Last to Die: A gripping psychological thriller not for the faint hearted

by Arlene Hunt

  It was easy to follow her progress. She had been moving with haste and one of the reasons he chose this point of release was the abundance of undergrowth. Everywhere he looked he found traces of Jessie’s passing, broken twigs, freshly bruised vegetation, leaves bent or torn. This was the ‘shine’ and it was as obvious to him as a runway.

  He trailed her out until she found the track. From here, as he had predicted, Jessie had not strayed, although judging from the length of her strides she was running hard.

  He followed her trail for over a mile, taking note of the changes in her stride length and the depth of her footsteps as she slowed. He stopped by the tree where Jessie had rested. He squatted and studied the dirt by the root system of the tree. The ground had been much disturbed and he wondered what she had been doing. He didn’t know, but he picked her footprints up once again and followed them.

  As he followed, he felt a prickle of disappointment. He had not expected her to be quite as predictable as the others. But, he supposed, life had long ago taught him that people, by and large, were stupid and unimaginative.

  He carried on tracking her until he reached a section where the path veered steeply downhill and out of view. Here he stopped. Once they hit this section they were well and truly set in their direction. If he was right, and she kept running to the creek at the same pace, he would be there about eight minutes before her. It was time for him to play his trump card. The mines.

  Caleb dropped down from the track into the undergrowth and picked his way carefully over the briars and rocks. The mines had been there for decades and had been long abandoned. They didn’t even show up on maps any longer; he had checked. Caleb had discovered them by accident one morning while out hunting whitetails. He had slipped on a bank slick from one of the many sudden thunder squalls that passed by this section of the mountain, and tumbled over the lip of an embankment. He fell twenty feet into a shallow ravine, the fall broken, somewhat painfully, by a host of poison oak.

  Whilst lying amongst the wretched plant, trying to draw air into his body, Caleb had noticed gaps in the ivy overhanging the rocks and assumed he had ripped it free in his fall. Closer inspection revealed it to be the collapsed and near invisible entrance to an old mine. Caleb had marked the spot with a green inverted branch and returned the next day with a flash-light, rope, chalk, water and a pickaxe.

  It had taken him six weekends to clear the first passage and shore up the rotting timbers below the earth. Once he was finished, the shaft allowed him access to deeper areas that were less damaged. The shaft beyond was narrower, with barely room for his shoulders to pass through, but pass through they did until he reached a cavern that spanned a fast-moving river which he guessed was part of the Black Water Creek.

  The next time Caleb returned to the cavern, he carried with him in his knapsack a small orange buoy and a spool of heavy-duty twine. He tied the end of the twine to a clump of rock inside the cave, testing it carefully for purchase. Satisfied it would not snap or come loose, he looped the spool through the ties on the buoy and set it into the fast-moving water. It was snagged by the current immediately and vanished in seconds.

  Caleb made his way back to the surface and hiked across the mountain to where the creek came flowing from the rocks. He found a stony outcrop near an old trail and, sure enough, there the buoy twirled and dipped on the surface of the calmer water about a hundred feet clear of the cave opening.

  Caleb sat down and stared at the buoy, thinking. The line itself was about one hundred and ten feet long. That meant the opposite side of the underground cave was about five feet from the rock face. If he could cross the underwater cavern and widen the exit, he would have a perfect – and unknown – way to move through the mountain.

  He had done exactly that.

  He thought of Jessie Conway’s expression when she made it to the water and realised he was there before her. Most times, the sight of him alone was enough to make them give up. They fell to their knees on the bank, exhausted, broken by the realisation that despite their best efforts, their fate was sealed.

  Caleb heard the water up ahead. He wondered what her reaction would be. Would she be different from the others?

  He hoped so.

  It was why he had chosen her.

  57

  Mike sat on the porch and sipped his beer. He was tired. No, more than that, he felt destroyed. He wondered how he was going to face another day without Jessie. The idea that he should carry on without her sickened and frightened him. He couldn’t see how it would be possible to continue without her smile, her love.

  The phone on his lap bleeped. He glanced down, but it was another reminder that his voicemail was full. He wished people would leave him be, then thought of the number of people who had turned out that day to support him and he felt like a heel. These people were his friends; simple folk, like him, with jobs and children and lives that demanded their participation. They had come at short notice and stood to be counted when he had needed them.

  Of course the rumour mill was already in full motion, too. Word had already reached him that some folk thought Jessie was dead, having flung herself from the waterfall, others muttered that she had skipped town in shame.

  Where was she?

  Mike closed his eyes. He had never felt so afraid before, so helpless.

  ‘You don’t need to go hitching yourself to someone like me,’ she told him once, when he had made it clear he was interested in more that a casual fling. They had been walking across the town square to his truck, after an evening at the cinema.

  ‘Need?’ he had stopped walking and caught her hand in his. ‘No, I guess I don’t need to do anything.’

  ‘I’m not the woman for you, Mike. I have—’

  ‘This is not about need,’ he had interjected, resting one hand on her shoulder. ‘I want to marry you.’

