The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  "Oh, Jim, I don't know. How will I be ab­le to be­ar be­ing the­re and not be­ing ab­le to com­fort you?"

  "Just kno­wing you're the­re, clo­se by, will be a com­fort. Ple­ase…"

  "Yes, of co­ur­se, I'll be the­re."

  The Con­g­re­ga­ti­onal Church was pac­ked to ca­pa­city, the san­c­tu­ary and the ves­ti­bu­le. A crowd had gat­he­red out­si­de on the front steps and down the si­de­walk. She knew that the­se pe­op­le we­ren't he­re to show the­ir res­pects to Jamie. Not many pe­op­le had li­ked Jamie. Qu­ite a few had des­pi­sed him. And se­ve­ral had ha­ted him, as she had. The hu­ge out­po­uring of sympathy was for Big Jim and Miss Re­ba. Even pe­op­le the Up­tons ba­rely knew or didn't know at all had co­me to­get­her on this be­a­uti­ful, sunny spring day. She sus­pec­ted that even a few cu­ri­o­us to­urists min­g­led among the lo­cal ci­ti­zens in­si­de and out­si­de the church.

  The she­riff and the chi­ef of po­li­ce we­re he­re, both in the­ir dress uni­forms, ma­king the­ir pre­sen­ces of­fi­ci­al, re­min­ding ever­yo­ne that Jamie had be­en mur­de­red. Tor­tu­red and tor­men­ted. Ma­de to suf­fer. Pu­nis­hed for his sins. She'd se­en to that. She'd ma­de su­re he wo­uld ne­ver hurt her, her child, or any ot­her wo­man-not ever aga­in.

  Jazzy Tal­bot was con­s­pi­cu­o­usly ab­sent. Go­od. She'd ha­te to think that wor­t­h­less slut wo­uld da­re to show her fa­ce.

  As she wat­c­hed whi­le ot­hers pa­ra­ded by Jamie's clo­sed cas­ket, she had to fight the ur­ge to smi­le-even la­ugh. She had des­t­ro­yed his pretty fa­ce and si­len­ced his lying mo­uth. And now Jaz­zy was suf­fe­ring.

  But not ne­arly as much as she wo­uld suf­fer.

  The wo­man had to die.

  Deserved to die.

  Would die.

  But not yet.

  When this all ca­me to an end and ever­y­t­hing was as it sho­uld be, Jaz­zy wo­uld be. Af­ter that, she and her baby wo­uld be sa­fe. Sa­fe and happy fo­re­ver.

  The Con­g­re­ga­ti­onal Church cho­ir sto­od out­si­de the ca­nopy co­ve­ring the open gra­ve as they sang an old spi­ri­tu­al, one the mi­nis­ter had sa­id was Miss Re­ba's fa­vo­ri­te. At le­ast a co­up­le of hun­d­red pe­op­le had co­me over di­rectly from the church to the ce­me­tery, whi­le ot­hers we­re wa­iting to drop by the Up­ton ho­use la­ter.

  Caleb had tho­ught abo­ut go­ing to the ho­use, se­e­ing what it lo­oked li­ke in­si­de, get­ting an up clo­se lo­ok at his gran­d­pa­rents. Af­ter be­ing in Che­ro­kee Co­unty for over three months, he still hadn't be­en ab­le to work up eno­ugh co­ura­ge to knock on the do­or and tell Big Jim and Miss Re­ba that he was the­ir da­ug­h­ter Me­la­nie's son. Hell, they pro­bably wo­uldn't be­li­eve him. They'd think he was so­me op­por­tu­nist out to suc­ker them. And who co­uld bla­me them, es­pe­ci­al­ly now that they'd lost Jamie. Ca­leb knew that if his mot­her's re­ve­la­ti­on abo­ut her fa­mily hadn't be­en a de­at­h­bed con­fes­si­on, he pro­bably wo­uldn't ha­ve be­li­eved her. Ac­tu­al­ly, at the ti­me he hadn't believed her, had tho­ught what she'd told him abo­ut her id­y­l­lic li­fe as a rich girl had be­en not­hing mo­re than the ram­b­lings of a drug ad­dict, which his mot­her had be­en. "You ha­ve a fa­mily," she'd told him. "My fa­mily. In Che­ro­kee Co­unty, not far out­si­de of Knox­vil­le. I grew up the­re. On a farm. The Up­ton Farm. I had a won­der­ful chil­d­ho­od. Won­der­ful pa­rents. Jim and Re­ba Up­ton. And I ha­ve a brot­her, Jim, Jr." 'Why are you tel­ling me this now?" he'd as­ked her as he held her hand.

