Authors: Beverly Barton
"Oh, Jim, I don't know. How will I be ab-le to be-ar be-ing the-re and not be-ing ab-le to com-fort you?"
"Just kno-wing you're the-re, clo-se by, will be a com-fort. Ple-ase…"
"Yes, of co-ur-se, I'll be the-re."
The Con-g-re-ga-ti-onal Church was pac-ked to ca-pa-city, the san-c-tu-ary and the ves-ti-bu-le. A crowd had gat-he-red out-si-de on the front steps and down the si-de-walk. She knew that the-se pe-op-le we-ren't he-re to show the-ir res-pects to Jamie. Not many pe-op-le had li-ked Jamie. Qu-ite a few had des-pi-sed him. And se-ve-ral had ha-ted him, as she had. The hu-ge out-po-uring of sympathy was for Big Jim and Miss Re-ba. Even pe-op-le the Up-tons ba-rely knew or didn't know at all had co-me to-get-her on this be-a-uti-ful, sunny spring day. She sus-pec-ted that even a few cu-ri-o-us to-urists min-g-led among the lo-cal ci-ti-zens in-si-de and out-si-de the church.
The she-riff and the chi-ef of po-li-ce we-re he-re, both in the-ir dress uni-forms, ma-king the-ir pre-sen-ces of-fi-ci-al, re-min-ding ever-yo-ne that Jamie had be-en mur-de-red. Tor-tu-red and tor-men-ted. Ma-de to suf-fer. Pu-nis-hed for his sins. She'd se-en to that. She'd ma-de su-re he wo-uld ne-ver hurt her, her child, or any ot-her wo-man-not ever aga-in.
Jazzy Tal-bot was con-s-pi-cu-o-usly ab-sent. Go-od. She'd ha-te to think that wor-t-h-less slut wo-uld da-re to show her fa-ce.
As she wat-c-hed whi-le ot-hers pa-ra-ded by Jamie's clo-sed cas-ket, she had to fight the ur-ge to smi-le-even la-ugh. She had des-t-ro-yed his pretty fa-ce and si-len-ced his lying mo-uth. And now Jaz-zy was suf-fe-ring.
But not ne-arly as much as she wo-uld suf-fer.
The wo-man had to die.
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Deserved to die.
Would die.
But not yet.
When this all ca-me to an end and ever-y-t-hing was as it sho-uld be, Jaz-zy wo-uld be. Af-ter that, she and her baby wo-uld be sa-fe. Sa-fe and happy fo-re-ver.
The Con-g-re-ga-ti-onal Church cho-ir sto-od out-si-de the ca-nopy co-ve-ring the open gra-ve as they sang an old spi-ri-tu-al, one the mi-nis-ter had sa-id was Miss Re-ba's fa-vo-ri-te. At le-ast a co-up-le of hun-d-red pe-op-le had co-me over di-rectly from the church to the ce-me-tery, whi-le ot-hers we-re wa-iting to drop by the Up-ton ho-use la-ter.
Caleb had tho-ught abo-ut go-ing to the ho-use, se-e-ing what it lo-oked li-ke in-si-de, get-ting an up clo-se lo-ok at his gran-d-pa-rents. Af-ter be-ing in Che-ro-kee Co-unty for over three months, he still hadn't be-en ab-le to work up eno-ugh co-ura-ge to knock on the do-or and tell Big Jim and Miss Re-ba that he was the-ir da-ug-h-ter Me-la-nie's son. Hell, they pro-bably wo-uldn't be-li-eve him.
They'd think he was so-me op-por-tu-nist out to suc-ker them. And who co-uld bla-me them, es-pe-ci-al-ly now that they'd lost Jamie. Ca-leb knew that if his mot-her's re-ve-la-ti-on abo-ut her fa-mily hadn't be-en a de-at-h-bed con-fes-si-on, he pro-bably wo-uldn't ha-ve be-li-eved her.
