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The Last To Die

Page 18

by Beverly Barton


  She nod­ded, but se­emed unab­le to spe­ak. He led her over to the so­fa and mo­ti­oned for Dr. Mac­Na­ir, who ca­me im­me­di­ately to Re­ba's si­de.

  "You must be mis­ta­ken," La­ura sa­id, her words slightly slur­red. "We we­re to­get­her last night. He was fi­ne. He- he can't be… it's not pos­sib­le. We're get­ting mar­ri­ed." 'What hap­pe­ned?" Ce­cil as­ked.

  "Was it a car ac­ci­dent?" An­d­rea in­qu­ired.

  He glan­ced at Re­ba, who was now sit­ting. "Jamie was mur­de­red," Jim told them.

  "My God!" Ce­cil glan­ced from An­d­rea to La­ura.

  "No! No, no…" La­ura pul­led away from her mot­her and rus­hed to­ward Jim, her eyes wild, te­ars po­uring down her che­eks. "He can't be de­ad. He can't be." She fol­ded her arms ac­ross her belly and do­ub­led over, whim­pe­ring lo­udly.

  Andrea and Ce­cil hur­ri­ed to La­ura and to­get­her they managed to so­ot­he her mo­men­ta­rily. Jim sat down be­si­de Re­ba and to­ok her trem­b­ling hands in­to his own un­s­te­ady grasp.

  "Who kil­led him?" Re­ba as­ked. "Did she mur­der him?"

  "They don't know who kil­led him," Jim sa­id.

  "Was he with 1167?" Re­ba se­ar­c­hed Jim's fa­ce, as if she tho­ught he might lie to her and wan­ted to dis­cern the truth. "She thre­ate­ned to kill him. Ever­yo­ne knows that she-"

  "He wasn't with Jaz­zy." Jim glan­ced ac­ross the ro­om at La­ura and the­ir ga­zes met for a mil­li­se­cond. "They don't know who the wo­man was he was with, but his body was fo­und in a de­ser­ted ca­bin up in the mo­un­ta­ins, not far from Scot­s­man's Bluff."

  "Who fo­und him?" An­d­rea as­ked.

  "Local law en­for­ce­ment," Jim rep­li­ed. "Both She­riff But­ler and Chi­ef Slo­an we­re to­get­fi­er when they dis­co­ve­red Jamie's body."

  "How did they find him if he was in a de­ser­ted ca­bin?" Ce­cil as­ked.

  "Genny Ma­doc. She's a psychic who li­ves he­re in Che­ro­kee Co­unty," Jim sa­id. "Crazy as it so­unds, Genny had a vi­si­on and saw Jamie be­ing kil­led and got a sen­se of what area he was in. She­riff But­ler to­ok Sally Tal­bot and her blo­od­ho­unds along to hunt for Jamie. I went with them. I didn't say an­y­t­hing to an­yo­ne un­til we knew for su­re."

  "How was Jamie kil­led?" She­ri­dan as­ked. "Was he shot? Did so­me je­alo­us bitch sho­ot him? Did that Jaz­zy Tal­bot do it? I bet she did."

  "Jamie wasn't shot." Jim wasn't su­re how much to tell them, had no idea how they wo­uld re­act to the word tor­tu­re.

  Reba tug­ged on his hand. "Are you su­re Jamie is de­ad?"

  "Yes, he's de­ad."

  "Did you see him?" 'Yes, I saw him." Jim swal­lo­wed. A lit­tle whi­te lie, he told him­self. Re­ba ne­eded to he­ar him say that he'd se­en the­ir gran­d­son de­ad; ot­her­wi­se she wo­uld want to see the body her­self.

  "How did she kill him?" Re­ba as­ked. "I told him she was no go­od for him, told him to stay away from her, but she kept lu­ring him back to her, se­du­cing him." Re­ba clut­c­hed the front of Jim's shirt. "I want her ar­res­ted and pro­se­cu­ted. I want her pu­nis­hed for what she did. Pro­mi­se me that you'll see to it that Jaz­zy Tal­bot pays with her own li­fe for what she's do­ne."

  "Reba, we don't know who kil­led Jamie."

  "Who el­se wo­uld ha­ve do­ne it? She knew she was lo­sing him for go­od this ti­me, that he was go­ing to marry La­ura and they we­re go­ing to be happy and she co­uldn't stand it. She wo­uld rat­her see him de­ad than happy with so­me­one el­se."

