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The Last To Die

Page 43

by Beverly Barton


  All her li­fe-so­me se­ven­ty-one ye­ars now-she'd spent he­re in Che­ro­kee Co­unty, most of it in this sa­me old ho­use her pa had bu­ilt for her ma be­fo­re he up and di­ed of TB back in for­ty-ni­ne. And all the­se ye­ars she'd be­en an od­dball, dif­fe­rent from folks he­re­abo­ut. Not crazy, mind you, but not qu­ite all the­re eit­her. She had bo­ok le­ar­ning. She co­uld re­ad and wri­te and add up fi­gu­res. And she knew the­se hills as well as an­y­body, bet­ter than most She'd al­ways be­en po­or and hadn't ne­ver ca­red a ho­ot abo­ut mo­ney. Not un­til Jaz­zy ca­me in­to her li­fe. She'd wan­ted to gi­ve that gal ever­y­t­hing her lit­tle he­art de­si­red, but she'd fa­iled thi­se­rably. She'd do­ne the best she co­uld. If she'd had a man brin­ging in a li­ving, things might ha­ve be­en bet­ter, but she and Jaz­zy had ma­de out all right. They'd had a ro­of over the­ir he­ads and they'd ne­ver go­ne hungry. Jaz­zy had grown up to be a fi­ne wo­man, a re­al smart wo­man who'd do­ne all right for her­self. Her gal ow­ned a res­ta­urant and a bar in Che­ro­kee Po­in­te and she was a par­t­ner with so­me ot­her pe­op­le in Che­ro­kee Ca­bin Ren­tals. Yep, she was damn pro­ud of her ni­ece.

  A chill rac­ked Sally's body. "Win­ter's co­ming," she sa­id to no one in par­ti­cu­lar.

  But it wasn't the co­ol mor­ning bre­eze that had chil­led Sally. It was tho­ughts of Jaz­zy. Her lit­tle Jas­mi­ne. She'd na­med Jaz­zy for them be­a­uti­ful flo­wers that her sis­ter Cor­ri­ne had lo­ved so. When she'd put Jas­mi­ne in Gor-ri­ne's arms thirty ye­ars ago, she'd ne­ver dre­amed that widhn a few months Cor­ri­ne wo­uld be de­ad-her and her lo­ver-and she'd be left to ra­ise Jaz­zy all alo­ne. But the­re hadn't be­en a day pass that she hadn't tfi­an­ked the go­od Lord for that gal. She lo­ved Jaz­zy as if she was her own and Jaz­zy lo­ved her li­ke a mot­her.

  "God, for­gi­ve me and ple­ase help me," Sally sa­id softly. "You know I didn't ha­ve no idea the­re was anot­her baby, that Jaz­zy had a sis­ter."

  Reve Sor­rell might not be her sis­ter, Sally told her­self. Co­uld just be a co­in­ci­den­ce that they lo­ok so much ali­ke. But if the DNA test they was ha­ving do­ne pro­ved them to be twins, then Jaz­zy was go­ing to be as­king a lot mo­re qu­es­ti­ons. She'd want to know how it was pos­sib­le that her aunt Sally hadn't known not­hing abo­ut anot­her baby.

  All the li­es she'd told Jaz­zy from the ti­me she'd be­en a lit­tle girl wo­uld co­me back to ha­unt her-if that Sor­rell gal tur­ned out to be Jaz­zy's sis­ter. She knew what Jaz­zy wo­uld say to her, co­uld al­most he­ar her.

  "You told me that my ma­ma ca­me back ho­me to you right be­fo­re I was born, that her boy­f­ri­end had run out on her and she had no pla­ce el­se to go. You told me that you de­li­ve­red me and that you sent for old Doc Web­s­ter a few days la­ter to re­cord my birth and check me and ma­ma to ma­ke su­re we we­re all right. Isn't that so? Tell me, Aunt Sally, did you or did you not de­li­ver anot­her baby? We­re you the one who threw my sis­ter away?"

  Them the­re DNA tests wo­uldn't lie. If they pro­ved them gals to be sis­ters, then Sally had so­me ex­p­la­ining to do. If I tell Jaz­zy the truth, will she ha­te me? I just co­uldn't be­ar it if that gal ha­ted me.

  * * *

  Genny Slo­an stop­ped sud­denly on her mor­ning trek from the gre­en­ho­use to her back porch. Al­t­ho­ugh she'd sel­dom be­en ab­le to con­t­rol the vi­si­ons that ca­me to her, she had le­ar­ned what signs to ex­pect, signs that fo­re­war­ned her.

  Drudwyn pa­used at her si­de, and then lic­ked her hand.

  "It's all right, boy. I think I can ma­ke it to the porch." Genny stro­ked the half-wolf dog's he­ad. "But if I don't ma­ke it, you let Dal­las know that I ne­ed him."

