The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  ''Thank you." Re­ve tur­ned to le­ave, then pa­used, glan­ced back at Jaz­zy, and sa­id, "I me­ant what I sa­id. If the­re's an­y­t­hing el­se I can do to help you, don't he­si­ta­te to get in to­uch."

  Before Jaz­zy co­uld think of a su­itab­le reply, Re­ve was go­ne. For a co­up­le of mi­nu­tes she sto­od the­re as if her fe­et we­re glu­ed to the flo­or. Then sud­denly she bro­ke in­to a run and ra­ced down the hall. Just as she en­te­red the bar area, she saw Re­ve go­ing out the front en­t­ran­ce.

  Let her go, Jaz­zy told her­self. She's rig­ht-you ha­ve mo­re im­por­tant is­su­es to de­al with right now than whet­her or not Aunt Sally has be­en lying to you yo­ur en­ti­re li­fe and she knew all along that you ha­ve a twin sis­ter. But on­ce this mess with Jamie's mur­der was cle­ared up-and she had to be­li­eve that the re­al mur­de­rer wo­uld be ca­ug­ht-then she and Aunt Sally we­re go­ing to ha­ve a fa­mily pow­wow.

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  When Stan Wat­son ca­me to, he had the mot­her of all he­adac­hes and his vi­si­on was blurry. "What the hell hap­pe­ned?" he as­ked no one in par­ti­cu­lar.

  Suddenly he felt so­me­one on top of him-a wo­man's pussy sli­ding down over his pec­ker. Go­od God, was he un­con­s­ci­o­us and ha­ving so­me sort of se­xu­al dre­am? When she star­ted pum­ping up and down on him, he de­ci­ded this was no dre­am. This was re­al. He tri­ed to grab her hips, but he co­uldn't se­em to lift his arms. He ga­ve his legs a try and co­uldn't bud­ge them. That's when he re­ali­zed he was ti­ed down, his arms over his he­ad, his wrists bo­und to­get­her. What was go­ing on? Think, Stan, think. Try to re­mem­ber. You'd co­me up he­re to Ho­ney Be­ar Tra­il to check on the fi­rep­la­ce. It was ne­arly six o'clock-yo­ur usu­al qu­it­ting ti­me.

  Although his vi­si­on hadn't cle­ared up much, he lo­oked up at the sky and re­ali­zed the sun had al­re­ady set. It wasn't go­od dark yet, but he fi­gu­red it was get­ting clo­se to eight o'clock, may­be la­ter.

  Who was on top of him? Had he bro­ught a woman up he­re? No, that wasn't it. He re­mem­be­red now. He lo­oked up in­to the wo­man's fa­ce and saw a blurry ima­ge-short red ha­ir was abo­ut all he co­uld ma­ke out Ho­ney. She'd sa­id her fri­ends cal­led her Ho­ney. He'd go­ne to put his ra­ke in the back of the truck be­fo­re they went in­to the ca­bin and-she'd hit him over the he­ad. He co­uldn't think of any ot­her ex­p­la­na­ti­on. When he'd had his back tur­ned to her, she'd col­d­coc­ked him with her sho­vel. But why? Was she crazy?

  "Why'd you hit me on the he­ad?" Stan as­ked.

  "Here I am fuc­king you li­ke mad and you're as­king stu­pid qu­es­ti­ons." She pa­used in her fran­tic hum­ping. "How el­se was I go­ing to get you in the back of the truck so I co­uld tie you down? I su­re do ap­pre­ci­ate yo­ur ha­ving that big roll of duct ta­pe in yo­ur to­ol box and that length of ro­pe so I co­uld se­cu­re the ta­pe on yo­ur fe­et to the tra­iler hitch and the ta­pe on yo­ur wrists to the lock on that big he­avy to­ol box."

  "Lady, what's yo­ur prob­lem? Are you fre­aking nuts?"

  Something sharp sli­ced ac­ross his chest. He yel­ped in pa­in.

  ''That wasn't very ni­ce of you, was it, cal­ling me nuts," she sa­id in a syrupy swe­et vo­ice. "You mustn't be me­an to me or I'll ha­ve to pu­nish you aga­in."

