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The Last To Die

Page 11

by Beverly Barton


  She rus­hed past her of­fi­ce in Jaz­zy's Jo­int and went stra­ight out front, whe­re the ac­ti­on was. The pla­ce was jum­ping to­night. Fil­led ne­arly to ca­pa­city, the smoky in­te­ri­or pul­sa­ted with a let-the-go­od-ti­mes-roll rhythm. To­night Jaz­zy felt qu­ite sus­cep­tib­le to the rowdy am­bi­en­ce prac­ti­cal­ly jar­ring the ro­of off the pla­ce. Yes, to­night she was in the mo­od for so­met­hing wild… and may­be just a lit­tle dan­ge­ro­us. Af­ter all, she wan­ted to ce­leb­ra­te her li­be­ra­ti­on from ye­ars of emo­ti­onal bon­da­ge.

  Glancing aro­und the ro­om, from the po­ol tab­les in back to the dan­ce flo­or up front, she se­ar­c­hed for any sign of Ca­leb. Not fin­ding him, she ma­de her way to­ward the bar. That's when she no­ti­ced him stan­ding at the end of the bar, his back to her, ap­pa­rently tal­king to so­me­one. When she ap­pro­ac­hed the bar, Lacy Fal­lon mo­ti­oned to her. Jaz­zy le­aned ac­ross the bar so that she co­uld he­ar Lacy over the din of mu­sic, talk, and la­ug­h­ter.

  "We've got our­sel­ves a kid with a phony ID," Lacy sa­id.

  "When I re­fu­sed to ser­ve her, she got bel­li­ge­rent. She kept de­man­ding a drink, so Ca­leb's tal­king to her."

  "Is she so­me­body we know?" Jaz­zy as­ked. "Sho­uld we call her pa­rents?"

  "Never se­en her be­fo­re, but from the lo­oks of her clot­hes and her ho­ity-to­ity at­ti­tu­de, I'd say she co­mes from mo­ney. And I'd say she's de­fi­ni­tely hot to trot. The mi­nu­te she got a go­od lo­ok at Ca­leb, I'll bet you dol­lars to do­ug­h­nuts that she cre­amed her pants. She can't se­em to ke­ep her hands off him, and he lo­oks li­ke it's ma­king him dam­ned un­com­for­tab­le."

  "Maybe I sho­uld in­ter­ve­ne." Jaz­zy co­uldn't he­ar what Ca­leb was sa­ying to the yo­ung wo­man, but she no­ti­ced him sha­king his he­ad and sen­sed the ten­si­on in his bro­ad sho­ul­ders.

  "Watch out," Lacy war­ned. 'The lit­tle hel­lcat pro­bably bi­tes and scrat­c­hes."

  Jazzy la­ug­hed. 'Then I most de­fi­ni­tely sho­uld in­ter­ce­de, sin­ce I do­ubt bi­ting and scrat­c­hing is in Ca­leb's re­per­to­ire of ma­ne­uvers to han­d­le un­ruly cus­to­mers."

  As she mo­ved clo­ser, she he­ard Ca­leb sug­ges­ting to the yo­ung wo­man that she sho­uld le­ave pe­ace­ful­ly or he'd be for­ced to call the po­li­ce. Jaz­zy wal­ked up to Ca­leb's si­de, which ga­ve her an un­res­t­ric­ted vi­ew of the sexy girl who had her hand pres­sed aga­inst Ca­leb's chest and was sta­ring at him as if she wan­ted to jump his bo­nes. Slen­der, dark ha­ir and eyes, and dres­sed in a whi­te le­at­her skirt and mat­c­hing bo­ots that pro­bably cost a for­tu­ne, the un­de­ra­ge cus­to­mer rub­bed her open palm in a cir­c­le over Ca­leb's shirt, to­tal­ly ig­no­ring Jaz­zy.

  "I'll le­ave if you'll le­ave with me," the girl sa­id. "You're the first in­te­res­ting thing I've se­en in Che­ro­kee Po­in­te sin­ce we got he­re, and if I can't get a go­od stiff drink to drown my sor­rows, then may­be a-"

  "Mr. McCord is the bo­un­cer he­re at Jaz­zy's Jo­int, "Jaz­zy sa­id. "His job is strictly to ke­ep or­der. He's not ava­ilab­le for any ot­her ser­vi­ces."

