whiskers, the cultivation of which Jessie believed was another calculated act.

  ‘Everyone asks after you and I mean everyone. They want you to know that you are in their prayers young lady.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Tired.’

  ‘That is understandable.’ He sighed deeply, rolling his shoulders back as though the weight of the world rested upon them. ‘This is an exacting time. I have this moment come from the grieving family of poor James Aldershot. Seventeen years old. Those poor people, the light has gone from their lives.’

  Jessie did not know how to respond. Her head ached so badly it was all she could do to focus on his face.

  ‘They ask for answers, but what answer can I give that will comfort them now? We are becoming what God warned us about in Isaiah 5:20. These evils, these trials. God warned us, for he said, “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter.”’

  Pastor Williams paused in a theatrical fashion, as though he stood in the ornately carved pulpit of his church. ‘We have put everything before our God. We leave our children to fend for themselves, to seek solace and understanding in video games and violent programmes. Then we ask, “Who is to blame?” Who can we point the finger of recrimination at next? God’s revelations, his very words are being ignored. His love is constantly rebuked. We are staring into the abyss and we—’

  Jessie could stand it no longer. ‘I’m sorry, Pastor Williams. But please … I am very tired. Perhaps we can talk another time.’

  ‘Of course.’ He placed his hand on her forehead. His skin felt smooth and dry, like that of a snake. ‘I will stop by tomorrow when you are feeling more up to company. May the Lord keep and protect you.’

  As he moved away to the door, he paused, as though something had occurred to him.

  ‘Where is my head today, I almost forgot. Jessie, Mike, I have a small favour to ask.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Darla Levine, you know, our own local girl from The Gazette. Well Darla wondered if perhaps you might give her a moment of your time. When you feel up to it of course.’

  Jessie’s chest tightened. ‘I don’t really feel up to speaking to the media.’

  ‘Of course, I completely understand.’ Pastor Williams smiled. ‘Darla though, well, she is not really media as such; she’s one of us. She would be highly respectful of your sensibilities.’

  ‘Then let her start now,’ Jessie said, feeling a wave of exhaustion she could barely fight. She glanced at her husband. ‘Mike.’

  ‘I think Jessie needs her rest, Pastor. We can speak about this tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course,’ Pastor Williams said again. He turned to the door, but not before Jessie caught the glint in his eye and knew he had placed another black mark against her name.

  7

  Darla Levine stalked down the corridor and stopped outside a frosted glass door. The letters on the door read: Lee Petro.

  Darla forced herself to square her shoulders and take a number of deep breaths. ‘You are a professional’, she told herself. ‘Don’t take any shit and don’t let him run all over you.’

  She tugged at her skirt and smoothed her hair. Ever since she’d received the message that Popeye wanted to see her she’d been filled with anxiety. She loathed her boss with the fire of a thousand suns, although she made sure to hide her feelings well. Not that it made any difference. Her charms, though prodigious, made not the slightest dint in Popeye. She knew he thought of her as nothing more than fluff in a skirt.

  She knocked.

  ‘Get in here!’

  Lee ‘Popeye’ Petro was an old-school newsman, the type who had clawed his way from cub reporter to the position of Editor-in-Chief and made sure everyone knew about it. He was demanding, egotistical, difficult and brutish. Since he had taken over The Gazette, advertising revenue was up 24 per cent and production costs down 31 per cent, mostly due to a reshuffle, a pay freeze and a rigid firing policy. The newspaper owners worshipped the ground Popeye walked on; everyone below him on the totem pole hated his miserable guts.

  ‘Good morning Lee, you wanted to see me?’

  ‘Did you get a message saying I wanted to see you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why the hell are you asking me?’

  ‘I, um—’

  ‘Let’s hear it. Conway situation, go.’

  Popeye looked up from his desk; an unlit, well-chewed cigar jutted from his mouth.

