The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  Daybreak ca­me qu­i­etly, all hint of bad we­at­her van­qu­is­hed. Last night's dis­tant thun­der that fo­re­cast ra­in hadn't kept the pro­mi­se of a dow­n­po­ur. The few sprin­k­les that fell hadn't even set­tled the dust. Un­do­ub­tedly the clo­uds had bypas­sed Che­ro­kee Co­unty and de­po­si­ted ra­in far­t­her north. The mor­ning sky held no hint of red, which Genny's granny had sa­id al­ways pre­dic­ted bad we­at­her. Lus­ci­o­us pinks and la­ven­ders stre­aked the ed­ges of the sky.

  "Dallas!" Jacob's vo­ice ca­me over the ra­dio, easily he­ard thro­ugh the pic­kup's open do­or.

  Dallas jum­ped up in the truck and res­pon­ded. "Ye­ah, Jacob, I'm he­re."

  "We fo­und Jamie."

  "Alive?"

  "No."

  Dallas glan­ced at Jim Up­ton. The old man went chalk whi­te.

  "I'm sen­ding a co­up­le of our men back down to ta­ke Big Jim ho­me," Jacob sa­id. "But… I ne­ed Genny to co­me up he­re. I'm no fo­ren­sics ex­pert, but I'd say the kil­ler co­ve­red her tracks pretty darn go­od."

  "Please, I want to see my gran­d­son," Big Jim sa­id to Dal­las. 'Tell Jacob-"

  "She tor­tu­red him to de­ath. He's a sorry sight," Jacob sa­id. 'You tell Big Jim that he do­esn't want to see Jamie tins way. Tell him to ta­ke my word for it."

  "Dear God!" Jim Up­ton crum­b­led be­fo­re the­ir eyes. A big, ro­bust man, bro­ught to his kne­es by gri­ef. "Who wo­uld-" His vo­ice bro­ke as he wept.

  Genny put her arm aro­und him. "You must go ho­me, Mr. Up­ton, and tell yo­ur wi­fe that Jamie is de­ad. And you'll ha­ve to tell La­ura and her fa­mily."

  "Yes." Jim swal­lo­wed in an ef­fort to stop crying, but te­ars still tric­k­led down his che­eks.

  ''Jacob ne­eds me to ta­ke a lo­ok at the cri­me sce­ne and see if I can pick up on so­met­hing." She pat­ted Jim's back. "I pro­mi­se that I'll do ever­y­t­hing I can to help find out who kil­led Jamie."

  Jim as­ked, "You don't think Jaz­zy wo­uld-"

  "No! No, of co­ur­se not. Jaz­zy isn't ca­pab­le of such a thing."

  Jazzy wo­uld ne­ver tor­tu­re anot­her hu­man be­ing, ne­ver in­f­lict pa­in on any of God's cre­atu­res. She had a go­od he­art. A kind and lo­ving so­ul. But so­me pe­op­le wo­uld sus­pect her. They wo­uld po­int fin­gers in her di­rec­ti­on. The­ir ac­cu­sa­ti­ons co­uld hurt Jaz­zy, and if Jacob didn't find the re­al mur­de­rer, if Jaz­zy didn't ha­ve an iron­c­lad ali­bi… Genny knew with a he­art-wren­c­hing cer­ta­inty that even in de­ath Jamie Up­ton wo­uld wre­ak ha­voc on Jaz­zy's li­fe.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  Andrea Wil­lis wa­ited un­til the me­di­ca­ti­on she had per­su­aded La­ura to ta­ke to­ok ef­fect Then she qu­i­etly left her da­ug­h­ter's bed­ro­om, but not be­fo­re glan­cing back to check on her one fi­nal ti­me. She had be­en ca­ring for and pro­tec­ting La­ura sin­ce she'd be­en a lit­tle girl, ho­ping be­yond ho­pe that so­me sort of mi­rac­le wo­uld spa­re the­ir da­ug­h­ter from the cur­se she had in­he­ri­ted. Po­or lit­tle La­ura. If only she co­uld ha­ve lo­ved the child mo­re. But she'd do­ne her best. Even Ce­cil had of­ten sa­id that they had both do­ne ever­y­t­hing in the­ir po­wer to help La­ura. But An­d­rea felt that she had fa­iled La­ura, that she hadn't do­ne eno­ugh, hadn't pus­hed Ce­cil hard eno­ugh to ad­mit the truth.