  Jim re­ali­zed his wi­fe was on the ver­ge of hyste­ria. She was ob­ses­sed with the no­ti­on that Jaz­zy had kil­led Jamie. "I want you to let Dr. Mac­Na­ir gi­ve you so­me-thing to help you re­lax. You're not do­ing eit­her of us any go­od by get­ting so up­set."

  "Damn it, Jim, I know she kil­led Jamie, and I won't rest un­til she's pu­nis­hed." Re­ba jer­ked away from him and shot up off the so­fa. "Bring her to me and I'll kill her myself."

  "Has this Tal­bot wo­man be­en qu­es­ti­oned?" Ce­cil as­ked.

  Before Jim co­uld res­pond, La­ura's eyes wi­de­ned and she cri­ed out as she lo­oked an­xi­o­usly back and forth from her mot­her to her fat­her. "What if Jaz­zy didn't kill him?" La­ura grab­bed her mot­her's hands. With a lo­ok of she­er ter­ror in her eyes, she mo­aned. "I don't re­mem­ber… I don't re­mem­ber. What if-oh God, Mot­her, what if I kil­led him?"

  "Oh, La­ura, what non­sen­se. You're over­w­ro­ught," An­d­rea sa­id.

  "Why wo­uld you think you kil­led Jamie?" She­ri­dan scow­led at her sis­ter.

  Laura sta­red at An­d­rea as if tran­s­fi­xed. "Did I do it?"

  "Of co­ur­se you didn't. You we­re up­s­ta­irs in yo­ur bed all night. Don't be silly. You had no re­ason to harm Jamie. You lo­ved him."

  "But I don't re­mem­ber… and Jamie's de­ad. And the­re was blo­od. I think I re­mem­ber the blo­od."

  "Hush up. Don't say an­y­t­hing el­se. You don't know what you're sa­ying." 'Jamie…J­amie…" La­ura kept re­pe­ating his na­me, cal­ling him, as she aga­in es­ca­ped her mot­her's grasp and star­ted wan­de­ring aim­les­sly aro­und the ro­om. She clut­c­hed her belly and cri­ed out in pa­in, then fell to the flo­or in a de­ad fa­int.

  Dr. Mac­Na­ir rus­hed ac­ross the ro­om and knelt be­si­de La­ura. "My God!" He mur­mu­red the words sofdy, then lif­ted her up in­to his arms. That's when Jim no­ti­ced La­ura's slacks. Bright red and fresh, blo­od oozed thro­ugh the soft cot­ton ma­te­ri­al.

  Jazzy he­ard the knoc­king as she emer­ged from the sho­wer. So­me­one was trying to bang her do­or down. Was Ca­leb that eager? It co­uldn't be much past ten-thirty. She'd awa­ke­ned at ten, fi­xed cof­fee, dow­ned one cup, then jum­ped in the sho­wer. The po­un­ding con­ti­nu­ed wit­ho­ut le­tup. Jaz­zy rus­hed in­to her bed­ro­om, grab­bed her ro­be off the fo­ot of the bed, and put it on as she ran in­to the li­ving ro­om.

  ''Jazzy, open the do­or!" Genny Ma­doc cri­ed, her vo­ice ed­ged with pa­nic. "Ple­ase, Jaz­zy, ple­ase be he­re."

  My God, what was wrong with Genny? She so­un­ded al­most hyste­ri­cal, and Genny wasn't pro­ne to hyste­rics. So­met­hing ter­rib­le must ha­ve hap­pe­ned. Just as Jaz­zy fi­nis­hed tying her ho­use­co­at's cloth belt aro­und her wa­ist, she re­ac­hed for the do­or­k­nob. The mi­nu­te Jaz­zy flung open the do­or, Genny gas­ped. With te­ars spar­k­ling in her black eyes, she grab­bed Jaz­zy and hug­ged her fi­er­cely.

  'Thank God. What to­ok you so long to co­me to the do­or?" Genny kept hug­ging Jaz­zy.

  "I was in the sho­wer." Jaz­zy pul­led free and grab­bed Genny by the sho­ul­ders. "Ho­ney, what's wrong?" She glan­ced over Genny's sho­ul­der and up at Dal­las.

