The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  Jacob hadn't let Jim see Jamie, had told him that his last me­mory of his gran­d­son sho­uldn't be of his blo­ody body. Al­t­ho­ugh Jacob had be­en ho­nest eno­ugh with Jim to ad­mit that Jamie had be­en tor­tu­red, as Genny had fo­re­se­en, Jacob hadn't go­ne in­to de­ta­ils. It was well eno­ugh. So­me things an old man just didn't ne­ed to know. But he'd be­en fig­h­ting his ima­gi­na­ti­on, do­ing his best not to vi­su­ali­ze what the kil­ler had do­ne to Jamie.

  Emotion so raw and pa­in­ful that he was prac­ti­cal­ly numb with it sap­ped Jim's strength. Al­t­ho­ugh he re­ali­zed that he wo­uld ha­ve to be the strong one, the one who'd sup­port and ca­re for Re­ba and La­ura, he ne­eded so­me­one him­self. He ne­eded a sho­ul­der to cry on. Lo­ving arms to hold him. He'd te­lep­ho­ned Erin, but her an­s­we­ring mac­hi­ne had pic­ked up aga­in. Whe­re the hell was she? Whe­re had she spent last night? Why wasn't she the­re when he so des­pe­ra­tely ne­eded her?

  Dr. Mac­Na­ir pul­led to a stop, rol­led down his win­dow, and cal­led to Jim, "I got he­re as qu­ickly as I co­uld."

  Jim nod­ded, then wal­ked aro­und the ho­od of Mac­Na­ir's truck, ope­ned the pas­sen­ger do­or, and slid in­to the se­at. 'Thanks for co­ming. I don't know how Re­ba is go­ing to be ab­le to han­d­le this. She lo­ves Jamie. Lo­ves him mo­re than an­y­t­hing."

  "Yes, sir, I un­der­s­tand. He is… was… yo­ur only grand child. How are you hol­ding up, Mr. Up­ton? Is the­re so­met­hing I can do for you right now?"

  Jim lo­oked at the "doc­tor. Mac­Na­ir, a stocky, rud­dy-fa­ced man in his thir­ti­es, had a kind fa­ce. He was new to Che­ro­kee Co­unty, but in the few short months sin­ce he'd ta­ken over Dr. Web­s­ter's prac­ti­ce af­ter the ol­der doc­tor had re­ti­red, he'd ga­ined a re­pu­ta­ti­on as a fir­st-ra­te physi­ci­an.

  ''Thanks, but I don't think it wi­se for me to ta­ke an­y­t­hing-pil­ls or an inj­ec­ti­on," Jim sa­id. "I'm the one who'll ha­ve to de­al with the fa­mily, then ma­ke the ar­ran­ge­ments and han­d­le the lo­cal press. I'll ne­ed a cle­ar he­ad for all that."

  "Yes, of co­ur­se," Mac­Na­ir ag­re­ed. "But if you think you'll ne­ed so­met­hing to help you rest to­night… for the next few nights…"

  "Mm-hmm. All right. That might not be a bad idea." Jim ad­mit­ted to him­self that he was un­li­kely to sle­ep much to­night or for many nights to co­me un­less he did ta­ke a sle­eping pill. It wo­uld be im­pos­sib­le to rest with ima­ges of Jamie's bru­ta­li­zed body flas­hing thro­ugh his mind. Even tho­ugh he hadn't ac­tu­al­ly se­en the body, he had a pretty go­od idea what had hap­pe­ned from the bits and pi­eces of what he'd over­he­ard the de­pu­ti­es sa­ying. And not only that, but how did a man rest when his gran­d­son's kil­ler was on the lo­ose?

  "Mr. Up­ton… I'm de­eply sorry abo­ut Jamie."

  Jim nod­ded. "Thank you."

  "Are you re­ady to go up to the ho­use now?"

  "No, I'm not re­ady, but it has to be do­ne. No po­int in put­ting it off any lon­ger," Jim sa­id. "I cal­led Do­ra and ex­p­la­ined wit­ho­ut go­ing in­to de­ta­ils. I told her to ma­ke su­re no one ex­cept she an­s­we­red the pho­ne and that °o one ma­de any calls out."