  Andrea didn't stop by the gu­est bed­ro­om she sha­red with her hus­band. In­s­te­ad, she went stra­ight down the back sta­irs to the kit­c­hen. Star­t­led at first by the ho­use­ke­eper's pre­sen­ce, she pa­used on the bot­tom step and con­si­de­red whet­her she sho­uld slip back up­s­ta­irs be­fo­re Do­ra saw her. But then she he­ard She­ri­dan's vo­ice in the kit­c­hen. Her yo­un­ger da­ug­h­ter was la­ug­hing and tal­king to Do­ra.

  Andrea mar­c­hed in­to the kit­c­hen. She­ri­dan sat at the tab­le, a bre­ak­fast pla­te in front of her. One lo­ok at She­ri­dan re­as­su­red An­d­rea that she was per­fectly all right.

  With her mo­uth half fil­led with eggs, She­ri­dan sa­id, "Mor­ning, Mot­her."

  "Good mor­ning, Mrs. Wil­lis." Do­ra lo­oked up from whe­re she bu­sily pre­pa­red bis­cu­it do­ugh. "Cof­fee's ma­de and I can fix you so­met­hing to eat now if you're hungry. Bis­cu­its won't be re­ady for anot­her half ho­ur, but-" "Cof­fee will be fi­ne. Not­hing el­se for me right now, thank you." An­d­rea wal­ked in­to the kit­c­hen, po­ured her­self a cup of fresh black cof­fee, then sat down at the tab­le be­si­de She­ri­dan. "Mind tel­ling me whe­re you've be­en all night?" she as­ked qu­i­etly.

  "Where do you think?" She­ri­dan whis­pe­red her reply. "I met this re­al­ly in­te­res­ting guy last night whi­le I was in town."

  Andrea sig­hed. "I tho­ught as much." She re­ac­hed ac­ross the tab­le and gras­ped She­ri­dan's wrist. 'You we­re ca­re­ful, we­ren't you? You ma­de su­re he used pro­tec­ti­on." 'Yes, of co­ur­se, I did. I'm not a fo­ol. I al­ways ta­ke ca­re of num­ber one."

  She ho­ped She­ri­dan was tel­ling her the truth. Des­pi­te the­ir clo­se­ness, her yo­un­ger da­ug­h­ter had li­ed to her on mo­re than one oc­ca­si­on. "Yes, you do. Usu­al­ly. I only wish yo­ur sis­ter…"

  When She­ri­dan's eyes wi­de­ned in­qu­isi­ti­vely, An­d­rea re­ali­zed she'd al­re­ady sa­id too much. Al­t­ho­ugh she lo­ved She­ri­dan with all her he­art-yes, mo­re than she lo­ved La­ura-the­ir ol­der child had re­qu­ired the bulk of both Cecil's and her at­ten­ti­on. And over the ye­ars She­ri­dan had grown to re­sent La­ura mo­re and mo­re. An­d­rea sup­po­sed she co­uldn't bla­me her, but the ten­si­on bet­we­en the two girls only com­p­li­ca­ted an al­re­ady com­p­lex si­tu­ati­on.

  "What's wrong with po­or lit­tle La­ura now?" She­ri­dan as­ked.

  "Lower yo­ur vo­ice," An­d­rea told her. "We do not air our dirty la­undry in front of ser­vants."

  "God, Mot­her, get re­al. You've ne­ver fo­oled an­y­body. Not our ser­vants at ho­me. And not the Up­tons' ser­vants."

  "Must you al­ways-" An­d­rea cut her com­p­la­int short, re­ali­zing she was ta­king out her frus­t­ra­ti­on abo­ut La­ura on She­ri­dan. "If you ne­ed to sho­wer and chan­ge clot­hes, sho­wer in our bat­h­ro­om. And I'll get yo­ur things out of La­ura's ro­om. She had a res­t­less night and is just now sle­eping pe­ace­ful­ly. I don't want you dis­tur­bing her."

  "What hap­pe­ned? Did she ha­ve anot­her one of her crazy-as-a-Bet­sy-bug spells?"

  There was no use den­ying it to She­ri­dan. She'd se­en La­ura at her worst. "I plan to spe­ak to yo­ur fat­her this mor­ning abo­ut ta­king La­ura ho­me and put­ting her… pla­cing her so­mew­he­re for tre­at­ment."