  Jessie had looked at him startled. ‘We’ve only been seeing each other a few weeks.’

  ‘I don’t care about that.’

  ‘You don’t even know me.’

  ‘I know what I know and that’s good enough for me.’

  She had grown serious then, her eyes drifting left as they often did when her mind left the present and went elsewhere. After a few moments she looked up at him again.

  ‘Mike,’ she said it so sadly he felt his breath catch in his chest, and he knew then, immediately, that he loved her, and if she said no she would break his heart.

  ‘No harm in food, is there?’ he said, trying hard to keep the pleading from his voice. ‘Let’s go grab a bite to eat.’

  They had gone for food. What had transpired lay unspoken between them. Mike had known, then and there, that whatever secrets she had, whatever pain they caused her, he could stand up to them. He would let her tell them in her own time and in her own way. As long as she was with him, he figured, he would be the rock she could cling to in whatever storm came their way.

  He had tried. As had she, he knew that, and maybe it had been easy to pretend there was nothing to question. Jessie had never ventured much by way of information, and over the months and years he had simply stopped asking. He knew whatever she carried had hurt her deeply. He had learned to read the signals, to pre-empt the sudden depressions, to leave her be when she struggled with her private battles. To wait until she emerged, exhausted and wan, but victorious, on the other side. In return, she had loved him with a ferocity that never wavered and her passion for him seemed to grow with every ounce of freedom he granted.

  So, it made not a lick of sense to him that Jessie, the woman he knew and loved, would go up onto a ridge, drop a dog collar and toss herself into the raging waters. No matter how dense the clouds around her, no matter how sharp the agony, the woman he knew and loved would not do that. Not to herself and not to him.

  He had to get out of the house. He had to get out of there before he went crazy. He went inside, grabbed the keys to his truck and drove into town, winding up at Ray’s Diner. Feeling fully defeated, he got out of
the truck. He went inside and heard the fleeting hush as heads turned his way. Ray looked up from his crossword at the end of the bar, put his pen down and said, ‘Good to see you, Mike.’

  Mike nodded and took a seat at the counter. He took his cap off and wiped his hand over his head, feeling older than he had ever felt in his life.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  Mike yanked a menu from the counter and flipped it over, with little or no interest.

  ‘You got any food left? I know it’s late, but—’

  ‘You can have whatever you like.’

  ‘I’ll take a steak sandwich, Ray, and give me a beer.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  As Ray went to see about his food, Connie Vale, a short, ruddy-cheeked woman with a dimpled smile that belied a tough life, approached him and laid her hand on his forearm.

  ‘How you doing, Mike?’

  ‘I’m okay, Connie. Hanging in there.’

  ‘Me and Bob are real sorry we couldn’t come today, but we can come tomorrow, if you need us.’

  ‘I appreciate it Connie, but I think today was plenty. I thank you for your offer.’

  Her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Mike. She was a real nice lady. I don’t care what that paper has to say ’bout any of that other business. I can tell you I won’t be buying it again neither.’

  ‘I appreciate you saying that.’

  ‘You need anything you call, okay?’

  Mike thanked her again, feeling eyes on him from every angle. This had been a mistake. When Connie returned to her table he tried Ace’s number. It went directly to his answering machine.

  His food arrived. Mike picked at it with little enthusiasm, drank his beer, and ordered another. He traded a few words with Ray, drained the last of his drink and paid the bill, despite Ray’s protests. As he walked to the door, a second woman rose from a booth and made her way towards him. Mike recognised her as Louisa Winters. He could see she was well into her cups. Her eyes were red and small, her skin flushed with an alcoholic bloom.

  ‘Mr Conway?’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘I knew it was you. Do you remember me? Your father used to come over to my Jimmy’s place regular back in the day.’

  ‘I remember, Miss Winters. How are you?’

  ‘I am fine. Just fine.’ She smiled, and leaned into closer to him. He could smell the alcohol and not just from her breath. It seemed to ooze from her pores. ‘I’m real sorry to hear about your wife.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘She seemed like a real nice person. Real nice.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He tried to ease past her and get the hell out before another person mentioned how nice Jessie had been, using the past tense. But when he tried to step away she gripped his arm and held him in place.

  ‘I was telling a man all about her just the other day; she sure knew how to treat people. You can’t be taught that, it has to come natural. Your daddy was the same. A real gentleman.’

  Mike removed his arm from her grip. ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘I do, I surely do. Hope he found your place okay,’ Louisa said. She turned and weaved her way over to the bar.

  Mike, almost at the door, paused and glanced over his shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The fella … the fella who was asking how to get to your place.’

  ‘Which fella was this?’

  ‘Beardy guy,’ she shrugged. ‘He was here asking after y’all. Yeah, real nice he was.’

  Mike followed her to the bar. ‘When was this, Louisa?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. A few days ago?’

  ‘Think.’

  ‘Ray will know. Hey, Ray.’

  Ray looked up from lowering a tray of steaming glasses into a dishwasher. ‘What?”

  ‘When was that fella in here?’

  ‘What fella?’

  ‘The one I was talking to.’

