The Last To Die

The Last To Die Page 2

by Beverly Barton

  She wo­uld not kill him qu­ickly. A qu­ick de­ath was too go­od for him. He ne­eded to die slowly, pa­in­ful­ly, tor­tu­red and tor­men­ted. The tho­ught of lis­te­ning to his ago­ni­zing scre­ams ex­ci­ted her. Her mind fil­led with vi­vidly gru­eso­me im­p­res­si­ons of his last ho­urs on earth.

  "Everything I do, I do for you, my swe­et baby. I won't let an­yo­ne hurt you. They think we aren't go­od eno­ugh for them. They think they can swe­ep us out the do­or and pre­tend we don't exist. But I won't let that hap­pen. You don't ha­ve an­y­t­hing to worry abo­ut. Not now. Not ever. Mot­her's he­re… Mot­her's he­re."

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  The man writ­hed in agony, his na­ked tor­so hel­p­les­sly bo­und, his legs spre­ad-eag­led. Tight ro­pe ma­nac­led his an­k­les to eit­her si­de of the he­avy spi­kes in the wo­oden flo­or. She re­mo­ved the thick cot­ton rag used to gag him ef­fec­ti­vely and mu­te his tor­tu­red cri­es. Self-sa­tis­fi­ed and ex­ci­ted, she sto­od over him, the blo­ody kni­fe clut­c­hed tightly in her ste­ady hand. The dim glow of the lo­ne lamp bur­ning in the ro­om cast sha­dows ac­ross her fa­ce, re­ve­aling not­hing abo­ut her ex­cept a few flya­way ten­d­rils of bur­nis­hed red ha­ir. As she lo­we­red the kni­fe, the man's eyes wi­de­ned in ter­ror. He knew what she was go­ing to do. He strug­gled fu­ti­lely aga­inst his cap­ti­vity. Swe­at dot­ted his fo­re­he­ad, his up­per lip, and drip­ped along the si­de of his fa­ce. When she pla­ced the kni­fe bet­we­en his thighs, red -with blo­od from whe­re she'd tor­men­ted him, she la­ug­hed.

  " 'What­so­ever ye sow, that shall ye re­ap.'"

  He mum­b­led ple­adingly as he shi­ve­red, his he­ad thras­hing si­de to si­de, pa­nic se­izing him com­p­le­tely. Fe­ar con­su­med him.

  "You will ne­ver hurt an­yo­ne ever aga­in," she told him. "I will pu­nish you for yo­ur many sins and rid the world of yo­ur evil." She bro­ught the kni­fe back, re­ac­hed un­der him and lifted his scro­tum, then, with one swift, de­adly sli­ce, cas­t­ra­ted her vic­tim. ‘’I am yo­ur an­gel of de­ath, who­re­mon­ger!"

  Genny Ma­doc scre­amed. When she shot stra­ight up in bed, her fi­ancé, Dal­las Slo­an, ca­me up be­si­de her a split se­cond la­ter. He wrap­ped his arms aro­und her and held her as she trem­b­led.

  "What hap­pe­ned?" he as­ked, then brus­hed his lips along her tem­p­le. "Was it a nig­h­t­ma­re or a vi­si­on?"

  She ga­ve her­self over com­p­le­tely to his com­for­ting ca­re, ha­ving co­me to de­pend on him with to­tal trust the­se past few months. "Both. A nig­h­t­ma­re vi­si­on."

  "You ha­ven't be­en bot­he­red with vi­si­ons sin­ce…" He let his words tra­il off. She sus­pec­ted that he, as she, pre­fer­red not to dwell on the events of this past Janu­ary, when she'd co­me very clo­se to be­ing a ma­ni­acal se­ri­al kil­ler's fifth vic­tim he­re in Che­ro­kee Co­unty.

  Although it was early Ap­ril in the mo­un­ta­ins, the nig­h­t­ti­me and early mor­ning tem­pe­ra­tu­res re­ma­ined in the high thir­ti­es and low for­ti­es. Genny shi­ve­red as a cold chill rac­ked her body. Dal­las lif­ted the he­avy qu­ilt from the fo­ot of the­ir bed and wrap­ped it aro­und her, then pul­led her back down in­to the bed be­si­de him. She cud­dled aga­inst him and sig­hed he­avily.

