Beg to Die

by Beverly Barton

  “Let me take a look.” Jacob had reached for the plastic bag and studied the red-stained keys. Turning the bag this way and that, he’d noticed something written on the oval key ring. “Cherokee Cabin Rentals,” he’d said aloud.

  Was it just a coincidence that what was probably Jazzy’s set of master keys to the cabin rentals had been found in the alleyway? With blood on the keys? He didn’t think so. It was as if Jazzy had deliberately left the keys behind, as a clue. What had she been trying to tell him? Jamie Upton had been killed in a cabin, albeit a deserted cabin. But wasn’t it possible, maybe even probable, that the woman who had kidnapped Jazzy—as well as Laura and Cecil—had taken her to a cabin? One of the Cherokee Cabin Rentals.

  Scrunched together in Jacob’s Dodge Ram—he, Genny, and Dallas in the front seat and Caleb and Sally in the backseat—they drove up the long, lonely stretch of highway, toward the site where Reve Sorrell’s Jag and Stan Watson’s truck had been burned. He and Dallas had compared notes and discovered they both had a hunch the woman they were tracking might be in one of the nearby cabins. And if she was, that meant her three captives were probably with her.

  “Wait!” Genny cried.

  Jacob slammed on the brakes. Everyone took a collective deep breath and waited for Genny to continue. She’d been trying for the past hour to mentally connect with Jazzy, but without success.

  “Did you do it?” Caleb lurched forward, his hand gripping Genny’s shoulder. “Did you make contact with Jazzy? Do you know where she is?”

  Dallas knocked Caleb’s hand aside and growled at him.

  “Nearby,” Genny said. “She’s drifting in and out of consciousness. We must hurry. If we don’t get to her…if we don’t help her soon, she’ll die!”

  Chapter 30

  Caleb listened while Jacob and Dallas issued orders to the search party, comprised of their combined personnel. Pairing up, the officers and deputies were to check each cabin in the vicinity and radio back after each check. Since the number of searchers was limited, they’d be able to check only half the cabins at a time, even with Jacob and Dallas joining the hunt.

  Big Jim and Andrea Willis stood nearby, Mrs. Willis bravely holding it together, with Jim at her side for support. Jacob rattled off the names of the present occupants in each cabin, one cabin empty. But he instructed his men to include the unoccupied cabin, also. When Jacob said the name Margo Kenley—that her cabin would be one of the cabins checked on the second round of inspections—Mrs. Willis gasped, but no one other than Caleb and Jim heard her.

  Caleb eased closer to his grandfather and asked, “Did Mrs. Willis recognize the name Margo Kenley?”

  Jim laid his hand on Andrea Willis’s shoulder. “Did you recognize the name? Do you know the woman?”

  “No, I don’t know anyone by that name, but…forget it. It can’t be.”

  “Please, Mrs. Willis, tell us,” Caleb said. “Whatever your first thought was when you heard the name, tell me. It might help us find your husband and daughter.” And my Jazzy.

  “It was a ridiculous thought.” Andrea sighed. “But if you think it might help.”

  Caleb reached out and took her hand in his. “Tell us.” He knew only too well what Andrea Willis was going through. The same hell he was because he was scared out of his mind about the safety of the person he loved more than anything in this world.

  “My husband was married to another woman before we got married,” Andrea explained. “Her name was Margaret Bentley. I thought the names sounded similar. Margo Kenley. Margaret Bentley. That’s all it was.”

  “Would this Margaret Bentley have any reason to want to harm your husband and daughter?” Caleb asked, grasping at straws with his question.

  “Yes, she would. If she were alive.”

  “She’s dead?”

  Andrea nodded. “She died in a fire about two years ago.”

  “You know without a doubt that she’s dead?” Caleb’s training as a police detective resurfaced immediately. “The body was recovered and identified?”

  “Yes, I…I suppose so. We never asked. We just assumed. I mean they notified Cecil and said Margaret was dead.”

  “So it’s possible that she didn’t die in that fire, that somehow she escaped.” Caleb’s policeman thought processes went into action, putting pieces of an unknown puzzle together. “Is there any reason this woman would have wanted the fact she was alive kept secret?”