  "Because you're just a boy and you ne­ed so­me­body to lo­ok af­ter you. Go to my fat­her and tell him… tell him I'm sen­ding him a pre­sent. A gran­d­son he ne­ver knew he had."

  That had be­en fif­te­en ye­ars ago, right be­fo­re he tur­ned se­ven­te­en. He'd be­en a un­dis­cip­li­ned kid, a boy who'd fen­ded for him­self most of his li­fe, des­pi­te ha­ving a mot­her. When she'd be­en cle­an and so­ber, Me­la­nie had be­en lo­ving and kind and a hal­f­way de­cent pa­rent. But when she bac­k­s­lid in­to that drug-in­du­ced black abyss she co­uldn't es­ca­pe for long at a ti­me, he'd be­en on his own. The first ti­me he sto­le fo­od from the su­per­mar­ket, he'd be­en se­ven and hadn't eaten in two days. If it hadn't be­en for Joe Do­no­van's old man, a Mem­p­his cop who'd ta­ken an in­te­rest in a stre­et smart kid with a pen­c­hant for get­ting in­to tro­ub­le, Ca­leb might be in the pen now. In­s­te­ad, he'd wo­und up emu­la­ting his men­tor and be­co­ming a po­li­ce­man. Then, six months ago, whi­le on an un­der­co­ver as­sig­n­ment, his par­t­ner had be­en kil­led and Ca­leb had spent we­eks in the hos­pi­tal re­co­ve­ring from gun­s­hot wo­unds that had co­me damn ne­ar clo­se to en­ding his li­fe. That ex­pe­ri­en­ce had chan­ged him, and when he'd left the hos­pi­tal, he'd known he didn't want to go back to his old job, his old «e. Whi­le he was trying to sort thro­ugh ever­y­t­hing and decide exactly what he did want to do with the rest of his li­fe, he got to dun­king abo­ut what his mot­her had told him. She had a fa­mily in Che­ro­kee Co­unty. He had a fa­mily.

  Caleb fi­gu­red that he co­uld easily blend in with the crowd he­re at the ce­me­tery, that no­body wo­uld even no­ti­ce him. But he'd be­en wrong. Jacob But­ler su­re as hell no­ti­ced him. The six-fi­ve qu­ar­ter bre­ed had be­en eye­ing him for the past few mi­nu­tes, ma­king Ca­leb fe­el very con­s­pi­cu­o­us. Was the she­riff won­de­ring why Ca­leb wo­uld show up at the gra­ve­si­de of a man he'd lo­at­hed? Was But­ler thin­king that may­be the­re was so­me cre­den­ce in what a few folks had spe­cu­la­ted-that Ca­leb had eit­her kil­led Jamie him­self or at the very le­ast had be­en an ac­com­p­li­ce?

  Ignore But­ler, he told him­self. He's just trying to in­ti­mi­da­te you. Des­pi­te the she­rif­fs im­po­sing si­ze and to­ugh-guy re­pu­ta­ti­on, Ca­leb was mo­re an­no­yed than in­ti­mi­da­ted. It wo­uld ta­ke a lot mo­re than a kil­ler sta­re to put the fe­ar of God in­to him.

  Caleb eased thro­ugh the throng of mo­ur­ners and away from But­ler. He fo­und a spot ne­ar a lar­ge, we­at­he­red oak tree that ga­ve him a cle­ar vi­ew of the fa­mily as they sat be­ne­ath the dark gre­en ca­nopy co­ve­ring Jamie's open gra­ve. His ga­ze tra­ve­led ac­ross the front row, se­ated clo­sest to the shiny bron­ze cas­ket. Big Jim Up­ton li­ved up to his re­pu­ta­ti­on. He was big, ro­bust, and physi­cal­ly fit for an old man. Al­t­ho­ugh som­ber and qu­i­et, he lo­oked as if he was abo­ut to burst in­to te­ars. His big arm dra­ped his small blon­de wi­fe's sho­ul­ders. Miss Re­ba had to be at le­ast se­venty, but she'd easily pass for sixty. If he'd ever do­ub­ted his mot­her's story abo­ut be­lon­ging to this we­althy, il­lus­t­ri­o­us Ten­nes­see fa­mily, ta­king a go­od lo­ok at Re­ba Up­ton era­sed tho­se do­ubts. Al­t­ho­ugh a tal­ler, lar­ger wo­man than Miss Re­ba, his mot­her had be­en the lady's spit­ting ima­ge.

