Beg to Die

by Beverly Barton

The light hurt her eyes. Turn it off. I’m trying to sleep. But no one responded. Jazzy’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Wake up, beautiful. You’ve been asleep way too long.”

  She recognized that voice. “Caleb?”

  He squeezed her hand. “Yeah, honey, it’s me.”

  When she opened her eyes, she barely recognized him. “You look like hell,” she told him.

  He grinned. “Guess I do look pretty rough. I haven’t shaved in a couple of days and I’ve been taking a whore bath in the men’s room down the hall.”

  “Why…?” She glanced around and realized she was in the hospital. Pale green walls, white sheets, and a strong medicinal smell were sure signs, not to mention the nurses she saw at their station just outside her door. “Am I in ICU?”

  “You’re in SICU. Surgical Intensive Care.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Do you remember what happened?”

  Did she remember? Flashes of a woman holding a doll. Fragments of memory about someone shooting her. Then it all came back, one horrific incident at a time. “That crazy bitch tried to kill me. And Laura and Cecil Willis, too!”

  “Calm down, honey. She’s dead. Margo Kenley, whose real name was Margaret Bentley, is dead. She won’t ever hurt anyone again.”

  “How…who?” Jazzy wanted to know details.

  “Laura Willis is all right, physically. She’s in the psychiatric unit of the hospital here.”

  “And Mr. Willis?”

  Caleb remained silent for a minute, then heaved a deep sigh. “I’m afraid he didn’t make it. The doctors said he suffered a massive heart attack.”

  “That poor man.”

  Caleb nodded. “It seems Margo was once Cecil’s wife and was Laura’s biological mother. She was insane, of course. Spent most of her life in a mental institution.”

  “Poor Laura. Oh, God—Jamie.”

  “Yeah, Margo probably killed him because she thought she was protecting Laura.”

  Someone cleared their throat. “Is she awake?” Genny asked from the doorway.

  Caleb glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah, our girl’s awake. Come on in.”

  “I’ve got Dallas and Jacob and Sally and Ludie out here with me,” Genny said.

  “All of you, come on in here.” Jazzy tried to lift her head, but found she didn’t have the strength. Not yet.

  Within a minute, her bed was surrounded and one of the SICU nurses came in and scolded them for breaking the rules. Two visitors at a time. Jacob walked the lady out, reminding her that he was the sheriff. Jazzy could hear the RN informing Jacob that his authority didn’t extend to her domain.

  “You’re damn lucky Caleb found you when he did,” Sally told her. “He shot that crazy woman right in the head. One shot.”

  “Sally!” Genny scolded.

  “Hell, gal, our Jazzy ain’t no delicate flower who needs to be shielded from the truth. She’s got a right to know who saved her life.”

  Jazzy lifted her hand and discovered just how difficult that simple task was for her. Caleb leaned over her. She caressed his scruffy face. “Is that right? Are you my white knight?”

  “You bet he is,” Ludie added her opinion.

  “We’re so grateful that you’re all right.” Genny’s gaze went to Jazzy’s side, the side bandaged beneath her hospital gown.

  Jazzy looked at Caleb and saw tears in his golden eyes. “I guess I am lucky to be alive.”

  “Got that damn right,” Sally agreed.

  Jazzy kept staring at Caleb, deeply touched by his tears, knowing how unlikely it was that a man such as he cried easily or often. “Thank you for saving me,” she said quietly, then added, “I’m so glad you came into my life.”

  Caleb cleared his throat, then swallowed. “There’s something I want you to know,” he told her. “Something I want your family and friends to hear. It’s something I promised myself I’d tell you, if you…if you lived. Actually, I swore to God that if he kept you alive, I’d tell you exactly how I feel. As a matter of fact, I tried making all kinds of bargains with the Lord if he’d just let you live.”

  “This sounds serious.” Sally grinned. “Making an oath to the Almighty and all.”

  “Jazzy, I love you,” Caleb said quickly and without hesitation. “And if you’ll give me a second chance, I’ll prove to you just how much.”

