The Last To Die

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by Beverly Barton


  "My God, it can't be."

  "But it is," she sa­id. "I've co­me for you. And for La­ura. Su­rely you knew that I wo­uld." She lif­ted her hand and aimed a si­nis­ter-lo­oking gun threcdy at him.

  "How?" It was the only word Ce­cil ma­na­ged to say.

  "How did I get in­si­de the loc­ked ga­tes of the Up­ton com­po­und?" the wo­man as­ked, smi­ling wic­kedly. "I used Jamie's re­mo­te con­t­rol, of co­ur­se. I fo­und it in his pants poc­ket when I strip­ped him."

  "Who are you?" La­ura ma­na­ged to ask.

  "Didn't yo­ur fat­her tell you abo­ut me? No, of co­ur­se he didn't He's as­ha­med of me. But he sho­uld be as­ha­med of him­self, be­ca­use he hasn't be­en a very go­od fat­her. A go­od fat­her ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve al­lo­wed you to be­co­me in­vol­ved with Jamie. He was a bad man. A bad man li­ke you, Ce­cil. He de­ser­ved to die."

  "Daddy?" Trem­b­ling from he­ad to toe, La­ura clung to Ce­cil.

  "It'll be all right La­ura," he prot­hi­sed her, pra­ying fer­vently that he co­uld ke­ep that prot­hi­se.

  "He's right, La­ura. Ever­y­t­hing is all right, now that I m he­re. I'll ma­ke su­re no one ever hurts my baby. I'm a go­od mot­her. I was al­ways a go­od mot­her, but they to­ok my lit­tle girl away from me. That wasn't right, was j«And Jaz­zy ra­ised my lit­tle girl and told her she was her mot­her. Jaz­zy and Jamie we­re so…"

  She sta­red from La­ura to Ce­cil as if she co­uldn't qu­ite re­mem­ber who they we­re. If only he da­red to jump her, Ce­cil tho­ught, da­red to go for the gun and y to stop her. But what if she ac­ci­den­tal­ly shot La­ura?

  ''That's not right, is it? Jamie was me­an to you-" She po­in­ted the gun at La­ura and Ce­cil gas­ped. Then she po­in­ted the gun back at him. "I kil­led him be­ca­use he was me­an to my baby. And you've be­en a bad fat­her, Ce­cil. A very bad fat­her. And Jaz­zy was a bad mot­her. It was wrong of her to ta­ke you away from me. She had no right to tell my baby she was her mot­her."

  "Daddy, what is she tal­king abo­ut? Do you know her?" "Yes… Daddy… tell her what I'm tal­king abo­ut. Tell her who I am."

  Andrea swung open the French do­ors and mar­c­hed out on­to the pa­tio. She had gi­ven Ce­cil mo­re than eno­ugh ti­me to bro­od on his own. It was ti­me they tal­ked, ti­me they ma­de plans to pro­tect them­sel­ves and the­ir da­ug­h­ters. Wha­te­ver it to­ok to ke­ep the truth hid­den, they must do it. If an­yo­ne in the­ir cir­c­le ever fo­und out abo­ut Mar­ga­ret, it wo­uld ru­in them. And it wo­uld des­t­roy La­ura. She hadn't in­ves­ted twen­ty-fo­ur ye­ars of her li­fe in Ce­cil's da­ug­h­ter to let it be for na­ught. She lo­ved La­ura, as much as it was pos­sib­le to lo­ve anot­her wo­man's child, and for Ce­cil's sa­ke she had pro­tec­ted the girl. Of co­ur­se, lo­ving La­ura hadn't be­en dif­fi­cult at first, not when she'd be­en an in­fant and tod­dler.

  "Cecil, whe­re are you?"

  No res­pon­se.

  Damn, had he go­ne off for a walk and not told her? She glan­ced aro­und and sud­denly no­ti­ced two rat­her odd ti­lin­gs-Ce­cil's empty te­acup and sa­ucer lay scat­te­red in bro­ken pi­eces on the brick pa­tio flo­or. And only a co­up­le of fe­et away, one of La­ura's ho­use slip­pers res­ted up­si­de down, as if she'd lost it whi­le run­ning.

