The Last To Die

The Last To Die Page 19

by Beverly Barton

  A call ca­me in over the ra­dio from Tim Wil­lin­g­ham, one of Jacob's de­pu­ti­es. "Bet­ter get over he­re and ta­ke a lo­ok," Tim sa­id. "A Mr. and Mrs. Wal­ker cal­led in a re­port that so­met­hing was on fi­re down the ro­ad from the­ir ca­bin. When the fi­re de­par­t­ment got the­re, gu­ess what they fo­und off in a ra­vi­ne, bur­ning li­ke crazy." Jacob's gut tig­h­te­ned. "A gre­en Jagu­ar." "Ye­ah, that's my gu­ess. The ve­hic­le is bur­ned to a fa­re-thee-well. Right abo­ut the ti­me the fi­re de­par­t­ment sho­wed up, the thing ex­p­lo­ded. Sent sparks sho­oting up in the air. Er­nie's crew is still wor­king on ma­king su­re no­ne of tho­se sparks catch an­y­t­hing on fi­re in the sur­ro­un­ding area."

  "Make su­re no­body bot­hers an­y­t­hing un­til I get the­re," Jacob sa­id. "And, Tim, ma­ke su­re the pe­op­le sta­ying in the ca­bins wit­hin a two-mi­le area of the si­te don't run off an­y­w­he­re. So­me­body might ha­ve se­en so­met­hing."

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  When Jacob ma­de it to the si­te, the ve­hic­le was still smol­de­ring. The Jagu­ar was no lon­ger gre­en, no lon­ger sle­ek, no lon­ger classy. It was just a bur­ned out hull of a on­ce very ex­pen­si­ve toy for a rich girl. Tim Wil­lin­g­ham and Mo­ody Ryan, anot­her de­puty, had the area se­aled off, and Er­nie Swe­eney, the fi­re chi­ef, had his squ­ad ho­sing down the wo­ods sur­ro­un­ding the ra­vi­ne. A small crowd of on­lo­okers had gat­he­red, less than a do­zen pe­op­le, and no one Jacob re­cog­ni­zed right off hand. To­urists, no do­ubt. Most had pro­bably be­en just dri­ving by. The ca­bins dot­ted he­re and the­re in the Che­ro­kee Co­unty mo­un­ta­ins ren­ted by the day, we­ek, or month and most folks we­re tem­po­rary re­si­dents, to­urists who sel­dom sta­yed mo­re than a we­ek or two.

  Using the ro­pe that his de­pu­ti­es had in­s­tal­led in­to the ra­vi­ne, Jacob in­c­hed his way dow­n­ward, get­ting as clo­se to the ru­ins as he da­red. On­ce at the fo­ot of the ste­ep but re­la­ti­vely shal­low gor­ge, Jacob re­le­ased his hold on the ro­pe and wal­ked hal­f­way aro­und the Jagu­ar's re­ma­ins. Eno­ugh of the car still exis­ted to ta­ke an edu ca­ted gu­ess as to the ma­ke, if not the exact mo­del. He'd bet his last di­me that this was Re­ve Sor­rell's Jagu­ar, the one sto­len from Til­lis’ Ga­ra­ge.

  "Keep this area cor­ded off," Jacob cal­led up to Tim and Mo­ody. "As so­on as they fi­nish up over at the ca­bin, I'll send Burt, Dway­ne, and Earl over he­re to work with Er­nie to check the car over be­fo­re we ha­ve it ha­uled in." Burt and Dway­ne com­p­ri­sed the co­unty's fo­ren­sics te­am, and the Che­ro­kee Po­in­te po­li­ce had only Earl. They we­re all go­od at the­ir jobs, but co­uld do only so much, sin­ce ne­it­her the city nor the co­unty had a sta­te-of-the-art lab.

  "Will do," Tim rep­li­ed. "By the way, Jacob, we chec­ked, and the­re are six ca­bins wit­hin a two-mi­le ra­di­us of he­re. One ca­bin is empty, but we spo­ke to the pe­op­le in the ot­hers." Tim nod­ded to­ward the half do­zen in­te­res­ted ci­ti­zens ke­eping a res­pec­t­ful dis­tan­ce as they wat­c­hed the fi­re­fig­h­ters and law­men. 'The folks who cal­led in abo­ut the fi­re are over the­re. They're sta­ying in the ne­arest ca­bin. It's a Fred and Re­gi­na Wal­ker."

