The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  She had was­ted eno­ugh ti­me wor­rying, fe­eling sorry for her­self and trying to ma­ke sen­se of what was hap­pe­ning to her. It was past ti­me she to­ok ac­ti­on. She jum­ped up from the so­fa and he­aded for her desk. Af­ter pul­ling out the pho­ne bo­ok from the bot­tom dra­wer, she flip­ped thro­ugh the pa­ges un­til she fo­und Max­well Fen­nel's of­fi­ce num­ber. Just as she lif­ted the te­lep­ho­ne re­ce­iver, she he­ard so­me­one at her do­or.

  Damn! She gro­aned. Well, it was eit­her Genny, Sally, Lu­die, or Ca­leb.

  Jazzy re­tur­ned the re­ce­iver to the pho­ne ba­se and went to an­s­wer the do­or. The­re sto­od Genny, a som­ber ex­p­res­si­on on her fa­ce and a lo­ok of do­om in her black eyes.

  "What's wrong?" Jaz­zy as­ked.

  "We ne­ed to talk."

  "Come on in."

  Genny en­te­red the li­ving ro­om. Jaz­zy clo­sed the do­or. The two fri­ends fa­ced each ot­her.

  "Whatever it is, it's bad, isn't it?" Jaz­zy sa­id, re­al­ly not ne­eding a res­pon­se.

  "Wade Tru­man is ha­ving a war­rant for yo­ur ar­rest is­su­ed," Genny sa­id. "As so­on as the jud­ge signs it, Jacob will ha­ve to ar­rest you."

  Nausea chur­ned in Jaz­zy's sto­mach. A we­ak, sin­king fe­eling swept over her. She had known this was ine­vi­tab­le and yet the re­ality of it hit her hard.

  "I was just fi­xing to call Max­well Fen­nel. I gu­ess I sho­uld go ahe­ad and do that."

  "I'll call Ma­xie," Genny sa­id. 'Then I think we sho­uld go on over to the she­rif­fs de­par­t­ment so you can turn yo­ur­self in."

  Jazzy lo­oked at Genny, not qu­ite com­p­re­hen­ding what she'd sa­id. "You think I sho­uld turn myself in?" 'The lo­cal me­dia is al­re­ady in a frenzy abo­ut Jamie's mur­der," Genny ex­p­la­ined. "Once word le­aks out that the­re's be­en a war­rant is­su­ed for yo­ur ar­rest, all hell will bre­ak lo­ose. New­s­pa­per and TV re­por­ters will be swar­ming aro­und he­re and aro­und the co­ur­t­ho­use li­ke a bunch of kil­ler be­es. If we go on over to Jacob's of­fi­ce and wa­it, we might avo­id the worst of it."

  "Damn Bri­an Mac­Kin­non. I'll bet he's enj­oying this. As much as he dis­li­kes me, you know he'll slant ever­y­t­hing on his TV sta­ti­on and in The Che­ro­kee Po­in­te He­rald aga­inst me."

  "Forget Bri­an. We can't do an­y­t­hing to stop him from do­ing wha­te­ver he wants to do. Our big­gest con­cern right now is hi­ring Ma­xie and get­ting him to me­et us over at Jacob's of­fi­ce."

  "You're right. To hell with Bri­an Fuc­king Mac­Kin­non. One of the­se days that mag­got will get his." Jaz­zy, my Lord, will you stop sho­oting off yo­ur mo­uth? Ever­y­t­hing you say is go­ing to be scru­ti­ni­zed, and when you say so­met­hing li­ke that pe­op­le will twist it aro­und so that they can call it a thre­at."

  "Well, shit, Genny, you might as well ask me to stop bre­at­hing. You know how I am. I say wha­te­ver pops in­to my he­ad. And I didn't me­an I'd per­so­nal­ly see that Bri­an gets his."

  ''I know." Genny of­fe­red her a wa­ve­ring smi­le. "Lo­ok, go fres­hen up, chan­ge clot­hes or wha­te­ver, then grab yo­ur pur­se and let's he­ad out. In the me­an­ti­me, I'll put in a call to Ma­xie and ask him to me­et us over at the co­ur­t­ho­use."

  "Find out how much mo­ney he'll char­ge me up front, Jaz­zy sa­id as she he­aded for her bed­ro­om. "I might ne­ed to tran­s­fer so­me funds out of my sa­vings ac­co­unt1!