  An un­ner­ving sen­sa­ti­on flut­te­red thro­ugh An­d­rea's sto­mach. So­met­hing was wrong. Ter­ribly wrong. La­ura wo­uldn't ha­ve ta­ken a walk with her fat­her wit­ho­ut her slip­pers. She had such sen­si­ti­ve fe­et that she'd ne­ver be­en ab­le to play ba­re­fo­ot as a child the way She­ri­dan had.

  "Cecil!" An­d­rea sho­uted. "La­ura!"

  Oh, God! Oh, God! She had no idea what had hap­pe­ned, co­uldn't even ima­gi­ne why she felt so pa­nicky. But her in­s­tincts told her that her hus­band and da­ug­h­ter we­re in dan­ger. Se­ri­o­us dan­ger.

  Andrea rus­hed back in­si­de and scre­amed, "Do­ra!"

  The ho­use­ke­eper ca­me run­ning as fast as a wo­man her age co­uld. "Yes, ma'am, what's wrong?"

  "Have you se­en my hus­band and Miss La­ura?"

  "No, ma'am, not sin­ce Miss La­ura ca­me by the kit­c­hen and as­ked me whe­re her fat­her was. I told her he'd ta­ken a cup of tea out on the pa­tio."

  "Call She­riff But­ler im­me­di­ately and tell him that Mr. Wil­lis and Miss La­ura are Mis­sing."

  "What?"

  ''You he­ard me. Call the she­riff right now. So­met­hing ter­rib­le has hap­pe­ned to my hus­band and da­ug­h­ter."

  She tri­ed to be gen­t­le with La­ura, but the girl was af­ra­id of her. That was his fa­ult, of co­ur­se. In or­der to ke­ep from hur­ting La­ura, she'd be­en for­ced to use the chlo­ro­form on her as well as on Jamie. No, not Jamie. Ce­cil. Ce­cil Wil­lis. A bad hus­band. And a bad fat­her.

  She had ta­ken them back to her ca­bin. Sin­ce she wo­uld be le­aving town as so­on as she fi­nis­hed what she'd co­me he­re to do, the­re was no re­ason she co­uldn't kill them he­re in the ca­bin she'd be­en li­ving in for qu­ite so­me hme. Af­ter all, she'd used an ali­as and a phony ID. And °nce she left Che­ro­kee Co­unty, no one wo­uld be ab­le ° tra­ce her. She had new iden­ti­ti­es cho­sen for her­self and her baby, with all the ne­ces­sary pa­pers to pro­ve they we­re who they wo­uld say they we­re. And she co­uld do as she'd be­en do­ing for two ye­ars now, char­ge every-dhng to cre­dit cards, pay a lit­tle along, and then chan­ge iden­ti­ti­es and di­sap­pe­ar. She had be­en wa­iting and plan­ning, kno­wing that she wo­uld even­tu­al­ly be ab­le to pu­nish the ones who had hurt her, the ones who had ta­ken her baby away from her.

  Her baby. Whe­re was her baby? She'd left her sle­eping when she'd go­ne to get Ce­cil, but when she bro­ught him and La­ura back to her ca­bin, her baby was go­ne.

  Think, think, think. She tap­ped her­self on the tem­p­le. Jaz­zy has yo­ur baby. She's be­en pre­ten­ding to be her mot­her. Jamie ga­ve yo­ur baby to Jaz­zy.

  No, that wasn't right. It hadn't be­en Jamie.

  But Jaz­zy had ta­ken her baby. Jaz­zy had to pay with her li­fe. She'd hurt…

  Who had Jaz­zy hurt?

  Laura.

  Jazzy had hurt La­ura.

  She le­aned over La­ura Wil­lis, who lay sle­eping on the so­fa, and ca­res­sed the girl's soft che­ek. It hadn't be­en too dif­fi­cult to drag the girl from the car. She was small and slen­der. Get­ting Ce­cil in­to the ca­bin had be­en mo­re dif­fi­cult be­ca­use he was big­ger and he­avi­er. But she had ma­na­ged by she­er de­ter­mi­na­ti­on.