Ac-tu-al-ly, at the ti-me he hadn't believed her, had tho-ught what she'd told him abo-ut her id-y-l-lic li-fe as a rich girl had be-en not-hing mo-re than the ram-b-lings of a drug ad-dict, which his mot-her had be-en. "You ha-ve a fa-mily," she'd told him. "My fa-mily. In Che-ro-kee Co-unty, not far out-si-de of Knox-vil-le. I grew up the-re. On a farm. The Up-ton Farm. I had a won-der-ful chil-d-ho-od.
Won-der-ful pa-rents. Jim and Re-ba Up-ton. And I ha-ve a brot-her, Jim, Jr." 'Why are you tel-ling me this now?" he'd as-ked her as he held her hand.
"Because you're just a boy and you ne-ed so-me-body to lo-ok af-ter you. Go to my fat-her and tell him… tell him I'm sen-ding him a pre-sent. A gran-d-son he ne-ver knew he had."
That had be-en fif-te-en ye-ars ago, right be-fo-re he tur-ned se-ven-te-en. He'd be-en a un-dis-cip-li-ned kid, a boy who'd fen-ded for him-self most of his li-fe, des-pi-te ha-ving a mot-her.
When she'd be-en cle-an and so-ber, Me-la-nie had be-en lo-ving and kind and a hal-f-way de-cent pa-rent. But when she bac-k-s-lid in-to that drug-in-du-ced black abyss she co-uldn't es-ca-pe for long at a ti-me, he'd be-en on his own. The first ti-me he sto-le fo-od from the su-per-mar-ket, he'd be-en se-ven and hadn't eaten in two days. If it hadn't be-en for Joe Do-no-van's old man, a Mem-p-his cop who'd ta-ken an in-te-rest in a stre-et smart kid with a pen-c-hant for get-ting in-to tro-ub-le, Ca-leb might be in the pen now. In-s-te-ad, he'd wo-und up emu-la-ting his men-tor and be-co-ming a po-li-ce-man. Then, six months ago, whi-le on an un-der-co-ver as-sig-n-ment, his par-t-ner had be-en kil-led and Ca-leb had spent we-eks in the hos-pi-tal re-co-ve-ring from gun-s-hot wo-unds that had co-me damn ne-ar clo-se to en-ding his li-fe. That ex-pe-ri-en-ce had chan-ged him, and when he'd left the hos-pi-tal, he'd known he didn't want to go back to his old job, his old «e. Whi-le he was trying to sort thro-ugh ever-y-t-hing and decide exactly what he did want to do with the rest of his li-fe, he got to dun-king abo-ut what his mot-her had told him. She had a fa-mily in Che-ro-kee Co-unty. He had a fa-mily.
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Caleb fi-gu-red that he co-uld easily blend in with the crowd he-re at the ce-me-tery, that no-body wo-uld even no-ti-ce him. But he'd be-en wrong. Jacob But-ler su-re as hell no-ti-ced him. The six-fi-ve qu-ar-ter bre-ed had be-en eye-ing him for the past few mi-nu-tes, ma-king Ca-leb fe-el very con-s-pi-cu-o-us. Was the she-riff won-de-ring why Ca-leb wo-uld show up at the gra-ve-si-de of a man he'd lo-at-hed? Was But-ler thin-king that may-be the-re was so-me cre-den-ce in what a few folks had spe-cu-la-ted-that Ca-leb had eit-her kil-led Jamie him-self or at the very le-ast had be-en an ac-com-p-li-ce?
Ignore But-ler
, he told him-self.
He's just trying to in-ti-mi-da-te you
. Des-pi-te the she-rif-fs im-po-sing si-ze and to-ugh-guy re-pu-ta-ti-on, Ca-leb was mo-re an-no-yed than in-ti-mi-da-ted. It wo-uld ta-ke a lot mo-re than a kil-ler sta-re to put the fe-ar of God in-to him.