  Darla felt herself wilt slightly under the intensity of his gaze. Everything about Popeye was horribly intimidating. He was a gym maniac who worked out six days a week. He was proud of his physique and referred to his swollen biceps as ‘shock’ and ‘awe’. He was tanned deepest walnut from weekends spent out on his boat. He wore his grey hair in a tight crew cut and it was rumoured he had once tossed a smart-mouthed journalist through the window of his office for not turning in a story on time.

  ‘I’m afraid I have bad news, Lee. Jessie Conway has turned us down again.’

  ‘What do you mean she turned us down?’

  ‘She’s not ready to talk about what happened.’

  ‘You mean she doesn’t want to talk to you.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.’

  ‘Who reached her? Was it those fucking CNN sharks? Fox? Which of those lousy sons of—’

  ‘No one has reached her. That’s just it. She has refused to speak to anyone.’

  ‘Whaddya mean, refused?’

  ‘I don’t know what else to tell you, Lee. I’ve requested an audience with her three times now. I even got Pastor Williams to try, but so far, nada. Zip.’

  ‘You requested an audience?’ Popeye leaned his massive forearms on his desk. ‘Is she the fucking Queen of England?’

  ‘No, I mean I—’

  ‘What the fuck is this, D? Amateur hour? Don’t ask, don’t request, go talk to her. Get me my story.’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Lee. I can’t just barge in there and demand she start talking. It’s impossible.’

  ‘Don’t give me any bull about impossible.’ Popeye removed the cigar from his mouth and jabbed it in her direction. Bits of tobacco sprinkled across the blotter on his desk, leaving behind dirty yellow stains. ‘Impossible is bullshit for people too stupid to build a bridge over possible. You go out there and you make it possible. That’s what you do. Make it possible. That’s what you’re paid for Darla, am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So stop fucking around. I want an interview I can put out tomorrow morning.’

  Darla bristled. ‘I have gotten plenty of interviews over the last few days and I think I can use them to piece together exactly what took place in the cafeteria. I have an exclusive with Cheryl Hogan, one of the girls Conway told to leave the cafeteria. She’s a—’

  ‘She’s a kid, that’s what she is, a scared kid. I know she has something to say, great, but we need to hear things from the horse’s mouth. So do me a favour, don’t come back here without Jessie Conway’s story. Jesus Christ, Darla, I have people calling me twenty-four-seven for quotes. Are
you trying to make me look like a fucking joke?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Goddamned paper is being flooded with calls about that woman and we’ve got nothing. We’ve got to hook her before anyone else does.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘What’s the word on her injuries?’

  ‘She was moved out of intensive care this morning. They’ve operated on her and removed the pellets from her skull. She is expected to make a full recovery.’

  ‘When’s she out?’

  ‘I do not have that information.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘The doctors don’t know yet, Lee. How would I?’

  ‘Don’t get sassy with me Darla, you’re the one with something to prove here. You broke this story, now you’re letting this story break you. Fix the damn thing.’ Lee moved the cigar from the left side of his mouth to the right without touching it. ‘Get a goddamned camera into that room Darla. That woman is the news now.’

  Darla kept her face neutral. ‘I am aware of that.’

  ‘People want to hear her perspective. They want to know her views. Goddammit, we need to talk to her before one of the others secures a deal.’ He stopped talking for a moment and looked stricken. ‘Or worse, an exclusive.’

  ‘She’s not talking to anyone.’

  ‘Yet,’ Popeye said sourly. ‘You wait until those big fish start flashing their chequebooks. Listen to me Darla, I know this game; any putz that doesn’t know this game is worm shit. You want to be worm shit, Darla? You think your old man would let this golden opportunity turn into worm shit?’

  ‘No, Lee.’

  ‘Story’s already cooling down, Darla. Next week some other doped-up popper-headed shit-for-brains with mommy issues will take out half a cheerleading squad for not blowing him, and the media will move on. The window of opportunity,’ Popeye held up his hand and brought his thumb and forefinger together slowly, ‘is closing, Darla. Closing.’

  Darla smiled stiffly. ‘I’ll get the story, Lee.’