  Caleb stu­di­ed the wo­man who was we­eping qu­i­etly, do­ing her le­vel best to re­ma­in dig­ni­fi­ed in front of the world whi­le her he­art was bre­aking in two. This was his gran­d­mot­her. The wo­man who had gi­ven birth to his mot­her. The pro­tec­ti­ve ma­le si­de of his na­tu­re wan­ted to go to her, com­fort her, tell her that she hadn't lost ever­y­t­hing, that she still had one gran­d­c­hild.

  Laura Wil­lis sat on the ot­her si­de of Miss Re­ba, her body ri­gid, her eyes gla­zed. The po­or girl was drug­ged sen­se­less. Dr. Mac­Na­ir sto­od at the si­de of La­ura's cha­ir, his hand on her sho­ul­der. The Wil­lis fa­mily-mot­her, fat­her, and yo­un­ger da­ug­h­ter-sat in the se­cond row of fol­ding cha­irs. She­ri­dan was sta­ring a ho­le thro­ugh her sis­ter. She ha­tes her, Ca­leb tho­ught.

  As his ga­ze tra­ve­led aro­und the outer pe­ri­me­ter of the tent, he spo
t­ted Erin Mer­cer stan­ding whe­re she had a per­fect vi­ew of Big Jim. As he wat­c­hed her, he no­ti­ced how she se­emed to­tal­ly tran­s­fi­xed on so­met­hing. He fol­lo­wed her li­ne of vi­si­on stra­ight to his gran­d­fat­her and ca­ught Big Jim sta­ring stra­ight at Erin. If he had no­ti­ced that in­ti­ma­te ex­c­han­ge, then ot­hers had, too. But it was no sec­ret aro­und town that the lo­vely mid­dle-aged ar­tist was Big Jim's lo­ver.

  Caleb didn't know who to fe­el sorry for-his gran­d­mot­her or Erin Mer­cer. Hell, may­be he sho­uld pity his gran­d­fat­her. It wasn't as if he knew eno­ugh abo­ut his mot­her's fa­mily to un­der­s­tand his gran­d­pa­rents' mar­ri­age.

  The cho­ir sang a fi­nal hymn when the mi­nis­ter fi­nis­hed his tri­bu­te to the de­ce­ased. Big Jim hel­ped his wi­fe to her fe­et. Un­s­te­ady, te­ars dam­pe­ning her per­fectly ma­de-up fa­ce, Miss Re­ba al­lo­wed her hus­band to lead her to the ed­ge of the open gra­ve as the cas­ket was be­ing lo­we­red in­to the gro­und. With each pas­sing mo­ment, she wept har­der and har­der.

  Poor wo­man, Ca­leb tho­ught. Po­or Miss Re­ba. Po­or Gran­d­mot­her.

  Suddenly Re­ba clut­c­hed the front of her black su­it and gas­ped lo­udly, then crum­p­led in her hus­band's arms. At first Ca­leb tho­ught she'd me­rely fa­in­ted, but then he he­ard Jim call out for Dr. Mac­Na­ir. Af­ter a qu­ick exa­mi­na­ti­on, the doc­tor sho­o­ed ever­yo­ne asi­de.

  "We ha­ve to get her to the hos­pi­tal im­me­di­ately," Mac­Na­ir sa­id. Then Ca­leb tho­ught he he­ard the doc­tor say so­met­hing abo­ut a he­art at­tack.

  Big Jim swo­oped his wi­fe up in his arms and stom­ped thro­ugh the crowd, all but run­ning to­ward the black li­mo­usi­ne wa­iting at the he­ad of the fu­ne­ral pro­ces­si­on. Ca­leb sto­od by wat­c­hing, as did the ot­hers at the ce­me­tery, whi­le Jim pla­ced his wi­fe in the li­mo and is­su­ed or­ders to the dri­ver.