  Dr. Mac­Na­ir shif­ted his truck from park in­to dri­ve and he­aded the la­te mo­del Ford up the long dri­ve­way to­ward the big ho­use Jim had cal­led ho­me sin­ce the day he was born. A ho­me was a pla­ce for a fa­mily, for chil­d­ren and gran­d­c­hil­d­ren and… on­ce he and Re­ba we­re go­ne, the­re wo­uld be no one. No mo­re Up­tons to carry on. No gran­d­c­hil­d­ren and gre­at-gran­d­c­hil­d­ren to fill the empty ro­oms of the old ho­me pla­ce.

  When Mac­Na­ir par­ked his truck in front of the ho­use, Jim got out and he and the doc­tor wal­ked up the steps to­get­her and on­to the front ve­ran­da. Do­ra ope­ned the do­or and ca­me rus­hing out to me­et them.

  "I've had the de­vil's own ti­me ke­eping ever­yo­ne from ma­king pho­ne calls," Do­ra sa­id. "And the pho­ne's be­en rin­ging off the ho­ok. Word's do­ne got out abo­ut our Jamie. Ne­ig­h­bors ha­ve be­en cal­ling. And the new­s­pa­per and… it's only a mat­ter of ti­me be­fo­re the­re's a hor­de of pe­op­le at the ga­te. You'd best fi­gu­re out what to do abo­ut it."

  "Close the ga­te," Jim told her. "And ta­ke the pho­nes off the ho­ok. All fo­ur se­pa­ra­te li­nes. On­ce I've bro­ken the news to Re­ba and La­ura, I'll con­tact Jacob and ha­ve him send so­me­body out he­re to ke­ep or­der. And if ne­ces­sary, I'll hi­re my own pri­va­te gu­ards."

  "Yes, sir." Do­ra lo­oked up at Jim and he co­uld tell she'd be­en crying. Do­ra had be­en with the fa­mily sin­ce she was a te­ena­ger, first as one of the ma­ids and as the ho­use­ke­eper for the past for­ty-fi­ve ye­ars. The wo­man was prac­ti­cal­ly fa­mily.

  Jim pat­ted Do­ra's back. "We've lost him. Our Jamie's de­ad."

  "Breaks my he­art," Do­ra told him. "God help Miss Re­ba. This is gon­na kill her." "Is she down yet?" Jim as­ked.

  "Yes, sir. She's in the di­ning ro­om. Miss Re­ba and Mr. and Mrs. Wil­lis are eating bre­ak­fast. Miss She­ri­dan is in the den, wat­c­hing te­le­vi­si­on. And Miss La­ura is still up­s­ta­irs."

  Jim us­he­red Do­ra back in­si­de; Dr. Mac­Na­ir fol­lo­wed them. On­ce in the mas­si­ve fo­yer, Jim stif­fe­ned his spi­ne. He'd do­ne this twi­ce be­fo­re, when Jim Jr. and his wi­fe we­re kil­led in an ac­ci­dent and when they'd re­ce­ived news abo­ut Me­la­nie's de­ath ye­ars af­ter she'd run away. Each ti­me he had won­de­red how he and Re­ba wo­uld sur­vi­ve. They'd be­en yo­un­ger then… and they'd still had Jamie. Now, they had no one.

  "Dora, ask ever­yo­ne to co­me in­to the li­ving ro­om," Jim told her. "And send one of the girls up­s­ta­irs to wa­ken Miss La­ura. I can't do this mo­re than on­ce. I want ever­yo­ne as­sem­b­led in ten mi­nu­tes."

  ''Yes, sir. I'll see to it"

  Reve Sor­rell step­ped out of the sho­wer, dri­ed her­self off, and slip­ped in­to the whi­te terry cloth ro­be which was one of the stan­dard ame­ni­ti­es at Che­ro­kee Ca­bin Ren­tals. When she tra­ve­led, she ne­ver went to­urist class, but even with her dis­cer­ning tas­tes, she had to ad­mit that this ca­bin wasn't half bad. Not lu­xu­ri­o­us by any stretch of the ima­gi­na­ti­on, but cle­an, ne­at, and qu­ite com­for­tab­le. On a sca­le of one to ten, she'd cer­ta­inly gi­ve it a six.

