The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  "Believe me, an­s­we­ring to tho­se two wo­uld be a fa­te wor­se than de­ath," Jaz­zy told him and re­ali­zed des­pi­te ever­y­t­hing she hadn't lost her sen­se of hu­mor.

  "Don't I know it." Ca­leb gras­ped her chin and ran the pad of his thumb over it in a lin­ge­ring ca­ress. "Try to put all of it out of yo­ur mind. At le­ast for now."

  Jazzy nod­ded, kno­wing it was the res­pon­se he wan­ted even if it was a lie. She wat­c­hed him un­til he di­sap­pe­ared in­to her small ef­fi­ci­ency kit­c­hen, then she clo­sed her eyes and hug­ged her­self. Al­t­ho­ugh she hadn't cri­ed a drop sin­ce be­ing ar­res­ted, she felt dra­ined. The num­b­ness was we­aring off and ex­ha­us­ti­on was ta­king its-pla­ce. She bur­ro­wed her he­ad in­to the pil­lows and cud­dled her body aga­inst the back of the co­uch.

  Even with the do­ors and win­dows clo­sed, she co­uld still he­ar the rum­b­le of re­por­ters out­si­de be­ing kept at bay by the de­pu­ti­es. In the days and we­eks ahe­ad, they wo­uld ho­und her. Bri­an Mac­Kin­non wo­uld see to that. Every as­pect of her li­fe wo­uld be put un­der a mag­nif­ying glass and writ­ten abo­ut in de­ta­il for the who­le co­unty, to see. If-God for­bid-the grand jury de­ci­ded to bring down a ru­ling in fa­vor of in­dic­ting her for Jamie's mur­der, she co­uld lo­se her fre­edom. But she had al­re­ady lost so­met­hing as pre­ci­o­us as fre­edom, ac­tu­al­ly a part of true fre­edom. She had lost her pri­vacy. Ever­yo­ne had sec­rets, things they wo­uld pre­fer the world ne­ver know. She sup­po­sed she had mo­re ske­le­tons in her clo­set than most. Ye­ah, su­re, a lot of folks knew a lit­tle abo­ut her past his­tory, but a gre­at de­al of what they tho­ught they knew was not­hing mo­re than sup­po­si­ti­on. If you to­ok a poll of the lo­cals, sixty per­cent wo­uld tell you that Jaz­zy Tal­bot was the il­le­gi­ti­ma­te da­ug­h­ter of Sally Tal­bot's baby sis­ter. The ot­her forty per­cent wo­uld swe­ar Jaz­zy was Sally's child. Jaz­zy had a birth cer­ti­fi­ca­te that pro­ved she was Sally's ni­ece, born to Cor­ri­ne Tal­bot on July twen­ty-first.

  A lo­cal poll on what hap­pe­ned to Jaz­zy and Jamie's baby wo­uld end up pretty much a ni­nety-fi­ve per­cent ag­re­ement that Jaz­zy had got­ten an abor­ti­on when she was six­te­en. But a han­d­ful of folks knew the truth-she had this car­ri­ed in the first tri­mes­ter. And ever­yo­ne who knew her, ex­cept the ones clo­sest to her, wo­uld swe­ar that Jaz­zy Tal­bot was a go­od-ti­me girl who had spre­ad her legs for half the men in town. That was most de­fi­ni­tely fal­se. But no one wo­uld ever be­li­eve that she co­uld co­unt all her lo­vers on her fin­gers. Less than ten. Not lily-whi­te by any me­ans, but not exactly the har­lot of the cen­tury, eit­her.

  Yeah, she li­ked to flirt. And when a wo­man lo­oked li­ke she did, men just na­tu­ral­ly dro­oled over her. Was that her fa­ult? May­be. She had ne­ver do­ne an­y­t­hing to dis­pel her bad re­pu­ta­ti­on. Ac­tu­al­ly, she had do­ne the exact op­po­si­te and fos­te­red her town who­re ima­ge. Just li­ke Aunt Sally had of­ten sa­id, Jaz­zy so­me­ti­mes cut off her no­se to spi­te her fa­ce. It was that damn, mi­le-wi­de stub­born stre­ak in her.