  "Tourists?" Jacob as­ked.

  'Yeah."

  "What abo­ut the ot­her fo­ur ca­bins? To­urists in them?" 'To­urists in two," Tim rep­li­ed.

  "Locals ren­ting the ot­her two?"

  "Caleb McCord's in one and that lady pa­in­ter, Ms. Mer­cer, li­ves in the ot­her one."

  Jacob grun­ted, then clim­bed back up the hill, using •he ro­pe to aid him in his as­cent. When he re­ac­hed the ro­ad, he pul­led Tim asi­de. "Lo­ok, it'll sa­ve me ti­me if you and Mo­ody co­uld ro­und up-"

  "Been do­ne," Tim sa­id. "I fi­gu­red you'd want to qu­es­ti­on ever­y­body, so I to­ok it on myself to ask all the folks to co­me on over to Mr. and Mrs. Wal­ker's ca­bin. They we­re re­al ni­ce and sa­id they didn't mind a bit." Tim cle­ared his thro­at. "It was all right that I just went ahe­ad and-"

  "Yeah, su­re. Thanks," Jacob sa­id. "I ap­pre­ci­ate yo­ur ta­king the ini­ti­ati­ve. So let's go. The so­oner I talk to the­se folks, the so­oner we'll find out if an­y­body saw an­y­t­hing." Jacob fo­cu­sed his ga­ze on Tim. "Or ha­ve you al­re­ady qu­es­ti­oned them?"

  Tim gul­ped. "No, sir. I fi­gu­red you'd want to do that."

  Jacob grin­ned, slap­ped Tim on the back, and he­aded to­ward the ca­bin that had be­en bu­ilt way up in the wo­ods, ca­ter-cor­ner from the ra­vi­ne. His gu­ess was that, al­t­ho­ugh the Wal­kers had se­en the dark smo­ke ri­sing in­to the cle­ar blue sky, from the way the­ir ca­bin was si­tu­ated, it had be­en im­pos­sib­le for them to see this sec­ti­on of the ro­ad­way or the ra­vi­ne it­self.

  With Tim at his si­de, Jacob ap­pro­ac­hed the crowd. "Mr. and Mrs. Wal­ker?"

  "Yes, that's us." A short, stocky man in his mid fif­ti­es mo­ved for­ward, a plump, rosy-che­eked blon­de abo­ut the sa­me age hug­ging his si­de.

  "Where are you folks from?" Jacob as­ked.

  "Nashville," Mr. Wal­ker rep­li­ed. "We co­me up he­re every ye­ar abo­ut this ti­me. And we've be­en ren­ting the sa­me ca­bin the past fi­ve ye­ars."

  "We su­re do ap­pre­ci­ate y'all con­tac­ting the fi­re de­par­t­ment," Jacob told them. "I won­der if you might an­s­wer a few qu­es­ti­ons."

  "Certainly, She­riff. You are the she­riff, aren't you?" Mr. Wal­ker as­ked.

  "Yes, sir. She­riff Jacob But­ler." He held out his hand and he and Wal­ker sha­red a bri­ef sha­ke. "We've had a ho­mi­ci­de in Che­ro­kee Co­unty, and the­re's a go­od chan­ce the car down in the ra­vi­ne is con­nec­ted to that cri­me.

  "Is the­re a body in the car?" Mrs. Wal­ker as­ked, her eyes wi­de with won­der.

  "No, ma'am," Jacob sa­id.

  "We'll an­s­wer any qu­es­ti­ons you ha­ve to ask," Mr. Wal­ker sa­id.

  Jacob nod­ded. "Be­fo­re y'all saw the smo­ke co­ming from the ra­vi­ne, did eit­her of you see or he­ar an­y­t­hing out of the or­di­nary? Did you see so­me­one on the ro­ad? Or did you see the car-a gre­en Jagu­ar-go by he­re any ti­me this mor­ning?"

  Walker sho­ok his he­ad. "We slept la­te. I'd just wal­ked out on the deck with my first cup of cof­fee when I saw the smo­ke. Re­gi­na was still in bed."

  "I see. Well, thanks. And thanks, too, for al­lo­wing us to use yo­ur ca­bin to qu­es­ti­on the folks in the ot­her ne­arby ca­bins. It sho­uldn't ta­ke long, and then we'll turn the pla­ce back over to y'all."