  "Want to tell me abo­ut it?" he as­ked.

  "I'd rat­her for­get it… but I can't. I be­li­eve the vi­si­on was a fo­re­war­ning. I saw a man be­ing mur­de­red."

  "Did you re­cog­ni­ze eit­her the vic­tim or the kil­ler?" Dal­las as­ked.

  "Yes and no, but…" She pul­led away from him and rol­led out of bed.

  Dallas le­aned over, just eno­ugh to lo­osen the co­vers from his up­per body. Genny lo­oked at him, at this man she lo­ved mo­re than li­fe it­self, and wis­hed mo­re fer­vently than she ever had be­fo­re that she wasn't cur­sed with the gift of sight. Lo­ving her, li­ving with her, mar­rying her co­me June, Dal­las had to de­al with her spe­ci­al ta­lents as only the ma­te of a true psychic wo­uld ha­ve to do.

  Genny dis­car­ded the he­avy qu­ilt, drop­ping it to the flo­or as she slip­ped in­to her ro­be and ho­use sho­es, her mo­ve­ments slow and un­s­te­ady. She tur­ned to Dal­las. "I won't be ab­le to sle­ep. I think I'll fix myself so­me cof­fee and go out­si­de to watch the sun­ri­se. You stay he­re and go back to sle­ep."

  Totally na­ked, Dal­las emer­ged from the bed in all his mas­cu­li­ne glory, a mor­ning erec­ti­on jut­ting out bet­we­en his thighs. "You're so we­ak you can ba­rely walk. You aren't go­ing an­y­w­he­re wit­ho­ut me." He grab­bed his dis­car­ded je­ans and shirt off a ne­arby cha­ir. "I'll fix cof­fee. Then if you want to go out­si­de, I'll go with you."

  "I'm just a lit­tle we­ak. The vi­si­on dra­ined so­me of my strength, but it was a bri­ef vi­si­on and I'm not ex­ha­us­ted. Re­al­ly I'm not."

  Not bot­he­ring to put on his socks, he stuf­fed his fe­et in­to his sho­es, put his arm aro­und her sho­ul­ders and gu­ided her out of the bed­ro­om. "You ne­ed to talk abo­ut it. If it was a pre­mo­ni­ti­on of so­me­one's de­ath, then may­be the­re's so­met­hing we can do to pre­vent it from hap­pe­ning."

  Genny lo­ved the way he sa­id "we" so na­tu­ral­ly, wit­ho­ut gi­ving it any tho­ught. Al­most in­s­tantly, from the first night they met, they had be­co­me one spi­rit.

  Fifteen mi­nu­tes la­ter, Dal­las and Genny, cof­fee mugs in hand, sto­od on the front porch of her old Ten­nes­see far­m­ho­use and wat­c­hed the sun­ri­se. Dal­las's strong arms en­com­pas­sed her as he sto­od be­hind her, his big body war­ming her. Pa­le and pink, li­ke the tips of a hun­d­red tor­c­hes ba­rely be­gin­ning to brig­h­ten the ho­ri­zon, the first glim­mer of mor­ning sun­light lit the Eas­tern sky.

  "No mat­ter how many ti­mes I see this, it ne­ver ce­ases to ta­ke my bre­ath away," she told him.

  "I know exactly what you me­an." One of his big hands clam­ped down on her sho­ul­der.

  When she glan­ced back and up at him, he wasn't lo­oking at the sun­ri­se, but at her. And she knew that she, not na­tu­re's be­a­uty, was what cap­ti­va­ted him.

  Genny glan­ced up at the sky, le­aned her body back, clo­ser in­to Dal­las, and lif­ted the strong, dark brew to her lips. The Co­lom­bi­an Sup­re­me had a rich, mel­low fla­vor, and she, li­ke Dal­las, to­ok her cof­fee black.

  'The man was Jamie Up­ton," Genny sa­id, her vo­ice not much mo­re than a whis­per, as if she tho­ught by not sa­ying his na­me too lo­udly, it might so­me­how pro­tect him.

