The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  Who the hell? he won­de­red. It had to be well past mid­night. They'd left Jaz­zy's Jo­int a lit­tle af­ter ten. He'd no­ted the ti­me right as they we­re le­aving to co­me up­s­ta­irs.

  Jazzy gro­aned.

  "Want me to get it?" he as­ked. Mm-hmm." She snug­gled aga­inst him as he re­ac­hed over her to the bed­si­de tab­le.

  Caleb grab­bed the re­ce­iver. "Ye­ah?"

  Silence. Then a man's vo­ice sa­id, "McCord, is that you?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  Jazzy lif­ted her he­ad and lo­oked in­qu­iringly at Ca­leb.

  '' Dal­las Slo­an," the vo­ice on the pho­ne sa­id.

  Sloan wo­uldn't be cal­ling at this ti­me of night un­less so­met­hing was wrong. "What's up?" Ca­leb as­ked, al1 y awa­re that he didn't want to he­ar wha­te­ver it was.

  Not to­night. Not when ever­y­t­hing was so right bet­we­en Jaz­zy and him.

  "Genny had anot­her vi­si­on," Dal­las sa­id. "Anot­her man has be­en kil­led, his ge­ni­tals whac­ked off. Genny's cer­ta­in that it's the sa­me per­son who kil­led Jamie.''

  A hun­d­red tho­ughts fo­ught for do­mi­nan­ce in Ca­leb' mind. How wo­uld this af­fect Jaz­zy? Wo­uld she be bla­med for the mur­der? Or wo­uld this re­mo­ve sus­pi­ci­on from her?

  "Has it al­re­ady hap­pe­ned?" Ca­leb as­ked.

  "Genny's not su­re, but she thinks, yes, it's al­re­ady a fa­it ac­com­p­li. She wan­ted me to get in to­uch with Jaz­zy first be­fo­re I call Jacob and we start se­ar­c­hing for the body. Genny says that Jaz­zy ne­eds an ali­bi. Genny saw the wo­man's ha­ir aga­in. Sa­me co­lor and style as Jaz­zy's."

  "Holy shit! Not aga­in." Ca­leb tig­h­te­ned his hold aro­und Jaz­zy's slen­der wa­ist. "Well, she's got one. We've be­en to­get­her sin­ce ni­ne o'clock and be­fo­re that do­zens of cus­to­mers saw her at Jaz­zy's Jo­int."

  "Stay with her," Dal­las sa­id. "Don't le­ave her un­til we know for su­re the de­ed's be­en do­ne."

  "Call us as so­on as you know so­met­hing, will you, Slo­an?"

  "Will do."

  The mi­nu­te Ca­leb hung up the pho­ne, Jaz­zy ro­se up and over him, her fa­ce only in­c­hes from his. ''That was Dal­las? Why did he call? Is Genny all right?"

  When Ca­leb sat up in bed, he bro­ught Jaz­zy up with him in­to a sit­ting po­si­ti­on, then dra­ped his arm aro­und her na­ked sho­ul­ders. "Genny had one of her vi­si­ons. She saw anot­her man mur­de­red-his pri­va­tes cut off the way Jamie's we­re. She's su­re it's the sa­me wo­man be­ca­use she had short red ha­ir, just li­ke yo­urs."

  Jazzy to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. "I ha­ve an ali­bi this ti­me. I ha­ven't be­en alo­ne all eve­ning."

  "If not­hing el­se, this mur­der sho­uld gi­ve the dis­t­rict at­tor­ney se­cond tho­ughts."

  "Did Genny re­cog­ni­ze the man?"

  "Dallas didn't say, but pro­bably not or he wo­uld ha­ve men­ti­oned a na­me."

  They're go­ing to start se­ar­c­hing for the body, aren't they? Genny will go with Jacob and Dal­las."

  They'll call us when they know so­met­hing."

  "Maybe we sho­uld-"

  Caleb pres­sed his in­dex fin­ger over her lips. "No."

  "No?"

  "We are not go­ing with them. We're sta­ying right he­re."