  "Let's go in­si­de." Dal­las put one hand on Jaz­zy's sho­ul­der and the ot­her in the cen­ter of Genny's back, then he nud­ged them in­to the li­ving ro­om.

  Once in­si­de, Dal­las clo­sed the do­or. Genny gras­ped Jaz­zy's hands. She co­uld tell by the ex­p­res­si­ons on Genny's and Dal­las's fa­ces that wha­te­ver bro­ught them he­re on a Sun­day mor­ning was bad. Very bad. Ter­ror clut­c­hed Jaz­zy's he­art.

  "Yall are sca­ring me to de­ath," Jaz­zy told them. "What is it? What's wrong? Is it Jacob?"

  "No, Jacob is all right," Genny sa­id.

  "Caleb? Has so­met­hing hap­pe­ned to Ca­leb? We-we ha­ve a da­te this af­ter­no­on. A re­al da­te."

  "It isn't Ca­leb," Dal­las sa­id. "It's Jamie." 'Jamie?"

  Genny nod­ded, then, tug­ging on Jaz­zy's hands, ur­ged her to­ward the so­fa. Jaz­zy al­lo­wed Genny to gu­ide her un­til they sat si­de by si­de on the over­s­tuf­fed old co­uch. *Jamie's de­ad." Genny clut­c­hed Jaz­zy's hands.

  "How? Was it a car wreck? Was he drunk?"

 
; "He was mur­de­red." Dal­las mo­ved ac­ross the ro­om and sat down in the cha­ir op­po­si­te from the so­fa. "He was kil­led so­me­ti­me early this mor­ning."

  "Murdered? Who? How? Why wo­uld…"

  "We don't know," Dal­las sa­id. "We don't know who kil­led him, but we're pretty su­re it was a wo­man."

  Dry-eyed and fe­eling rat­her numb, Jaz­zy lo­oked di­rectly at Genny. "Did you see it? Is that how you know a wo­man kil­led him? You had one of yo­ur vi­si­ons."

  Genny tur­ned Jaz­zy's hands over in hers, then squ­e­ezed re­as­su­ringly. Jaz­zy was her de­arest fri­end, the clo­sest thing she'd ever had to a sis­ter. If only she co­uld find an easi­er way to tell her what had hap­pe­ned. But the­re was no easy way. And Jaz­zy wo­uld want to know the truth-the who­le truth. She wo­uld trust Genny to be com­p­le­tely ho­nest with her.

  "Yes, I saw Jamie be­ing tor­tu­red in one of my vi­si­ons," Genny ad­mit­ted. "I co­uldn't see the wo­man's fa­ce. I got only blurry ima­ges of her." 'Tor­tu­red? She tor­tu­red him?"

  "Yes. She wan­ted him to suf­fer. I felt her ra­ge. She ha­ted Jamie."

  "How-how did she…"Jazzy jum­ped up off the so­fa and tur­ned her back to them.

  Genny re­ali­zed that the re­ality of Jamie's de­ath-his mur­der-had just now ac­tu­al­ly re­gis­te­red in Jaz­zy's mind. Dal­las glan­ced at Genny and she te­le­pat­hi­cal­ly he­ard him say, "Sho­uldn't you do so­met­hing? Get up and go to her? Hug her?" And Genny res­pon­ded. "No, not yet. She ne­eds ti­me. Jaz­zy will want to get her emo­ti­ons un­der con­t­rol be­fo­re she fa­ces us." Genny knew her best fri­end li­ke no one el­se did. They had sha­red ever­y­t­hing-tri­umphs and tra­ge­di­es, hap­pi­ness and he­ar­t­b­re­ak, go­od ti­mes and bad-sin­ce they we­re small chil­d­ren.

  The qu­i­et in the 'apar­t­ment was de­afe­ning. Genny co­uld he­ar her own he­ar­t­be­at, co­uld he­ar Dal­las bre­at­hing. And the hus­hed so­und of Jaz­zy we­eping stir­red Genny's ca­ring, pro­tec­ti­ve in­s­tincts. If this was all Jaz­zy wo­uld ha­ve to con­tend with, then she co­uld de­al with it. She wo­uld mo­urn Jamie and then mo­ve on. But Genny's sixth sen­se told her that Jamie's de­ath wo­uld bring tro­ub­le for Jaz­zy and she wo­uld ne­ed all the lo­ve and sup­port her fri­ends and fa­mily co­uld gi­ve her.