  "Lady, I ha­ven't ever do­ne an­y­t­hing to you. Ple­ase, just un­tie me and let me go. We'll for­get this ever hap­pe­ned."

  He felt his dick sof­te­ning. Fe­ar co­uld do that to a man. And he was sca­red shit­less right abo­ut now. An odd fe­eling hit him right in the gut. What if Jaz­zy Tal­bot hadn't kil­led Jamie Up­ton? What if this crazy wo­man on top of him had kil­led Jamie? Now was a hell of a ti­me to re­mem­ber why the wo­man he'd ca­ught trying to bury a plas­tic bag in the wo­ods re­min­ded him of so­me­one. At a dis­tan­ce, she lo­oked a lit­tle li­ke Jaz­zy. It was the short red ha­ir and the gold ho­op ear­rings. Ot­her­wi­se they didn't re­al­ly lo­ok an­y­t­hing ali­ke.

  "Oh, Stan, I'm sorry, I can't let you go." She star­ted mo­ving up and down on him, ap­pa­rently trying to ke­ep him hard. "Don't go flat on me now. Not when this will be the last fuck of yo­ur li­fe."

  Every mus­c­le in his body fro­ze. What did she me­an by that? Oh, God. Oh, God. She was go­ing to kill him.

  "Why me? I don't even know you."

  "But you ca­ught me bur­ying my bag of go­odi­es, and I knew it was only a mat­ter of ti­me be­fo­re you told so­me­body el­se and they'd tell so­me­body and then the law wo­uld co­me snif­fing aro­und. So you see, Stan, I can't al­low you to li­ve."

  "I won't tell a so­ul. I swe­ar." His he­ar­t­be­at drum­med in his ears. Ad­re­na­li­ne cre­ated by pu­re ter­ror zin­ged thro­ugh his body.

  "You've fi­gu­red it out, ha­ven't you?" She kept ri­ding him, mo­ving fas­ter and fas­ter. 'You know I kil­led Jamie." She went wild, her mo­ve­ments fran­tic. Then she scre­amed when she ca­me. Bre­at­hing hard, she sa­id, "I tho­ught the le­ast I co­uld do for you be­fo­re I kill you was gi­ve you a go­od fuc­king." She star­ted mo­ving aga­in.

  Stan's vi­si­on cle­ared and he co­uld ma­ke out her fa­ce pla­inly. The­re was a lo­ok of de­ter­mi­na­ti­on in her eyes as she le­aned over and dan­g­led her bre­asts in his fa­ce. How the hell was it pos­sib­le for him to be aro­used when the wo­man on top of him was in­sa­ne? She was go­ing to kill him. But his body didn't se­em to ca­re. Ten­si­on tig­h­te­ned as she ro­de him har­der and har­der. He cli­ma­xed sud­denly. Whi­le the af­ter­s­hocks of his re­le­ase rip­pled "tro­ugh him, she clim­bed off him and ran her fin­ger­tips down his chest, over his belly, and ac­ross his na­vel.

  "Are you go­ing to tor­tu­re me the way you did Jamie?" Stan pra­yed har­der than he'd ever pra­yed in his li­fe. Ple­ase, God, ple­ase let her kill me qu­ickly.

  "I co­uld, I sup­po­se," she told him, her fin­ger­tips sli­ding down his damp, sticky pe­nis. "I'd enj­oy it so much. But li­ke you sa­id, we don't even know each ot­her. I ha­ve no re­ason to ha­te you, no ne­ed to pu­nish you se­ve­rely."

  "Don't kill me. Ple­ase, ple­ase, don't kill me."

  "Oh, Stan, you beg so ni­cely." She cup­ped his pe­nis and scro­tum and la­ug­hed. "You we­re just in the wrong pla­ce at the wrong ti­me."

  "No, ple­ase… don't… don't-"

  "Hush up now. I pro­mi­se to ma­ke it qu­ick." She squ­e­ezed his ge­ni­tals. "I'll ha­ve to ta­ke the­se off. I to­ok Jamie's, you know. I al­ways whack 'em off. It's sort of my tra­de­mark."