  Sig­hing, she rub­bed the back of her neck. Damn, she was ti­red. She clo­sed her eyes. We­ari­ness over­ca­me her. Not just a physi­cal and men­tal we­ari­ness. No, it wad mo­re than that. Jaz­zy was he­art we­ary. So­ul we­ary.

  Dallas Slo­an hung up the pho­ne and tur­ned to Jacob. "You are not go­ing to be­li­eve this."

  "Was that Te­ri?" Jacob as­ked. "Did she co­me up with so­met­hing on McCord?"

  "Indeed she did." Dal­las mul­led over the in­for­ma­ti­on his fri­end and old lo­ver, who still wor­ked for the FBI, had com­p­li­ed on Ca­leb McCord. The man was a re­al sur­p­ri­se on mo­re than one co­unt.

  "Well, are you go­ing to tell me or ma­ke me gu­ess?" Jacob le­aned back in his swi­vel cha­ir and prop­ped his big fe­et up on his desk. "It's be­en a long day and I'm! re­al­ly not in the mo­od for twenty qu­es­ti­ons."

  "Sorry." Dal­las shrug­ged. He co­uldn't help stret­c­hing out the sus­pen­se just a lit­tle, des­pi­te kno­wing what a short fu­se Jacob had. In the few months they'd known each ot­her, they had be­co­me fri­ends. Go­od fri­ends. And when Dal­las mar­ri­ed Genny, Jacob wo­uld prac­ti­cal­ly be' his brot­her-in-law. 'We knew McCord was from Mem­p­his and that he was a de­tec­ti­ve on the Mem­p­his po­li­ce for­ce. But we didn't know he was one of the yo­un­gest men to ever ma­ke de­tec­ti­ve or that he was a well-res­pec­ted, well-li­ked, mul­ti­de­co­ra­ted cop." 'What do you know." Jacob grin­ned as he lif­ted his cof­fee mug to his lips and dow­ned the last sip.

  "I know that wasn't a qu­es­ti­on, but I do just hap­pen to ha­ve a lot mo­re in­for­ma­ti­on." Dal­las won­de­red if' Jacob's ta­ke on this star­t­ling new in­fo wo­uld be the sa­me as his. He'd bet his last nic­kel that it wo­uld be.

  "You're enj­oying this too damn much. Wha­te­ver it is, it must be go­od. "Jacob eased his fe­et off his desk, sho­ved back his cha­ir and sto­od. "Don't tell me. McCord tur­ned out to be a dirty cop." Dal­las sho­ok his he­ad. "He scre­wed up and got kic­ked off the for­ce?" Dal­las sho­ok his he­ad aga­in. "Wha­te­ver this ot­her in­for­ma­ti­on is, it has not­hing to do with him be­ing a po­li­ce­man, do­es it?"

  "Bingo!" Dal­las wal­ked over to the cof­fe­ema­ker on the cor­ner tab­le, pic­ked up a cle­an mug, and po­ured him­self a cup. "Just to set the re­cord stra­ight, McCord was a top­notch cop."

  "Just spit it out, will you?" 'Te­ri had no idea that just by chec­king sim­p­le things li­ke McCord's birth re­cords, his scho­ol re­cords, and so on, that she'd blow McCord's co­ver he­re in Che­ro­kee Co­unty," Dal­las sa­id. 'You know what McCord's na­me is?"

  "It's not Ca­leb McCord?"

  "Yeah, but it's his mid­dle na­me you might find in­te­res­ting." Dal­las pa­used for ef­fect, then sa­id, "The na­me on his birth cer­ti­fi­ca­te is Ca­leb Up­ton McCord. His fat­her is lis­ted as de­ce­ased. A guy na­med Franky Joe McCord."

  "And the mot­her's na­me?"

  "Melanie Up­ton McCord. Do­es that ring a bell? Is she re­la­ted to Big Jim Up­ton?"

  "Melanie Up­ton was Big Jim's da­ug­h­ter," Jacob sa­id. "My God, that me­ans-"

  "Caleb McCord is Jamie's first co­usin."

  "And the so­le he­ir to the Up­ton for­tu­ne now that Jamie is de­ad."

