The Last to Die (39 page)

po-si-ti-on of al-ways won-de-ring if she lo-ved him or the Up-ton mil-li-ons? When he pa-used at the nur-se's sta-ti-on down the hall from the in-ten-si-ve ca-re unit, no one pa-id any at-ten-ti-on to him. He cle-ared his thro-at A sta-tu-es-que black wo-man in her mid fif-ti-es, with a warm smi-le, tur-ned to fa-ce him. "May I help you, sir?"'

"I was won-de-ring if I co-uld find out how Mrs. Up-ton is do-ing?" Ca-leb as-ked.

A pe-ti-te mid-dle-aged blon-de-ap-pa-rently the RN on duty-snap-ped aro-und and gla-red at Ca-leb. "If you're anot-her re-por-ter, I sug-gest you le-ave be-fo-re I call se-cu-rity.''

"I'm not a re-por-ter."

''Then what is yo-ur in-te-rest in Mrs. Up-ton? Are you fa-mily? A clo-se' per-so-nal fri-end?"

Caleb didn't know how to res-pond and be-fo-re he co-uld think of a su-itab-le reply, the RN told him, "Sin-ce you're ap-pa-rently ne-it-her, per-haps you sho-uld call Mr. Up-ton and ask for that type of in-for-ma-ti-on."

"I'm fa-mily," Ca-leb sa-id boldly.

The RN eyed him skep-ti-cal-ly. "I do-ubt that"

"Look, all I want to know is if she's bet-ter or wor-se."

"Check with the Up-ton fa-mily," the nur-se told him, then pic-ked up a stack of charts and wal-ked off down the hall.

Just as Ca-leb star-ted to le-ave, the ot-her nur-se cal-led to him qu-i-etly. "Hey, yo-ung man."

Caleb stop-ped and fa-ced her. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Mrs. Up-ton's con-di-ti-on has be-en up-g-ra-ded. She's do-ing much bet-ter. So much bet-ter that they mo-ved her out of ICU abo-ut an ho-ur ago. Her hus-band ar-ran-ged for her to ha-ve a su-ite on the fo-urth flo-or."

"Thank you." Ca-leb grin-ned. "And you sho-uld know I re-al-ly am a mem-ber of the fa-mily."

"I tho-ught so," the nur-se rep-li-ed. "I co-uld tell right away that you we-re ge-nu-inely con-cer-ned abo-ut Mrs. Up-ton."

Caleb nod-ded, then rus-hed to-ward the ele-va-tors. Af-ter he en-te-red and pun-c-hed the fo-urth flo-or but-ton, he tho-ught abo-ut what the nur-se had sa-id abo-ut his con-cern for Re-ba Up-ton be-ing ob-vi-o-us. Ye-ah, he was con-cer-ned, but he wasn't su-re why. She was his gran-d-mot-her, but he didn't know her, had ne-ver ac-tu-al-ly met her. May-be just kno-wing she was his gran-d-mot-her was eno-ugh to ma-ke him ca-re. When Miss Re-ba's ima-ge flas-hed thro-ugh his mind, he saw his mot-her. That was why he ca-red. At so-me po-int in her li-fe, his mot-her had lo-ved Miss Re-ba and Big Jim. Ot-her-wi-se when she was on her de-at-h-bed, she ne-ver wo-uld ha-ve told him to go to them. Okay, so his mot-her had di-ed ye-ars ago and he was a lit-tle la-te in ful-fil-ling her dying wish. But bet-ter la-te than ne-ver, right?

When the ele-va-tor do-ors swung open, he he-si-ta-ted for a mo-ment.
Do it
, he told him-self.
You
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aren't go-ing to dis-turb her. You aren’t go-ing to tell her who you are. Not yet. But may-be you
can just ta-ke a lo-ok and see for yo-ur-self that she's go-ing to be all right.

Caleb step-ped out of the ele-va-tor and glan-ced left and right. Just how many pri-va-te su-ites we-re up he-re on the fo-urth flo-or? And if the-re was mo-re than one, how wo-uld he know which one Miss Re-ba was in?

If you run in-to an-y-body or if a nur-se con-f-ronts you, just act li-ke you know what you 're
do-ing and whe-re you 're go-ing. And if the-re's a gu-ard at Miss Re-ba's do-or, just walk on by
.