  Just as she re­mo­ved the ha­ir dryer from the wall unit, the te­lep­ho­ne rang. So­met­hing el­se she li­ked abo­ut this ca­bin-the­re was an ex­ten­si­on pho­ne in the bat­h­ro­om. She had pla­ced a call to her per­so­nal as­sis­tant, Pa­ul Welby, la­te yes­ter­day to alert him that she wo­uld be re­ma­ining in Che­ro­kee Po­in­te a few days and to re­qu­est he ha­ve anot­her car-the dark blue Mer­ce­des 300SL, her fa­vo­ri­te, se­cond only to her Jag-bro­ught to her. She had in­s­t­ruc­ted Pa­ul to ha­ve who­ever he sent with the Mer­ce­des to­day pick up the Jagu­ar at the ga­ra­ge whe­re it had be­en to­wed and ta­ke it back to Chat­ta­no­oga for re­pa­irs. She didn't want any of the­se jake-leg body re­pa­ir pe­op­le in Che­ro­kee Po­in­te to­uc­hing her pre­ci­o­us car.

  When she an­s­we­red the pho­ne, she ex­pec­ted to he­ar Pa­ul's soft, cul­tu­red vo­ice on the ot­her end. In­s­te­ad she he­ard a ro­ugh, hil­lbil­ly red­neck sa­ying, "Ms. Sor­rell, this he­re is Roy Til­lis over at Til­lis and Son Wrec­king and To­wing Ser­vi­ce. I got so­me bad news for you, and I'm su­re sorry abo­ut it. I do­ne cal­led She­riff But­ler and told him. And it ain't my fa­ult. I ain't ne­ver had no car sto­len from the lot. Not in all the ye­ars-"

  "Mr. Til­lis, exactly what are you trying to tell me?"

  "Well, ma'am, I tho­ught I told you. So­me­body sto­le that gre­en Jagu­ar of yo­urs so­me­ti­me af­ter dark las
t night."

  "What!"

  "Yes'm, they just wal­t­zed right in, got past old Wor­t­h­less, and just dro­ve right off with yo­ur car."

  "How is that pos­sib­le? They wo­uld ha­ve had to ha­ve the keys. And I'm su­re you ke­ep the keys loc­ked up in yo­ur of­fi­ce, don't you?"

  "Well, the­re's whe­re you might fi­gu­re it's my fa­ult," Roy hem­med. "But it we­ren't my fa­ult. You see, one of the boys left the keys in the car and-"

  "Let me get this stra­ight. You par­ked my car in an un­gu­ar­ded, un­p­ro­tec­ted area with the keys in the ig­ni­ti­on. Then so­me­one got past a dog cal­led Wor­t­h­less and just dro­ve off with my wrec­ked Jagu­ar. Is that right?"

  "Yeah, that's abo­ut it. But I fi­gu­re it's no big de­al, sin­ce you're bo­und to ha­ve in­su­ran­ce out the wa­hoo."

  "What did She­riff But­ler say when you con­tac­ted him?" Re­ve as­ked, her pa­ti­en­ce al­most at an end.

  "He didn't say much ex­cept that he'd put an all-po­in­ts-bul­le­tin out on it," Roy rep­li­ed. "Then he sa­id so­met­hing that didn't ma­ke no sen­se to me."

  "What was that?"

  "He sa­id 'mighty con­ve­ni­ent for her that the car got sto­len.' He sort of mum­b­led it un­der his bre­ath."

  "I see." But she didn't, not re­al­ly. What had But­ler me­ant by that un­fat­ho­mab­le re­mark? Al­t­ho­ugh she ha­ted that her car had be­en sto­len, what she ha­ted even mo­re was the tho­ught of ha­ving to de­al with Jacob But­ler aga­in. The man was a Ne­an­der­t­hal.

  "Well, Ms. Sor­rell, I su­re ho­pe they find yo­ur car. And I'm re­al sorry abo­ut what hap­pe­ned. You ain't gon­na sue me or not­hing li­ke that, are you? I fi­gu­red you wo­uldn't, se­e­ing how yo­ur in­su­ran­ce will co­ver-"

  "I'm not go­ing to sue, Mr. Til­lis." She slam­med down the re­ce­iver.

