After scanning the room and not seeing Caleb, she walked over to the bar.
"Where's Caleb?" she asked Lacy, the bartender.
"He had to drive Gus Logan home. That poor old fool was already drunk when he showed up, and he got downright nasty when I refused to serve him."
"Damn!"
"Something wrong?" Lacy asked.
"Yeah, I'm supposed to meet somebody in less than fifteen minutes, and I wanted Caleb to go with me."
"I can give him a message when he gets back and he can meet you wherever it is you're going. If you go by yourself, he'll worry, what with all the talk about some nutcase killing redheads."
"I'll bet Jacob and Dallas are wondering how that bit of confidential info got out. Nobody was supposed to know that the victims were redheads."
"You can't keep something like that under wraps for long. Stuff like that gets leaked."
"Yeah, it happens. Unfortunately. Look, I'm going to meet somebody who says they know who my real parents are. As soon as Caleb gets back, tell him to come out to the old covered bridge about half a mile from the country club."
"I don't think you should go alone. Call Reve so she can go with you."
"I tried to call her. She's not answering her phone."
"Then wait for Caleb."
Jazzy patted the inside of her coat pocket. "I'm taking my thirty-two with me, just in case. So as soon as Caleb comes back, tell him where I am. And assure him I feel certain that the person who called me is not a serial killer."
Jazzy pulled her Jeep off to the side of the road directly in front of the old covered bridge. She'd made it there in twelve minutes flat, so she guessed she was early. She didn't see another vehicle anywhere nearby, so that had to mean the caller: wasn't there yet. Of course it would be possible to park a car on the other side of the bridge, just around the curve, and be completely out of sight from this vantage point. Strumming her fingertips on the steering wheel, she waited. Impatiently.
Come on. Hurry up, will you?
The minutes ticked by slowly, each one seeming ten times longer than sixty seconds.
Finally, after five minutes, she re-* moved her phone from her jacket pocket and tried calling Reve again. First the cabin, then the cell phone. Still no response. Where the hell was Reve? Why wasn't she answering her phone?
Maybe I should call Jacob and ask him to run by and check on Reve. No, don't do that.
It's a bad idea! Reve wouldn't thank me for siccing Jacob on her
. Jazzy chuckled. Those two were headed for a major explosion. Genny had seen the handwriting on the wall, but it didn't take any special sixth sense abilities to figure out that that much tension between two people could be resolved in only two ways. Either they killed each other or they fucked each other.
Beginning to feel the chill in the night air, Jazzy restarted the Jeep, upped the heat and flipped on the radio. Where the hell was her mystery caller? She wasn't going to wait around half the night. And what was taking Caleb so long to get here?
She hit the keyed-in number for Jazzy's Joint, the phone at the bar.
Lacy answered on the sixth ring. "Jazzy's Joint." Lacy spoke loudly so she could hear herself over the noise from rowdy customers and shit-kicking music.
"Where's Caleb?" Jazzy asked.
"I don't know. He should have been back by now. Gus just lives over on Oakwood. Ha-ve you tried his cell phone?"
"No, but I will. I thought sure he'd be back there by now."
"Has your mystery caller showed up?" Lacy asked.
"No, not yet."
"Well, you be careful, okay?"
"I will. I will."
Jazzy hit the off button and then punched in Caleb's cell number. It rang repeatedly. No response. But just when she decided he wasn't going to answer, he did.
"Yeah, what is it?"
"Caleb?"
His voice softened. "Hi, honey. Look, I'll be there soon. I had a flat tire on my way back from Gus's house. I've just about got the tire changed."
"I'm not at Jazzy's Joint. I'm out by the country club, at the old covered bridge. When you get the tire changed, I want you to-"
"What the hell are you doing way out there?" Two seconds later, he roared into the phone, "Did you go out there °y yourself?"
"Yes, I came by myself, but I'm all right. I brought my thirty-tw0 with me. I told Lacy to tell you to meet me here, s» hurry up, will you?'
"Dammit, Jazzy, why-"
"I'll explain everything when you get here."
"Listen to me-you turn around and come right back into town."