  A set of lar­ge, pen­si­ve brown eyes set­tled on Jaz­zy. "What abo­ut when he's off duty? You aren't his mot­her or an­y­t­hing, are you?"

  Jazzy la­ced her arm thro­ugh Ca­leb's. "No, I'm his boss. And what he do­es on his own ti­me is his bu­si­ness, but I do­ubt he's stu­pid eno­ugh to mess aro­und with ja­il ba­it."

  Tm ni­ne­te­en." As if re­ali­zing she had just ad­mit­ted to not be­ing le­gal drin­king age, the girl frow­ned and huf­fed. Then she lo­oked Jaz­zy over and a qu­irky lit­tle smi­le cur­ved her full, rosy lips. "So you're Jaz­zy Tal­bot, huh? I know all abo­ut you. One man is ne­ver eno­ugh for you."

  Who the hell was this kid? Jaz­zy won­de­red. She didn't know her and ne­it­her did Lacy, so that me­ant the­re was a ni­nety-fi­ve per­cent chan­ce she wasn't lo­cal.

  "Look, lit­tle girl, eit­her you turn aro­und and walk out of he­re pe­ace­ful­ly or we'll call the po­li­ce to es­cort you out and call yo­ur pa­rents." Jaz­zy ze­ro­ed her war­ning gla­re in on the yo­ung wo­man's fa­ce, ho­ping to in­ti­mi­da­te her.

  "I'm She­ri­dan Wil­lis. My ol­der sis­ter is en­ga­ged to Jamie Up­ton. You know Jamie, don't you? You we­re fuc­king him just last night, we­ren't you?"

  The lit­tle bitch. So she was La­ura Wil­lis's sis­ter, huh? The two didn't re­sem­b­le each ot­her in any way. Not in a physi­cal way. And the­ir per­so­na­li­ti­es we­re de­fi­ni­tely po­les apart.

  Jazzy squ­e­ezed Ca­leb's arm. "Go next do­or to Jas­mi­ne's and tell Mr. and Mrs. Wil­lis that the­ir yo­un­ger da­ug­h­ter- She­ri­dan-is over he­re trying to pass her­self off as twen­ty-one."

  "No. Don't." She­ri­dan snat­c­hed her hand away from whe­re she'd be­en ca­res­sing Ca­leb's chest. "The­re's no ne­ed to bot­her my pa­rents. I'll go pe­ace­ful­ly. I wo­uldn't want to in­ter­rupt the­ir din­ner with my sis­ter and her fi­ancé." She to­ok se­ve­ral bac­k­ward steps, then lo­oked di­rectly at Ca­leb. Tell me what ti­me you get off work and I'll pick you up."

  "Sorry, kid," Ca­leb rep­li­ed. "If I we­re ten ye­ars yo­un­ger, I'd ta­ke you up on yo­ur of­fer."

  "I li­ke ol­der guys," She­ri­dan told him. "I've le­ar­ned a lot from the ones I've scre­wed. And I'll just bet I co­uld le­arn a lot from you."

  "I don't gi­ve les­sons," Ca­leb sa­id.

  Sheridan Wil­lis shrug­ged. "Yo­ur loss." Then she tos­sed her long brown ha­ir over her sho­ul­der and with a prissy, ta­ke-a-go­od-lo­ok sway, wal­ked thro­ugh the crowd and stra­ight to the front en­t­ran­ce.

  "Interesting." Ca­leb mo­ti­oned to Lacy, who im­me­di­ately han­ded him a bot­tled co­la. He dow­ned half the bot­tle in one swig, then tur­ned to Jaz­zy. "You're over he­re mighty early to­night. It wo­uldn't ha­ve an­y­t­hing to do with the fact that Jamie Up­ton and his fi­an­cee are di­ning with her pa­rents at Jas­mi­ne's, wo­uld it?"

  "Only in­di­rectly."

  "Well, this is a go­od pla­ce to lo­se yo­ur­self for a few ho­urs." He eased away from her. Til go do my job. I fi­gu­re with this rowdy crowd it's only a mat­ter of ti­me be­fo­re so­me­body gets out of hand."

  "Somebody you can toss out on the­ir ear if you can't talk sen­se to them." Jaz­zy nod­ded to­ward the en­t­ran­ce whe­re She­ri­dan Wil­lis had just exi­ted.