  "You saw so­me­one kill Jamie Up­ton?" Dal­las nuz­zled the si­de of her neck with his no­se. "I'm not sur­p­ri­sed. I fi­gu­re it's only a mat­ter of ti­me be­fo­re he pis­ses off the wrong wo­man."

  "Please don't say that."

  Dallas to­ok a swig of cof­fee, then set his mug on the win­dow­sill be­hind him. When Genny to­ok se­ve­ral steps to­ward the ed­ge of the porch, he fol­lo­wed and wrap­ped his arms aro­und her aga­in. '’Tell me what's frig­h­te­ned you so. The­re has to be mo­re to yo­ur vi­si­on than simply se­e­ing Jamie kil­led."

  "Isn't that eno­ugh?"

  "Depends."

  "On what?" she as­ked.

  "On how he was mur­de­red and on who kil­led him."

  "I don't know who she was, but-"

  "So I was right, huh? I fi­gu­red it was a wo­man. Af­ter all, it wo­uld be only po­etic jus­ti­ce if so­me wo­man chops off his balls."

  Genny gas­ped. Dal­las clut­c­hed her sho­ul­ders and whir­led her aro­und to fa­ce him.

  "Is that what hap­pe­ned?"

  Feeling sud­denly cold and kno­wing the co­lor had dra­ined from her fa­ce, Genny nod­ded. "And-and the­re was so­met­hing abo­ut the wo­man."

  "I tho­ught
you sa­id you didn't re­cog­ni­ze her."

  "I didn't see her fa­ce, but I saw a few strands of her ha­ir."

  "So?" Dal­las sta­red at her qu­iz­zi­cal­ly.

  "Her ha­ir was red."

  "Red? Go­od God, ho­ney, you don't think it was Jaz­zy, do you?" When she co­uldn't bring her­self to res­pond, Dal­las grun­ted. "You think you saw Jaz­zy mur­der Jamie, don't you?"

  "No, of co­ur­se not. Jaz­zy isn't ca­pab­le of mur­der."

  "That's whe­re you're wrong. Every hu­man be­ing is ca­pab­le of kil­ling, gi­ven the right pro­vo­ca­ti­on. But if Jaz­zy was go­ing to kill Jamie, she'd al­re­ady ha­ve do­ne it. Long ago."

  Genny to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, then ex­ha­led as she nod­ded ag­re­ement. "I don't think the wo­man who kil­led Jamie in my vi­si­on was Jaz­zy, but my in­s­tincts warn me that so­me­how Jamie's de­ath will bring gre­at tro­ub­le to her."

  "So sho­uld we fo­re­warn Jamie?"

  Genny sho­ok her he­ad. "No. He'd ne­ver be­li­eve me. He'd only la­ugh at me. But I'm go­ing to tell Jaz­zy. She ne­eds to stay as far away from Jamie as she pos­sibly can."

  "That might be a prob­lem, con­si­de­ring how he ho­unds her all the ti­me."

  "I think she ne­eds to ta­ke out a res­t­ra­ining or­der aga­inst him." Genny lo­oked di­rectly at Dal­las. "Now that you're the chi­ef of po­li­ce, you can han­d­le that for her, can't you?"

  "Yeah, su­re, but Jamie be­ing Jamie, I do­ubt a res­t­ra­ining or­der will ke­ep him away from her." 'Then may­be I sho­uld spe­ak to Ca­leb McCord."

  "McCord? The bo­un­cer at Jaz­zy's Jo­int?"

  "Yes, that Ca­leb McCord."

  "Am I mis­sing so­met­hing? Why wo­uld you tell-" 'That's right, I didn't tell you, did I?"

  "Tell me what?"

  "Caleb is in lo­ve with Jaz­zy."

  "He is?"

  "Yes, he is. He just do­esn't know it yet."

  Dallas chuc­k­led. Genny tur­ned her at­ten­ti­on back to the mor­ning sky as she sip­ped her cof­fee and al­lo­wed her fi­ancé to pull her down in his lap as he sat in one of the fo­ur roc­king cha­irs on the front porch.