"I'll be waiting here by the old bridge. Hurry." She hung up on him. He might call back, but she doubted he'd waste his time. He knew her well enough to realize that if he called back, she wouldn't answer. His time would be better spent fixing that tire.
Five minutes passed, then ten. Jazzy turned off the radio, killed the motor and opened the driver's door. As she emerged from her Jeep, she patted her breast pocket to reassure herself that the thirty-two was still in place. She doubted seriously that she'd need a gun, but if she did, it would take only a matter of a few seconds to put her hands on the weapon.
Jazzy closed the door and stood by the hood for several minutes. This was ridiculous.
Why call her and ask to met her and then not show up? Had the call been nothing more than a hoax? Someone's idea of a practical joke? She pressed the tab on her lighted digital wristwatch. Nine-twenty. She'd wait ten more minutes and then she was out of there.
Submerged up to her shoulders in the soothing warm water of the hot tub on the scre-ened porch of her cabin, Reve lifted an iced glass of Tennessee Tea and sipped leisurely on the delicious brew. She'd found the four-pack of small bottles in the guest basket, which had been filled with a variety of specialty items. The basket was a gift Jazzy had left at the cabin before her arrival. She'd never tried this drink before-a combination of Jack Daniels and sweet tea-but found she really liked the taste. Of course she'd always had a weakness for anything sweet.
Jacob Butler wasn't sweet. He was tough and surly and-Now, how had her mind made that colossal jump from Tennessee Tea to Jacob Butler?
It could be because she couldn't seem to get him out of her thoughts.
Stop it, Reve. You’re obsessing about that man again.
Ever since he’d dropped her off at her cabin earlier today, she'd done everything possible to get him off her mind. She'd called Jazzy to beg off supper tonight, then she'd placed a call home to speak to her housekeeper and even phoned Paul Welby again, although that call had been totally unnecessary. Paul was like a futuristic robot-efficient, brilliant and unemotional. She had inherited him from her mother. Lesley Sorrell had hired him as her personal assistant when he was fresh out of college. Vanderbilt. By the time Lesley passed away, Paul was earning a six-figure salary. But only after he became Reve's assistant had she learned that he was worth every cent.
Watching TV and reading hadn't captured her attention for very long, nor had preparing her evening meal. Her mind kept wandering off in one particular direction. An unwanted direction. She had replayed the forty-five minutes she'd spent with Jacob over and over again in her mind. From the moment he had startled her by helping her on with her coat until he'd helped her down out of his truck when he dropped her off at the cabin, she had seen another side of a man she thought she hated. Today, he'd been kind to her. Not once had he ridiculed her or tried to provoke her. He had acted as if he actually liked her.
Was that possible? Could she and Jacob ever be friends? After the way their relationship had started-
Wait just a darn minute! You do not have a relationship with Jacob. He's Jazzy's friend,
not yours. Okay, so he treated you as if he thought you were human this afternoon, that
doesn’t mean he likes you or that he wants to befriends.
Reve took several more sips of her Tennessee Tea, then set the glass on the rim of the hot tub and scooted down until only her head protruded above the water. She'd been out here nearly thirty minutes, hoping the liquor and soak would relax her so she could sleep tonight. Sleep without dreaming about anything unpleasant. Like Jacob Butler.
Admit it, you’re afraid you '11 have another erotic dream about the man. You 're accustomed to being in total control of your life, of everything and everyone in your world.
And you I hate having no control over Sheriff Butler or over the way he makes you feel.
Reve groaned, then forced herself to get out of the hot tub. If she stayed in here much longer, she'd turn into a prune. Either that or go to sleep and drown. The moment she emerged j from the tub, the cool night air hit her, sending a shuddering chill through her body. She grabbed the huge towel off the hook on the back wall and dried herself quickly, then lifted her robe from the nearby rocking chair and put it on. When she entered the cabin, heavenly warm air encompassed her. She closed her eyes and sighed. Then it happened. She could almost feel a pair of strong arms surround her. Jacob's strong arms. Her eyes flew open. She was alone in her cabin. Damn bar vivid imagination!
Jazzy walked down the road and onto the covered bridge. Maybe the caller had meant for her to come across the bridge and park on the other side. Had she misunderstood the instructions? When she was about a third of the way across the bridge, she thought she heard a sound from behind her. Footsteps?