It didn't ta-ke long for him to dis-co-ver that the pa-ti-ent's na-me was pos-ted on the out-si-de of the do-or and the-re we-re only two pri-va-te su-ites. One was empty. When he ap-pro-ac-hed the ot-her, the do-or sto-od hal-f-way open. He to-ok a de-ep bre-ath and ap-pro-ac-hed, then pa-used out-si-de and lo-oked in-to the ro-om. A wo-man in a uni-form-a pri-va-te duty nur-se, no do-ubt-sat ne-ar the fo-ot of the bed, her back to Ca-leb. He had a cle-ar vi-ew of his gran-d-mot-her. Des-pi-te her blond ha-ir and re-la-ti-vely smo-oth fa-ce, she lo-oked old. A he-art at-tack wo-uld age a per-son, he fi-gu-red. But even tho-ugh she was pa-le and lo-oked ter-ribly small and hel-p-less in that hos-pi-tal bed, she was still a pretty wo-man. Just li-ke his mot-her had be-en, Ye-ars of drug use had ta-ken a toll on his mot-her, but even at the end, when she'd be-en bo-ne skinny, her on-ce lus-t-ro-us ha-ir thin and dull, and with dark cir-c-les un-der her eyes, she had still be-en pretty. Or may-be he had just lo-oked at her thro-ugh a son's eyes. Me-la-nie hadn't be-en the best mot-her in the world, but she'd be-en the only mot-her he'd had, and be-fo-re the drugs to-ok over her li-fe com-p-le-tely, the-re had be-en so-me go-od ti-mes. Go-od me-mo-ri-es.

He didn't know how long he sto-od the-re just sta-ring at his gran-d-mot-her, won-de-ring how she wo-uld re-act when she le-ar-ned that her da-ug-h-ter had left be-hind a child. Then, just as he de-ci-ded it was ti-me for him to le-ave, a big hand ho-oked over his sho-ul-der.

"What the hell do you think you're do-ing?" Big Jim Up-ton's vo-ice so-un-ded li-ke a rot-twe-iler's fe-ro-ci-o-us growl.

Caleb tur-ned aro-und and fa-ced his gran-d-fat-her.

"If you're a dam-ned re-por-ter-"

"I'm not a re-por-ter." 'Then what are you do-ing sno-oping aro-und out-si-de my wi-fe's hos-pi-tal ro-om? Who told you whe-re she was?"

''I wasn't sno-oping." Ca-leb jer-ked free of Jim's tight hold. "I stop-ped by to see how Miss Re-ba was do-ing."

Jim eyed him sus-pi-ci-o-usly. "Do I know you? You lo-ok fa-mi-li-ar."

"You don't know me, Mr. Up-ton. But if I lo-ok fa-mi-li-ar to you, it co-uld be be-ca-use I lo-ok qu-ite a bit li-ke my mot-her."

"Your mot-her? Do we know yo-ur mot-her? Is she a fri-end of ours?" Jim scan-ned Ca-leb from his over-long ha-ir to his black le-at-her bo-ots.

If you're go-ing to do it, do it
! Ca-leb told him-self.
May-be this is the wrong ti-me and the wrong
pla-ce, but you’ve put it off long eno-ugh.

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"My mot-her was Me-la-nie Up-ton McCord."

Jim gla-red at him as if he wasn't su-re he'd he-ard him right. "What sort of ga-me are you pla-ying, boy? You re to try to ta-ke ad-van-ta-ge of us when we're at our most vul-ne-rab-le? Well, wha-te-ver you're up to, for-get it. Our da-ug-h-ter di-ed fif-te-en ye-ars ago of a-"

"A drug over-do-se in Mem-p-his."

Jim frow-ned, squ-in-ting his eyes and scrun-c-hing his fa-ce. "How wo-uld you know that?"

"Because I was with her when she di-ed. I'm the one who tri-ed to sa-ve her. I'm the one who cal-led for an am-bu-lan-ce."

Jim grab-bed Ca-leb by the front of his shirt. "How old are you? Not old eno-ugh to ha-ve be-en her lo-ver."

"I was six-te-en when she di-ed. She wasn't even forty, but she lo-oked sixty. Drugs do that to pe-op-le, even be-a-uti-ful blon-de wo-men from go-od fa-mi-li-es. Be-a-uti-ful blon-de wo-men who lo-ok just li-ke the-ir mot-hers."