  Stan ke­ened. Fe­ar ate away at him li­ke an in­si­di­o­us acid. "No. God, no!"

  "Don't get so up­set. I'll kill you first, then ta­ke my pri­ze."

  The last thing Stan Wat­son ever saw was the kni­fe co­ming down to­ward his thro­at.

  Jim Up­ton sat by his wi­fe's bed in the ICU unit, her small, fra­gi­le hand held se­cu­rely in his ten­der grasp. She had re­ga­ined con­s­ci­o­us­ness ne­arly an ho­ur ago, a lit­tle be­fo­re eight o'clock, and they had cal­led him from the wa­iting ro­om. He had al­re­ady sent the ot­hers ho­me- La­ura, She­ri­dan, and the­ir pa­rents. And he'd as­ked fri­ends who'd stop­ped by to go ho­me and pray. He'd wan­ted to wa­it alo­ne.

  When he'd first wal­ked in­to the ICU, Re­ba had lo­oked up at him and tri­ed to spe­ak. The only word that ca­me out of her mo­uth was a ho­ar­se, gas­ped, 'Jamie." A lo­ne te­ar had es­ca­ped her right eye and cas­ca­ded down her pa­le che­ek. Al­t­ho­ugh the usu­al vi­si­ta­ti­on ti­me in the In­ten­si­ve Ca­re Unit was twenty mi­nu­tes every fo­ur ho­urs from six in the mor­ning un­til ten at night, no one had tri­ed to ma­ke him le­ave. And they'd damn well bet­ter not, if they knew what was go­od for them.

  He wat­c­hed Re­ba as she slept, a dr
ug-in­du­ced sle­ep to ke­ep her calm and res­ted, Dr. Mac­Na­ir had ex­p­la­ined. The stress of de­aling with Jamie's de­ath, the know­led­ge that he had be­en tor­tu­red to de­ath, and then the fu­ne­ral to say a fi­nal fa­re­well had all be­en too much for her. Al­t­ho­ugh the­re was a go­od chan­ce she'd li­ve thro­ugh this, the­re we­re no gu­aran­te­es that she wo­uldn't suf­fer anot­her he­art at­tack, may­be a mas­si­ve, let­hal one next ti­me.

  Jim squ­e­ezed her hand. "Don't die on me, old girl. Don't you da­re die on me."

  If only he co­uld gi­ve her so­met­hing to li­ve for-a re­ason to fight Gu­ilt un­li­ke any he'd ever known we­ig­hed he­avily on his sho­ul­ders. Re­ba knew he'd ne­ver truly lo­ved her. She sus­pec­ted, even if she didn't know for su­re, that the­re had be­en nu­me­ro­us ot­her wo­men. She might even know abo­ut Erin. As­king her to li­ve for him was a lu­dic­ro­us tho­ught. Why sho­uld she want to li­ve for him af­ter the way he'd tre­ated her all the­se ye­ars? May­be she did still lo­ve him, but a part of her had to ha­te him, too.

  "I'm sorry, Re­ba," he told her. "I wish I co­uld ha­ve be­en a bet­ter hus­band."

  If only they hadn't lost both Jim Jr. and Me­la­nie. If only the­re had be­en ot­her gran­d­c­hil­d­ren. Jamie had me­ant the world to Re­ba, and now she had lost him, too. Te­ars sprang in­to Jim's eyes.

  If only I co­uld gi­ve you a go­od re­ason to want to li­ve.

  * * *

  Caleb ar­ri­ved at Jaz­zy's Jo­int a few mi­nu­tes past se­ven. Af­ter his con­f­ron­ta­ti­on with Jacob But­ler, he'd left the hos­pi­tal, had wal­ked aro­und alo­ne, and had do­ne a lot of thin­king. His big sec­ret was out, and if Jacob knew, it was only a mat­ter of ti­me be­fo­re Jacob told Jaz­zy. And he didn't want her to know-not yet. She'd be­en the re­ason he had kept put­ting off ma­king con­tact with the Up­tons. He had co­me to Che­ro­kee Co­unty to find his mot­her's fa­mily, but af­ter me­eting Jaz­zy and le­ar­ning abo­ut her con­nec­ti­on to his co­usin Jamie, he'd de­ci­ded to wa­it. Jamie had be­en a top­notch son of a bitch. What sort of fa­mily pro­du­ced a rot­ten ap­ple li­ke that?