Okay, run back to the Jeep, jump in and get the hell out of here.
She shouldn't panic. Not yet.
There, she heard the noise again. Definitely footsteps behind her. Putting her hand in her pocket so that she could whip out the thirty-two, if needed, she started to whirl around, but before she did, something hit her on the head. Something hard and heavy. Excru-ciating pain shot through her head. She dropped to her knees.
What the hell?
"Slut," someone said. "You're a whore just like your mother!"
Despite the debilitating pain pounding in her head and radiating through her body, Jazzy managed to jerk the gun from her pocket. But before she could face her attacker, another hard blow came down on her head. She saw stars-literally saw stars. The thirty-two dropped from her hand as an odd weakness possessed her. And then everything went pitch black.
Farlan hated riding in Brian's Porsche. He felt like a mackerel stuffed into a sardine can whenever he rode in any small sports car. But he'd asked Brian to pick him up at the country club this evening in the hope that they could have a father-son talk. Farlan had co-me to the club with Dodd earlier with the express purpose of being without his car so that he could use it as an excuse to trap Brian into this meeting. When he'd finally caught up with his son, reaching him on his cell phone, Brian had sounded peculiar, as if he was up-set that his father had disturbed him. Farlan wished he understood his son better, wished they had a better relationship. But Brian was his mother's son. Temperamental. High-st-rung. Self-centered. Emotionally needy.
When they left the country club, Farlan had suggested they take the back way home, a longer route that took them over the old covered bridge and around a winding two-lane road through a densely wooded area the MacKinnon family owned. Farlan wanted the ten extra minutes it would take them to go home by this route, so that he could broach a subject that had been bothering him since going over the latest report from his accountants.
Brian had embezzled money from the family business in the past. Not huge sums, so Farlan had turned a blind eye and personally made up the losses. But recently, Brian had stolen over a quarter of a million dollars and hadn't covered his tracks very well, almost as if he wasn't concerned about being caught. What bothered Farlan was why his son, who drew a generous yearly salary, felt the need to take money from the business, to commit a criminal act. Didn't he know that all he had to do was come to Farlan and ask for the money?
"I hate driving across that damn old bridge," Brian said. "I always have the feeling it's going to collapse out front under me."
"That bridge is as sturdy as the day it was built," Farlan replied. "I personally see to it that the county keeps it up. Your grandfather was the man responsible for having than bridge remodeled back in the sixties. At one time the sides were covered, too, not partial-ly open the way they are now." I Brian didn't respond. His son had never been interested in family history, let alone Cherokee County history.
Farlan tried to think of the best way to approach the subject of Brain embezzling funds from MacKinnon Media, bud before he came up with a suitable idea, he noticed a vehicle pulled off to the side of the road.
"Is that somebody with car trouble?" Farlan questioned aloud.
Brian eased his sleek Porsche to a stop in the middle of the road, directly in front of the old covered bridge. "I don't see anybody. Looks like the car is empty."
"Do you recognize the vehicle. It's a Jeep, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's a Jeep. As a matter of fact, it looks just like Jazzy Talbot's red Jeep."
"Maybe we should make sure everything is okay before we go on."
"I don't feel like playing Good Samaritan tonight."
"Humor me," Farlan said. "Go see if there's a problem."
Brian grumbled under his breath when he got out of the Porsche. Farlan watched his son as he walked over to the Jeep, circled the vehicle and then peered into the closed window on the driver's side.
He called back to Farlan. "It's empty. No sign of anybody. But I'm sure this is Jazzy's car." Standing at the back of the Jeep, he pointed to the car tag. "That's her personalized tag. Jazzy One."
An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of Farlan's stomach. He didn't know Jazzy Talbot, but he'd heard all about her. She'd been front page news only a few months ago when she'd been arrested for murdering her former lover, Jamie Upton. In every newspaper photo printed in the Herald, she'd been holding her hand across her face; and he hadn't bothered watching any of the TV coverage. Of course, he'd seen her at a distance from ti-me to time, either in town or at her restaurant. Even once or twice in Jazzy's Joint. A pretty girl, as he recalled.