  "I'll ask," Genny sa­id. "And Jaz­zy… if you wind up ha­ving to hi­re a mo­re high-po­we­red law­yer than Ma­xie and ne­ed so­me help, fi­nan­ci­al­ly, Dal­las and Jacob and I want to-"

  "Damn it, you're go­ing to ma­ke me cry." Jaz­zy didn't da­re turn aro­und and fa­ce her best fri­end. If she had, she wo­uld ha­ve burst in­to te­ars. "If wor­se co­mes to worst,; I can al­ways sell Jas­mi­ne's and Jaz­zy's Jo­int."

  "No, you won't. If it turns out Ma­xie can't han­d­le this ca­se, we'll hi­re you the best damn law­yer ava­ilab­le, no mat­ter what the cost."

  Jazzy ran in­to the bed­ro­om and clo­sed the do­or be­hind her. With te­ars tric­k­ling down her che­eks, she le­aned back aga­inst the do­or and than­ked God for go­od fri­ends.1 And whi­le she was pra­ying, she al­so as­ked God to help Jacob and Dal­las find out who had re­al­ly kil­led Jamie.

  The ro­om was qu­i­et. The only so­und was her own soft vo­ice as she hum­med to her baby. Her pre­ci­o­us da­ug­h­ter. So tiny. So pretty. And so de­pen­dent on her. Don't you worry, my lit­tle an­gel, I'll ta­ke go­od ca­re of you. It was a mot­her's duty to lo­ve and ca­re for her child, to pro­tect that child from the evil in the world. And the­re was so much evil, so much cru­elty. Bad pe­op­le do­ing bad things to her. Me­an pe­op­le plot­ting be­hind her back, saying ter­rib­le things abo­ut her.

  As she roc­ked back and forth, crad­ling her baby in her arms, she whis­pe­red, "You're sa­fe. No one can hurt you. And no one can ever ta­ke you away from me aga­in.

  He had sa­id he lo­ved her. He'd ma­de her pro­mi­ses he ne­ver in­ten­ded to ke­ep. To lo­ve, ho­nor, and che­rish. But he had li­ed. Her-fe­elings hadn't mat­te­red to him, not as long as he got what he wan­ted.

  She held her child clo­se to her he­art. "But he'll ne­ver ha­ve you. He'll ne­ver hurt you. They're all ali­ke. Men who tell you they lo­ve you, then throw you away and pre­tend you ne­ver exis­ted. And the­re is al­ways a wo­man who lu­res them in­to evil. A wic­ked wo­man who de­ser­ves the sa­me pu­nis­h­ment for her sins."

  Mustn’t get up­set, she told her­self. Ever­y­t­hing is all right for now. I'm sa­fe. My da­ug­h­ter is sa­fe, Jamie Up­ton is de­ad. He can't hurt an­yo­ne ever aga­in. Now all I ha­ve to do is bi­de my ti­me and the law will pu­nish Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot. She will suf­fer as we ha­ve suf­fe­red.

  She con­ti­nu­ed hum­ming, a lul­laby from long ago. Hadn't she sang this sa­me song to anot­her baby? Had the­re be­en anot­her baby? No, of co­ur­se not. The­re was only her lit­tle girl, the baby she held in her arms. The child who was sa­fe. The child he co­uldn't hurt. The lit­tle girl he co­uld ne­ver ta­ke away from her.

  At the right mo­ment, I will ma­ke him very, very sorry for what he did. He thinks he's sa­fe. He has no idea that he will die so­on. He sho­uldn't ha­ve let us down the way he did. I night ha­ve for­gi­ven him and kil­led him qu­ickly if he'd be­en a bet­ter fat­her, if he had pro­tec­ted you and kept you from harm.

  Not yet. Wa­it. The­re is no ne­ed to hurry. She had fo­und him, and if he tri­ed to es­ca­pe, she wo­uld simply fol­low him. He co­uldn't get away from her. Wo­uldn't he be sur­p­ri­sed when he saw her, when he re­ali­zed who she was and mat she was go­ing to kill him?