  "Glory hal­le­lu­j­ah. Abo­ut damn ti­me!"

  Genny wa­ited out­si­de the di­la­pi­da­ted ca­bin, Dal­las at her si­de and a han­d­ful of spe­ci­al­ly cho­sen law­men sco­uring the area aro­und the ram­s­hac­k­le old ho­use for signs of any evi­den­ce. Jacob had or­de­red the in­si­de of the ca­bin off li­mits to ever­yo­ne un­til the cri­me sce­ne in­ves­ti­ga­tors went over the en­ti­re pla­ce with a fi­ne to­oth comb.

  "I'm using the most qu­ali­fi­ed of Dal­las's pe­op­le and mi­ne,"Jacob had ex­p­la­ined to the de­pu­ti­es and po­li­ce­men on the sce­ne. "And if they ne­ed help, we'll con­tact Rnox­vil­le."

  When Jacob fi­nis­hed anot­her pho­ne call-only one of many he'd ma­de in the past thirty mi­nu­tes-he ca­me over to Genny. "I might ha­ve mis­sed so­met­hing in the­re, but to the na­ked eye, it lo­oks as if she cle­ared out any evi­den­ce that might ha­ve lin­ked her to the sce­ne." 'The­re's al­ways so­met­hing," Dal­las sa­id. 'The prob­lem is that if our in­ves­ti­ga­tors find so­met­hing, will it be an­y­t­hing use­ful? Wit­ho­ut even one sus­pect"-Dall
as pa­used mo­men­ta­rily-"or pos­sibly with too many, un­less our pe­op­le find DNA evi­den­ce that we can match-"

  "That's one of the re­asons I ne­ed Genny." Jacob lo­oked to his co­usin, "/gj do, I ha­te to ask you to lo­ok in­si­de the ca­bin at Jamie's body, but you co­uld be our only ho­pe of fin­ding his kil­ler."

  Whenever he wan­ted to em­p­ha­si­ze the im­por­tan­ce of what he was abo­ut to say, Jacob cal­led her sis­ter in the­ir an­ces­tors' Che­ro­kee ton­gue. "I un­der­s­tand," she told him.

  "I don't want you to go in­si­de. Just go to the do­or and ta­ke a lo­ok, then let me know if you pick up on an­y­t­hing."

  "I'll go with her," Dal­las sa­id, ke­eping gu­ard at her si­de.

  "We'll both go with her." Jacob mo­ved to her ot­her si­de so that she was flan­ked by two lar­ge, overly pro­tec­ti­ve men who lo­ved her.

  The thre­eso­me wal­ked up the ric­kety steps and ac­ross the porch. Then, using a glo­ved hand, Jacob ope­ned the do­or. He mo­ved asi­de just eno­ugh to gi­ve her a di­rect vi­ew in­to the sha­dowy ro­om. The na­use­atingly me­tal­lic odor of blo­od as­sa­iled her sen­ses. And no won­der. The ro­om lo­oked as if it had be­en pa­in­ted in blo­od.

  She to­ok a de­ep bre­ath and wil­led her­self to be strong as she fo­cu­sed on Jamie Up­ton's ba­rely re­cog­ni­zab­le na­ked body. Na­usea ro­se from her sto­mach and bur­ned a tra­il up her esop­ha­gus. She tur­ned and ran to the ed­ge of the porch, then vo­mi­ted vi­olently. Dal­las rus­hed to her and put his arm aro­und her trem­b­ling sho­ul­ders. He jer­ked a han­d­ker­c­hi­ef from his jac­ket and wi­ped her per­s­pi­ring fo­re­he­ad and her damp mo­uth.

  "She's not go­ing to do this," Dal­las told Jacob.

  Genny grab­bed Dal­las's arm. "Yes, I am. I'll be all right."

  "Damn it, can't you see what's it al­re­ady do­ing to you?" Dal­las gla­red at Jacob. "Tell her she do­esn't ha­ve to do it."

  "Genny, he's right," Jacob sa­id. "You don't ha­ve to-"

  "Yes, I do." She jer­ked away from Dal­las's pro­tec­ti­ve hold and mar­c­hed stra­ight back to the open front do­or. "Both of you stay away from me for a few mi­nu­tes. Al­low me to con­cen­t­ra­te."

