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

by Arlene Hunt

  Caleb glanced over the photos. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘These are those that the Good Lord has sent to test us. Believe me.’

  ‘Are they … clients?’

  ‘They are when it suits them. Look, all you need remember is that whatever any of these people tell you, it’s bound to be a lie. Do not, and I must stress this Art, do not lend any of these people money, no matter how plausible or heart-rending a story they lay on you. You hear?’

  He kept his expression carefully neutral.

  ‘I won’t, Dorothy.’

  ‘You’ll be working with Steve tonight. He’s an old hand and he’ll show you the ropes. But I mean it, these people here,’ she tapped the photos again, ‘they see a fresh face and the first thing they do is hit you up for something.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She folded her arms across her ample chest. ‘Okay, and another thing, there’s a photographer coming here shortly with Creedy. He’s going to take a few photos of you in that get-up, but once he’s gone you can remove that shirt. You look like Big Bird.’

  ‘Pastor Creedy’s idea.’

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ she said, drawing her mouth into a thin line. ‘But he’s not the one wearing it and as far as I’m concerned it marks you out in a way you don’t need to be marked.’

  Caleb nodded in complete agreement.

  ‘It’s going to be a long night ahead. You ready for the madness?’

  Caleb nodded again.

  ‘I wish more people felt the way you do, Art. The world would be a heck of a better place.’ Dorothy retired to the back office, leaving instructions with Caleb to call her if he needed her.

  At twenty to eleven, a blonde woman he recognised from the photos shoved the door from the street open and entered, half carrying a complaining, struggling junkie with her.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Steve, his co-worker, said. ‘Here comes trouble. Think you can handle this one, Art?’

  Caleb watched as the blonde deposited the junkie on a plastic chair and marched straight up to the counter. He remembered her name: Marcie Ingram.

  ‘I can handle it.’

  She leaned on the ledge in front of the glass partition that separated them.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘You’re new.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s Amber,’ she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder towards the other woman. ‘She’s in a bad way. Had a helluva time getting her here, but y’all got to help her.’

  Caleb gazed past her. The other woman was considerably older. It was pretty obvious to him that she was in a bad way, most likely on a hard comedown. She was worn and beat down, with ruined skin covered in sores. Her cheeks were sunken from where her teeth had most likely fallen out of her head long ago. She was scratching at her arms and when she looked their way her eyes rolled in different directions.

  ‘What would you have me do with her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Can’t you give her some money for some food or somethin’? You can see her, right? You can see how she is. She ain’t eaten in days and her asshole boyfriend has kicked her out of her own damn house. She ain’t got nowhere to go.’

  ‘There’s no point in me giving you money; she won’t eat.’

  ‘’Scuse me?’

  ‘She’s not going to eat.

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘I can see she’s tweaking.’

  Marcie’s eyes hardened but her voice softened. ‘Okay beardy, how ’bout you give me some money and I’ll get her a room ’til she’s down.’

  Caleb nodded over her shoulder.

  ‘I think your meal ticket is about to split.’

  Marcie snapped around. The other woman was up on her feet, weaving towards the door.

  ‘Don’t you move, Amber. I swear I will plant you in the dirt if you try.’

  Amber stopped and scratched at her arms miserably.

  ‘Ah gotta get out ah here.’

  ‘I told you to wait. Now sit your ass back down.’

  Marcie turned back to her sales pitch.

  ‘What’s your name, honey?’

  ‘Arthur.’ Caleb looked at her a little closer. She was five foot eight, with naturally thick, dark blonde hair. Her skin was clear and she appeared to have all her own teeth. Underneath the wear and tear she could have been pretty. She certainly had the blueprint for it. Her edgy defiance interested him. She had spunk.

  ‘Well now, see, I know you’re a good person, Arthur. I can see that. I just need a little help. Look at her; she ain’t hardly slept in three days. She needs to clean up tonight. If you could just lend me some money for a room I’d sit with her, help her out of this fix.’

  Caleb began to speak but she cut him off.