  “I—I…” Andrea stared at Caleb, fear and uncertainty in her eyes. “Yes. The woman spent years in a mental institution. That’s where she died. You don’t really think it’s possible that—”

  “Which cabin did Jacob say this Margo Kenley was staying in?” Caleb asked. “Eagle’s Nest, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, that was it,” Jim replied.

  Andrea grabbed Caleb’s arm. “It can’t be Margaret. It just can’t be!”

  “You have no real proof she died, right? The woman must have had severe mental problems to have spent years in an institution, right? Sometimes in a case where there’s a fire in a place like that, with numerous casualties, they do a body count and figure anybody missing is dead. And you said yourself that this woman had a reason to want to harm your husband and daughter.”

  Clutching her throat, Andrea gasped. “Oh, God. If Margaret is alive and she has Cecil…she…she tried to kill his father, years ago. She tortured him.”

  Caleb’s blood ran cold. “Excuse us a minute, will you, Mrs. Willis?” He nodded to his grandfather, indicating for him to come with him. Big Jim followed Caleb, about ten feet away, out of Mrs. Willis’s earshot. “You wouldn’t happen to have a gun with you, would you?”

  Big Jim eyed him speculatively. “Don’t do anything foolish, son. Let the law handle this.”

  “Jazzy Talbot is my woman,” Caleb said. “Do you under stand?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Caleb clutched his grandfather’s arm. “I’m not some rank amateur who doesn’t know what he’s doing. I was a police detective.”

  Jim nodded. “I keep a pistol in the glove compartment.”

  “Is your car locked?”

  “No.”

  “You wait here with Mrs. Willis and Genny. When Jacob and Dallas return, tell them where I’ve gone and why. If this Margo Kenley turns out to be Margaret Bentley, I just might need backup.”

  “Damn, boy, I wish you wouldn’t—”

  Caleb was halfway to Big Jim’s Cadillac before Jim finished his sentence, so he didn’t hear the rest. He opened the door, leaned inside, and opened the glove compartment. There, atop various other items, rested Jim’s Heckler and Koch 9mm. He picked up the pistol and inspected it. A P7M8 automatic, with an eight-shot magazine. After rummaging through the other items in the glove compartment, he found an extra clip, which he stuffed into his shirt pocket, then headed toward the road leading to the Eagle’s Nest cabin.

  Jazzy kept fading in and out of consciousness. Every time that crazy bitch, Margo, decided it was Jazzy’s turn for a little sadistic torment, she would slap Jazzy’s face and pour water on her to try to rouse her. Luckily, her wounds, other than the bleeding bullet hole in her belly, weren’t life threatening. Mostly small, superficial knife wounds on her arms and legs, just enough to inflict pain and keep her alive for prolonged torture. But from what she could tell, Cecil Willis wasn’t fairing as well. The sound of his tormented screams had been what brought Jazzy back to consciousness this time. She turned her head and stared at the pitiful man on the floor, blood oozing out of countless cuts on his body, from shoulders to feet. God, the man was a bloody mess.

  Margo stood over him, a hot poker in her hand and a wicked, maniacal look in her eyes. Bringing the poker down again, she ran it up one leg, across his lower belly and then down the other leg. Cecil bellowed with pain.

  Where the hell was Laura, and why wasn’t she trying to do something to help her father?

  Using what little strength she had left, Jazzy maneuvered herself just enough so she could
scan the room to search for Laura. Jamie’s fiancée wasn’t saying or doing anything because she couldn’t. Sometime while Jazzy had been out of it, this Margo bitch had tied Laura to a wooden chair and gagged her.

  Jazzy’s gaze met Laura’s, and she wondered if the same terror she saw in Laura’s eyes was reflected in her own. Probably. Because she sure as hell was terrified. If somebody didn’t do something to help them—and soon—they were going to die. Maybe Laura, too, even if she really was this insane woman’s daughter.

  All Jazzy had been able to figure out was that Margo’s real name was Margaret, that she’d been married to Cecil Willis and Laura was their child. But Laura hadn’t known that little fact, hadn’t had any idea that this Margo/Margaret even existed. From what Cecil had said and from Margo’s nearly incoherent ranting, Jazzy had figured out that Cecil’s first wife had somehow, in her deranged mind, gotten Laura and Jamie all mixed up with Margaret and Cecil. That meant the woman she really wanted to kill alongside Cecil was probably Andrea Willis.