  She lo­oked in­to the blo­ody ro­om, fo­cu­sed on Jamie's mu­ti­la­ted body, and let the dar­k­ness sur­ro­und her. Thick, he­avy dar­k­ness. Fil­led with an­ger. So much an­ger.

  The mo­ment Genny stag­ge­red, she felt strong arms hol­ding her and knew that des­pi­te the dark evil en­com­pas­sing her spi­rit, she was sa­fe. Sa­fe be­ca­use Dal­las wo­uld bring her back be­fo­re she went in too de­ep.

  Insane ra­ge! The wo­man who had tor­tu­red Jamie had ta­ken per­ver­se ple­asu­re in pu­nis­hing him. She had wan­ted him to suf­fer as she had suf­fe­red, as ot­hers had suf­fe­red at his hands. Had she kil­led Jamie for re­ven­ge? Per­haps, but Genny got a sen­se of so­met­hing as strong, per­haps even stron­ger than re­ven­ge. In the wo­man's sick mind, she had kil­led Jamie to pro­tect so­me­one. Her­self? Or so­me­one she lo­ved?

  Concentrate on this wo­man, Genny told her­self. Can you see her? See her body? Her fa­ce? Even a sha­dowy ima­ge?

  The dar­k­ness swir­led fas­ter and fas­ter, suc­king Genny de­eper in­to a me­tap­h­y­si­cal re­alm. Evil. Tor­men­ted. Do not be frig­h­te­ned away, Genny told her­self. Se­ek de­eper. Lo­ok be­yond the ve­il and re­ach for the truth.

  Flashes of a hu­man form dan­ced thro­ugh Genny's mind. A fe­ma­le form. Na­ked. Bat­hing her­self in co­ol wa­ter, rin­sing away the bright scar­let blo­od. It drip­ped from her fin­gers, ran in ri­vu­lets down her back and but­tocks. The ima­ge was va­gue, un­c­le­ar, un­re­cog­ni­zab­le. Ex­cept her short, stylish red ha­ir.

  Jazzy's ha­ir!

  Genny gas­ped. Her eye­lids shot open. She grab­bed Dal­las's arm and held on tight. Unab­le to spe­ak, she mo­aned, re­fu­sing to be­li­eve what she'd se­en. It wasn't Jaz­zy, she told her­self. It was a wo­man who had ha­ir the sa­me style and co­lor as Jaz­zy's.

  "Genny, ho­ney, what's wrong?" Dal­las ca­res­sed her fa­ce.

  She sho­ved his hand asi­de and clo­sed her eyes aga­in. Go back and ta­ke anot­her lo­ok. Find the wo­man aga­in. Pro­ve to yo­ur­self that it wasn 't Jaz­zy.

  "Genny, for he­aven's sa­ke, what do you think you're do­ing?" Dal­las de­man­ded. "Co­me out of it. Don't-"

  "Let her go," Jacob told him. "I've se­en this be­fo­re. She ne­eds to go back be­ca­use so­met­hing she saw dis­tur­bed her."

  That's right, Jacob, so­ot­he Dal­las. Ma­ke him un­der­s­tand. Genny eased slow­ly-ca­re­ful­ly-in­to that mystic re­alm, go­ing just de­ep eno­ugh to con­nect on­ce aga­in with the wo­man's ima­ge.

  Short red ha­ir mus­sed by the mor­ning bre­eze. The wind whip­ping aro­und and abo­ut her as she tra­ve­led at high spe­ed. Try as she might, Genny co­uld not see die wo­man's fa­ce-only her ha­ir, only a sha­dowy out­li­ne of her body. And then cle­arly, dis­tinctly, she saw the car the wo­man was dri­ving. A small, sle­ek gre­en sports car with a tan in­te­ri­or.

  Genny gas­ped for air as she bro­ught her­self back to the pre­sent mo­ment. "De­fi­ni­tely a wo­man. I saw her was­hing away Jamie's blo­od. I co­uldn't see her fa­ce, co­uldn't ma­ke out who she was or if I knew her. She had red ha­ir." Genny ope­ned her eyes and lo­oked first at Dal­las and then at Jacob. "I think she was we­aring a wig so that her ha­ir was iden­ti­cal to Jaz­zy's. Whi­le she sho­we­red, she was al­so was­hing the blo­od from her ha­ir… from the wig."