  ‘This is a Christian centre, ain’t it?’ she said slyly. ‘Wouldn’t it be Christian to help a body out?’

  ‘I can’t give you any money. If you want you can stay here for a while—’

  ‘Here? For what? She ain’t slept in three days, she ain’t eaten. You sayin’ you can’t do nothin’?’

  Caleb shrugged.

  ‘Then what use are y’all? What the fuck you lookin’ at, Steve?’

  Steve glanced over. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You been bad mouthin’ me?’

  ‘Marcie, I never—’

  ‘Alls y’all can go hump a pig.’

  ‘Bring her to the cop shop,’ Steve said. ‘They’ll likely give you room and board until she’s back on land again. For free too.’

  ‘Fuck you very much,’ she replied. She turned on her heel, grabbed the wretched Amber by the arm and hauled her to her feet. Amber started to babble some nonsense but Caleb couldn’t make it out. At the door, Marcie turned again.

  ‘Some fucking use y’all are, this will be on you if shit goes wrong.’

  He watched her clatter through the door and into the night, her strong pale legs spiriting them away to God alone knew what hellhole.

  He spent the rest of the night thinking about her. She was Category A for sure. What fun he could have with her. When Steve took a toilet break, Caleb searched through the in-house files and found her name. It took him no time at all to learn what he needed to know about her. She was twenty-five and the mother of three kids, all of whom had been removed from her care. She worked out of a motel beyond the river and would tell you up was down if she thought there was a buck to be made.

  No one would miss her, he thought, and if they did, they would assume her big mouth had run against the wrong John one time too many times.

  Caleb put her file back and smiled. If anyone had witnessed this particular smile, they would not have enjoyed it at all.

  13

  Mike listened to Emma gabbing away on the office phone and wondered briefly who she was talking to. It was hard to tell with Emma – could be friend or foe, since she treated everyone with the same mild disdain. He knew he ought to speak to her about that, but Ace had not turned in that morning and Mike couldn’t raise him. Energy-wise, Mike figured he didn’t have the surplus needed to get involved in an argument. He’d already had one with Jessie and that was plenty.

  He pushed open the office door and stood outside, watching the street. The day was already hot as hell and getting hotter by the minute. Heat rose and shimmered from the asphalt in the distance. Mike lit a cigarette and smoked for a while, thinking how hard it was to know what to do or what to say anymore.

  Jessie had collapsed that morning. She had given no indication that she was unwell; she had simply fallen down. By the time he had carried her to the sofa she had come round again, but was white as a sheet and clammy to the touch. Mike had wanted to take her to the hospital, but she refused to go, telling him she was fine, that her blood sugar must have dropped.

  Mike didn’t buy it. Jessie was not herself. She jumped at shadows, cried in her sleep – if she slept at all. She hardly ate a thing and spent most mealtimes picking at her food with disinterest before pushing it away.

 
It was the silence that bothered Mike the most. Since the funeral, he had watched her withdraw into herself. She hadn’t attended the remembrance ceremony for fear of another melee of journalists. She was listless and deeply unhappy.

  Mike felt as useless as tits on a bull. He spoke to Dr Fraas, who thought Jessie might benefit from talking to another doctor who specialised in trauma. But when Mike ran it past her, Jessie shot it down immediately, saying she didn’t need to speak to anyone. When Mike had pushed her with it she had grown furious and tearful, before retreating into silence. She was sinking and he had no idea how to save her.

  Mike noticed Emma watching him and moved to the side of the door. Sometimes it felt like the whole town had him under the microscope, waiting for him to do something. But what? Everywhere he went people approached him and gripped his hand. They asked how he was holding up. They asked after Jessie and passed on their best wishes and their prayers. Between the curious, the well-wishers and the media, he was beginning to feel like a treed bear. Night and day, there seemed to be no respite, it left him on edge and prickly. He couldn’t move on, not like this, not feeling that something terrible was waiting in the wings, a black presence preparing to make itself known.

  He was sick and tired of watching the news channels; sick of repeated shots of the school. Sick of seeing Jessie’s shocked and bloodied face appear on the screen. It felt like a violation of sorts.