  "Gutsy kid. She's got spunk."

  "Oh, she's got spunk all right. And un­less my in­s­tincts are de­ad wrong, she's got a gre­at de­al in com­mon with her fu­tu­re brot­her-in-law."

  Caleb's brows ro­se qu­es­ti­oningly.

  ''Just gu­es­sing," Jaz­zy sa­id, "but I'd say lit­tle Miss She­ri­dan is a self-cen­te­red user."

  "Is that how you see Jamie?"

  "Mm-hmm."

  Caleb nod­ded, the mo­ti­on mo­re one of spe­cu­la­ti­on than ag­re­ement, as if slighdy sur­p­ri­sed that she'd ad­mit­ted the truth abo­ut Jamie to him, of all pe­op­le.

  "If you ne­ed me, I won't be hard to find," he told her be­fo­re wal­king away, me­an­de­ring thro­ugh the crowd.

  "I ne­ed you," Jaz­zy whis­pe­red softly to her­self.

  Tim Wil­lin­g­ham, an off-duty de­puty, pec­ked on Jaz­zy's sho­ul­der. "Howdy, Miss Jaz­zy. Wo­uld you ca­re to dan­ce?"

  She'd known Tim all her li­fe. He was a co­up­le of ye­ars ol­der than she, a di­vor­ced fat­her of two, and an all-aro­und go­od guy. Sin­ce his di­vor­ce last ye­ar, he'd star­ted co­ming to Jaz­zy's Jo­int al­most every Fri­day and Sa­tur­day night when he wasn't wor­king.

  "I'd lo­ve to dan­ce," she rep­li­ed. "I fe­el li­ke kic­king up my he­els."

  Dancing with Tim wo­uld be fun… and non
­t­h­re­ate­ning. Tim was abo­ut as dan­ge­ro­us as a straw­ber­ry lol­li­pop. He was too "whi­te bre­ad" for her; she pre­fer­red her men ro­ug­her aro­und the ed­ges. But for now, sa­fer was pro­bably bet­ter. No sen­se rus­hing in­to an­y­t­hing with Ca­leb. A smar­ter co­ur­se of ac­ti­on wo­uld be to mo­ve in on him gra­du­al­ly. Test the wa­ters. Be­si­des, if Ca­leb was the man Genny had fo­re­se­en in her fu­tu­re, the man des­ti­ned to ma­ke her happy, then ever­y­t­hing wo­uld work out in its own go­od ti­me. And if it wasn't me­ant to be Ca­leb, then she'd be bet­ter off not get­ting in­vol­ved and risk ha­ving her he­art bro­ken aga­in.

  She had con­si­de­red wa­iting, but she re­ali­zed the­re was mo­re re­ason to act now in­s­te­ad of la­ter. The lon­ger she al­lo­wed him to li­ve, the mo­re harm he wo­uld do.

  Her plans we­re ma­de, every de­ta­il tho­ught out. All she ne­eded to do was set things in mo­ti­on. It sho­uldn't be dif­fi­cult to get Jamie to go with her to the ca­bin. On­ce she had him the­re, a glass of drug­ged wi­ne wo­uld do the trick. And when he awo­ke, he'd find him­self qu­ite vul­ne­rab­le and com­p­le­tely at her mercy. But of co­ur­se she wo­uld show him no mercy.

  She la­ug­hed, lo­ving the tho­ught of ma­king him pay for his sins. He had be­en cru­el and un­mer­ci­ful not only to her, but to ot­hers. Al­t­ho­ugh she felt sorry for tho­se ot­her wo­men, they re­al­ly didn't mat­ter. No one mat­te­red ex­cept her baby. She had to pro­tect her child. Po­or, de­fen­se­less lit­tle thing.

  She hug­ged her­self and swa­yed back and forth the­re in the sha­dowy dar­k­ness. Alo­ne. She was so alo­ne. No one to lo­ve her. No one to ca­re. But she wo­uldn't be alo­ne for much lon­ger. She'd so­on ha­ve her baby with her. Her lit­tle girl wo­uld lo­ve her. But first she had to kill Jamie Up­ton.