  Jacob her­ded Tim to­ward his truck and the two got in and dro­ve up the ro­ad and on­to the dri­ve le­ading to the Wal­ker's ren­tal ca­bin. As he pul­led the Dod­ge Ram to a halt, Jacob no­ti­ced Ca­leb McCord sit­ting in a roc­king cha­ir on the wi­de front porch. The mi­nu­te Jacob jum­ped out of his truck, Ca­leb bo­un­ded down the steps to me­et him,

  "What's go­ing on with that car in the ra­vi­ne?" Ca­leb as­ked. "I ho­pe wha­te­ver it is won't hold me up for long. I've got a very im­por­tant da­te at two-thirty this af­ter­no­on."

  "With Jaz­zy?" Jacob as­ked.

  "Yeah, with Jaz­zy."

  "When did this co­me abo­ut?"

  "Why so cu­ri­o­us, But­ler? I tho­ught you two we­re just fri­ends."

  "We are," Jacob rep­li­ed. "And as Jaz­zy's fri­end, I lo­ok out for her."

  "I'm Jaz­zy's fri­end, too. Re­mem­ber that." Jacob ba­rely knew McCord, but his gut in­s­tincts war­ned him the­re was mo­re to the man than met the eye. And tho­se sa­me in­s­tincts that had sa­ved his li­fe mo­re than' on­ce when he'd be­en a SE­AL told him he co­uld trust McCord. Jacob cer­ta­inly didn't pos­sess Genny's in­he­ri­ted sixth sen­ses-her gift of sig­ht-but he usu­al­
ly gu­es­sed right abo­ut pe­op­le. He had his own kind of sixth sen­se. Li­ke get­ting go­od vi­bes from Dal­las Slo­an when they'd first met. He got tho­se sa­me po­si­ti­ve vi­bes from McCord.

  "And you want to be mo­re than fri­ends with Jaz­zy, don't you?"

  "I might." McCord's fo­re­he­ad wrin­k­led as he nar­ro­wed his ga­ze. "You got a prob­lem with that?"

  "Nope. Not as long as you tre­at her right. Jaz­zy ne­eds a man who'll ap­pre­ci­ate what a spe­ci­al lady she is. And} she's go­ing to ne­ed a man to stand by her wha­te­ver co­mes."

  McCord's ga­ze cen­te­red on Jacob's eyes. "What's re­al­ly go­ing on and how is Jaz­zy in­vol­ved?"

  "What ma­kes you think-"

  "Cut the crap, But­ler. Just lay it on the li­ne for me, will you? You're tal­king in rid­dles."

  "Jamie Up­ton's de­ad," Jacob sa­id. "He was mur­de­red so­me­ti­me early this mor­ning. In one of her vi­si­ons, Genny saw the mur­de­rer-a wo­man who fits Jaz­zy's des­c­rip­ti­on-dri­ving a gre­en sports car"-Jacob nod­ded to­ward the ro­ad-"t­hat we're pretty su­re is the sa­me one that was dum­ped in the ra­vi­ne over the­re and set on fi­re."

  "Genny thinks Jaz­zy kil­led Jamie?"

  "No, Genny be­li­eves a wo­man we­aring a wig to gi­ve her a si­mi­lar to­ok to Jaz­zy-"

  "Reve Sor­rell," Ca­leb sa­id. The­re was this wo­man who ca­me to town yes­ter­day who dro­ve a gre­en Jag and lo­oks eno­ugh li­ke Jaz­zy to be-"

  "Her twin. Ye­ah, I know. And be­li­eve me, as so­on as I le­ave he­re, Ms. Sor­rell is first on my list of pe­op­le to qu­es­ti­on. But for now I ne­ed to know if you or any of the ot­her re­si­dents aro­und he­re saw an­y­t­hing ear­li­er to­day."

  "I can ma­ke it short and swe­et. I didn't see or he­ar an­y­t­hing un­til yo­ur de­puty ca­me po­un­ding on my do­or. I was up most of the night, so I'd plan­ned to sle­ep all mor­ning. And just so you know that Jaz­zy has an ali­bi- I was with her un­til ne­arly dawn." 'Jamie was pro­bably kil­led af­ter dawn," Jacob sa­id. "But we fi­gu­re he was with this wo­man most of the night. We think she drug­ged him, then-"J­acob cle­ared his thro­at. "She tor­tu­red him for ho­urs. Cut him up with kni­ves and ra­zor bla­des and used a hot po­ker on him."