Jim lo-ose-ned his hold on Ca-leb's shirt, but didn't let go. He sta-red in-to Ca-leb's eyes- eyes that we-re not li-ke his mot-her's. Jim stu-di-ed his fe-atu-res. Slowly. Ca-re-ful-ly. "You lo-ok a bit li-ke her and I can see so-me of Jim Jr. in you-" Jim re-le-ased Ca-leb ab-ruptly and step-ped away from him.

"You can't be hers. If she'd had a child, the po-li-ce wo-uld ha-ve told us when they no-ti-fi-ed us she had di-ed."

"They didn't know abo-ut me," Ca-leb sa-id. "When I knew she was de-ad, I split. I didn't hang aro-und so so-me so-ci-al wor-ker co-uld put me in a fos-ter ho-me."

"But if she had a child, why… why didn't she co-me ho-me? She had a hus-band." Jim sho-ok his he-ad. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-two."

"She left he-re over thir-ty-th-ree ye-ars ago. Left us, left a go-od hus-band-"

"He's not my fat-her."

"And my Me-la-nie is not yo-ur mot-her." Jim har-de-ned his ga-ze. "Who-ever the hell you are, don't you da-re ever go ne-ar Miss Re-ba tel-ling her yo-ur crazy li-es. That wo-man has be-en thro-ugh way too much al-re-ady."

"I don't want to hurt her… or you."

''Then get the hell out of my sight. Le-ave Che-ro-kee Po-in-te, and don't you ever co-me back. Do you he-ar me, boy?"

Caleb lo-oked the old man right in the eye. "I'll le-ave whe-ne-ver I get damn go-od and re-ady to go."

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"You know who I am. You know what I can do to you if I've a mind to."

"Yeah, I know. I know that you've se-en to it that the DA has ra-il-ro-aded an in-no-cent wo-man, had her ar-res-ted for a mur-der she didn't com-mit. I know all abo-ut how po-wer-ful Big Jim Up-ton is." Ca-leb grun-ted. "Hell, may-be you're right. May-be I'm not yo-ur gran-d-son. If Jamie Up-ton was the re-sult of yo-ur pa-ren-ting skills, then I'm damn lucky I didn't do what my mot-her wan-ted me to do and co-me to you and Miss Re-ba when I was six-te-en."

Jim's fa-ce flus-hed. For a mi-nu-te the-re Ca-leb tho-ught Big Jim might hit him.

"My mot-her's fa-vo-ri-te co-lor was blue. Her fa-vo-ri-te fa-iry ta-le was Sle-eping Be-a-uty. You used to re-ad it to her every night when she was a lit-tle girl. She had a pony na-med Ruf-fles. Her six-te-enth bir-t-h-day pre-sent from you was a yel-low Cor-vet-te. And Miss Re-ba ga-ve her a gold loc-ket sur-ro-un-ded by di-amonds on her wed-ding day. She wo-re it all the ti-me when I was a kid.

She hung on to that nec-k-la-ce for a long ti-me, but fi-nal-ly in the end she sold it to buy drugs."

Caleb tur-ned and wal-ked away. Let the old man di-gest all that in-for-ma-ti-on. If he ever wan-ted to talk to Ca-leb, he'd ha-ve to co-me to him. He wasn't go-ing to beg the man to be-li-eve him. And he su-re as hell wasn't go-ing to let Big Jim Up-ton in-ti-mi-da-te him.

Andrea didn't li-ke this one lit-tle bit. Al-t-ho-ugh the had as-su-red Ce-cil they didn't ne-ed the-ir law-yer pre-sent, she felt une-asy wal-king in-to the she-rif-fs of-fi-ce wit-ho-ut le-gal co-un-sel. They had the-ir mur-de-rer-Jaz-zy Tal-bot. Why did they ne-ed to qu-es-ti-on her fa-mily any fur-t-her? She be-li-eved she co-uld con-t-rol Ce-cil. Af-ter all, she'd be-en do-ing it for ye-ars. But the-ir da-ug-h-ters we-re anot-her mat-ter. She-ri-dan was he-ad-s-t-rong, in-so-lent, and might say an-y-t-hing. She'd ta-ken her yo-un-ger child asi-de be-fo-re they left the Up-ton ho-use and war-ned her to be on her best be-ha-vi-or. She pro-bably had She-ri-dan un-der con-t-rol, too. At le-ast tem-po-ra-rily. But what abo-ut La-ura? That po-or child was so fra-gi-le that it wo-uldn't ta-ke very much pres-su-re for her bre-ak in-to pi-eces. Pi-eces that might not ever go back to-get-her.