  "You're get­ting aw­ful­ly bossy all of a sud­den," she told him. "Just be­ca­use we slept to­get­her, do­esn't me­an-"

  "I don't think we've do­ne any sle­eping," he sa­id. "At le­ast not yet."

  "Damn, you know what I me­an. Just be­ca­use we're lo­vers now do­es not me­an you get to gi­ve me or­ders."

  He gras­ped her fa­ce bet­we­en his fin­gers and thumb, for­cing her to lo­ok at him. "We're mo­re than lo­vers, aren't we?"

  She sta­red at him, ne­it­her ag­re­e­ing nor di­sag­re­e­ing.

  "Okay, I don't ha­ve the right to gi­ve you or­ders, even if you we­re my wi­fe. But what we ha­ve, who we are to each ot­her, do­es gi­ve me the right to pro­tect you."

  "You want to pro­tect me?"

  "Protect you, ta­ke ca­re of you, ma­ke you happy." He re­le­ased his te­na­ci­o­us hold on her fa­ce.

  "You, Ca­leb McCord, are one of a kind." She kis­sed him. A ten­der, lo­ving, gra­te­ful kiss.

  Hugging her clo­se, he res­ted his chin on the top of her he­ad. "I was just thin­king the sa­me thing abo­ut you, swe­et­he­art. The­re's no­body in the world li­ke you."

  * * *

  She dro­ve the truck to wit­hin half a mi­le of whe­re she had dum­ped the gre­en Jagu­ar. Along this stretch of ro­ad the­re we­re nu­me­ro­us ste­ep ra­vi­nes su­itab­le for what she had in mind. She'd co­ve­red Stan Wat­son's body with a tarp she'd fo­und in the mas­si­ve ste­el to­ol­box at­tac­hed to the truck bed. Luc­kily she hadn't run in­to anot­her ve­hic­le sin­ce she'd left Ho­ney Be­ar Tra­il fif­te­en mi­nu­tes ago. Be­fo­re le­aving, she had go­ne in­to the wo­ods and bu­ri­ed the blo­ody kni­fe she'd used on Stan-his own kni­fe!-only a few fe­et away from whe­re he'd bu­ri­ed her black plas­tic bag. It co­uld be ye­ars-or may­be ne­ver- be­fo­re an­yo­ne dis­co­ve­red that sack and its con­tents. She hadn't wan­ted to kill Stan. She hadn't even known him. But on­ce he'd se­en her dig­ging that ho­le in the gro­und, out in the wo­ods, she'd had no cho­ice. She had be­en mer­ci­ful. She'd kil­led him qu­ickly. And she'd even gi­ven him a fa­re­well fuck. It was the le­ast she co­uld do for an in­no­cent man.

  Killing Stan scre­wed up her plans so­mew­hat. If Jaz­zy Tal­bot had an ali­bi for to­night, then the she­riff and the dis­t­rict at­tor­ney might start qu­es­ti­oning whet­her Jaz­zy had kil­led Jamie. But may­be, just may­be, the­re we­re eno­ugh dif­fe­ren­ces in the two mur­ders that the law wo­uld as­su­me this was a cop­y­cat kil­ling. She had left Jamie's body in the ca­bin. She wo­uld burn Stan's in­si­de the truck. And if that we­ird mo­un­ta­in girl Genny saw any vi­si­ons abo­ut Stan's de­ath, she wo­uld re­port that he hadn't be­en tor­tu­red. At le­ast not much.

  I ho­pe you 're alo­ne, Jaz­zy Tal­bot. I ho­pe you don't ha­ve an ali­bi. If you don’t then this se­cond mur­der will se­al yo­ur fa­te.

  Andrea Wil­lis wo­ke with a start. She he­ard vo­ices. Sit­ting stra­ight up in bed, she lis­te­ned. La­ura and She­ri­dan we­re ar­gu­ing.