  Caleb flag­ged Genny down a block away from the co­ur­t­ho­use. He sto­od in the mid­dle of the stre­et and wa­ved his arms. She slam­med on the bra­kes and rol­led; down the win­dow. Be­fo­re she co­uld say a word, Ca­leb ran to­ward her Chevy Tra­il­b­la­zer.

  "Let me in," he cal­led out to her as he grab­bed for the back do­or han­d­le on the dri­ver's si­de.

  The mi­nu­te Genny un­did the locks, Ca­leb ope­ned the do­or and jum­ped in the back se­at. "Dri­ve aro­und to the re­ar en­t­ran­ce at the co­ur­t­ho­use."

  "What's wrong?" Genny as­ked.

  Jazzy tur­ned hal­f­way aro­und in her se­at. Her ga­ze con­nec­ted with Ca­leb's and held.

  "Word's out that Jaz­zy is go­ing to be ar­res­ted for Jamie's mur­der. The­re's a hor­de of re­por­ters out front, along with TV ca­me­ras re­ady to fol­low Jacob when he le­aves the co­ur­t­ho­use or to catch you the mi­nu­te you ar­ri­ve to turn yo­ur­self in."

  "How do you know?" Jaz­zy as­ked. "Did-"

  T told you that word's out all over town." Ca­leb le­aned' over the con­so­le a
nd pla­ced his hand on Jaz­zy's sho­ul­der. "Jacob and Dal­las ha­ve pos­ted de­pu­ti­es and of­fi­cers at the front and back en­t­ran­ces, but it's go­ing to be a mad­ho­use trying to get you in­to Jacob's of­fi­ce."

  "Go ahe­ad, Genny," Jaz­zy sa­id. "I've got to fa­ce the re­por­ters so­oner or la­ter. We might as well get this over with."

  "Maxwell Fen­nel is wa­iting for you out­si­de on the co­ur­t­ho­use lawn and his pre­sen­ce is ca­using qu­ite a stir,"! Ca­leb told them. "He's al­re­ady ple­ading yo­ur ca­se KM the press."

  "For what I'm pa­ying him, he'd damn well bet­ter be do­ing a go­od job." Jaz­zy la­ug­hed, but the­re was no hu­mor in the so­und.

  Caleb wo­uld li­ke not­hing bet­ter than to ta­ke Jaz­zy away from Che­ro­kee Po­in­te, to run off with her to so­me tro­pi­cal is­land and for­get Jamie Up­ton ever exis­ted. He ha­ted what was hap­pe­ning to her and felt hel­p­less to pro­tect her aga­inst the inj­us­ti­ce of be­ing char­ged with a cri­me she hadn't com­mit­ted. What she ne­eded mo­re than an­y­t­hing right now was a top­notch law­yer. So­me­body who didn't know the word de­fe­at, so­me­body with a re­pu­ta­ti­on for al­ways win­ning. The first na­me that ca­me to mind was Qu­inn Cor­tez. Cor­tez was the pre­mi­ere tri­al law­yer in the so­uth and so­ut­h­west. He had suc­ces­sful­ly de­fen­ded a slew of ac­cu­sed mur­de­rers. But Cor­tez ca­me with a high pri­ce tag. His re­ta­iner alo­ne ran in­to six fi­gu­res.

  Caleb didn't ha­ve the kind of mo­ney it wo­uld ta­ke to pay Cor­tez's as­t­ro­no­mi­cal fee-and even if the guy did owe Ca­leb a fa­vor, he co­uld hardly ask him to work for pe­anuts. But Ca­leb knew so­me­one who did ha­ve that kind of mo­ney, so­me­body who'd dri­ven in­to town in a Jagu­ar, so­me­one who was pro­bably Jaz­zy's sis­ter. But be­fo­re he co­uld ap­pro­ach Re­ve Sor­rel, he ne­eded so­me in­for­ma­ti­on on the lady. He still had con­tacts in Mem­p­his who'd pro­bably help him.

  When Genny tur­ned her SUV off the stre­et and in­to the par­king area be­hind the co­ur­t­ho­use, re­por­ters des­cen­ded on the Tra­il­b­la­zer li­ke a swarm of angry be­es.

  "Now what do we do?" Genny as­ked.

  "We wa­it he­re, with the do­ors loc­ked and the win­dows rol­led up, un­til we get a po­li­ce es­cort in­to the bu­il­ding," Ca­leb rep­li­ed.