  Caleb pla­ced the tray on the cof­fee tab­le in front of the so­fa. When he tur­ned to tell Jaz­zy that sup­per was ser­ved, he re­ali­zed she was fast as­le­ep. Worn to a fraz zle. She lay the­re cud­dled in the fe­tal po­si­ti­on as if pro­tec­ting her­self. Let me pro­tect you, he wan­ted to say. Let me ta­ke ca­re of you.

  There had be­en ot­her wo­men in his li­fe, but not that many. He'd al­ways be­en the type who pre­fer­red qu­ality over qu­an­tity. And he'd ne­ver ac­tu­al­ly be­en in lo­ve. In lust se­ve­ral ti­mes, but ne­ver in lo­ve. And may­be he wasn't! in lo­ve with Jaz­zy. He was smart eno­ugh to know that! des­pe­ra­tely wan­ting a wo­man and lo­ving one wasn't the; sa­me thing. But damn it all, from the night they met at Jaz­zy's Jo­int-the first ti­me he res­cu­ed her from Jamie- he'd re­ali­zed that Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot was dif­fe­rent from all' the ot­her wo­men he'd known. It had be­en a gut-le­vel re­ac­ti­on. A re­cog­ni­ti­on. And des­pi­te the fact that she'd still be­en partly hung up on Jamie, Jaz­zy had felt it, too. He knew she had. The se­xu­al ten­si­on bet­we­en them had; be­en elec­t­ric. If he had just pus­hed a lit­tle har­der that night when he wal­ked her to her do­or, she'd ha­ve in­vi­ted him in. He'd go­ne over that night a tho­usand ti­mes, and every ti­me he men­tal­ly kic­ked him­self for be­ing such a I damn gen­t­le­man. If only he had ta­ken her to bed and1 fuc­ked her li­ke crazy, things wo­uld be
dif­fe­rent now. They'd be a co­up­le, and she might not be the pri­me sus­pect in Jamie's mur­der.

  Hell, may­be it was just his ego-or may­be it was part of that re­cog­ni­ti­on thing bet­we­en Jaz­zy and him-but he be­li­eved that on­ce they ma­de lo­ve, she wo­uld be his. He­art and so­ul. And that's what he wan­ted. Ot­her men had pos­ses­sed her body. And ye­ah, he su­re as hell wan­ted that. But he wan­ted mo­re. Only Jamie Up­ton had pos­ses­sed her he­art-ever sin­ce she was six­te­en. He wan­ted her to lo­ve him li­ke that, with all her he­art. But what he wan­ted most, what he fi­gu­red no ot­her man had ever had, was a con­nec­ti­on that went a lot de­eper. So­ul de­ep.

  Just lo­oking at her ma­de his body hard and his mind soft as mush. She was gor­ge­o­us. Clas­sic fe­atu­res li­ke an old mo­vie star, li­ke that sexy red­he­aded bom­b­s­hell from the for­ti­es-Ri­ta Hay­worth. He knew she dyed her ha­ir that shoc­king sha­de of bright red, but he fi­gu­red that she was a re­al red­he­ad, just a mo­re sub­du­ed sha­de. And sub­du­ed was ne­ver a word an­yo­ne wo­uld as­so­ci­ate with Jaz­zy. God, how that na­me su­ited her. She was sultry and sexy and se­duc­ti­ve. And her se­xu­ality and be­a­uty was right out the­re, right in yo­ur fa­ce. Du­ring the three months he'd known her, he'd fi­gu­red out that she wasn't the hot-to-trot lit­tle num­ber most pe­op­le tho­ught she was. Un­less she'd slept with Jamie-and he ten­ded to be­li­eve her when she sa­id she hadn't-the­re hadn't be­en a man in her bed sin­ce Ca­leb had known her. He sus­pec­ted that her re­pu­ta­ti­on as a tramp was grossly exag­ge­ra­ted.