  When Margo walked across the room and placed the poker back into the fireplace, its tip heating in the blazing fire, Jazzy studied her, careful not to alert the woman that she was awake and aware. As Jazzy lay there on the sofa, helpless to do anything except watch and wait, Margo disappeared into the bedroom. If only she could figure out a way to get loose. There was a telephone on the table in the corner, a good twelve feet from her. If she could manage to get to the phone…she could at least knock it off the hook, maybe use her nose to dial 911. Do it, she told herself. It’s now or never.

  Jazzy rolled herself off the couch, hitting the wooden floor with an agonizing thud. Pain radiated through her whole body, every muscle and bone and nerve ending screaming. For a second, she almost passed out again. With supreme effort and determination born from a will to survive, she managed to roll over several times, each time a torturous ordeal. But she was closer to the phone now. Six feet away.

  Come on, you can do it. She rolled over a couple of times. Oh, God, the pain! She clutched her belly and felt fresh blood oozing from her wound.

  Don’t give up now. You’re close, so close. Reaching out, she could almost touch the telephone cord. Almost. One more roll, just halfway, over on her side. That should do it.

  What was that sound? Jazzy wondered, then realized that someone was singing—humming actually. Margo was humming. Jazzy glanced back toward the open bedroom door and prayed for just a few more minutes. She held out her hand. Her fingertips grazed the phone cord. She inched her way closer, grabbed the cord, and yanked. The receiver jerked off the base and came tumbling down to the floor, making a rather loud thump. Jazzy held her breath and waited. Margo kept humming, as if she hadn’t heard anything. Thank you, God!

  Jazzy placed her face close to the touch-tone digits on the receiver, then tried to use her nose to punch a number. It didn’t work. Okay, so try something else. She used her tongue. That didn’t work either. Now what? Teeth! She tried to focus on the numbers, but her vision blurred. Hell, just punch in some numbers—any numbers.

  Just as Jazzy used her teeth to press what she hoped was 911, Margo came out of the bedroom. Jazzy glanced over her shoulder. Damn! But Margo seemed oblivious to Jazzy and to Laura as she glided across the room to where Cecil waited, abject terror on his face when she approached him.

  What the hell was Margo holding in her arms? Was that a doll of some kind? It was. The crazy bitch was holding a life-size baby doll, wrapped in a pink blanket.

  Margo knelt on the floor beside Cecil and held out the doll to him. “Isn’t she pretty? Look at her, Cecil. Our little Laura.”

  Cecil didn’t respond; he simply lay there, stunned and suffering.

  She looked at the doll and smiled. “Daddy’s been very, very bad and we have to punish him. He tried to give you away to that awful woman. But you mustn’t worry. You’re with your real mommy now. And no one will ever take you away from me again.”

  “Margaret.” Her name croaked from Cecil’s throat.

  “Yes, Cecil, what is it?”

  “That—that isn’t Laura,” he said. “That’s a doll. Look at it. Can’t you see it’s not a real baby? Laura—our Laura—is a grown woman. That’s her, over there.” He inclined his head in the direction of the chair where Laura sat bound and gagged.

  Gazing lovingly down at the blanket-wrapped bundle, Margo said, “She is a doll, isn’t she? So pretty. She looks like me, don’t you think?”

  “Margaret, please…listen to me. Laura is an adult. She’s twenty-four. Look over there at that young woman. She’s our daughter. Look at her carefully and you’ll see that she has your blond hair and—”

  “Shut up! Don’t talk to me. I hate you!” Margo whirled around and looked from Laura to Jazzy and back to Laura. “Who are you?” she asked Laura.

  Unable to speak, Laura shook her head. Margo quickly turned her attention to Jazzy. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Jazzy Talbot.” God, please, please help us!

  “Do I know you?”

  “No, not really.” Soon, God. Real soon.

  “What are you doing here? Did you come with Cecil?” Margo gasped. “You’re her, aren’t you? You’re Cecil’s lover. You want to take my baby away from me.”

  “No!” Jazzy cried. “I’m not Cecil’s lover. I don’t even know him. And I don’t want your baby. I swear!”

  Margo started crooning to the bundle in her arms and once again totally ignored Jazzy and Laura as she meandered back to the bedroom.