  Jazzy suc­ked in a de­ep bre­ath, then tur­ned to fa­ce Genny. "Tell me. I ne­ed to know."

  "She tor­men­ted him with kni­ves, ra­zor bla­des, and a hot po­ker," Genny sa­id, the ima­ge in her mind as cle­ar as when she'd en­vi­si­oned it ear­li­er to­day. She pra­yed that in ti­me that ima­ge wo­uld va­nish, that even­tu­al­ly she wo­uld not be ab­le to re­call it at all.

  "Even Jamie didn't de­ser­ve to die that way," Jaz­zy sa­id, her vo­ice de­cep­ti­vely calm. Genny knew how badly Jaz­zy was hur­ting, how the tho­ught of Jamie suf­fe­ring and dying to­re her apart in­si­de. No mat­ter what had hap­pe­ned bet­we­en them over the ye­ars, the­re had be­en a ti­me when Jaz­zy had de­eply lo­ved Jamie. And ye­ars ago, she had car­ri­ed his child for a few bri­ef months.

  "No, Jamie didn't de­ser­ve to die such a hor­rib­le de­ath," Genny ag­re­ed.

  "You ha­ve no idea who she was? Jacob do­esn't…" She lo­oked at Dal­las. "Any clu­es? An­y­t­hing that can tell y'all who kil­led him?"

  "We ha­ve our com­bi­ned fo­ren­sic te­ams go­ing over the ca­bin and the area sur­ro­un­ding the ca­bin," Dal­las sa­id. "And we might call in Knox­vil­le for so­me help. Big Jim is go­ing to ex­pect us to pull out all the stops to find his gran­d­son's mur­de­rer. And when a man has the po­wer Jim Up­ton do­es, he can get things do­ne that even Jacob and I can't."

  Jazzy nod­ded, then glan­ced at Genny. "What is it? The­re's mo­re, isn't the­re? So­met­hing el­se you ne­ed to tell me."

  "The wo­man who kil­led Jamie… I saw her ha­ir." "And?"

  "She had short red ha­ir. The exact co­lor and style as yo­urs."

  Jazzy gas­ped. "Oh, God, Genny, you don't think that I-"

  "No!" Genny bo­un­ded off the so­fa and rus­hed to Jaz­zy. "I know you didn't kill him." She gras­ped Jaz­zy by the up­per arms. "But this wo­man, who­ever she is, wan­ted to re­sem­b­le you for so­me re­ason. I don't know why. May­be she wo­re a red wig and gold ho­op ear­rings li­ke yo­urs so that, just in ca­se so­me­one saw her with Jamie at a dis­tan­ce, they'd think it was you. Or may­be she wan­ted to ti­til­la­te Jamie by do­ing her best to lo­ok a lit­tle so­met­hing li­ke you."

  "You know I didn't kill Jamie, but… tell me the rest" Jaz­zy pul­led Genny's hands from her arms and clut­c­hed the­ir hands to­get­her bet­we­en them.

  "I'm af­ra­id that so­met­hing will hap­pen, that so­me­how you're go­ing to be bla­med for Jamie's de­ath." Genny lo­oked Jaz­zy squ­are in the eye. "We ha­ve to be pre­pa­red for the worst. Dal­las and Jacob will do ever­y­t­hing they can, but you'll ne­ed a law­yer. A go­od law­yer."

  "Aren't we jum­ping the gun just a lit­tle?" Dal­las inj­ec­ted.

  "Maybe a lit­tle," Genny ag­re­ed. "But I'm tel­ling you"- she glan­ced at Dal­las and then back at Jaz­zy-"t­his si­tu­ati­on is go­ing to get much, much wor­se be­fo­re it gets bet­ter."

  * * *

  Jacob left Bobby Joe Har­te be­hind at the ca­bin ne­ar Scot­s­man's Bluff whi­te the com­bi­ned fo­ren­sic te­ams of the she­rif­fs de­par­t­ment and the po­li­ce de­par­t­ment- three pe­op­le in all-went over the area, in­si­de and out­si­de. He'd al­re­ady put in a call to the Knox Co­unty she­riff and on­ce the Che­ro­kee Co­unty co­ro­ner, Pe­te Holt, ga­ve Jacob a pre­li­mi­nary re­port, Jamie's body wo­uld be sent to Knox­vil­le to the cri­me lab the­re. With only an on-si­te in­s­pec­ti­on, Pe­te had sa­id that loss of blo­od alo­ne or even he­art fa­ilu­re from en­du­ring pro­lon­ged, ago­ni­zing pa­in might ha­ve kil­led Jamie.