  She glan­ced at the bed­si­de clock. Twel­ve-twen­ty-fi­ve. Why we­re the­ir da­ug­h­ters ha­ving a sho­uting match at this ti­me of night? She got out of bed, slip­ped in­to her ro­be and sho­es, then qu­i­etly ma­de her way out of the ro­om, le­aving Ce­cil as­le­ep. Whe­ne­ver he to­ok a sle­eping pill, he slept li­ke the de­ad. Mo­re and mo­re of­ten, he re­li­ed on me­di­ca­ti­on in or­der to rest, just as she did. But to­night she'd left off her me­di­ca­ti­on.

  The girls we­re stan­ding out­si­de in the hal­lway, ne­ar the back sta­ir­way. Both we­re fully dres­sed. Odd, An­d­rea tho­ught. Why wo­uld they be dres­sed? She hur­ri­ed to­ward them and the mi­nu­te they saw her, they qu­i­eted im­me­di­ately.

  "What in God's na­me is go­ing on?" An­d­rea de­man­ded. "What if so­me­one over­he­ard you?"

  "Nobody he­ard us, ex­cept you," She­ri­dan sa­id. "Big Jim sta­yed at the hos­pi­tal and it wo­uld ta­ke a bomb ex­p­lo­ding on his chest to wa­ke Daddy."

  "What abo­ut the ser­vants?"

  "The ser­vants' ro­oms are dow­n­s­ta­irs," She­ri­dan re­min­ded her mot­her.

  "Who's go­ing to tell me what's go­ing on?" An­d­rea de­man­ded.

  Laura hung her he­ad. She­ri­dan gri­ma­ced.

  "Why aren't you two in bed as­le­ep at this ti­me of night? It's past mid­night."

  "I've be­en out," She­ri­dan ad­mit­ted. "I had a da­te."

  That fact didn't sur­
p­ri­se An­d­rea in the le­ast. She lo­oked at La­ura. "And you?"

  I was res­t­less, so I went out so­mew­he­re… I think."

  "You think?" An­d­rea's he­art ca­ught in her thro­at. "Whe­re is Mrs. Con­ley?"

  I don't know. As­le­ep, I gu­ess," La­ura rep­li­ed, he sho­uld ha­ve awa­ke­ned when she he­ard you two scre­ec­hing at each ot­her." An­d­rea tur­ned to She­ri­dan.

  ''Tell me in one or two sen­ten­ces why you and yo­ur sis­ter we­re ar­gu­ing."

  "When I ca­me in, I ca­ught her sne­aking up the back sta­irs, so I as­ked her who she'd go­ne out and kil­led to­night," She­ri­dan sa­id.

  Acting pu­rely on in­s­tin­c­ti­ve ra­ge, An­d­rea slap­ped She­ri­dan, who jer­ked back and gla­red at her mot­her. Then she rub­bed her che­ek and grin­ned.

  "Admit it, Mot­her, you think she might ha­ve kil­led Jamie."

  "I didn't," La­ura told them. "I-I co­uldn't ha­ve. I lo­ved Jamie. We we­re go­ing to ha­ve a baby."

  Andrea put her arm aro­und La­ura's sho­ul­ders, then glan­ced at She­ri­dan. "Go to bed. And from now on, ke­ep yo­ur opi­ni­on to yo­ur­self. Un­der­s­tand?"

  "Yes, ma'am." She­ri­dan he­aded for her ro­om.

  "Co­me with me." An­d­rea led La­ura in­to her bed­ro­om. The ro­om lay in mo­on­lit sha­dows. An­d­rea flip­ped on the over­he­ad light. Mrs. Con­ley, sno­ring lo­udly, sat in the over­s­tuf­fed cha­ir in the cor­ner. A empty cup res­ted on the flo­or be­si­de the cha­ir. An­d­rea left La­ura stan­ding in the mid­dle of the ro­om and went to check on the nur­se. She cal­led the wo­man's na­me. No res­pon­se. She tap­ped on her sho­ul­der. Mrs. Con­ley con­ti­nu­ed sno­ring. An­d­rea sho­ok her. She grun­ted, but didn't awa­ken. Drug­ged! The wo­man had be­en drug­ged. An­d­rea whir­led aro­und and gla­red at La­ura. "What did you gi­ve her?"