  A hush fell over the room, as if everyone was holding their breath. She looked from one person to another and was met with smiles. They all knew that Caleb McCord just might turn out to be the best thing that had ever happened to her.

  Jazzy swallowed tears of happiness, grateful to be alive and loved by so many people.

  She smiled at Caleb. “I think maybe you and I both need a second chance.”

  He kissed her then. Warm and tender, with a hint of passion. “Thank you,” he whispered against her lips.

  Epilogue

  Of course the day was perfect. Genny and Dallas deserved nothing less than true perfection on the most special day of their lives. Sunshine in abundance. Blue sky overhead. Green grass beneath their feet. Wild flowers blooming profusely. Birds chirping. Fiddlers playing alongside flutists. The melodies ancient. Celtic. Cherokee. Sometimes a subtle blending, just as the bride herself was a mixture of the two noble people.

  Genny had never been more beautiful than she was this spring afternoon in June when she exchanged vows with the man she loved. Of course the groom was handsome. In his simple black suit and gray-striped tie, his attire complimented his new wife’s unadorned antique white sheath of sheer organdy over an aged silk underlay. Genny’s granny, Melva Mae Nelson, had wed her true love, Jacob Butler—the present day Jacob’s grandfather—in the dress Genny wore today. Her long shiny black hair hung loosely to her waist, unfettered by jewelry or a headpiece and veil, the sparkling diamond on her finger, now mated to the simple gold wedding band, her only embellishment.

  Jazzy joined the group of unwed women as Genny prepared to toss her bouquet of pale pink wild roses. Jazzy’s life had changed unbelievably in the past six weeks since she’d nearly died at the hands of a madwoman. Nothing would ever be the same again. Her views on life in general had altered. She was stronger, wiser, far more cautious. And she was happier than she’d ever been, mostly due to her relationship with Caleb McCord. She hadn’t told him she loved him. Not yet. It wasn’t that what she felt for him wasn’t love, but after what she’d gone through with Jamie, she wasn’t ready to commit her whole heart to anyone. Not until she was sure. Not only of the man, but of herself.

  She trusted Caleb and believed he loved her. But she couldn’t forget that he was now the Upton heir or that Miss Reba, despite Big Jim soundly defending Jazzy to his wife, still disapproved of her. Caleb hadn’t moved into the Upton mansion, but everybody knew who he was now. She’d told him that he couldn’t put off the inevitable for much longer and he hadn’t disagreed with her. He still lived in the rental cabin and still worked as the bouncer at Jazzy’s Joint. But even he admitted that he was considering Big Jim’s offer to come into the family business empire.

  Jazzy supposed she didn’t quite trust Caleb to choose her, to put her first, if it came to a choice between her and what his grandmother wanted. And someday soon, it would come to that. He understood that she would want marriage and children. And Miss Reba would oppose their union. They hadn’t discussed marriage. Not yet. But they would. She’d been the one who’d suggested they take their relationship slow and easy and give themselves plenty of time to be sure. Reluctantly, Caleb had agreed.

  Maybe things would work out for them. It was what she wanted, what he professed he wanted, too. But she needed time. She was barely on the mend after her long hospital recuperation. And there was another relationship she had to work out first—the relationship with Reve Sorrell.

  Reve had called her while she’d been in the hospital. And in the weeks since her release, they had talked on the phone several times. Jazzy had questioned Aunt Sally about her birth and her aunt had told her t
he same old story again and again. No twins. No second child. Corrine Talbot gave birth to one baby girl. Jazzy had no sister. No twin. But a part of Jazzy doubted her aunt. Her gut feelings told her that Reve was her sister—her twin.

  Before she could move forward with her life and make a commitment to Caleb, she had to find out the truth. And from some things Reve had said recently, Jazzy was pretty sure she felt the same way. If Aunt Sally wouldn’t help her unearth the truth, then she’d have to find another way to discover who she really was. Caleb had promised her that he’d do everything he could to help her. For the first time in her life, she had a strong, reliable man at her side.