  "This is Bri­an's do­ing," Genny sa­id. "He's so­mew­he­re ne­arby. I can sen­se his pre­sen­ce. He's wat­c­hing. And he's enj­oying every mi­nu­te of it."

  "Sadistic bas­tard," Ca­leb grum­b­led un­der his bre­ath.

  Jacob ca­me out the back do­or of the co­ur­t­ho­use, Dal­las at his si­de. De­pu­ti­es Te­wan­da Hardy and Tim Wil­lin­g­ham, Wor­king with a co­up­le of Dal­las's of­fi­cers, par­ted the throng of re­por­ters and cu­ri­osity se­ekers whi­le Jacob and Dal­las ma­de the­ir way to the Tra­il­b­la­zer. They ca­me' to the dri­ver's si­de and mo­ti­oned for Genny to open the do­or.

  "Just park right he­re. Then I want ever­y­body to get out on this si­de," Dal­las sa­id. "Genny, we'll put you and Jaz­zy bet­we­en Jacob and me." He glan­ced in the back* se­at at Ca­leb. ''You stay right be­hind them, and we'll put Te­wan­da in front so we can ke­ep them sur­ro­un­ded un­til we ma­ke it to the of­fi­ce."

  Caleb nod­ded and the mi­nu­te both wo­men we­re out; of the ve­hic­le, he hop­ped down to the gro­und and ca­mel up be­hind them to gu­ard the re­ar. Mo­ving as qu­ickly as the en­c­ro­ac­hing hor­de al­lo­wed, they he­aded to­ward the back do­or. Re­por­ters sho­uted qu­es­ti­ons. TV ca­me­ra rol­led. And inch by slow inch, they ca­me clo­ser and clo­ses to the co­ur­t­ho­use back en­t­ran­ce.

  "Don't no­body bla­me you for kil­ling him, ho­ney," a fe­ma­le vo­ice in the crowd sho­uted.

  "He de­ser­ved what he got," anot­her wo­man yel­led.

  "You're a mur­de­rer," one man bel­lo­wed.

  And anot­her yel­led, "You're a no-go­od slut. A mur­de­ring who­re. You're go­ing stra­ight to hell."

  Every in­s­tinct in Ca­leb de­man­ded that he te­ar thro­ugh the crowd and be­at the hell out of ever­y­body who da­red say an­y­t­hing bad abo­ut Jaz­zy. But what go­od wo­uld that do her? No­ne. Ab­so­lu­tely no­ne. Ho­we­ver, he knew what he co­uld do for her. First, he'd post bond for her as so­on as she was bo­oked. He fi­gu­red he had eno­ugh sa­ved up to co­ver it Se­cond, he'd ma­ke a pho­ne call to a man who owed him a fa­vor. He'd ne­ver in­ten­ded to call in Cor­tez’ mar­ker, but this wasn't for him­self. It was for Jaz­zy. And af­ter he got the in­fo he ne­eded on Re­ve Sor­rell, he'd see if he co­uld twist her arm in­to co­ming up with so­me cash. Even if Cor­tez did owe him, he do­ub­ted the man1 wo­uld ta­ke on Jaz­zy's ca­se for not­hing.

  Caleb re­ac­hed out, pla­ced his hand on the small of Tazzy's back, and kept it the­re as they en­te­red the co­ur­t­ho­use and qu­ic­ke­ned the­ir pa­ce on the­ir trek to the she­rif­fs de­par­t­ment. He wasn't go­ing to let her go thro­ugh this alo­ne. One way or anot­her, he in­ten­ded to ta­ke ca­re of her.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  Jazzy was gra­te­ful for one thing abo­ve all el­se-that she had go­od fri­ends she co­uld co­unt on. Ot­her­wi­se she'd be spen­ding the night in ja­il. Of co­ur­se, it didn't hurt that two of tho­se fri­ends just hap­pe­ned to be the chi­ef of po­li­ce and the co­unty she­riff. And with Max­well Fen­nel, a man with mo­re clo­ut with the jud­ges than any law­yer in the co­unty, on her si­de, a re­aso­nab­le bond had be­en set des­pi­te the char­ges be­ing se­cond deg­ree mur­der. Jacob had ex­p­la­ined that Wa­de Tru­man wo­uld ha­ve go­ne for first deg­ree, but knew he'd ne­ver ma­ke tho­se char­ges stick. The evi­den­ce aga­inst her, tho­ugh plen­ti­ful, wo­uldn't hold up well un­der clo­se scru­tiny.