  "No way to tell wit­ho­ut a com­p­le­te autopsy, al­t­ho­ugh I'd say he bled to de­ath," Pe­te had told them. "Who­ever she is, the lady's damn vi­ci­o­us. I su­re as hell wo­uldn't want to piss her off."

  As he he­aded his Dod­ge Ram to­ward town, Jacob con­si­de­red pos­sib­le sus­pec­ts-wo­men who ha­ted Jamie Up­ton eno­ugh to want to not only see him de­ad, but to see him suf­fer. Des­pi­te the gru­eso­me­ness of the ca­se, Jacob fo­und him­self thin­king that Jamie's de­mi­se was so­me sort of po­etic jus­ti­ce.

  Jacob snor­ted. Who­ever kil­led Jamie was sick. Men­tal­ly sick in the worst way pos­sib­le. Psycho­tic. And very dan­ge­ro­us.

  Although Jaz­zy wo­uld be the first na­me on ever­yo­ne's lips, Jacob knew that, as su­rely as he knew Genny had be­en born with Granny But­ler's gift of sight, Jaz­zy hadn't kil­led Jamie. He'd known her all his li­fe. She was not ca­pab­le of tor­tu­ring a man to de­ath, not even Jamie, who pro­bably de­ser­ved it mo­re than an­yo­ne Jacob knew.

  The list of Jamie's vic­tims was pro­bably en­d­less, but only tho­se now in the Che­ro­kee Co­unty area co­uld be con­si­de­red sus­pects. Jaz­zy, of co­ur­se. And La­ura Wil­lis. She might lo­ve Jamie, might ha­ve in­ten­ded to marry him, but she had to ha­ve known* what a bas­tard the guy was. And if he scrat­c­hed the sur­fa­ce of the fe­ma­le po­pu­la­ti­on in the­se parts, he wo­uld no do­ubt co­me up with a few mo­re wo­men with re­ason to want to see Jamie de­ad. But as far as Jacob was con­cer­ned, his pri­mary sus­pect was the lady who owed a gre­en Jagu­ar and ad­mit­ted that she not only knew Jamie Up­ton but had be­en ro­man­ced by him. The re­al clin­c­her was the stri­king re­sem­b­lan­ce bet­we­en Jaz­zy and Re­ve Sor­rell. With a short, fi­re-en­gi­ne red wig on, Ms. Sor­rell co­uld easily pass for Jaz­zy.

  Had the wo­man co­me to town with the in­ten­ti­on of kil­ling Jamie? Had she so­ught out Jaz­zy to ma­ke su­
re they ac­tu­al­ly lo­oked eno­ugh ali­ke to be twins? Did she con­coct the di­abo­li­cal plot to tor­tu­re Jamie to de­ath be­fo­re or af­ter she ar­ri­ved in Che­ro­kee Co­unty?

  But the one thing that didn't ma­ke any sen­se, the one pi­ece of the puz­zle that didn't fit, was why wo­uld Re­ve Sor­rell be stu­pid eno­ugh to ste­al her own wrec­ked car and chan­ce be­ing se­en in it?

  If the who­le town wasn't al­re­ady hog wild over the news abo­ut Jamie's mur­der, it was only a mat­ter of ti­me. Be­fo­re Jamie's body co­uld be ship­ped off to Knox­vil­le, re­por­ters from Mac­Kin­non me­dia wo­uld bom­bard lo­cal law en­for­ce­ment with a hun­d­red and one qu­es­ti­ons that ne­it­her he nor Dal­las wo­uld be ab­le to an­s­wer. Not yet. And on­ce the ini­ti­al shock wo­re off, Big Jim Up­ton wo­uld start de­man­ding an­s­wers. And ac­ti­on. If Jacob didn't ma­ke an ar­rest by this ti­me to­mor­row, the­re wo­uld be hell to pay. But how co­uld a man ma­ke an ar­rest wit­ho­ut any evi­den­ce?

 

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