  All the bridesmaids fluttered and giggled as they lifted their arms and reached for the bouquet that sailed toward them. Maybe it was because she stood a couple of inches taller than the others, or maybe because Genny aimed directly at her, Jazzy wasn’t sure, but the bouquet of wild roses landed in her uplifted hands. She clutched the fragrant nosegay to her bosom and laughed. Would she be the next Cherokee County bride? Would she and Caleb truly find their happily ever after? With bubbly happiness warming her heart, Jazzy glanced around the crowd and her gaze connected to Caleb’s, who stood alone, away from the crowd.

  Barefoot, as were Genny and her other attendants, Jazzy ran across the field at the back of Genny’s house where the outdoor ceremony had taken place. She raced straight into Caleb McCord’s open arms. Life was good. And the future looked bright.

  Acknowledgments

  A very special thank you to my wonderful editor

  JOHN SCOGNAMIGLIO

  And several dear friends who understand

  the life of a writer

  and help keep me sane,

  LINDA, LJ, WENDY, and PAULA

  About the Author

  BEG TO DIE

  An avid reader since childhood, Beverly Barton wrote her first book at the age of nine. Since then, she has gone on to write well over sixty novels and is a New York Times bestselling author. Beverly lives in Alabama.

  For further information about Beverly Barton go to her website at www.beverlybarton.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  By the same author:

  Close Enough to Kill

  Amnesia

  The Dying Game

  The Murder Game

  Coldhearted

  The Fifth Victim

  Silent Killer

  Preview

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Beverly Barton’s TIME OF DEATH. Coming in October 2010.

  Prologue

  There it was again, that odd sound. It must be the wind. What else could it be? Possibly a wild animal, a raccoon or possum or even a stray dog. Bears are in hibernation this time of year.

  Get hold of yourself. You’re imagining things. Nobody’s out there. Nobody is going to show up here in the middle of the woods in the dead of winter just to frighten you.

  Dean’s bone thin hands trembled as he pulled back the gingham curtain from the dirty window and peered out into the darkness. The quarter moon winked mockingly at him through a thin veil of clouds, as if it knew something he didn’t. The cold wind whispered menacingly. Was it issuing him a warning?

  Releasing the curtain, he rubbed his hands together, as much to warm them as to control the quivering. He sure as hell could use a drink about now. Or something stronger, quicker. But he had learned to settle for strong coffee. A caffeine fix was better than no fix at all. He had been clean and sober for three years and he had no intention of allowing a few stupid letters to destroy his hard won freedom from drugs and alcohol.

  Forget the damn letters. They’re just somebody’s idea of a sick joke.

  There were things he should be doing – stoking the fire he’d built in the fireplace, checking supplies, preparing the coffeemaker for morning coffee, bringing in more firewood, putting fresh linens on the twin beds. Dean wanted everything to be in order before his brother got here. Jared, who was driving in from Knoxville where he taught biology at the University of Tennessee, would arrive sometime in the morning and if all went as planned, they’d spend the weekend here. This was the first time they’d been together at their family’s cabin in the Smoky Mountains since they were teenagers.

  God, that had been a lifetime ago. Jared was forty-eight now, widowed, the father to two adult sons. His brother was successful in a way he would never be. Jared lived a normal life, always had and always would. Dean was a failure. Always had been and probably always would be. He’d been married and divorced four times. But he’d done one thing right – to his knowledge he had never fathered a child.

  As he lifted the poker from where it was propped against the rock wall surrounding the fireplace, he glanced at the old mantel clock that had belonged to his grandparents. Eleven-forty-seven. He should be sleepy, but he wasn’t. He had flown in from LA earlier today and had rented a car at the airport.

  Jared had sent him the airline ticket. His brother didn’t trust him enough to send him the money. In the past, he would have used the money to buy drugs. He couldn’t blame Jared. Dean had done nothing to earn anybody’s trust. He might be clean and sober, but even he knew that it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. If something happened, something he couldn’t handle, he just might take the easy way out. He always had in the past.