  But to­day when he'd wat­c­hed his gran­d­mot­her col­lap­se right be­fo­re his eyes, ever­y­t­hing had chan­ged. She was an old wo­man who might not li­ve. He'd mis­ta­kenly tho­ught the­re was no ne­ed to rush in­to cla­iming his new fa­mily, that he co­uld wa­it aro­und and get the lay of the land, so to spe­ak. He had wan­ted the chan­ce to find out a lot mo­re abo­ut the Up­ton clan be­fo­re he re­ve­aled him­self as the­ir long-lost gran­d­son.

  Lacy mo­ti­oned to Ca­leb the mi­nu­te he ar­ri­ved, so he ma­de his way thro­ugh the crow­ded, smo­ke-fil­led ro­om and went stra­ight to the bar. He le­aned over the co­un­ter so he co­uld he­ar Lacy wit­ho­ut her ha­ving to hol­ler.

  "We've be­en ha­ving a prob­lem with a guy who's be­en sho­oting po­ol with Dil­lon Car­son," Lacy sa­id. "I tri­ed to han­d­le things when I saw ne­it­her She­ri nor Ka­lin­da co­uld do an­y­t­hing with him. Even Dil­lon, drunk as he is, tri­ed to re­ason with the man. I didn't want to ask Jaz­zy, but-"

  "You're a mur­de­ring who­re!" The man's cru­el sho­ut co­uld be he­ard over the co­untry mu­sic co­ming from the juke­box, the clin­king of bot­tles and glas­ses, and the talk and la­ug­h­ter cre­ated by the ot­her cus­to­mers.

  "Damn!" Ca­leb cur­sed un­der his bre­ath.

  "She ca­me out a few mi­nu­tes ago and has be­en trying to get him to le­ave," Lacy ex­p­la­ined. "He hasn't be­en that lo­ud be­fo­re, but co­uld tell from her fa­ci­al ex­p­res­si­ons that he's be­en gi­ving her a re­al­ly hard ti­me."

  Of all nights for so­me smart-mo­ut­hed as­sho­le to hurl in­sults at Jaz­zy-the night Ca­leb had co­me in se­ve­ral ho­urs la­te. Af­ter his long walk to think things thro­ugh, he sho­uld ha­ve co­me stra­ight to work. In­s­te­ad he'd go­ne back to the hos­pi­tal. When he'd pe­eked in­to the ICU unit, the do­or to Miss Re­ba's ro­om had be­en open and he'd se­en Big Jim sit­ting by her bed, hol­ding her hand, his fa­ce damp with te­ars. He'd co­me clo­se to wal­king in on them and tel­ling his gran­d­fat­her who he was. But he fi­gu­red now was the wrong ti­me. The Up­tons had be­en thro­ugh hell the­se past few days. Be­si­des, he ne­eded to tell Jaz­zy first. He owed her that much.

  "I'll ta­ke ca­re of things," Ca­leb told Lacy.

  Her fri­endly smi­le de­epe­ned the wrin­k­les in her li­ned fa­ce. "I knew you wo­uld."

  When Ca­leb ar­ri­ved on the sce­ne at the back of the ro­om whe­re the po­ol tab­les we­re set up, he fo­und a tall, lanky guy in his la­te thir­ti­es right up in Jaz­zy's fa­ce. He co­uld tell by her ex­p­res­si­on that she was on the ver­ge of slap­ping the man's fa­ce.

  "No won­der Jamie Up­ton threw you away," the man sa­id, his words slightly slur­red. "You're not­hing but trash and this who­le town knows it. But you're go­ing to be pri­son trash pretty so­on, when they put you whe­re you be­long." 'Lo­ok, buddy, why don't you le­ave?" Dil­lon Car­son, a bit un­s­te­ady on his fe­et, pat­ted the man on the back. "No °ne wants any tro­ub­le. Isn't that right, Jaz­zy?" When he tur­ned to her, the ot­her man knoc­ked Dil­lon's hand off his back.