  La­ura Wil­lis res­ted on the win­dow se­at in the gu­est bed­ro­om she sha­red with her yo­un­ger sis­ter, She­ri­dan, at the Up­ton es­ta­te out­si­de Che­ro­kee Po­in­te. She'd be­en li­ving he­re sin­ce Jamie bro­ught her to me­et his gran­d­pa­rents three months ago. Un­til her sis­ter and pa­rents had ar­ri­ved two days ago for her en­ga­ge­ment party, she had sha­red Jamie's bed many nights. The nights he sta­yed at ho­me. His gran­d­mot­her, Miss Re­ba, as­su­red her that Jamie wasn't with ot­her wo­men on tho­se nights he sta­yed out un­til dawn, but she knew bet­ter. Her Jamie was a la­di­es' man. And the­re was one lady-and she used the term lo­osely-Jamie fo­und ir­re­sis­tib­le. Jaz­zy Tal­bot.

  Maybe she was a fo­ol to be­li­eve that on­ce she and Jamie we­re mar­ri­ed he'd be fa­it­h­ful to her. But he had so­lemnly vo­wed to her that on­ce they sa­id the­ir "I dos," he wo­uld be true to her. Per­haps she had to be­li­eve he'd ke­ep his word be­ca­use she lo­ved him so much.

  And he lo­ved her. She knew he did. He co­uld be ten­der and con­si­de­ra­te and lo­ving, as well as wildly pas­si­ona­te. She was lucky that he in­ten­ded to marry her. He'd be­en en­ga­ged twi­ce be­fo­re, but this ti­me wo­uld be dif­fe­rent. In three we­eks they wo­uld say the­ir vows and she wo­uld be­co­me Mrs. James Up­ton HI. And if Jaz­zy Tal­bot didn't sta­ya­way from her hus­band, she'd… what wo­uld she do? She'd kill her, that's what she'd do. No, no, La­ura, you don't me­an that. You co­uld ne­ver kill anot­her hu­man be­ing. Not even Jaz­zy.

  The eas­tern sky brig­h­te­ned as dawn co­lo­red the ho­ri­zon with mu­ted pas­tels. La­ura co­uld see the front dri­ve from her win­dow as well as the ex­pan­si­ve front lawn. Qu­i­et, empty, not­hing mo­re than the spring bre­eze stir­ring at this ti­me of day.

  You 're with her, aren't you, Jamie? You spent the night with her. To­uc­hing her, kis­sing her, ma­king lo­ve to her the sa­me way you do me. No, no, no! It's not the sa­me. He lo­ves me. He only wants to fuck her.

  Tears gat­he­red in La­ura's eyes. She swal­lo­wed hard and wil­led the te­ars away. It wasn't too la­te to call off the wed­ding. But what go­od wo­uld that do? Jamie had al­re­ady bro­ken her he­art. And she knew that wit­ho­ut him, she'd die. He was ever­y­t­hing to her. Her who­le world. The only way she'd ever be free of him was if she di­ed. Or if they both di­ed.

  "Where do you sup­po­se that fi­ancé of yo­urs went?" She­ri­dan as­ked as she ap­pro­ac­hed the win­dow se­at Not re­ali­zing her sis­ter was even awa­ke, let alo­ne out of bed, La­ura gas­ped. "I'm sorry if I wo­ke you. I co­uldn't sle­ep."

  "I wo­uldn't be ab­le to sle­ep eit­her if my fi­ancé had left our en­ga­ge­ment party be­fo­re it en­ded and sta­yed out all night." She­ri­dan sat down be­si­de La­ura and glan­ced out the win­dow. "You do know what pe­op­le we­re sa­ying, don't you?"

  "I do not want to he­ar gos­sip."

  Laura wis­hed her sis­ter wo­uld le­ave her alo­ne, but she knew She­ri­dan wo­uld ne­ed­le her un­til she'd drawn blo­od. Fi­gu­ra­ti­vely drawn blo­od, of co­ur­se. She­ri­dan had a knack for it, es­pe­ci­al­ly whe­re La­ura was con­cer­ned. Her sis­ter se­emed to de­ri­ve so­me per­ver­se ple­asu­re from po­in­ting out all of La­ura's shor­t­co­mings.