  Caleb lif­ted the af­g­han hig­her, eno­ugh to co­ver her to her sho­ul­ders. Then he le­aned down and kis­sed her fo­re­he­ad. Le­aving her to rest, he wal­ked qu­i­etly over to the por­tab­le pho­ne, pic­ked it up, and car­ri­ed it in­to the kit­c­hen. He fi­gu­red he'd try fin­ding out what he co­uld abo­ut Re­ve Sor­rell on his own, and if his Mem­p­his con­tact didn't co­me thro­ugh for him, he'd go to Dal­las Slo­an. Al­t­ho­ugh he li­ked Slo­an and But­ler well eno­ugh, he didn't know them any bet­ter than they knew him. He fi­gu­red he co­uld trust them whe­re Jaz­zy was con­cer­ned, but he had a few sec­rets he'd rat­her ke­ep hid­den for the ti­me be­ing. If he got too chummy with them, they just might ask him too many per­so­nal qu­es­ti­ons.

  Knowing Li­e­ute­nant Joe Do­no­van's cell num­ber by he­art, Ca­leb qu­ickly pun­c­hed the to­uch-to­ne keys and wa­ited whi­le the pho­ne rang.

  "Donovan he­re."

  "Hey Joe, how are things in the Ri­ver City?"

  "Who the-Mc­Cord, is that you?"

  "Yep."

  "Where the hell are you, man? You just up and di­sap­pe­ared af­ter you got out of the hos­pi­tal."

  "I'm in a pic­tu­res­que lit­tle mo­un­ta­in town cal­led Che­ro­kee Po­in­te, Ten­nes­see."

  "Getting so­me R and R? Do­ing a lit­tle fis­hing?"

  "Working as a bo­un­cer in a juke jo­int."

  Donovan la­ug­hed. "You're kid­ding me."

  ''The ow­ner is a fri­end."

  "A new fri­end?"

  "Yeah."

  "A lady fri­end?" Do­no­van as­ked.

  "Yeah."

  "You old dog, you."

  "Think what you will," Ca­leb told him. "But I ha­ven't cal­led you to dis­cuss my lo­ve li­fe or lack the­re­of. I ne­ed a fa­vor."

  "Name it and it's yo­urs."

  "I want so­me in­for­ma­ti­on on a lady."

  "Your lady?"

  "No, not my lady. On a very rich, very stuck-up gal na­med Re­ve Sor­rell."

  "Sorrell… Sor­rell. For so­me re­ason it rings a bell."

  "How much do you think you can find out abo­ut her be­fo­re mor­ning?"

  "Why the rush?"

  "Because I fi­gu­re the lady will be le­aving town so­on, pro­bably to­mor­row so­me­ti­me, and I ne­ed that in­fo fast."

  "I'll see what I can do."

  "I'd ap­pre­ci­ate it."

  "Hey, McCord… you all right?"

  "Yeah, I'm all right."

  "Glad to he­ar it. So­me of us we­re… con­cer­ned, when you just up and left wit­ho­ut a word."

  "Call me as so­on as you get an­y­t­hing on Re­ve Sor­rel, okay?"

  "Sure thing."

  Jasmine Tal­bot had be­en ar­res­ted. The dis­t­rict at­tor­ney wo­uld pre­sent his ca­se to a grand jury and then Jaz­zy wo­uld be tur­ned over for tri­al. And she'd be fo­und gu­ilty. What a de­li­ci­o­us tho­ught: Jaz­zy suf­fe­ring, pa­ying for her sins. If me­re was any true jus­ti­ce, she wo­uld be sen­ten­ced to de­ath. But if the char­ge was se­cond deg­ree mur­der, then im­p­ri­son­ment wo­uld be Jaz­zy's only pu­nis­h­ment. If that hap­pe­ned, she knew what she had to do. But she wo­uldn't kill Jaz­zy, not un­til af­ter she had suf­fe­red a gre­at de­al mo­re. Not un­til af­ter the tri­al. The way she had things plan­ned, Jaz­zy wo­uld be.

  Now that Jamie was de­ad and her plans for Jaz­zy we­re fal­ling in­to pla­ce, she ne­eded to do what she had ori­gi­nal­ly co­me to Che­ro­kee Po­in­te to do-ta­ke ca­re of her baby and exact re­ven­ge on the ot­hers who had wron­ged her and her child.