  The phone, damn it, the phone! Jazzy scooted just enough to be able to place her ear over the receiver. She listened. No 911 response. Just the repetitive voice of a taped message telling her to hang up and try again. Okay, try again, she told herself, but before she could do more than adjust her head, Margo came flying out of the bedroom, brandishing two large, shiny knives.

  Laura wriggled and moaned, her eyes wide with fright. Cecil mumbled softly and Jazzy realized he was praying. Good idea, she thought. Okay, God, looks like it’s now or never. So how about making it now? How about putting me in touch with Genny? Yeah, that might work. We used to be able to connect mentally when we were kids. Could you help us do that again? Just this once?

  Genny. Can you hear me? If you can, let me know. I need help. I need help now.

  Caleb approached the Eagle’s Nest cabin with caution. If Margo Kenley was Margaret Bentley and she was holding Jazzy, Laura, and Cecil prisoners, the last thing he wanted to do was alert her of his presence. A nondescript older model Ford Taurus was parked in the drive, so that meant somebody was probably here. Caleb crept over to the car and checked the right back door. Unlocked! He eased open the door and looked around inside, able to see the interior fairly well since the vehicle was parked under the bright security light to the side of the driveway. Immediately his gaze paused on the red streaks smeared across the beige cloth backseat. He wiped the red with his fingers and brought them to his nose. Blood. Partially dried blood. Fairly fresh. Jazzy’s blood!

  He closed the door and made his way toward the side of the house, his actions silent and vigilant. After removing the pistol he’d tucked beneath the waistband of his jeans, he leaned forward just enough to peep through the front windows. The room lay in shadows, lit only by the roaring fire in the fireplace and a lone lamp burning on a corner desk. His gaze traveled speedily over the room. A man whom he was pretty sure was Cecil Willis lay on the floor, naked and spread-eagled—and covered in blood. To the man’s right, Laura Willis sat bound and gagged. Caleb’s heart pounded loudly in his ears, his pulse racing, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Jazzy? Where was Jazzy?

  Raking his gaze from right to left, from ceiling to floor—the floor! Jazzy lay on the floor, her hands tied behind her, her feet bound. As best he could make out, she appeared to be unconscious. Please, dear God, let her be alive. The thought of losing Jazzy rendered him temporarily immobile. Snap out of it! Get moving!

  While he studied the situation and his mind wo
rked to form a hasty plan of action, a small, blond woman rose from the fireplace and lifted a red-hot poker in her hand. This must be Margo Kenley, who might be Margaret Bentley. At this precise moment, her name didn’t matter, didn’t mean a damn thing to Caleb. He watched in horror as she walked over to Cecil Willis and stuck the poker into his navel. The man screeched in agony. Salty bile rose up from Caleb’s stomach. He wiped the perspiration from his face with his palm, then aimed Big Jim’s 9mm. But before he could get off a shot, his target moved straight toward Jazzy, the poker she’d used on Cecil still burning hot. Margo punched Jazzy with her foot. Jazzy didn’t respond. The bitter, salty liquid reached Caleb’s mouth. He turned his head and spit.

  Using her foot, Margo rolled Jazzy over and aimed the tip of the poker toward Jazzy’s face. Caleb repositioned himself and took aim again. Just as the poker came down…down…nearer and nearer Jazzy’s beautiful face, Caleb fired his weapon. The bullet blasted through the window, sailed through the living room, and entered the side of Margo’s head. Blood spurted from her right temple. She dropped to the floor like a lead weight sinking into the river.

  Caleb rushed to the front door, grasped the knob, and flung open the unlocked door. Margo lay halfway on top of Jazzy, the woman’s bloody, tattered head and slender shoulders resting on Jazzy’s legs. When he reached them, he rolled Margo over and out of the way. She was dead. She wasn’t going anywhere, wasn’t going to do anything. Kneeling, he reached out and felt for Jazzy’s pulse. It was weak and thready, but she was alive. He examined her from head to toe and found the bloody bullet wound in her belly. She needed medical attention and she needed it now!

  After ripping open Jazzy’s blouse, he tried his level best to remember his first aid training as he examined the entry wound, then he searched but didn’t find an exit wound. That meant the bullet was still inside her.