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

by Arlene Hunt

  That Saturday they watched Grace Kelly choose between John Lund and Bing Crosby. The following weekend, they watched Roman Holiday. Over time, Jessie and Mike found themselves relaxing into a gentle friendship that eased again into romance a few weeks later. But despite their blossoming love, Jessie had always kept a little piece of herself to herself.

  Mike hoisted himself up and lay against the headboard. He felt the memories were making a mockery of him somehow. How dumb was he that he hadn’t known she had been carrying something so huge for so long? He banged his head back against the board. That was quite the question.

  If he was honest, he had known something. There was no point denying that now. Within his wife there had always been an unknowable story. She had bad dreams from time to time. Sometimes she was twitchy. She could be withdrawn or quick to anger, though she was always sorry shortly afterwards.

  She had told him her parents had died in an accident, but refused to be questioned further on them or any remaining siblings. She was sparing with her history, glossing over her emotions in a way that he now could see was protective. She did not look for sympathy and neither did she wish to dwell on the past. Jessie was, he thought, an enigma, but one that he found himself drawn to in the most basic way possible. He loved her; it was as great and as simple as that.

  His family had been delighted for him. His mother had, one night after too much peach schnapps, confided that she had – almost – given up on him ever settling down. His sisters liked Jessie too, although they had been initially a little put out at her unwillingness to shop or get her hair done as often as they liked. But Jessie was kind and thoughtful around them and over the years they had grown to love her as one of their own.

  And then there was Ace. Ace had never been one to play his cards away from his chest. Mike had not sought approval of his choices nor asked his opinion on Jessie. It was not how it was done, and he would not expect much more than an offended grunt should he ask such a question. But Ace and Jessie had always been at ease in each other’s company, and spoke easily. Jessie had fought Ace’s corner on more than one occasion, defending him against Fay’s undisguised disappointment. When Ace had gone back to jail on his last bust, Jessie had refused to hear a bad word against him, only to remark that ‘it sure was hard to fly straight through an ill wind’.

  Maybe that was how it ought to be, he thought, feeling a flash of anger surge through him. Families stood shoulder to shoulder when things got tough, didn’t they? What gave a jumped-up nobody like Darla Levine the damn right to judge Jessie on her past? The past was the past, wasn’t it? It was not like any of it could be changed. What gave her the right to meddle in their lives the way she had? What was her agenda?

  Long before dawn, Mike rose. He dressed and jumped into his truck and drove towards town, his jaws clenched tight, his knuckles white on the wheel. He parked illegally in a loading dock outside the office of The Gazette and took the steps three at a time. He hurtled through the revolving doors into the reception. A young man sat behind the reception desk. He was in his early twenties, rail thin and wore an earring and a headset. He glanced up at Mike’s arrival and frowned.

  ‘Sir, can I help you?

  ‘I’m looking for Darla Levine.’

  The young man looked in an exaggerated manner at a large ornate clock hanging on the wall behind him. ‘Miss Levine hasn’t arrived yet.’

  ‘When does she get here?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Are you deaf? I asked what time does she come in.’

  ‘Sir, if you could tell me what this regards I’m sure I can assist you.’

  Mike snatched his cap off and bunched it in his hands to keep from exploding. ‘I don’t need your assistance. I want to speak to that goddamned woman. Now call her up, you tell her Mike Conway is right here waiting on her. You tell her that.’

  The younger man looked alarmed. ‘Sir, I assure you I can give Miss Levine any message you wish to leave, but I can’t call her a—’

  Mike reached across the desk and grabbed the younger man by the ear that held the earring. He twisted it, bringing him up out of his chair onto his tippy toes. ‘I didn’t ask for your assurances. I asked you to call that woman.’

  ‘Please, sir,’ the younger man said, his face contorted with pain. ‘Don’t hurt me. I just work here.’

  Mike released him and took a step backward. He put his hand out and the receptionist flinched. Mick felt sick to his stomach with shame for his actions. ‘I’m sorry. I’m real sorry about that. I wanted to tell that woman to leave my wife be, you tell her to leave us alone. Okay?’

  The receptionist nodded furiously.

  ‘Okay then.’ Mike put his cap on his head, turned, and walked out the door. Outside, the driver of a larger truck was parked behind Mike’s with the window rolled down.

  ‘That your vehicle, bud?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can’t park it there, fella, yer blocking the entrance. Didn’t you see the signs?’

  Mike waved his hand, climbed in and started the engine. No, he thought as he pulled away, he hadn’t seen the signs; he hadn’t seen them at all.

  34

  Mike Conway was not the only man up and about early.

  Armed with Louisa’s information, Caleb Switch left the motel and followed a road eight miles outside of the town. He turned left by the old converted sawmill onto a smaller secondary road. The mill, he noticed, had been remodelled into some kind of fancy bijou hotel. He knew without ever setting foot inside the door that it would be full of quirky memorabilia and ‘authentic’ tat. Rubes loved that kind of crap and paid top dollar for it. Caleb had never understood why folk got such a kick out of pretending to be hicks.