  She'd li­ke not­hing bet­ter than to des­t­roy Jaz­zy Tal­bot- the slut But Jaz­zy co­uld wa­it. Kil­ling Jamie had to co­me first in or­der to pro­tect her child. On­ce Jamie was de­ad, she co­uld ta­ke ca­re of ever­y­t­hing el­se. It wasn't that she enj­oyed kil­ling pe­op­le. It was the ple­asu­re of ma­king them suf­fer that ex­ci­ted her. But so­me pe­op­le didn't de­ser­ve to li­ve. If only she had be­en ab­le to act so­oner. If only they hadn't stop­ped her. They sho­uld pay, too. Both of them. But she co­uldn't pu­nish them, not yet. Not un­til she was su­re her baby was sa­fe.

  Reve's eve­ning me­al had con­sis­ted of a di­et co­la and a pack of pe­anut but­ter and crac­kers, with a Snic­kers candy bar for des­sert. Tho­se de­lec­tab­le items had be­en ava­ilab­le at Che­ro­kee Ca­bin Ren­tals' ma­in of­fi­ce, whe­re she'd used her cre­dit card to pay for three nights in a ca­bin lo­ca­ted in town, wit­hin wal­king dis­tan­ce of ever­y­t­hing. She had de­ci­ded not to go back out to­night, but to stay in her small, one-bed­ro­om ca­bin and fi­gu­re out exactly what she plan­ned to do. Had sta­ying he­re in Che­ro­kee Po­in­te be­en a dre­ad­ful mis­ta­ke, one she wo­uld reg­ret in the mor­ning? Had she simply al­lo­wed She­riff But­ler to go­ad her in­to sta­ying?

  Flipping thro­ugh the TV chan­nels, she pa­used on the lo­cal cab­le sta­ti­on that of­fe­red to­urists a sche­du­le of events in and aro­und the town, as well as wit­hin a se­ven­ty-fi­ve-mi­le ra­di­us. What ca­ught her at­ten­ti­on was the ad­ver­ti­se­ment for Jas­mi­ne's Res­ta­urant, lo­ca­ted in dow­n­town Che­ro­kee Po­in­te. The pic­tu­re of Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot wel­co­ming gu­ests flas­hed ac­ross the scre­en. Re­ve stu­di­ed the wo­man's fa­ce, the che­er­ful ex­p­res­si­on, the ma­de-for-sin body. Ad­mit the truth, Re­ve told her­self. You know that she's at the very le­ast re­la­ted to you and very pro­bably yo­ur sis­ter.

  Okay, so may­be Jaz­zy Tal­bot was her sis­ter-her twin sis­ter. Did that me­an they sho­uld get to know each ot­her, that they sho­uld ex­p­lo­re the his­tory of the­ir births to­get­her? So­me­body was lying abo­ut so­met­hing. Pro­bably abo­ut ever­y­t­hing. Sally Tal­bot swo­re her sis­ter ga­ve birth to only one child. Jaz­zy. Why wo­uld the old wo­man lie? Was she as­ha­med be­ca­use her sis­ter had thrown away one child and kept the ot­her? Or had Sally be­en the one who had dum­ped the un­wan­ted baby in­to the gar­ba­ge he­ap in ne­arby Se­vi­er­vil­le?

  Ever sin­ce the day her mot­her had told her abo­ut whe­re she'd be­en fo­und as an in­fant, Re­ve had bat­tled with myri­ad un­wan­ted emo­ti­ons. And now, le­ar­ning that she might well be a twin, she had to fa­ce a hor­rib­le truth: so­me­one had tho­ught she wasn't worthy of li­ving and that her sis­ter was. That fact alo­ne was re­ason eno­ugh to dis­li­ke Jaz­zy. Il­lo­gi­cal. Ba­sed so­lely on an emo­ti­onal re­ac­ti­on. And to­tal­ly un­li­ke Re­ve Sor­rell. Ever sin­ce chil­d­ho­od she'd be­en a sen­sib­le yo­ung lady, not pro­ne to tem­per tan­t­rums or emo­ti­onal out­bursts. A qu­i­et child. Obe­di­ent. Man­ner­ly;-And as dull as dis­h­wa­ter.

  Except when chal­len­ged. Her one ma­j­or vi­ce was stub­bor­n­ness. Her fat­her had al­ways told her that she had gum­p­ti­on. God, how she mis­sed Daddy. And Mot­her. The Sor­rel­ls had be­en her true pa­rents in every way that mat­te­red.