  Ray slammed the door and pressed a button. ‘Want to narrow that down a bit, Louisa?’

  ‘He was generous, that ought to narrow it enough ’round these parts.’

  Ray flicked a dish towel over his shoulder and walked to the end of the bar. ‘The Maker’s Mark guy?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday,’ Louisa repeated to Mike.

  ‘You see this guy, Ray?’

  ‘He was here a while, sitting two seats from where you were having your food.’

  ‘He was asking about us? About Jessie?’

  ‘Couldn’t be sure. He shut his yap anytime I came near him. Probably trying to hide that accent of his.’

  ‘Accent?’

  ‘He didn’t have no accent,’ Louisa said.

  Ray snorted. ‘I’ve been knocking around long enough to know an accent when I hear one.’

  He wiped a glass with the tea-towel, smearing it from clean to dirty. ‘Come on Louisa, you must have noticed that hill twang.’

  She shrugged one shoulder and plopped down onto a stool, exhausted from thinking.

  ‘What was he asking about? ‘Mike asked.

  ‘I dunno. He talked about a lot of things. He spoke about … uh … his sick mother and the school and uh, things of that nature.’

  ‘What about Jessie? What was he asking about my wife?’

  ‘I didn’t really like to talk about that none.’

  ‘Louisa.’

  ‘Well, he was real keen on knowing about her, he said she was … uh …’ she scrunched her features tightly together, ‘uh, I guess a hero or something. He wanted to send her flowers. Like I told you, he was nice.’

  ‘You gave him our home address?’

  Louisa shot Mike a guilty look and then turned to the barman. ‘Ray you saw him, right? He was nice, right?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, Louisa. I didn’t talk to him.’

  Mike said, ‘Ray, I need you to tell me everything you remember about this guy. You still got the camera outside?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I’m going to need to see Thursday’s footage.’

  ‘Well sure, Mike. What’s going on?’

  Before Mike could answer, the door opened and Ace walked in, looking wired and as grimy as hell. He headed directly to Mike and leaned into his ear, turning his back to Ray and Louisa. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Jessie. I think she’s in a world of trouble.’

  58

  The first part of the ascent seemed easy. So much so that Jessie felt a ridiculously giddy surge of triumph about her decision. That didn’t last: half a mile up, the incline grew steeper and the loose and sliding surface began to take its toll on her already exhausted limbs. She kept going though, and finally scrambled over the lip of a ridge, coming to rest by a pile of crumbling branches that had washed down the slope and collided with the base of a broken tree. She sank to her knees and rested for a moment, sucking air into her lungs in great gasping drags.

  Her mouth was dry and thick with mucus. She was extremely thirsty and the rising heat didn’t help. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep up this pace unless she found water.

  She wiped her brow with the hem of her filthy t-shirt and rose to her feet. Soon Jessie began to climb again, a little slower than before but no less determined.

  The second climb was tougher than the first. In some places, the undergrowth was so dense she could not force her way through and had little option but to skirt the trees until she found a lighter patch of vegetation. Being slowed this way frustrated her and sapped at her strength and all the while she felt sure he would appear behind her.

  The sun was high in the sky when she managed to scramble a final bank and reach a platform allowing her to see, at last, the summit of what she had been climbing. She shielded her eyes with her hand and tried to gauge the distance. Three miles? Maybe four? She could do that, couldn’t she?

  She pressed on, but heat and thirst were slowing her down and she began to make simpl
e yet clumsy mistakes. She slipped on a loose rock and fell, scraping her shin badly, leaving a smear of her blood behind. Insects plagued her, biting and stinging until she gave up trying to defend herself against them. She had no more thoughts about the summit or what might lie on the other side of the mountain; her only thought was to put one foot in front of the other, to keep moving.

  After another long and arduous rise, she broke through the trees once more. Her heart sank a little when she studied the next section of the mountain. It wasn’t that it was steep, although it was. What worried her was that the ridge above the next bank of trees seemed to be mostly rock and shale. The slopes above it were dotted with bushes and a number of spindly trees, but the rock section was alarmingly bare, with only a number of wispy roots jutting out like the bleached limbs of the dead through the few pockets of pinking earth.

  Open ground.

  Worse than being open, the slope was staggered. From where she stood, she could not tell if what was beyond the outcrop was climbable or not. She could see a belt of trees about three hundred or so yards further up. It was likely that the ground evened up where they grew, so maybe, maybe, it was not as impossible as she feared.

  She had to get across the open ground first. Immediately, doubt and fear accosted her. What was she expecting to find, assuming she made it this far? She licked her dry lips, thinking. What if, after all this effort, there were only more mountains?

  God, she was so thirsty.

  He had all the advantages. He knew the terrain, the lay of the land. He had equipment, probably water too.

  Climbing that would be hard and slow.

  She shook her head, viciously chasing the doubting voice from within. What choice did she have? Stumble around in the trees until it was dark and she was lost and too exhausted to take another step? Wait to be found and slaughtered like a wounded deer? No more whingeing. No more self-pity. She had outrun him; now she had to out-think him.