  Drudwyn hur­ri­ed ahe­ad of her, then pa­used and wa­ited at the do­or. Genny ma­de it to the porch. Ba­rely. She slum­ped down on the back steps and clo­sed her eyes. She'd be­en born with the gift of sight, a God-gi­ven ta­lent in­he­ri­ted from her gran­d­ma. Mo­re ti­mes than not, she'd fo­und the gift co­uld be a cur­se.

  Lights swir­led in­si­de her he­ad. Co­lors. Bright, warm co­lors. And then she he­ard Jaz­zy's la­ug­h­ter mi­xing with sof­ter la­ug­h­ter. Anot­her wo­man's la­ug­h­ter. Hap­pi­ness. Be­a­uti­ful hap­pi­ness. Genny sen­sed a to­get­her­ness, a one­ness, al­most as if Jaz­zy and this ot­her wo­man we­re a sin­g­le en­tity. As that know­led­ge fil­led Genny's con­s­ci­o­us­ness, she un­der­s­to­od she was re­ce­iving energy from Jaz­zy and from Re­ve Sor­rell. She didn't ne­ed to see the re­sults of a DNA test to know they we­re twins. Iden­ti­cal twins. In­di­vi­du­als, yet fo­re­ver lin­ked from the mo­ment of con­cep­ti­on.

  Suddenly the bright, che­er­ful lights in­si­de Genny's mind dar­ke­ned. Black clo­uds swir­led abo­ut in her con­s­ci­o­us­ness, com­p­le­tely ob­li­te­ra­ting the be­a­uty and hap­pi­ness. Fe­ar. An­ger. Hat­red. Je­alo­usy! An evil mind con­ce­aled by a mask of nor­malcy.

  Danger! Jaz­zy and Re­ve we­re in ter­rib­le dan­ger.

  But from whom? Who pos­ses­sed this dark, vi­ci­o­usly cru­el he­art? Who fe­ared the truth? Who was wil­ling to do an­y­t­hing-even kill-to ke­ep the truth hid­den?

  Genny del­ved de­eper in­to the black abyss, se­eking the iden­tity of this per­son, se­ar­c­hing for any link bet­we­en this evil and her de­arest fri­end, Jaz­zy.

  Oh, God, the hat­red. Pu­re wic­ked hat­red.

  "Genny!"

  She he­ard Dal­las's vo­ice as if it ca­me from far away.

  "Damn it, Genny, co­me out of it. Now! You're go­ing in too de­ep."

  He sho­ok her so­undly.

  Genny gro­aned. Her eye­lids flew open. She gas­ped for air.

  Dallas pul­led her in­to his arms. "What the hell hap­pe­ned? I tho­ught you prot­hi­sed me that you wo­uldn't go in that de­ep wit­ho­ut my be­ing the­re to-"

  "I had to go as far as I co­uld," she sa­id as she res­ted her he­ad on her hus­band's chest and wrap­ped her arms aro­und his wa­ist. "I had a vi­si­on abo­ut Jaz­zy and Re­ve Sor­rell. I know they're twins." She lif­ted her he­ad and lo­oked at Dal­las. 'That was a vi­si­on fil­led with joy and light and be­a­uty. But sud­denly the dar­k­ness ca­me. I- I'm not su­re if the­re's a con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en Jaz­zy and Re­ve and the evil I sen­sed." 'The two vi­si­ons might ha­ve nodhng to do with each ot­her," Dal­las told her as he ca­res­sed her che­ek with the back of his hand.

  "Maybe not, but usu­al­ly, when two vi­si­ons over­lap that way, they're so­me­how con­nec­ted."

  "But not al­ways."

  "No, not al­ways."

  Dallas lif­ted Genny in­to his arms and car­ri­ed her in­to the ho­use. She snug­gled clo­se, lo­ving the pro­tec­ti­ve fe­el of this man she lo­ved abo­ve all ot­hers, mo­re than li­fe it­self.

  "You're aw­ful­ly qu­i­et," Dal­las sa­id. "Are you su­re you're all right?" 'Yes. I'm all right. But Jaz­zy and Re­ve may be in gra­ve dan­ger."

  USA To­day bes­t­sel­ling aut­hor has writ­ten over thirty con­tem­po­rary ro­man­ce no­vels and cre­ated the po­pu­lar "The Pro­tec­tors" se­ri­es for Sil­ho­u­et­te's In­ti­ma­te Mo­ments li­ne. This six­th-ge­ne­ra­ti­on Ala­ba­mi­an is a two-ti­me Mag­gie Award win­ner, a two-ti­me Na­ti­onal Re­ader's Cho­ice Award win­ner, and a re­ci­pi­ent of a Ro­man­tic Ti­mes Ca­re­er Ac­hi­eve­ment Award for Se­ri­es Ro­man­tic Ad­ven­tu­re. She is cur­rently wor­king on her next no­vel of ro­man­tic sus­pen­se for Zeb­ra Bo­oks. Vi­sit her web­si­te at www.Be­ver­l­y­Bar­ton.com

 

 

 
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