  He drove along a narrower road for a spell, moving deeper and deeper into the countryside. The distance between properties began to grow longer, a quarter of a mile at first, then scarcely any homes for long stretches. He passed through a set of crossroads, and half a mile later he slowed and parked opposite a bright yellow mailbox with the name Conway printed on it in neat black lettering.

  Caleb rolled the window down and switched off the engine. He sat for a moment, savouring the scents and the sharpening light. He smelled conifers and deer. He imagined the woods around here were full of them.

  After a few minutes he climbed out and crossed the road. There was enough light to make out the wrought iron gate across the top of a rutted lane. The lane sloped down and turned sharply a few yards further in. He walked along the side of the road. He had not gone more than a couple of feet when, through a gap in the trees, he saw the house in a clearing below. He lifted his binoculars and glassed it. It was a single-storey wood and stone house with a wraparound porch. There was an older model Volvo parked by a set of stone steps leading to the porch.

  He remained standing, ears cocked for approaching vehicles. His patience was rewarded when a light came on inside the house. Someone opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. Caleb’s breath caught in his throat as he recognised Jessie Conway. She had a portable telephone pressed against her ear. She was barefoot and wore only a t-shirt and underwear.

  A dog appeared by her side and ambled out into the yard for a sniff about. It was large and black. Caleb squinted but it was hard to tell from there what it was, maybe a labrador of some kind. Its movements were stiff so he guessed it was probably old. Even so, it was a problem, although not one he was unduly concerned about. After pacing the porch for a few minutes, Jessie called the dog and went back inside.

  Caleb cocked his head, feeling that strange flutter he always got in the pit of his stomach when he made first contact with his prey. He glanced at his watch, returned to his car, pulled a U-turn and drove back into town, taking careful note of how much traffic he met and the distance and the amount of time it took to reach the highway.

  Back in town, he made his way to a small diner far away from Ray’s and ordered grits and hash browns and coffee. He ate a hearty meal, paid and set off to track
down Mike Conway’s garage. He would be surprised if the Volvo belonged to anyone other than Jessie.

  At the garage, the double gates were locked and the shutters were down on the prefabricated building attached to the yard. Wherever the husband was, it wasn’t at work. Caleb was disappointed; he would have liked to see Mike Conway in the flesh. After all, he had seen him so many times on television he almost felt he knew him.

  He sat for a while thinking about the dog and what he was going to do about it. Shortly after seven, an old man pulled in ahead of him in an ancient pick-up truck that was more rust than paint. He got out slowly and gave Caleb the stink-eye.

  Caleb decided it was time to get gone. He waited for the local library to open and asked if they had a section containing local news, history and local records.

  ‘Well sure,’ the librarian said, looking over his glasses at the young bearded man before him, ‘we keep records, but what kind of records might you be looking for?’

  Caleb shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘My daddy’s name was Vaughn, he’s from Bridgewater, but his people – I believe – was from around these parts. I was hoping if I go back some I might find trace of ’em.’

  ‘Vaughn?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Don’t believe I know any Vaughns, but you’re welcome to take a look, son. Would you be needing to see the obituaries?’

  ‘Yes sir, if that was possible.’

  ‘You’re in luck, son. We used to have those stored on index cards, but moved them all to microfilm two years back – easier to find names that way.’

  Caleb smiled; if it was a poor one the librarian did not seem to notice. ‘Appreciate that, sir.’

  ‘Come on down the back. I’ll show you how to operate the reel.’

  Caleb followed him to the rear of the library and into a small room occupied by a desk and a projector. The librarian, whose name he learned was Elliot Pearson, set up the screen and the film and left him to it.

  Caleb began to search through the deaths in Rockville, looking specifically for suicides. It took him the best part of two hours before he recognised a pattern. He investigated further and found it arose again, and then again. As with all small towns, suicide was addressed in terse figures of speech. People didn’t kill themselves, they were ‘found dead with no foul play suspected’. He read on, noting if a particular place cropped up again and again.

  When he was finished he returned to the librarian and said thanks.

  ‘You find what you need, son?’

  ‘I surely did,’ Caleb said. He tipped his forehead with his right index figure and left.

  He drove back to the motel and opened the map of the town. He located the area mentioned in the archives and decided to take a drive out there later in the day. He refolded the map, took a shower and lay on the bed. He drifted off to sleep listening to the crickets sing from the branches of the olive tree in the parking lot and dreamed of Jessie Conway running through the trees, her red hair streaming behind her.

  He woke up a few hours later, refreshed and ready to begin work on the next step of his plan. All thoughts of his mess-up in Charlotte were banished. He had a new mission now.

  It felt like being reborn.

  35

  When Jessie got up she noticed that their bedroom door stood open and their bed was haphazardly made. She glanced out the window to where Mike had parked the truck the night before and suffered a little pang at the empty space.

  Her eyes felt gritty and a dull-pressured ache was building behind them that seemed fitting for the occasion. She wondered how she was going to get through the day, how she was going to face everyone who knew her. She wanted to do nothing more than go back to bed and pull a sheet up over her head and wait it out until her life drew to a close.