  "I'm go­ing to get Jaz­zy and bring her back he­re. I want her to watch me kill him, but be­fo­re I end his li­fe, I want him to he­ar her scre­ams. I'll ma­ke them pay, baby, I prot­hi­se. I'll ma­ke them pay for everydhng they've do­ne to us."

  Jazzy stag­ge­red aro­und in her of­fi­ce. She was a bit tipsy. Not drunk, just fe­eling very lit­tle pa­in. That dhrd shot of whis­key had so­ot­hed her. And the fo­urth had num­bed her. What she ne­eded now was to get up­s­ta­irs to her bed and sle­ep for abo­ut a hun­d­red ho­urs. On­ce she'd slept, on­ce she'd era­sed both Ca­leb and Jamie from her mind, she wo­uld be ab­le to de­ci­de what to do. To­mor­row.

  Lacy co­uld clo­se up shop wit­ho­ut her. She'd do­ne it nu­me­ro­us ti­mes. And the­re was no ne­ed to bot­her her. I'll just sne­ak out the back way and go ho­me. Don't want no­body ma­king a fuss over me.

  "Who the hell wo­uld do that, Jaz­zy, you damn fo­ol?" she hol­le­red.

  She pla­ced her in­dex fin­ger over her lips. "Sh-be qu­i­et. You're tal­king too lo­ud."

  What if when you go ho­me you can't sle­ep? What if you're not drunk eno­ugh to pass out? You '11 be in the bed whe­re you and Ca­leb ma­de lo­ve for the first ti­me. Will you be ab­le to lie the­re and not think abo­ut him? H
ell, no! You '11 wind up crying, that's what you'll do. Be­ca­use you're in lo­ve with him. In lo­ve with anot­her damn Up­ton.

  So don't go ho­me. You 're part ow­ner in a co­up­le of do­zen ca­bin ren­tals. Cho­ose one that's empty and spend the night the­re. But which one? The one whe­re Re­ve Sor­rell sta­yed. I don't think an­y­body has ren­ted that one aga­in.

  Jazzy stum­b­led ac­ross her of­fi­ce, back to her desk, step­ping over scat­te­red deb­ris on the flo­or. She rum­ma­ged aro­und in the desk dra­wers un­til she fo­und a set of mas­ter keys to the ren­tal ca­bins.

  Now what was the na­me of the ca­bin whe­re Re­ve had sta­yed? Pi­nes so­met­hing or ot­her. Two Pi­nes. No, Twin Pi­nes. That was it.

  She drag­ged her swe­ater off the clot­hes rack in the cor­ner, inad­ver­tendy cras­hing the rack in­to the wall. gno­ring the to­tal mess she'd ma­de of her of­fi­ce, she ut­fed the hu­ge key cha­in in her swe­ater poc­ket and he­aded for the do­or.

  Music mi­xed and min­g­led with ot­her hon­ky-tonk so­unds and drif­ted down the hal­lway. Jaz­zy glan­ced up the hall, saw no one, and then went stra­ight to­ward the back do­or that led in­to the al­ley. Her car was par­ked at the end of the stre­et, on the cor­ner by the al­ley ne­ar the out­si­de sta­irs that led to her apar­t­ment over Jaz­zy's Jo­int. She felt in her je­ans poc­ket for her car keys and sig­hed when she felt them the­re.

  She'd ta­ken only a few steps when she tho­ught she he­ard so­met­hing. He­aring bo­gey­men aga­in? Ig­no­ring the so­und, she kept wal­king up the al­ley, to­ward the stre­et ahe­ad. When she'd al­most re­ac­hed the stre­et, she he­ard a no­ise aga­in.

  "Is so­me­body the­re?" she as­ked as she tur­ned aro­und, then gas­ped when she saw the dark fi­gu­re step out of the sha­dows. "What do you want?"

  "I want you, Jaz­zy," the wo­man sa­id. "I've co­me to ta­ke you to yo­ur lo­ver."

  "Who are you? What the hell are you tal­king abo­ut?"

  "I'm the mot­her of the child you sto­le. I'm the wi­fe of the man you se­du­ced."