  "Yeah," Jaz­zy sa­id. "You've got a right to yo­ur opi­ni­on, but you're not go­ing to bad­mo­uth me in my own bar.'' "I'll say wha­te­ver the hell I want abo­ut you whe­re­ver I want to say it." The man put his fa­ce clo­ser to Jaz­zy's, not two in­c­hes bet­we­en the­ir no­ses. "And you can't do a damn thing to stop me, 'ca­use ever­y­body knows what I'm sa­ying is the truth."

  Jazzy pun­c­hed him in the mid­dle of his chest. "Lo­ok, you stu­pid jac­kass, eit­her you le­ave now or I'll call the po­li­ce and ha­ve you thrown out of he­re."

  The man grab­bed Jaz­zy and sho­ok her. She sho­ved him, but he held on­to her tightly with one hand and drew back his ot­her hand in­to a fist. Ca­leb di­ved stra­ight at them, sho­ving Dil­lon asi­de and knoc­king him to the flo­or in the pro­cess. The guy on the ver­ge of stri­king Jaz­zy ne­ver knew what hit him. Ca­leb ram­med in­to him and sent him back aga­inst the wall lig­h­t­ning fast, twis­ting his arm be­hind his back. Then, pres­sing one arm ac­ross the man's thro­at and ap­plying pres­su­re, he sub­du­ed him im­me­di­ately.

  The man gas­ped for air. Ca­leb eased up just a frac­ti­on as he sa­id, "You want to apo­lo­gi­ze to the lady now be­fo­re I ta­ke you out of he­re or do I ha­ve to whip yo­ur sorry ass?"

  "I'm not go­ing to-" He cho­ked when Ca­leb ad­ded mo­re pres­su­re to his win­d­pi­pe.

  When his fa­ce tur­ned red and his eyes bug­ged out, Ca­leb eased up aga­in and as­ked, "Are you re­ady to apo­lo­gi­ze to Ms. Tal­bot?"

  That's not ne­ces­sary, "Jaz­zy sa­id. 'Just get him out of he­re."

  "It's ne­ces­sary," Ca­leb sa­id, gla­ring at the man. "Apo­lo­gi­ze or-"

  "I-I'm sorry." The man lo­oked at Jaz­zy, his mo­ist eyes ple­ading with her. "I'm re­al sorry."

  "Get him out of he­re, will you?" Jaz­zy's ga­ze col­li­ded with Ca­leb's, and he re­ali­zed that she was mo­re than a lit­tle up­set.

  Without sa­ying anot­her word, he mar­c­hed the man thro­ugh the crowd that had be­en wat­c­hing the en­ti­re ex­c­han­ge. Af­ter they step­ped out­si­de on­to the si­de­walk, Ca­leb re­le­ased his te­na­ci­o­us hold on the guy.

  "If you know what's go­od for you, don't ever co­me back he­re aga­in."

  The guy nod­ded and all but ran down the stre­et to his car par­ked half a block away. Ca­leb wa­ited un­til he dro­ve away be­fo­re re­tur­ning to the club. When he got back in­si­de, he co­uldn't find Jaz­zy. Lacy po­in­ted to­ward the hal­lway that led to the la­di­es' ro­om, the sto­ra­ge ro­om, and Jaz­zy's of­fi­ce. He'd check her of­fi­ce fir
st.

  The do­or was clo­sed. He knoc­ked. No reply.

  "Jazzy?"

  Silence.

  He tri­ed the knob. Not loc­ked. He ope­ned the do­or. She sat on the front ed­ge of her desk, her arms cros­sed over her chest. When he wal­ked over the thres­hold, she gla­red at him.

  "Are you all right?" he as­ked.

  No, I'm not all right!" Her vo­ice held a ste­ely, pis­sed-off ed­ge. "Co­uldn't you ha­ve just thrown him out of he­re wit­ho­ut thre­ate­ning his li­fe?"

  "Is that why you're up­set?" Ca­leb chuc­k­led.

  Bad mo­ve on his part. Jaz­zy huf­fed lo­udly.

  ''The guy was go­ing to hit you." Ca­leb sa­id.

  ''And I was fi­xing to knee him in the groin."