  "You know, I won­de­red how you'd ca­ught yo­ur­self such a pri­ze," She­ri­dan sa­id. "So­me­one li­ke Jamie. So­me­one in our so­ci­al cir­c­le, very rich, han­d­so­me, char­ming. But I'm be­gin­ning to un­der­s­tand. Yo­ur fi­ancé has a ma­j­or cha­rac­ter flaw, do­esn't he?"

  "I don't know what you're tal­king abo­ut." Ple­ase, God, ma­ke her le­ave me alo­ne. I don't want to des­pi­se my own sis­ter, but so­me­ti­mes…

  Sheridan la­ug­hed. La­ura ha­ted the so­und. She'd ha­ted that moc­king la­ug­h­ter sin­ce they'd be­en chil­d­ren and She­ri­dan had po­in­ted out to La­ura that "Mommy lo­ves me best." May­be Mot­her did lo­ve She­ri­dan best. God knew so­me­ti­mes it se­emed that way. But La­ura knew she was her fat­her's fa­vo­ri­te, so­met­hing She­ri­dan pu­nis­hed her for, even tho­ugh it wasn't her fa­ult.

  "I sup­po­se it's only fa­ir that both you and yo­ur fi­ancé aren't qu­ite per­fect."

  Laura for­ced her­self to con­f­ront her sis­ter. The­ir ga­zes met for­ce­ful­ly-and this ti­me La­ura didn't blink, didn't back down as she so of­ten did. "I've ne­ver cla­imed to be per­fect-"

  "Good thing… con­si­de­ring."

  "Considering what? That I'm crazy?" 'You sa­id it, I didn't."

  "I'm not crazy. I'm not! I'm high-st­rung and ner­vo­us. I'm mo­re emo­ti­onal­ly sen­si­ti­ve than the ave­ra­ge per­son. That's all. Daddy sa­id that I'm all right. Even the doc­tors sa­id I'm okay." Why did She­ri­dan ha­ve to ke­ep re­min­ding her abo­ut her past men­tal and emo­ti­onal prob­lems?

  "Does Jamie know?" She­ri­dan as­ked. "Is he awa­re that his lit­tle bri­de-to-be co­uld easily go com­p­le­tely ber­serk at any gi­ven mo­ment?"

  "What a cru­el thing to say to me."

  "Maybe so­me­one told him abo­ut you and he's run away be­fo­re-"

  "He's go­ne to her!" La­ura cri­ed out. That's what you wan­ted to he­ar, isn't it? You wan­ted me to ad­mit that he left our en­ga­ge­ment party to go to her."

  "Then you do know all abo­ut her, don't you?"

  "Yes, I know all abo­ut Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot."

  Sheridan smir­ked, the ex­p­res­si­on har­de­ning her cu­te che­er­le­ader bru­net­te be­a­uty. Her big brown eyes twin­k­led with de­light "If Jamie was my fi­ancé, he wo­uldn't ha­ve to go to an old gir­l­f­ri­end for what he ne­eded. I'd g
i­ve it to him. I'd ke­ep him so sa­tis­fi­ed that he'd ne­ver even lo­ok at anot­her wo­man." She­ri­dan pa­used, smi­led wic­kedly, and lic­ked her lips. "Why he cho­se you in­s­te­ad of me, I'll ne­ver know. May­be he tho­ught you we­re a vir­gin." She­ri­dan chuc­k­led softly. "Of co­ur­se, he knows from fir­s­t­hand ex­pe­ri­en­ce that I'm not."

  The me­aning of her sis­ter's ta­unt hit La­ura full for­ce. Be­fo­re she re­ali­zed what she was do­ing, she slap­ped She­ri­dan, who simply con­ti­nu­ed smi­ling as she rub­bed her red che­ek. La­ura jum­ped up and ran to­ward the do­or, te­ars clo­uding her vi­si­on.

  "Where are you go­ing?" She­ri­dan cal­led af­ter her.

  Laura pa­used af­ter she ope­ned the bed­ro­om do­or. "Anywhe­re away from you."

 

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