  A com­p­le­tely ri­di­cu­lo­us tho­ught cros­sed her mind. Had so­met­hing be­en wrong with her at birth? Had her bi­olo­gi­cal mot­her cho­sen to rid her­self of the less de­si­rab­le child? Stu­pid no­ti­on. But if the­re was even a shred of truth to it, wasn't that a go­od re­ason to dis­li­ke Jaz­zy? Of co­ur­se, she didn't re­al­ly know the wo­man at all. May­be Jacob But­ler's as­ses­sment of Jaz­zy was cor­rect. May­be she was a go­od wo­man. Didn't she de­ser­ve the be­ne­fit of the do­ubt?

  Reve pun­c­hed the off but­ton on the re­mo­te and threw it in­to a ne­arby cha­ir. Eno­ugh al­re­ady! To­mor­row she'd go see Jaz­zy Tal­bot and con­f­ront her own fe­ars. Not­hing she fo­und out abo­ut her birth and bi­olo­gi­cal pa­rents co­uld be any wor­se than the things she had ima­gi­ned. And just be­ca­use Jaz­zy might turn out to be her twin didn't me­an the two of them had to form a sis­terly bond.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  The do­ors at Jaz­zy's Jo­int clo­sed shortly af­ter one on Sa­tur­day nights. Li­qu­or co­uldn't be ser­ved af­ter mid­night, so most of the crowd left by twel­ve-thirty. A few strag­glers who we­re the­re to dan­ce or sho­ot po­ol sta­yed be­hind. But when the band left at one, the few re­ma­ining cus­to­mers ma­de the­ir way ho­me-or, in the ca­se of so­me co­up­les, ma­de the­ir way to the ne­arest mo­tel. As she emer­ged from her of­fi­ce, whe­re she'd spent the last ho­ur go­ing over the li­qu­or or­der she wo­uld pla­ce on Mon­day, Jaz­zy glan­ced at the clock be­hind the bar and no­ted the ti­me. One-fif­te­en. She'd di­vi­ded her ti­me bet­we­en her of­fi­ce, ta­king ca­re of se­ve­ral things she co­uld ha­ve left un­til Mon­day, and mi­xing and min­g­ling with fri­ends and ac­qu­a­in­tan­ces who fre­qu­en­ted Jaz­zy's Jo­int.

  When she'd dan­ced the se­cond ti­me with Tim Wil­ling-ham, who so ob­vi­o­usly had a ma­j­or crush on her, he had men­ti­oned that Sor­rell wo­man. And try as she might, Jaz­zy hadn't be­en ab­le to get wo­man off her mind.

  "She was spe­eding, had a wreck, and Jacob bro­ught her in this mor­ning," Tim had sa­id. "Boy, did tho­se two not get along. I tho­ught she was gon­na hit him. And I fi­gu­red he'd lock her up. But heck, Miss Jaz­zy, that lady lo­oks just li­ke you. Well, al­most just li­ke you. She's not qu­ite as pretty as you. And I think she's a lit­tle tal­ler." Tim had grin­ned she­epishly, de­epe­ning the bo­yish dim­p­les in his che­eks. "I've ne­ver se­en two pe­op­le who we­ren't twins who lo­oked so dang much ali­ke."

  "Well, we can't be twins," Jaz­zy had told him em­p­ha­ti­cal­ly. "May­be she's a long-lost co­usin or so­met­hing. Wha­te­ver." She'd shrug­ge
d. "Re­al­ly do­esn't bot­her me. She se­emed li­ke an up­tight snob. Not our sort at all. So her le­aving town is no loss to an­yo­ne."

  "Yeah, that's the way Jacob saw her, too, as a re­al up­pity sort. But she hasn't left town."

  "She hasn't?"

  "Nope. Jacob to­ok her over to Che­ro­kee Ca­bin Ren­tals, and he sa­id she ren­ted a pla­ce for three nights, so lo­oks li­ke we'll be se­e­ing mo­re of Ms. Re­ve Sor­rell."

  Jazzy gro­aned, then smi­led and win­ked at Tim be­fo­re he sa­id go­od night and he­aded for the do­or. She lif­ted the hin­ged co­un­ter­top and wal­ked be­hind the bar whe­re Lacy was cle­aning up. "A re­al­ly go­od night. Lots of cus­to­mers and not one brawl."

 

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