  Worse still was the lack of real closure. Kyle Saunders had left behind videos where he ranted and raved about perceived injustices and how it was payback for all the wrongs perpetrated against him. Mike had watched them all, hoping to gain some insight into what had happened, but to no avail. In reality, Kyle Saunders was a spoiled white kid from a middle-class background whose issues were of his own making. The tapes had been unoriginal, filled with boastful anger and dumb cunning.

  Hector Diaz offered even less. The youngest son of Treo Diaz, the Saunders’ gardener, he was a shy kid by all accounts – everyone said so – but in thrall to Kyle Saunders. He was a follower; a follower who had followed the wrong person to his death. A death at Jessie’s hands.

  Mike leaned one foot on the wall behind him. A blacked-out Escalade pulled partially across the main entrance to the scrapyard opposite the garage. A slender blonde woman he immediately recognised alighted from the passenger side and, after fixing her skirt, made her way across the road towards him. She smiled as she stepped onto his porch. Barracuda, Mike thought, a barracuda wearing frosted-pink lipstick.

  ‘You got some nerve.’ Mike pitched his cigarette out into the dirt and straightened up.

  Darla Levine wore a tight black skirt, high heels with a red sole, and a pristine white wrap-around shirt. Though the day was muggy, her makeup was flawless, and if the woman had sweat glands Mike couldn’t tell.

  ‘I left you a message yesterday.’

  ‘I got it. The one at my house too.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘We got nothing to talk about.’

  The smile never wavered, not even for a second. ‘I am glad to hear Jessie is doing better.’

  ‘I’ll send your regards.’

  ‘I sent flowers.’

  ‘She got them.’

  ‘I was rather hoping if she was feeling up to it she might like to give me a statement of—’

  ‘She’s not feeling up to anything at the moment except healing.’

  Darla Levine nodded in a sympathetic manner. ‘How about you, Mike – I can call you Mike? How are you holding up? It must be difficult for you at the moment.’

  When Mike did not reply Darla did the smile again.

  ‘You must be so proud of Jessie. She’s an amazing woman, a real inspiration to the town.’

  Mike shook his head and released a breath that was part exasperation and part disbelief. Darla Levine reminded him of a coonhound his father had once owned. Once it got the whiff of a scent wild horses couldn’t drag it away. He wondered how long she would keep dogging them.

  Across the street, Harry Carling, the owner of the scrapyard appeared. Mike watched as Harry approached the driver, a skinny-looking man with black hair and a thin beard grown only around his jawline. Mike knew Harry did not take kindly to non-paying folk parking on his property.

  ‘You should probably move your vehicle.’

  ‘It will be fine,’ she said, without turning. ‘Look Mike, I want you to know I understand the concerns you might have about talking to the press, I surely do. But Mike, people are interested in Jessie’s side of the story. I was right there when this tragedy unfolded. I heard those children scream. I’ve read Sheriff Clay’s report and I’ve read some of the files. What Jessie did was beyond heroic. I think people really want to know the woman behind this amazing act. They would like to hear her tell her story in her own words. And, as a local, I think I am in the unique position to get to the heart of this, to treat your wife’s story with the sympathy and empathy it deserves.’

  ‘Like the empathy you treated her with at the hospital?’

  ‘I understand why you’re angry and I apologise. I promise we would only take a few moments of her time. Truthfully Mike, with the way the town is suffering, her courage is more than just inspirational. Really Mike, if I can be honest here, the town needs to begin the process of healing. It needs to look to someone. Jessie could be an integral part of that process. Her story would go a long way towards giving people hope and closure.’

  ‘Closure?’ Mike snapped his eyes in her direction. ‘What kind of closure do you think people are going to have? Don’t you get it, Miss Levine? People are torn up. They’re in shock, grieving. You can’t paper over that with a fluff piece.’

  ‘I can assure you I would not stand over a fluff piece.’ Darla Levine’s eyes narrowed. Mike saw he had needled her. ‘I would treat Jessie’s story with the weight it deserves.’

  ‘The people who count already know Jessie and her story.’