  "If Big Jim hadn't put the pres­su­re on Wa­de, we wo­uldn't ha­ve ma­de an ar­rest so qu­ickly," Jacob told her. "Se­ems Miss Re­ba wants her po­und of flesh. Ac­tu­al­ly,; to be mo­re ac­cu­ra­te, she wants a po­und of yo­ur flesh."

  Whatever Big Ma­ma wants, Big Ma­ma gets, Jamie had sa­id nu­me­ro­us ti­mes.

  Miss Re­ba. God, how that wo­man had fuc­ked up her li­fe. Jamie's gran­d­mot­her had des­pi­sed her from day one. If it hadn't be­en for Miss Re­ba, Jamie wo­uld ha­ve mar­ri­ed her when they we­re te­ena­gers and he'd knoc­ked her up. But Jaz­zy hadn't be­en go­od eno­ugh for the Up­ton he­ir. Miss Re­ba had wan­ted him mar­ri­ed and ma­ted to a blue blo­od, to so­me­body who­se folks had the kind of mo­ney and bre­eding the Up­tons did.

  At this pre­ci­se mo­ment, Jaz­zy felt not­hing. No pa­in or an­ger or fe­ar. It was as if so­met­hing had shut down in­si­de her and her abi­lity to fe­el had go­ne in­to hi­ber­na­ti­on. An odd sort of num­b­ness had set­tled over her on­ce the bo­oking pro­cess be­gan. Of co­ur­se, Ma­xie had ear­ned his re­ta­iner when Jacob had qu­es­ti­oned her. Wa­de Tru­man had be­en on hand for that, and, to gi­ve the de­vil his due, he'd ap­pe­ared to be rat­her un­com­for­tab­le with the who­le si­tu­ati­on. Of co­ur­se, the fact that whe­ne­ver he was al­lo­wed an­y­w­he­re ne­ar her, Ca­leb had con­ti­nu­o­usly gi­ven the DA the evil eye might ha­ve had so­met­hing to do with Wa­de's dis­com­fort.

  Jazzy wal­ked up the out­si­de sta­irs that led to her apar­t­ment abo­ve Jaz­zy's Jo­int, Ca­leb's strong arm aro­und her wa­ist. He hadn't left her all this ti­me, du­ring the se­emingly en­d­less ho­urs it to­ok for her to be fin­ger­p­rin­ted and pho­tog­rap­hed and her per­so­nal in­for­ma­ti­on to be re­cor­ded.

  Jacob and two de­pu­ti­es re­ma­ined on the stre­et be­low, fen­ding off the re­por­ters who had be­en lying in wa­it for Jaz­zy's re­turn. As Ca­leb to­ok her key from her and un­loc­ked the front do­or, she co­uld he­
ar the new­s­ho­unds sho­uting qu­es­ti­ons at her. She didn't ca­re what they as­ked. Didn't ca­re what they sa­id abo­ut her in print The­re We­re a lot of things over which she had no con­t­rol, and the press was one of tho­se things, as was be­ing ac­cu­sed of Jamie's mur­der.

  Once in­si­de, Ca­leb ga­ve her a gen­t­le push to­ward the so­fa. "Go sit down." He clo­sed and loc­ked the do­or. "It's nearly eig­ht-thirty and you ha­ven't had any lunch or sup­per. I'm go­ing to fix you so­met­hing to eat."

  Jazzy sho­ok her he­ad. "I'm not hungry."

  Caleb ca­me up be­hind her, gras­ped her sho­ul­ders! and wal­ked her to the so­fa. "Sit."

  She sat.

  He knelt down and re­mo­ved her sho­es. Af­ter easing her legs up on the so­fa, he pul­led a knit­ted af­g­han off the back and pla­ced it over the lo­wer half of her body., "You're eating so­met­hing, even if it's just half a san­d­wich." He stuf­fed a co­up­le of throw pil­lows be­hind her and ur­ged her to le­an back and re­lax. "If I don't ta­ke very go­od ca­re of you, I'll ha­ve to an­s­wer to Genny and yo­ur aunt Sally."