  Murmurs ro­se from the crowd, ever­yo­ne spe­cu­la­ting abo­ut Miss Re­ba's he­alth, so­me ma­king odds on whet­her she'd li­ve to ma­ke it to the hos­pi­tal. Ca­leb ca­ught him­self on the ver­ge of sho­uting at tho­se in­sen­si­ti­ve bas­tards. In­s­te­ad he sho­ved his way thro­ugh the thick, mil­ling crowd and rus­hed to his T-bird, par­ked along the ro­ad out­si­de the ce­me­tery ga­tes. He star­ted the en­gi­ne, rev­ved the mo­tor, and wit­hin mi­nu­tes ca­ught up with the spe­eding li­mo­usi­ne. He wasn't go­ing to let Miss Re­ba die wit­ho­ut kno­wing she had anot­her gran­d­son, one who su­re as hell wo­uld li­ke the chan­ce to get to know her.

  Jacob dro­ve to the hos­pi­tal with Dal­las, sin­ce the two had go­ne to the fu­ne­ral to­get­her. Ne­it­her had Mis­sed Ca­leb McCord's re­ac­ti­on to Miss Re­ba's col­lap­se. He'd ac­ted li­ke a man who ca­red-ge­nu­inely ca­red-whet­her the wo­man li­ved or di­ed. En ro­ute to Che­ro­kee Co­unty Hos­pi­tal, they'd bri­efly dis­cus­sed the pos­si­bi­lity that McCord might ha­ve had so­met­hing to do with Jamie's mur­der. Af­ter all, he'd had mo­re than one mo­ti­ve.

  When they in­qu­ired abo­ut Mrs. Up­ton's con­di­ti­on, they we­re di­rec­ted to the ICU wa­iting area up­s­ta­irs and we­re told that the­re was li­mi­ted se­ating.

  "Already a crowd he­re?" Dal­las as­ked.

  "If it was an­yo­ne ot­her than the two of you, I'd ha­ve told you to go ho­me and call back la­ter for an up­da­te on Mrs. Up­ton," the re­cep­ti­onist sa­id. "We've had to post a gu­ard out­si­de the wa­iting ro­om, mostly to con­t­rol the press. Wo­uld you be­li­eve that WMMK bro­ught in TV ca­me­ras?"

  "Yeah, I'd be­li­eve it," Jacob sa­id, kno­wing fir­s­t­hand that Bri­an Mac­Kin­non wo­uld stop at not­hing, wo­uld sto­op as low as he had to, in or­der to sen­sa­ti­ona­li­ze the news on his TV and ra­dio sta­ti­ons, as well as in his new­s­pa­per. That's the re­ason we're he­re-to ma­ke su­re this si­tu­ati­on do­esn't turn in­to a three-ring cir­cus."

  "I'll co­or­di­na­te ef­forts with yo­ur chi­ef of se­cu­rity," Dal­las sa­id. "If you'll po­int me to his of­fi­ce, I'll check in with him whi­le the she­riff go­es on up­s­ta­irs and as­ses­ses the si­tu­ati­on the­re."

  The re­cep­ti­onist sho­ok her he­ad. "Mr. Car­rut­hers, our se­cu­rity chi­ef, is up­s­ta­irs per­so­nal­ly ma­king su­re no one bot­hers Mr. Up­ton."

  "I see," Dal­las sa­id. 'Thank you, ma'am."

  They he­aded stra­ight for the ne­arest ele­va­tor. On the °de up, ne­it­her sa­id a word. The mi­nu­te the do­ors ope­ned, they he­ard a ruc­kus and saw two gu­ards es­cor­ting a TV ca­me­ra­man down the cor­ri­dor.

  Jacob wal­ked over to a burly gray-ha­ired man in uni­form. "Hey, Char­lie, ne­ed a lit­tle as­sis­tan­ce?"

  Charlie Car­rut­hers grun­ted. "I've ne­ver se­en an­y­t­hing li­ke it. You'd think the qu­e­en of En­g­land was in our ICU the way folks are ac­ting."

  "Miss Re­ba's he­art at­tack is big news, con­si­de­ring it hap­pe­ned at Jamie's fu­ne­ral, "Jacob sa­id.

  ''That po­or old wo­man." Char­lie sho­ok his he­ad sympat­he­ti­cal­ly. "It's no won­der she ke­eled over at the gra­ve­si­de. Not many of us co­uld go thro­ugh lo­sing both our kids and then our only gran­d­c­hild."