  There was so­met­hing abo­ut this town, Re­ve de­ci­ded. Eit­her the pla­ce was a jinx to her or it was the ot­her way aro­und and she was the jinx. She'd en­co­un­te­red a me­na­ge­rie of odd cha­rac­ters yes­ter­day mor­ning-from her lo­ok-ali­ke who'd got­ten in­to a he­ated ar­gu­ment with a go­od-lo­oking to­ugh guy to a raw­bo­ned old ko­ok who che­wed to­bac­co. Then when she'd tri­ed to ma­ke her es­ca­pe and le­ave Che­ro­kee Po­in­te, she'd had a wreck, which en­ded with the ca­ve­man she­riff all but loc­king her up. And now this-her Jag had be­en sto­len. She co­uldn't help but won­der, what next? May­be when the Mer­ce­des ar­ri­ved la­ter to­day, she sho­uld for­get sa­tis­f­ying her cu­ri­osity abo­ut Jaz­zy Tal­bot and simply go ho­me to Chat­ta­no­oga and for­get all abo­ut the wo­man who might be her sis­ter.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  "My go­od­ness, Jim, what's this all abo­ut?" Dres­sed for church in her new su­it and stylish hat, Re­ba pran­ced in­to the li­ving ro­om, her eyes alight with cu­ri­osity. She glan­ced at Gal­vin Mac­Na­ir. "Well, hel­lo, Dr. Mac­Na­ir. What brings you out he­re on a Sun­day mor­ning?"

  MacNair lo­oked to Jim, who nod­ded, let­ting him know that he wasn't ex­pec­ted to reply to Re­ba's qu­es­ti­on. It was Jim's pla­ce to gi­ve his wi­fe the he­ar­t­b­re­aking news abo­ut Jamie.

  Jim stu­di­ed Re­ba for a mo­ment. A fra­gi­le smi­le for­med on his lips and va­nis­hed qu­ickly. He tho­ught that even past se­venty his wi­fe was still a fi­ne-lo­oking wo­man. She to­ok go­od ca­re of her­self in a way only a we­althy wo­man co­uld do. A per­so­nal tra­iner to ke­ep her body to­ned and a tummy tuck, a bo­ob job, and se­ve­ral fa­ce lifts had do­ne won­ders to ma­ke her lo­ok a go­od ten ye­ars yo­un­ger than her ac­tu­al age. No do­ubt abo­ut it, Re­ba Up­ton was a lo­vely, vi­va­ci­o­us wo­man, and al­t­ho­ugh she wasn't per­fect-who was?-she'd al­ways be­en a ba­si­cal­ly go­od wo­man. And a bet­ter wi­fe than he'd de­ser­ved.

  Life had be­en un­kind to Re­ba when it ca­me to her per­so­nal li­fe. Jim had mar­ri­ed her, not lo­ving her. And al­t­ho­ugh he ca­red for her de­eply and ad­mi­red her gre­atly, the lo­ve that he had ho­ped wo­uld grow in his he­art ne­ver to­ok ro­ot. He had gi­ven Re­ba ever­y­t­hing mo­ney co­uld buy, but he'd be­en an un­fa­it­h­ful hus­band most of the­ir mar­ri­ed li­fe. God knew she had de­ser­ved bet­ter. But even tho­ugh he felt cer­ta­in she sus­pec­ted he'd had ot­her wo­men, she'd ne­ver con­f­ron­ted him abo­ut his af­fa­irs. Why she'd cho­sen to ig­no­re his in­fi­de­lity he didn't know for su­re. May­be she enj­oyed be­ing Mrs. James Up­ton. Or may­be she just lo­ved him. Still. Af­ter all the­se ye­ars. Af­ter all the ot­her wo­men. She had lo­ved him on­ce, lo­ved him as pas­si­ona­tely as he had lo­ved Mel­va Mae Nel­son over fifty ye­ars ago. May­be that kind of lo­ve ne­ver di­ed. Truth be told, the­re was a part of him that wo­uld al­ways lo­ve Mel­va Mae, even tho­ugh she'd be­en de­ad for qu­ite a few ye­ars now.

  Reba had wan­ted mo­re chil­d­ren af­ter Jim Jr. and Me­la­nie, but com­p­li­ca­ti­ons fol­lo­wing Me­la­nie's birth had ma­de that dre­am an im­pos­sib­le one. The day they lost Jim Jr. and his wi­fe, the only ti­ling that kept Re­ba from dying of gri­ef was Jamie. By that ti­me, Me­la­nie had al­re­ady run away from her hus­band and her se­emingly per­fect li­fe, but Re­ba ne­ver ga­ve up ho­pe that the­ir da­ug­h­ter wo­uld one day re­turn. Then, ye­ars la­ter, the Mem­p­his po­li­ce had con­tac­ted them to let tell them the­ir da­ug­h­ter was de­ad, and Re­ba had be­en for­ced to ac­cept anot­her loss.