  Laura hug­ged her­self and lo­oked ever­y­w­he­re but at her mot­her.

  Andrea rus­hed over, grab­bed La­ura and sho­ok her. "What did you gi­ve Mrs. Con­ley? Do I ne­ed to call an am­bu­lan­ce?"

  "It was just a co­up­le of Daddy's sle­eping pills," La­ura ad­mit­ted. "I got ti­red of her wat­c­hing me li­ke a hawk.

  She wo­uldn't even let me go pee wit­ho­ut le­aving the bat­h­ro­om do­or open."

  "Laura, La­ura… -what am I go­ing to do with you?"

  "Love me. Ple­ase, Mot­her, lo­ve me the way you do She­ri­dan."

  Andrea wrap­ped her arms aro­und her el­der da­ug­h­ter and held her. "My po­or lit­tle La­ura."

  Sally Tal­bot sho­wed up at Jaz­zy's apar­t­ment promptly at six o'clock. Ca­leb was in the kit­c­hen pre­pa­ring cof­fee when she knoc­ked on the do­or.

  "How's our girl?" Sally as­ked.

  "Still sle­eping," Ca­leb sa­id. "It was af­ter fo­ur be­fo­re she fi­nal­ly fell as­le­ep aga­in."

  "Dallas cal­led me right be­fo­re I left the ho­use." Sally glan­ced to­ward the clo­sed bed­ro­om do­or. 'They fo­und anot­her ve­hic­le bur­ning down in a hol­low, not half a mi­le from whe­re they fo­und that ot­her one."

  "When?"

  "About an ho­ur ago."

  "I think I'll dri­ve up the­re and see what they know."

  "Figured you'd want to. That's why I'm he­re. To lo­ok af­ter Jaz­zy. She don't ne­ed to go with you."

  "I ag­ree." He nod­ded to­ward the kit­c­hen. "Cof­fee's on. I'll grab a mug be­fo­re I he­ad out." Ca­leb wal­ked to­ward the bed­ro­om.

  "What are you do­ing?" Sally as­ked. " Don't wa­ke her UP or she'll want to go with you."

  ''I won't wa­ke her. I just…" He felt aw­k­ward ad­mit­ting his fe­elings to Jaz­zy's aunt. "I just want to ta­ke anot­her lo­ok at her be­fo­re I le­ave."

  Sally grin­ned, then tur­ned and he­aded for the kit­c­hen.

  Caleb ope­ned the do­or and tip­to­ed in­to the se­mi dark ro­om. Jaz­zy lay un­der the she­et, cur­led in a ball on her si­de. He crept over to the ed­ge of the bed and lo­oked down at her. God, she was the pret­ti­est thing he'd ever se­en.

  Admit it, McCord. You 're in lo­ve with her.

  Unable to re­sist the tem­p­ta­ti­on, he re­ac­hed out and ran the back of his hand gently ac­ross her che­ek. She sig­hed and tur­ned over on her back, but didn't wa­ke up. He le­aned over and kis­sed her fo­re­he­ad. She mur­mu­red so­met­hing in­co­he­rent in her sle­ep.

  "I lo­ve you," he whis­pe­red, kno­wing she co­uldn't he­ar him.

  Her bre­at­hing was de­ep and even. Res­t­ful. Her lips par­ted and she sa­id one word pla­inly. ''Jamie…"

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  While Genny slept on the cot in Jacob's of­fi­ce, re­co­ve­ring from the­ir early mor­ning se­arch, he and Dal­las sat in the outer of­fi­ce with a co­up­le of his de­pu­ti­es, Mo­ody Ryan and Bobby Joe Har­te. Al­t­ho­ugh Genny had be­en ab­le to po­int them in the right di­rec­ti­on and hel­ped them find the spot whe­re the truck had be­en aban­do­ned and bur­ned, she'd be­en unab­le to pick up the lo­ca­ti­on whe­re the mur­der had ac­tu­al­ly be­en com­mit­ted. Be­fo­re she'd pas­sed out from ex­ha­us­ti­on, she'd told them de­fi­ni­tely that the mur­der hadn't oc­cur­red ne­arby.