  Was receiving death threats something he couldn’t handle?

  Dean stoked the fire and replaced the poker, then headed toward the kitchen to prepare the coffeemaker. Halfway across the cabin’s great room, he heard that pesky noise again. It sounded like footsteps crunching over dried leaves. He stopped dead still and listened.

  Silence.

  With his heart racing, his palms perspiration-damp and a shiver of uncertainty rippling along his nerve endings, he wondered if he should get his granddad’s shotgun out of the closet. His dad had always kept a box of shells on the overhead shelf in the closet, well out of reach when he and Jared had been kids. But what were the odds that he’d actually find an old box of shells?

  He should have gone to the police after he received that first letter, but he’d waited, telling himself that each letter would be the last one. Over the past few months, he had received a total of four succinct typed notes. Each one had begun the same way. Midnight is coming.

  What the hell did that mean? Midnight came every twenty-four hours, didn’t it?

  Dean went into the larger of the two bedrooms, the room his parents had shared on their visits here, turned on the overhead light and opened the closet door. The closet was empty except for a few wire clothes hangers; and there in the very far left corner was his granddad’s shotgun. He reached out and grabbed it. Just holding the weapon made him feel safe.

  Idiot. The thing’s not loaded.

  To make sure, he snapped it open and checked. Empty. No shells. He raked his hand across the narrow shelf at the top of the closet and found nothing except dust. Had he really expected to find a box of shells?

  Dean sighed. But he took the shotgun with him when he returned to the great room and laid it on the kitchen table. He rinsed out the coffee pot, filled it with fresh water and emptied the water into the reservoir. After measuring the ground coffee into the filter, he set the timer for seven o’clock.

  He still needed to bring in more firewood and put clean sheets on the beds. When he’d set his suitcase down on the floor in the second bedroom, the one he and Jared had always shared, he had noticed that the mattresses were bare. He had found the pillows and blankets in the hall linen closet, along with a stack of bed linens. He dreaded the thought of going outside, of getting chilled to the bone and facing his own fears. What if it wasn’t an animal walking around out there?

  Wait until morning to bring in the firewood.

  But was there enough wood to keep the fire going all night?

  “There are a couple of kerosene heaters in the shed out back,” Jared had told him. “Just
don’t use them at night. It’s safer to keep a fire going in the fireplace.”

  “Why haven’t you put in some other kind of heat?” Dean had asked him.

  “Because we hardly ever use the place in the winter. Besides, the boys and I enjoy roughing it, just like you and I did with Dad.”

  Dad. Dean didn’t think about his father all that often. Remembering how completely he had disappointed his father wasn’t a pleasant memory. His parents had loved him, had given him every advantage, and he had screwed up time and time again.

  Dean put on his heavy winter coat – the one he had bought for a little of nothing at the Salvation Army thrift store. It was foolish of him to be afraid of the dark, scared to face a raccoon or a possum, or to think that whoever had written those crazy letters had actually followed him from California to Tennessee and was waiting outside the cabin to kill him.

  Dean grunted.

  Don’t be such a wuss.

  He flipped on the porch light and grasped the doorknob. The moment he opened the cabin door, the frigid wind hit him in the face and sent a shiver through his body. He closed the door behind him and headed toward the firewood stacked neatly on the north side of the front porch. Working quickly, he filled his arms to overflowing.

  Dean turned and headed for the front door, then realized he’d have to shuffle his load in order to open the door. But before he could accomplish the task, he heard what sounded a lot like footsteps. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His heartbeat accelerated. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  Get a grip, man!

  Just as he managed to free one hand and grab hold of the doorknob, he heard the sound again. Closer. As if someone was walking in the leaves that covered the rock walkway from the gravel drive to the porch.

  Dean took a deep breath, garnered his courage and turned all the way around to confront the intruder. Suddenly, he burst into laughter. A possum scurried across the dead leaves not more than a foot from the porch steps.