  Jim glan­ced aro­und the ro­om, co­un­ting he­ads, chec­king to ma­ke su­re ever­yo­ne was he­re be­fo­re he sha­red the news abo­ut Jamie's de­ath. "Whe­re's La­ura?" he as­ked when he no­ted the yo­ung wo­man's ab­sen­ce. He lo­oked at Do­ra. "Didn't you ask her to jo­in us?"

  "Yes, sir, but-"

  Andrea Wil­lis in­ter­rup­ted. "I tri­ed to ex­p­la­in to Do­ra that La­ura didn't sle­ep well last night and-"

  "Mr. Wil­lis, go get yo­ur da­ug­h­ter and bring her dow­n­s­ta­irs im­me­di­ately," Jim told La­ura's fat­her in no un­cer­ta­in terms.

  Reba gas­ped. "Jim, re­al­ly. Is the­re any re­ason for such ru­de­ness?"

  "I apo­lo­gi­ze, my de­ar, but it's im­pe­ra­ti­ve that La­ura jo­ins us."

  "Where's Jamie?" She­ri­dan Wil­lis as­ked, a rat­her sly smi­le cur­ving her full, pink lips. "Sho­uldn't he be in­c­lu­ded in this fa­mily pow­wow?"

  "Mr. Wil­lis, go now, ple­ase," Jim sa­id, then ga­ve She­ri­dan a scow­ling lo­ok that wi­ped the smi­le from her pretty fa­ce.

  "Jim?" Re­ba ca­me to him and pla­ced her hand on his arm.

  When she lo­oked up at him, ap­pre­hen­si­on vi­sib­le in her warm ha­zel eyes, he al­most lost his com­po­su­re. Only a few ho­urs ago he had plan­ned to le­ave this wo­man for his mis­t­ress. He'd had every in­ten­ti­on of as­king Re­ba for a di­vor­ce whi­le Jamie and La­ura we­re on the­ir ho­ney­mo­on. Now ne­it­her wo­uld hap­pen. No wed­ding and ho­ney­mo­on for the­ir gran­d­son. No di­vor­ce for Re­ba and him.

  Jim pul­led Re­ba in­to his arms and held her with gre­at ten­der­ness. She wrap­ped her arms aro­und his wa­ist and la­id her he­ad on his chest.

  "Whatever it is, we'll see it thro­ugh to­get­her," Re­ba whis­pe­red to him. 'The way we've do­ne so many ti­mes be­fo­re."

  He le­aned down, til­ted her fa­ce up­ward, and kis­sed her fo­re­he­ad. "I don't de­ser­ve you. I ne­ver did."

  Cecil Wil­lis re­tur­ned to the li­ving ro­om, his fa­ce slightly flus­hed, his bre­at­hing a bit ir­re­gu­lar, as if he'd run all the way up­s­ta­irs and back down aga­in. He had an ob­vi­o­usly be­fud­dled La­ura in tow. She wo­re ca­su­al lo­un­ge slacks and top, slightly wrin­k­led. Her ha­ir lo­oked as if she hadn't brus­hed it this mor­ning. And the­re was a da­zed
-may­be drug­ged-lo­ok in her eyes. An­d­rea rus­hed im­me­di­ately to her el­der da­ug­h­ter and put a sup­por­ti­ve arm aro­und her wa­ist.

  Jim eased Re­ba to his si­de and dra­ped his arm aro­und her sho­ul­ders, then lo­oked at her for a full mi­nu­te be­fo­re he fa­ced the ot­hers. "I re­ce­ived a pho­ne call qu­ite early this mor­ning from She­riff But­ler."

  Reba ke­ened softly, the so­und ba­rely audib­le ex­cept to Jim be­ca­use she sto­od at his si­de. He tig­h­te­ned his grip aro­und her sho­ul­ders.

  "There is no easy way to say this." Jim cle­ared his thro­at. "Jamie's de­ad."

  He felt Re­ba dis­sol­ve, her who­le body we­ake­ning in­s­tantly. He tur­ned to her. "Do you want to sit down?"