  "Farther up the mo­un­ta­in," Genny had sa­id. "Ne­ar a thickly wo­oded area. Iso­la­ted. May­be only one ca­bin an­y­w­he­re clo­se."

  Jacob had left the fo­ren­sics te­am go­ing over the fi­ery truck si­te. And he'd put in a call to Knox­vil­le. A se­cond mur­der in a we­ek's ti­me was all too re­mi­nis­cent of the se­ri­al kil­ler that had stal­ked Che­ro­kee Co­unty three months ago, so he was dam­ned and de­ter­mi­ned to do his best to stop this kil­ler be­fo­re anot­her man fell victim to her black-wi­dow tac­tics. From the char­red re­ma­ins of the body in­si­de the truck the­re was no way to tell for su­re who the man had be­en, and Pe­te Holt had sa­id it had de­fi­ni­tely be­en a man. The body wo­uld be ship­ped out to Knox­vil­le by no­on to­day. Un­til then, they co­uld only spe­cu­la­te as to who the vic­tim was. But the truck was anot­her mat­ter. Al­t­ho­ugh badly bur­ned, the truck was still in­tact eno­ugh to ma­ke out the mo­del. And as luck wo­uld ha­ve it, the car tag, which ap­pa­rently had be­en held in pla­ce by a de­co­ra­ti­ve plas­tic fra­me, had fal­len off on the gro­und and es­ca­ped be­ing blac­ke­ned when the plas­tic fra­me mel­ted. They'd im­me­di­ately run a se­arch on the tag and fo­und the truck be­lon­ged to Stan­ley Wat­son, a ma­in­te­nan­ce man who wor­ked for Che­ro­kee Ca­bin Ren­tals.

  Propped on the ed­ge of Mo­ody's desk, his legs cros­sed at the an­k­les, Jacob held the list of job as­sig­n­ments Stan's boss Ho­ot Tom­p­kins, the ma­na­ger of the ren­tal ca­bins, had gi­ven them.

  "Hoot sa­id his men to­ok the­ir as­sig­n­ment she­ets from him every mor­ning, then de­ci­ded for them­sel­ves which job to do first, un­less told ot­her­wi­se, "Jacob sa­id. "We've got a co­up­le of guys from our de­par­t­ment and from Dal­las's go­ing from ca­bin to ca­bin to find out if Stan fi­nis­hed up on all the­se jobs. "Jacob tap­ped the as­sig­n­ment she­et he held. "If one was left un­do­ne, that might me­an it was the last pla­ce he stop­ped be­fo­re he was kil­led."

  "Do you think it was her?" Bobby Joe as­ked and when all eyes fo­cu­sed on him, he swal­lo­wed hard. "Not Miss Jaz­zy. I didn't me­an her. I'm tal­king abo­ut who­ever re­al­ly kil­led Jamie Up­ton. You think the sa­me wo­man kil­led Stan Wat­son?"

  "We're only gu­es­sing that it's Wat­son," Dal­las sa­id. "It was his truck and the guy isn't at ho­me and no­body's se­en him sin­ce aro­und lun­c­h­ti­me yes­ter­day."

  "If it is the sa­me per­son-the kil­ler, I me­an…" Bobby Joe pa­ced aro­und the ro­om as he spo­ke ner­vo­usly. "Do­esn't that put Miss Jaz­zy in the cle­ar?
If she's got-got an ali­bi this ti­me, then may­be we sho­uld- sho­uld be lo­oking el­sew­he­re for Jamie's kil­ler."

  Jacob stu­di­ed his de­puty. Bobby Joe was stut­te­ring and ac­ting li­ke a worm in hot as­hes. He su­re wasn't his usu­al la­id-back, eas­y­go­ing self. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

  At the so­und of Jacob's ro­ar, Bobby Joe fro­ze in his tracks. "Not­hing's wrong with me."

  "You su­re are ac­ting pe­cu­li­ar," Dal­las com­men­ted.

  ''That's what I was thin­king," Jacob sa­id.