  Caleb didn't so much as flinch. "Gru­eso­me stuff. I'd say yo­ur lady kil­ler is a re­al sic­ko."

  "Yeah, I ag­ree." Jacob glan­ced at the ca­bin. "I ne­ed to qu­es­ti­on the ot­hers. You're free to go."

  "Has an­yo­ne told Jaz­zy abo­ut what hap­pe­ned?"

  "Genny and Dal­las are pro­bably with her right now."

  "I think I'll he­ad on in­to town. Jaz­zy's go­ing to ne­ed all her fri­ends."

  Jacob nod­ded, then tur­ned and wal­ked up the steps and on­to the front porch. Ye­ah, his gut in­s­tincts we­re right on the mo­ney abo­ut Ca­leb McCord. He'd be re­al sur­p­ri­sed if the guy didn't co­me thro­ugh for Jaz­zy a hun­d­red per­cent.

  Four pe­op­le wa­ited for him in­si­de the ca­bin. Three Wo­men and one man. He re­cog­ni­zed Erin Mer­cer, of co­ur­se. She was a we­althy ama­te­ur ar­tist who'd co­me to li­ve in Che­ro­kee Co­unty over a ye­ar ago. Ru­mor had it that she was Big Jim Up­ton's la­test mis­t­ress. Ru­mor al­so had it that Jamie had be­en snif­fing aro­und her sin­ce his re­turn ho­me this past Janu­ary.

  "How do you do," Jacob sa­id as he en­te­red the ca­bin. "I'm She­riff Jacob But­ler and I ap­pre­ci­ate y'all vo­lun­te­ering to co­me he­re and an­s­wer a few qu­es­ti­ons."

  "Your de­puty was rat­her myste­ri­o­us," Ms. Mer­cer sa­id. "He told us only that you wan­ted to ask abo­ut a car I that was set afi­re in a ne­arby ra­vi­ne."

  "Yes, ma'am, that's right." Jacob glan­ced from per­son to per­son. "Sin­ce y'all are sta­ying in the ca­bins clo­sest to the si­te of the fi­re, I was ho­ping one of you might ha­ve se­en so­met­hing-eit­her the car or so­me­one on fo­ot along the ro­ad."

  "I'm af­ra­id I didn't see an­y­t­hing or an­yo­ne," Erin sa­id. "I dro­ve in­to Knox­vil­le last night af­ter din­ner and just ar­ri­ved ho­me less than thirty mi­nu­tes be­fo­re De­puty! Wil­lin­g­ham knoc­ked on my do­or."

  "All right. Thank you, Ms. Mer­cer." Jacob tur­ned to the lo­ne man in the ro­om. He had his arm aro­und the yo­ung wo­man who se­emed ter­ri­fi­ed. "And you folks are?" 'Tony and Mandy Lan­dis. We're he­re on our ho­ney­mo­on. And my wi­fe"-he hug­ged her pro­tec­ti­vely aw­ful­ly up­set abo­ut be­ing qu­es­ti­oned by the she­riff."

  Jacob lo­oked re­as­su­ringly at the pretty red­he­ad, who wo­re no ma­ke­up and had her long, auburn ha­ir pul­led back in a pon­y­ta­il. "Mrs. Lan­dis, I'm sorry we had to bot­her you on yo­ur ho­ney­mo­on and even sor­ri­er that be­ing her­ded over he­re has up­set you. All I ne­ed from you folks is to know if you saw or he­ard an­y­t­hing that might help us find the per­son who dum­ped that car off in the ra­vi­ne."

  Tony Lan­dis blus­hed pro­fu­sely, and only then did Jacob re­ali­ze that des­pi­te his black fi­ve-o'clock sha­dow and de­ep ba­ri­to­ne vo­ice, the guy pro­bably wasn't a day ol­der than his bri­de, who lo­oked abo­ut twenty. If Mandy was in­de­ed his bri­de. Jacob's gu­ess was that the­se two twen­ty-so­met­hing kid§ we­re not Mr. and Mrs.

  "We-we didn't see an­y­t­hing. Ho­nest to God, we didn't. We're on our ho­ney­mo­on. You know how that is."