"Do not say an-y-t-hing abo-ut not re-mem-be-ring whe-re you we-re the night Jamie di-ed,"

An-d-rea had told La-ura. "Do you he-ar me?"

Laura had nod-ded and pro-mi-sed to ke-ep the-ir sec-ret, but An-d-rea knew that if she was pus-hed too far, La-ura wo-uld crum-b-le. And if that hap-pe-ned, the-re wo-uld be lit-tle that she and Ce-cil co-uld do for the girl. God help them all if the who-le truth ever ca-me out.

What if she did kill Jamie
? An-d-rea as-ked her-self as the fo-ur of them en-te-red the co-ur-t-ho-use.
He-ads high
, she'd told them.
We ha-ve not-hing to fe-ar
.

If La-ura kil-led Jamie, no one must ever know. But what abo-ut the ot-her man who had be-en mur-de-red, that Wat-son man? La-ura had be-en out aga-in last eve-ning. She-ri-dan had ca-ught her slip-ping up the back sta-irs. Had she kil-led him, too? And if she had, why?

"Please co-me in." Jacob But-ler met them at the do-or to the she-rif-fs de-par-t-ment. "I su-re do ap-pre-ci-ate y'all co-ming in. I'll try not to ke-ep you folks long. Just co-me on back to my of-fi-ce so we can talk in pri-va-te."

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Andrea nud-ged Ce-cil, who sto-od asi-de for his wi-fe and da-ug-h-ters, then fol-lo-wed alon-g-si-de the she-riff.

"I put in a call to Phil-lip Stoc-k-ton, my law-yer, and he ad-vi-sed me as to what I sho-uld and sho-uldn't spe-ak to you abo-ut," Ce-cil sa-id. "But sin-ce ne-it-her I nor my wi-fe and da-ug-h-ters ha-ve an-y-t-hing to hi-de, we're mo-re than glad to co-ope-ra-te."

"Just go on in and ha-ve a se-at," She-riff But-ler sa-id when they re-ac-hed his of-fi-ce. "I've as-ked Po-li-ce Chi-ef Slo-an and our dis-t-rict at-tor-ney, Wa-de Tru-man, to sit in on our con-ver-sa-ti-on."

Andrea glan-ced at the ot-her two men-the big blond po-li-ce chi-ef stan-ding by the win-dows and Mr. Tru-man se-ated be-hind the she-rif-fs desk-but she didn't ac-k-now-led-ge the-ir pre-sen-ce by spe-aking to them. Then she no-ted that fo-ur cha-irs we-re spre-ad out over the ro-om, so that no two pe-op-le wo-uld be si-de by si-de. Had that be-en de-li-be-ra-te or just hap-pen-s-tan-ce? She le-aned over and whis-pe-red to Ce-cil, "Mo-ve one of the cha-irs next to this one"-she po-in-ted-"w-he-re I'll sit."

He lo-oked at her, a puz-zled ex-p-res-si-on on his fa-ce, but did as she had as-ked. As so-on as he pla-ced the fol-ding cha-ir be-si-de the one whe-re An-d-rea sat, she cal-led, "La-ura, co-me sit by me, de-ar."

Sheridan eyed her mot-her, then grin-ned. She didn't li-ke that cun-ning smi-le. What did She-ri-dan know? Pro-bably not-hing. But that girl had a mis-c-hi-evo-us stre-ak a mi-le wi-de and se-emed to enj-oy ca-using tro-ub-le.

Jacob But-ler cros-sed his arms over his mas-si-ve chest and sat on the ed-ge of his desk. "As you folks pro-bably al-re-ady know, we've had anot-her mur-der he-re in Che-ro-kee Co-unty."

Yes," Ce-cil sa-id. "A han-d-y-man of so-me sort, wasn't "A ma-in-te-nan-ce man for Che-ro-kee Ca-bin Ren-tals," Jacob sa-id. "His na-me was Stan-ley Wat-son. Did y'all by any chan-ce know him?"

"Certainly not," An-d-rea rep-li-ed. "Why wo-uld you ever think we might know such a per-son?"