  "Yeah, you're right abo­ut that." Dal­las nud­ged Jacob in the si­de and nod­ded to a spot to the left, a few fe­et be­hind Char­lie.

  Jacob glan­ced over his sho­ul­der and scan­ned the area whe­re two hal­lways in­ter­sec­ted. Le­aning aga­inst the wall ne­ar an al­co­ve whe­re se­ve­ral ven­ding mac­hi­nes sto­od, Ca­leb McCord lo­oked down at the flo­or, his hands stuf­fed in­to his poc­kets and his sho­ul­ders slum­ped.

  Jacob left Dal­las tal­king to Char­lie whi­le he ca­su­al­ly ma­de his way down the hall to­ward the al­co­ve. When he ap­pro­ac­hed, McCord glan­ced up and the­ir ga­zes loc­ked in­s­tantly.

  ''You got a re­ason for be­ing he­re?" Jacob as­ked.

  "I might."

  "A re­ason I sho­uld know abo­ut?"

  McCord ga­ve Jacob a spe­cu­la­ti­ve lo­ok. "May­be you al­re­ady know why I'm he­re."

  "Maybe I do."

  "Why wo­uld it be any of yo­ur bu­si­ness?" 'Jaz­zy didn't kill Jamie and we both know it. That me­ans so­me­body el­se did."

  ''Ye­ah, so? Genny sa­id it was a wo­man who tri­ed to lo­ok li­ke Jaz­zy. What's that fact got to do with-"

  "Maybe this wo­man had help."

  "Are you ac­cu­sing me of so­met­hing, She­riff?"

  "Nope. Just spe­cu­la­ting. It was no sec­ret that the­re was no lo­ve lost bet­we­en you and Jamie be­ca­use of Jaz­zy. May­be you fi­gu­red the only way to get rid of the com­pe­ti­ti­on was to kill him. That's one mo­ti­ve."

  "And now you've fi­gu­red out that I might ha­ve anot­her mo­ti­ve as well."

  "Seeing how you're Me­la­nie Up­ton's son, now that Jamie is de­ad, you're the he­ir to the Up­ton for­tu­ne. I'd say that's a damn go­od mo­ti­ve for mur­der."

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  As one of the ma­in­te­nan­ce crew for Che­ro­kee Ca­bin Ren­tals, Stan Wat­son not only did yard work-mo­wing grass, trim­ming shrubs, and ra­king le­aves-but be­ca­use he was pretty much a jack-of-all-tra­des, he had keys to every ca­bin so he co­uld ke­ep a check on the he­at and air systems, the plum­bing, etc. Even tho­ugh it was sprin­g­ti­me, it still got chilly aro­und the­se parts so­me days and just abo­ut every night, so to­urists of­ten used the­ir fi­rep­la­ces. Chec­king on the Ho­ney Be­ar Tra­il ca­bin's fi­rep­la­ce was on his to-do list for this af­ter­no­on, but it was ne­arly six and he to­ok off work abo­ut that ti­me every day.

  'The last te­nants com­p­la­ined that the dam­per on the fi­rep­la­ce flu wasn't wor­king right," his boss had told him. "Ma­ke su
­re you check it re­al go­od be­fo­re the pla­ce is ren­ted out aga­in and so­me­body bu­ilds a fi­re and gets smo­ke all in the ca­bin."

  When he par­ked his old Chevy truck in the dri­ve, he no­ti­ced the­re wasn't anot­her ve­hic­le an­y­w­he­re aro­und, so he as­su­med that no­body had ren­ted the pla­ce to­day.

  Cherokee Ca­bin Ren­tals' po­licy was to do all in­si­de ma­in­te­nan­ce work when a ca­bin was va­cant.

  Stan got out of the truck. Then, as he step­ped up on the front porch, he fis­hed aro­und in his pants poc­ket for the key ring. Just as he pul­led out the set of keys, he he­ard a pe­cu­li­ar no­ise. Co­uld it be a be­ar? he won­de­red. The black be­ars had co­me out of win­ter hi­ber­na­ti­on and so­me­ti­mes ma­de it this far down the mo­un­ta­in. He'd co­me fa­ce-to-fa­ce with mo­re than one be­ar sin­ce he'd be­en wor­king on the ren­tal ca­bins.