  Jacob pat­ted Tony on the back. "Ye­ah, son, I know how that is." Ac­tu­al­ly Jacob didn't know what it was li­ke to be on his ho­ney­mo­on sin­ce he'd ne­ver be­en mar­ri­ed, but he su­re as hell knew what it was li­ke to spend a who­le we­ekend in bed with a lady fri­end. "Why don't you two go on back to yo­ur ca­bin? And thanks for hel­ping us out."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Tony grab­bed Mandy's hand and all but drag­ged her to­ward the do­or.

  Jacob then tur­ned to the lo­ne wo­man sit­ting qu­i­etly on the so­fa, her hands res­ting in her lap, her an­k­les cros­sed in a lad­y­li­ke fas­hi­on. Just lo­oking at her, it was dif­fi­cult to jud­ge her age. She co­uld be eit­her a well-pre­ser­ved fifty or a ro­de-hard-and-put-away-wet thir­ty-fi­ve. Jacob fi­gu­red she was in her mid for­ti­es. For so­me re­ason she lo­oked fa­mi­li­ar, but he co­uldn't pla­ce her.

  "Ma'am?"

  When she lif­ted her he­ad, he got a go­od lo­ok at her. A re­al pretty lady, with a warm smi­le, big blue eyes, and whi­te-blond ha­ir. "No, I'm af­ra­id I didn't see or he­ar an­y­t­hing eit­her. And I'm ter­ribly sorry that I can't help you." She pa­used for a mo­ment, then as­ked, "The­re must be so­met­hing mo­re go­ing on than just a car set on fi­re for the she­riff him­self to be qu­es­ti­oning to­urists."

  "Yes, ma'am, the­re is," Jacob ad­mit­ted. "And you'll he­ar all abo­ut it on the lo­cal news so­on eno­ugh. We've had a mur­der in Che­ro­kee Co­unty this mor­ning. A yo­ung man was kil­led, and we ha­ve re­ason to be­li­eve that the mur­de­rer was dri­ving the car that's bur­ning over yon­der in the ra­vi­ne."

  "My Lord! If you know the mur­de­rer was dri­ving that car, then you must ha­ve an eye­wit­ness."

  "I'm af­ra­id I'm not at li­berty to say, ma'am. By the way, what is yo­ur na­me?"

  "Oh, for­gi­ve me." Her small, de­li­ca­te hand flut­te­red over her chest. "I'm Mar­go Ken­ley. I'm just a to­urist. I ren­ted a ca­bin for a mon­th-long stay."

  "Well, Ms. Ken­ley, you've just ma­de it una­ni­mo­us- no one saw an­y­t­hing."

  "Sheriff?" Erin Mer­cer sa­id.

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Can you tell us who the vic­tim was? Is it so­me­one I might know?"

  "As a mat­ter of fact it is. The mur­de­red man was Jamie Up­ton."

  Erin gas­ped, her eyes wi­de­ning in shock. "Jamie's de­ad and-and so­me­one kil­led him?"

&
nbsp; "That's right."

  "Does Jim-do­es his fa­mily know?"

  "Big Jim was with us when we fo­und the body," Jacob sa­id.

  "Oh, mercy. Po­or Jim. That boy me­ant the world to him. And to Miss Re­ba, too. They must be de­vas­ta­ted." Te­ars glis­te­ned in Erin Mer­cer's eyes.

  Jacob tho­ught Ms. Mer­cer's sur­p­ri­se and te­ars we­re ge­nu­ine. He didn't peg her for the type of wo­man who wo­uld tor­tu­re a man. But then aga­in, he didn't re­al­ly know the lady. Didn't know an­y­t­hing much abo­ut her. "La­di­es, thank you." Jacob tip­ped his Stet­son, then tur­ned and left.

  He had anot­her stop to ma­ke be­fo­re he­ading back to his of­fi­ce and star­ting in on the mass of pa­per­work in­vol­ved in a mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. May­be it was too much of a co­in­ci­den­ce that Re­ve Sor­rell's car had be­en dri­ven by the kil­ler, that Jamie had ro­man­ced her, and that the lady bo­re a stri­king re­sem­b­lan­ce to Jaz­zy. If so, did that me­an the kil­ler had set up Ms. Sor­rell to ta­ke the fall and not Jaz­zy? Or co­uld it be that the wo­man was as gu­ilty as hell and just hadn't co­ve­red her tracks very well?

 

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