  She greeted Rudy in the kitchen, scratched him behind his ears and poured herself a cup of coffee. What was coming down the tracks next, she wondered, taking a seat in the breakfast nook. Where did she go from here? Bitterness was not her natural state, but right at that moment it was very hard not to feel bitter about the hand she was being dealt. All she had ever wanted was to live a peaceful life, one free from violence and judgement. Was it so ludicrous to want to get up in the morning and be happy? Was it so wacky to desire to be left alone in peace and quiet?

  She sipped her coffee and stared unseeingly into space. She figured that by now everyone in Rockville would have read that piece of tabloid garbage. There would be ladies hunched over coffees pontificating and gossiping about her, calling each other on red hot lines. There would be a question mark over her head where before there had been none. It was the nature of a small town; it was the nature of people.

  The argument with Mike had scared and upset her. What he had said to her was bordering on the unforgivable. But then what did she expect after the bombshell that had been dropped in his lap? The question was what happened now? Could they get past this? Would he even want to try?

  She rested her chin on her hand, thinking. Old memories rose up from the deepest parts of her. Doug Robinson: she could barely bring herself to think his name let alone say it. She had told Mike he had been a mistake but he had been much more than that. There were hardly words to describe him, though demon might be closest.

  From the outset, he had telegraphed exactly the sort of man he was, but she had been too young and inexperienced to see it. His jealousy she had thought mildly flattering, his need to know her business at all times, romantic. By the time she’d understood how messed up their relationship was it was too late to escape. Knowing her feelings for him had changed, Doug had tried to break her, of that she was certain. But she had not broken.

  So how was it that even from beyond the grave he had managed to insert himself into her life again? Everything she had built was in jeopardy: her work, her reputation, but mostly her marriage.

  Maybe she should have told Mike from the beginning, but hindsight was a wonderful thing. It was not easy to talk about the past. Nor had she wanted to see in his eyes anything like what she had seen last night; the doubt, the disbelief, the fear. She had not wanted him to think any less of her, to hold her in the same contempt in which she held herself.

  Jessie finished her coffee. She rinsed her cup, took a shower and brushed her teeth. She dressed in pale linen pants and a cream vest with white daisies on it. She was eating a slice of wholemeal toast in the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  She watched Rudy hurry down the hall to sniff the door, and saw his nubby tail wiggle with delight. Jessie put down her toast and smoothed her hair. She walked down the hall and unlocked the front door. Let her give it her best shot, she thought, she won’t break me, I won’t let her talk down to me neither. What is done was done before I ever knew her. I owe nobody an apology for my past.

  ‘Hello, Fay.’

  Fay wore navy blue pants, violet sandals and a cream lace blouse. Her hair was immaculate as always, but her eyes were puffy and her face was drawn with fatigue.

  ‘Come on in,’ Jessie gripped the door, taking a firm stance, her shoulders back and her spine ramrod straight.

  ‘No thank you, I won’t be stopping.’

  They faced each other. Jessie’s stare broke first. She lowered her head, waiting for the hammer blow.

  ‘My son loves you very much.’

  ‘I know that. I love him too.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course I do. How can you ask me that?’

  ‘How can I not? Love is not about lies,’ Fay’s voice cracked on the last word. ‘Love does not keep secrets. Love does not break vows.’

  ‘I broke no vows.’

  ‘You vowed to honour him, didn’t you? Does making a fool of him honour him?’

  ‘Please Fay, I know you’re angry with me, but I … I can’t, there’s nothing I can do or say that can change the past.’

  ‘This is not about the past. This is about now, about yesterday, about last week. This is about Christmas and birthdays and cof
fees. We – all of us – welcomed you into our family … and this … this is how you repay us? You had so many opportunities to be straight with me, with Mike, with all of us, and you lied. You deceived us.’

  Jessie wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. Her earlier resolve faltered and gave. Tears spilled down her face. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You are certainly not the only one.’ Fay turned to leave.

  ‘Fay—’

  Fay did not stop. She hurried down the steps, got into her car and drove off without another glance at Jessie. Jessie watched the car disappear up the drive and closed the door. Rudy looked up at her, his tongue hanging to the side, his nub still wagging. Jessie slid down on the floor beside him, buried her arms in his fur and wept.

  36

  Not long after Fay had gone, Jessie plugged the phone back in and called the garage. Emma was weird with her when she answered, but she had expected that. When Mike came on the line she could tell he was not happy to hear from her. She had expected that also, but it still hurt.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you’re busy say so and I’ll let you be.’

  She heard Mike exhale, and when he next spoke his voice had softened some.

  ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘Fay was here.’

  ‘At the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She’s angry with me. She’s angry that I did not confide in her. Or you. She wanted me to know that. She said I have dishonoured you.’

  ‘She ought not to have done that.’

  ‘She’s hurt,’ Jessie leaned against the wall. ‘She has every right to be angry. I don’t hold it against her.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘You were gone early today.’

  ‘I stopped by The Gazette looking for that woman.’

  Jessie moved to the kitchen and stood by the back door looking out across the yard. High above the tree line, ominous dark clouds were forming over the hills.