  ‘But the public—’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about the public and, tell the truth, I don’t think you do neither.’

  In the background, the driver gesticulated at Harry, a universal sign, dismissive and crude.

  ‘I understand Jessie’s reluctance to talk. It might be hard to speak about what happened but I believe talking could be cathartic for your wife. I’m sure as a survivor Jessie is suffering from many mixed emotions. Fear, anger, guilt—’

  ‘Guilt? Let me stop you right there, Miss Levine. You don’t get to piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining. I don’t know what more might have happened that day. I sure as shit don’t want to think about how bad it might have gotten neither. But whatever Jessie is feeling, you can be sure it’s for the people who died, for those who are suffering now. You need to quit bothering my wife.’

  ‘We are prepared to offer her a considerable sum for an exclusive interview, Mr Conway.’ There was an air of desperation in Darla’s voice, and yet still a trace of petulance.

  ‘You people,’ Mike shook his head. He tucked his cigarettes into the top pocket of his overalls and was about to go inside when across the street the driver got out of the Escalade and shoved Harry Carling in the chest hard enough to send the old boy sprawling. Mike was off the steps and across the road in a flash. He grabbed the driver by the shoulder with one hand, spun him on his heels, and decked him with the other. The driver went down, hard. Mike hurried to Harry, who was struggling to get his feet under him.

  ‘He knocked me down, Mike. You see that?’

  ‘I saw him all right.’ Mike hauled him upright and brushed some of the dust from his pants.

  ‘Damn, I lost my teeth.’

  The teeth lay near the front tyre of the Escalade. Mike picked them up and handed them back to their owner. Harry spat on them, wiped them against the front of his overalls and popped them back into his mouth.

  ‘He got the drop on me Mike, ’nother day I woulda had him.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve no doubt.’


  ‘I’m so sorry about this,’ Darla Levine came up behind them. She held out her hand to Harry. ‘Please accept my apologies.’

  Mike Conway looked past her to the driver who lay in a patch of weeds, holding his jaw. ‘Your driver there might need some of that empathy and sympathy you’re so keen to dish out.’

  Darla flushed and dropped her hand.

  ‘Come on, Mr Carling, let’s go inside.’

  Mike and Harry Carling went into the scrapyard together. Darla walked over to Chippy.

  ‘You idiot,’ Darla said. ‘What the hell was that about?’

  ‘He didn’t hear what that old fuck called me.’

  ‘So what? You need a fainting couch now because you hear a bad word? We’ve got half the big networks in the country circling Jessie Conway like sharks. Whatever chance we had is now gone! My fucking chance at an exclusive is gone!’

  Chippy touched his face with his hand. ‘I think he might have broken my jaw.’

  ‘Pity it wasn’t your neck!’ Darla turned and stormed off.

  14

  It would be impossible to explain to another person, Caleb thought as he packed a few belongings into a holdall and locked the apartment door, the thrill hunting brought him. They would never understand what it was that drove him; that it wasn’t the kill, or the butchery, or even the release he felt afterwards. How could he explain the anticipation or the tension that rushed through him? Who would understand the twisting unknown variables that sent the blood coursing through his veins? Perhaps another hunter, but he had been with other hunters before and felt no kindred spirit.

  Caleb went downstairs and collected the gold Taurus from the underground parking lot. He drove out through the electronic gates and indicated left. He pulled in behind a dark sedan, slipped into the late-evening traffic and drove at a law-abiding pace across town to Marcie Ingram’s address.

  While he drove, Caleb ran through the various scenarios that might shape his evening. He figured that a woman like Marcie would be unpredictable and possibly a little dangerous.

  He liked that.

  When he was a younger man he had hunted all over the country, travelling to where the game drew him. He had always enjoyed solitude. Being alone in the woods, with nothing to distract or bother him, set him free. He’d killed elk and goats in Montana, mulie buck and coyotes in Wyoming. He’d shot whitetails, sika, partridge, wild turkeys, geese – hell, when short of decent targets he’d kill raccoons and stray dogs just for practise.