  It wasn't her fa­ult that she had be­en se­pa­ra­ted from her baby. It was the­ir fa­ult. She wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve wil­lingly let them ta­ke her away. How co­uld an­yo­ne be so cru­el as to se­pa­ra­te a mot­her and child? But he hadn't ca­red-not abo­ut her and not abo­ut the­ir lit­tle girl. If he had lo­ved the­ir da­ug­h­ter the way he sa­id he did, he wo­uldn't ha­ve ta­ken her away from a mot­her who lo­ved her.

  Tears mo­is­te­ned her che­eks. Was she crying? She didn't cry. Not an­y­mo­re. The­re was no re­ason to cry. Ever­y­t­hing was all right. Jamie was de­ad. Jaz­zy wo­uld be Pu­nis­hed se­ve­rely be­fo­re she di­ed. The ot­hers wo­uld Pay for the­ir sins. And her swe­et baby was sa­fe.

  "You're sa­fe, pre­ci­o­us dar­ling." She hur­ri­ed ac­ross the ro­om to whe­re the baby lay sle­eping in the mid­dle of the bed. Be­a­uti­ful baby girl. Sa­fe. Sa­fe with the mot­her who lo­ved her. "You want Mommy to hold you and rock you and sing to you, don't you? That's what I want, too."

  She lif­ted the child in­to her arms and kis­sed her swe­et, pink che­eks as she car­ri­ed her to the roc­king cha­ir. She sat down and be­gan to rock and hum, the sa­me lul­laby she had sung to her ot­her baby.

  No, no, the­re was no ot­her baby. Only this one. Only my lit­tle girl.

  She stop­ped roc­king and lo­oked down at the child in her arms. "It's all right. Mommy's just a lit­tle con­fu­sed. I tho­ught you we­re my only baby girl, but… but she's my lit­tle girl, too. I kil­led Jamie to pro­tect her. No, that's not right. I kil­led Jamie to pro­tect you."

  Sighing con­ten­tedly, she hug­ged her child to her bre­ast as she be­gan roc­king and hum­ming aga­in.

  Jazzy wo­ke with a start, a scre­am fro­zen on her lips. She'd be­en dre­aming. Crazy, mi­xed up things. Jamie's blo­ody hands re­ac­hing out for her, stran­g­ling her. Don't pa­nic, she told her­self. It was only yo­ur sub­con­s­ci­o­us mind tel­ling you that Jamie is re­ac­hing out from the gra­ve to des­t­roy yo­ur li­fe. As if he hadn't do­ne eno­ugh whi­le he was ali­ve!

  Only a lamp in the cor­ner of the li­ving ro­om ga­ve off any light. A for­ty-watt bulb. She lif­ted her he­ad and glan­ced aro­und at the dimly lit area. Ca­leb sat in the cha­ir ac­ross from her, his he­ad bent, his bre­at­hing soft and even. He was as­le­ep.

  What ti­me is it?

  She threw off the af­g­han and swung her legs aro­und so that her fe­et to­uc­hed the flo­or. That's when she no­ti­ced the tray on the cof­fee tab­le. Ca­leb had fi­xed her a san­d­wich and a cup of tea. Lif­ting her left wrist, she chec­ked her watch. Ele­ven-eig­h­te­en. Jaz­zy's Jo­int wo­uld be clo­sing s
o­on and the rum­b­le of juke­box mu­sic wo­uld fa­de away, as wo­uld the muf­fled so­und of talk and la­ug­h­ter. One of the draw­backs of ha­ving an apar­t­ment over a bar was the no­ise at night. But sin­ce she was usu­al­ly at Jaz­zy's Jo­int un­til it clo­sed, the no­ise had ne­ver bot­he­red her.

  Jazzy's sto­mach rum­b­led, re­min­ding her she hadn't eaten sin­ce bre­ak­fast. Won­der what kind of san­d­wich Ca­leb fi­xed? She le­aned over and re­ac­hed to­ward the tray. When she pic­ked up the san­d­wich and dis­co­ve­red it was bo­log­na and che­ese on whe­at bre­ad, she smi­led. He'd re­mem­be­red her fa­vo­ri­te.

  She stu­di­ed him as he slept, and ever­y­t­hing fe­ma­le in her re­ac­ted to all that was so very ma­le in him. For months now she had fo­ught her at­trac­ti­on to Ca­leb, gi­ving her­self a hun­d­red and one re­asons not to ha­ve an af­fa­ir with him.