  "Are you sa­ying this wo­man was trying to pass her­self off as Jaz­zy?" Jacob as­ked.

  "No, I don't think so. I don't know. All I co­uld ma­ke out was her ha­ir. I sen­sed she wasn't re­al­ly pre­ten­ding to be Jaz­zy. May­be she just wan­ted an­yo­ne who saw her at a dis­tan­ce to think she was Jaz­zy." Jacob frow­ned. "Anything el­se?" Jacob's in­qu­iry se­emed odd to Genny; she pic­ked up so­me pe­cu­li­ar vi­bes from her co­usin. "Yes, I saw the car she was dri­ving."

  "And?" Jacob ca­me clo­ser, his eyes nar­ro­wing as he ap­pro­ac­hed her.

  "It was a small, gre­en sports car. So­met­hing new and sle­ek. The in­te­ri­or was tan. And the­re was so­met­hing wrong with the car."

  "What?" Jacob and Dal­las as­ked si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly.

  "The dri­ver's si­de ap­pe­ared to be da­ma­ged. And the glass sur­ro­un­ding the front he­ad­light on that si­de was bro­ken out."

  "I'll be dam­ned!" Jacob stor­med off the porch and he­aded stra­ight to his truck.

  "Jacob!" Genny went af­ter him, for­get­ting how much her psychic trips we­ake­ned her. When she stum­b­led, Dal­las was the­re to each her. She glan­ced up at the man she lo­ved and told him, "I ne­ed to find out what's go­ing on with Jacob."

  Dallas nod­ded. "All right. Co­me on." He bra­ced her with his strong arm as he hel­ped her off the porch, ac­ross the yard, and down the gra­vel dri­ve to whe­re Jacob was tal­king on the ra­dio.

  "Get in to­uch with Roy Til­lis and find out if that gre­en Jagu­ar he to­wed in yes­ter­day is still in his lot," Jacob sa­id. "And check on a lady na­med Re­ve Sor­rell. She's sta­ying in one of the Che­ro­kee Ca­bin Ren­tals. Just ma­ke su­re she do­esn't le­ave town. I want to qu­es­ti­on her per­so­nal­ly."

  Genny gras­ped Jacob's arm. "What's go­ing on? Do you know so­me­one who dri­ves a gre­en sports car?"

  "Yeah. A very in­te­res­ting lady who lo­oks eno­ugh li­ke Jaz­zy to be her sis­ter," Jacob rep­li­ed. "She had a wreck in her gre­en Jagu­ar yes­ter­day, on her way out of town. And it just so hap­pens that she ca­me to Che­ro­kee Po­in­te be­ca­use she'd met Jamie Up­ton at a party se­ve­ral months ago. She sa­id she didn't fall for his pretty boy charm, but I had my do­ubts
then and I've got even mo­re now."

  "Someone who lo­oks li­ke Jaz­zy?" Genny co­uldn't sha­ke the over­w­hel­ming sen­sa­ti­on that this myste­ri­o­us wo­man and Jaz­zy we­re ir­re­vo­cably con­nec­ted. And not by the­ir as­so­ci­ati­on with Jamie Up­ton. The­re was so­met­hing el­se. So­met­hing ba­sic. So­met­hing dan­ge­ro­us.

  Dr. Gal­vin Mac­Na­ir dro­ve up to the open ga­tes at the Up­ton Farm at ni­ne-fifty. Jim had te­lep­ho­ned the doc­tor on his cell pho­ne when one of Jacob's de­pu­ti­es had dri­ven him ho­me. He'd be­en wa­iting fif­te­en mi­nu­tes he­re at the ga­te, not wan­ting to go up to the ho­use and tell ever­yo­ne abo­ut Jamie, not wit­ho­ut a doc­tor in at­ten­dan­ce. Re­ba was a strong, he­althy wo­man, but she was al­so past se­venty, had al­re­ady lost both of her chil­d­ren, and her who­le world re­vol­ved aro­und Jamie. He was ever­y­t­hing to her. Fin­ding out that he had be­en mur­de­red…J­im co­uld hardly be­ar to think abo­ut it him­self. Des­pi­te how much sor­row that boy had ca­used them over the ye­ars, he had be­en the­ir only gran­d­c­hild and they lo­ved him.