  Jazzy tri­ed to get a bet­ter lo­ok at the wo­man, but all she co­uld see in the sha­dowy dar­k­ness was the shim­mer of blond ha­ir. "You're crazy. I've ne­ver fo­oled aro­und with a mar­ri­ed man. And I su­re as hell ne­ver sto­le an­y­body's baby."

  "Lying won't help you. Not now."

  The wo­man mo­ved clo­ser, clo­se eno­ugh for Jaz­zy to see her fa­ce cle­arly and to re­cog­ni­ze the wild-eyed cre­atu­re po­in­ting a gun right at her.

  "We're go­ing to ta­ke a lit­tle ri­de."

  "I don't think so," Jaz­zy sa­id.

  "We can do this the easy way or the hard way," the wo­man told her.

  "I'm af­ra­id it's go­ing to ha­ve to be the hard way.

  Before Jaz­zy re­ali­zed the wo­man's in­tent, she aimed her gun at Jaz­zy's mid­sec­ti­on and fi­red. The bul­let en­te­red Jaz­zy's belly li­ke a hot ser­ra­ted kni­fe, rip­ping her apart with fi­ery pa­in.

  When Jaz­zy drop­ped to her kne­es, the wo­man ca­me clo­ser and sto­od over her. Jaz­zy co­uldn't be­li­eve this had just hap­pe­ned, co­uldn't be­li­eve this crazy bitch had ac­tu­al­ly shot her. Grip­ping her belly with both hands, she felt the warm stic­ki­ness of her own blo­od. Oh, God, ple­ase help me.

  The wo­man grab­bed Jaz­zy by her ha­ir. Jaz­zy yel­ped. She to­ok hold of the na­pe of Jaz­zy's swe­ater and star­ted drag­ging her down the al­ley. Damn, for a small wo­man, she was strong as an ox.

  "Where… whe­re are you ta­king me?" Jaz­zy as­ked, kno­wing that she was on the ver­ge of fa­in­ting.

  "Back to my ca­bin, of co­ur­se. I ha­ve Ce­cil and La­ura wa­iting for us."

  Cecil and La­ura? La­ura Wil­lis and her fat­her? Jaz­zy re­ali­zed she was fa­ding fast and her tho­ught pro­ces­ses pro­bably we­ren't wor­king all that well, but no­ne of what this wo­man had sa­id ma­de any sen­se.

  You're go­ing to die if you don't do so­met­hing, Jaz­zy told her­self. But what co­uld she do? She was ble­eding pro­fu­sely and abo­ut half a mi­nu­te away from pas­sing out. Le­ave a clue. It's only a mat­ter of ti­me un­til so­me­body mis­ses you and co­mes lo­oking for you.

  While the wo­man con­ti­nu­ed tug­ging on the neck of Jaz­zy's swe­ater, pul­ling her along the ro­ugh al­ley­way, Jaz­zy ma­na­ged to mus­ter eno­ugh strength to ease out the big key cha­in from her swe­ater poc­ket and sli­de it qu­i­etly down on the gro­und.

  * * *

  Chapter 29

  Dallas Slo­an knew the signs. It hadn't ta­ken him long to re­cog­ni­ze both the sub­de and the ob­vi­o­us clu­es when Genny's mind left this tem­po­ral pla­ne and mo­ved in­to a spi­ri­tu­al re­alm. Whe­ne­ver one of her vi­si­ons to­ok her away, she of­ten be­ca­me very still and very qu­i­et and her eyes wo­uld gla­ze over. Then when she be­ca­me fully im­mer­sed in that pla­ce out of ti­me and spa­ce, whe­re she wit­nes­sed eit­her the fu­tu­re or events oc­cur­ring so­mew­he­re el­se at that very mo­ment, she of­ten fa­in­ted de­ad away. If she was as­le­ep when a vi­si­on hap­pe­ned, her body wo­uld be­co­me ri­gid only mo­ments be­fo­re she be­gan tos­sing and tur­ning. And mo­re of­ten than not, she wo­uld wa­ke scre­aming.

  Tonight she'd be­en wi­de awa­ke. They'd be­en re­mo­ving items from the dis­h­was­her and pla­cing them in the ap­prop­ri­ate cup­bo­ards and dra­wers be­fo­re tur­ning in for the night They had be­en tal­king and she'd just ma­de a com­ment to which he had rep­li­ed. When she didn't res­pond, he'd lo­oked at her and re­ali­zed she was fa­ding away, le­aving him.

  "Genny?" He gras­ped her arm and sho­ok her gently.

  The ce­ra­mic dish she held slip­ped from her hand and cras­hed on­to the flo­or. Dal­las sho­ok her aga­in. No res­pon­se. Damn, he ha­ted it when this hap­pe­ned. Ha­ted it be­ca­use it sca­red him just a lit­tle. Ad­mit it, Slo­an, so­me­ti­mes it sca­res the be­j­esus out of you. Even now, af­ter months of kno­wing and lo­ving Genny, of day by day be­co­ming mo­re and mo­re te­le­pat­hi­cal­ly lin­ked with her, he still felt over­w­hel­med by her psychic abi­li­ti­es.

  Suddenly he knew, wit­ho­ut a word be­ing spo­ken and a split se­cond be­fo­re it hap­pe­ned, that Genny ne­eded him to catch her be­fo­re she fell. As she swa­yed un­s­te­adily on her fe­et, he re­ac­hed out and grab­bed her, men lif­ted her up in­to his arms. Using his fo­ot, he slid one of the kit­c­hen cha­irs away from the tab­le, then sat down with Genny in his lap. Hol­ding her ri­gid body se­cu­rely, pro­tec­ting her with every oun­ce of his strength, he spo­ke to her in­si­de his mind, ho­ping he co­uld re­ach her and gi­ve her his sup­port. He'd fo­und that if he co­uld link with her whi­le she was in that ot­her world, she was ab­le to draw po­wer from him so that when she ca­me out of her tran­ce­li­ke sta­te, she wasn't qu­ite as physi­cal­ly we­ak and emo­ti­onal­ly vul­ne­rab­le as she ot­her­wi­se wo­uld ha­ve be­en.

  Stay with me, Dal­las, Genny ple­aded te­le­pat­hi­cal­ly. It's bad. Re­al­ly bad. Oh, God… oh God. ''Jaz­zy.''

  "What is it Genny?" he sa­id alo­ud. "What are you se­e­ing? Is so­met­hing wrong with Jaz­zy?"

  Silence.

  I can't lo­se the con­nec­ti­on, Dal­las told himself. I ha­ve to stay fo­cu­sed on Genny, on hel­ping her.

  For what se­emed li­ke an eter­nity, he co­uldn't sen­se what she was ex­pe­ri­en­cing and it ma­de him won­der if so­met­hing or so­me­one had se­ve­red the link bet­we­en •hem. Then, with a ti­dal wa­ve of sen­sa­ti­on, she to­uc­hed him, to­uc­hed his mind and drew him clo­ser and clo­ser. He held her tig­h­ter and shut his eyes. Dar­k­ness. Ut­ter and com­p­le­te blac­k­ness.

  Hang on to me, she told him. Ke­ep cal­ling my na­me so that I can find my way back to you.


  Dallas saw not­hing. He he­ard and felt only Genny. She was all aro­und him and in­si­de him, a part of him. Her body trem­b­led in­vo­lun­ta­rily, then she be­gan mo­aning. When she thras­hed abo­ut in his arms, he trap­ped her in his em­b­ra­ce, co­co­oning her. Her mo­aning tur­ned to sharp, high-pit­c­hed ke­ens. And then she dis­sol­ved li­ke ice in the snow-slowly, lan­gu­id­ly-her body go­ing limp and her mo­uth si­lent.

  He held her all the tig­h­ter, po­ured all his men­tal and emo­ti­onal strength in­to her, qu­ite cer­ta­in what wo­uld hap­pen next. Genny's eye­lids flew open and her black eyes sta­red sig­h­des­sly off in­to spa­ce. A mil­li­se­cond la­ter, she ope­ned her mo­uth and scre­amed.

  "It's all right, swe­et­he­art," he told her. "You've co­me back to me. You're he­re in my arms."

 

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