Caleb eased thro-ugh the throng of mo-ur-ners and away from But-ler. He fo-und a spot ne-ar a lar-ge, we-at-he-red oak tree that ga-ve him a cle-ar vi-ew of the fa-mily as they sat be-ne-ath the dark gre-en ca-nopy co-ve-ring Jamie's open gra-ve. His ga-ze tra-ve-led ac-ross the front row, se-ated clo-sest to the shiny bron-ze cas-ket. Big Jim Up-ton li-ved up to his re-pu-ta-ti-on. He was big, ro-bust, and physi-cal-ly fit for an old man. Al-t-ho-ugh som-ber and qu-i-et, he lo-oked as if he was abo-ut to burst in-to te-ars. His big arm dra-ped his small blon-de wi-fe's sho-ul-ders. Miss Re-ba had to be at le-ast se-venty, but she'd easily pass for sixty. If he'd ever do-ub-ted his mot-her's story abo-ut be-lon-ging to this we-althy, il-lus-t-ri-o-us Ten-nes-see fa-mily, ta-king a go-od lo-ok at Re-ba Up-ton era-sed tho-se do-ubts. Al-t-ho-ugh a tal-ler, lar-ger wo-man than Miss Re-ba, his mot-her had be-en the lady's spit-ting ima-ge.
Caleb stu-di-ed the wo-man who was we-eping qu-i-etly, do-ing her le-vel best to re-ma-in dig-ni-fi-ed in front of the world whi-le her he-art was bre-aking in two. This was his gran-d-mot-her.
The wo-man who had gi-ven birth to his mot-her. The pro-tec-ti-ve ma-le si-de of his na-tu-re wan-ted to go to her, com-fort her, tell her that she hadn't lost ever-y-t-hing, that she still had one gran-d-c-hild.
Laura Wil-lis sat on the ot-her si-de of Miss Re-ba, her body ri-gid, her eyes gla-zed. The po-or girl was drug-ged sen-se-less. Dr. Mac-Na-ir sto-od at the si-de of La-ura's cha-ir, his hand on her sho-ul-der. The Wil-lis fa-mily-mot-her, fat-her, and yo-un-ger da-ug-h-ter-sat in the se-cond row of fol-ding cha-irs. She-ri-dan was sta-ring a ho-le thro-ugh her sis-ter.
She ha-tes her
, Ca-leb tho-ught.
As his ga-ze tra-ve-led aro-und the outer pe-ri-me-ter of the tent, he spot-ted Erin Mer-cer stan-ding whe-re she had a per-fect vi-ew of Big Jim. As he wat-c-hed her, he no-ti-ced how she se-emed to-tal-ly tran-s-fi-xed on so-met-hing. He fol-lo-wed her li-ne of vi-si-on stra-ight to his gran-d-fat-her and ca-ught Big Jim sta-ring stra-ight at Erin. If he had no-ti-ced that in-ti-ma-te ex-c-han-ge, then ot-hers had, too. But it was no sec-ret aro-und town that the lo-vely mid-dle-aged ar-tist was Big Jim's lo-ver.
Caleb didn't know who to fe-el sorry for-his gran-d-mot-her or Erin Mer-cer. Hell, may-be he sho-uld pity his gran-d-fat-her. It wasn't as if he knew eno-ugh abo-ut his mot-her's fa-mily to un-der-s-tand his gran-d-pa-rents' mar-ri-age.
The cho-ir sang a fi-nal hymn when the mi-nis-ter fi-nis-hed his tri-bu-te to the de-ce-ased. Big Jim hel-ped his wi-fe to her fe-et. Un-s-te-ady, te-ars dam-pe-ning her per-fectly ma-de-up fa-ce, Miss Re-ba al-lo-wed her hus-band to lead her to the ed-ge of the open gra-ve as the cas-ket was be-ing lo-we-red in-to the gro-und. With each pas-sing mo-ment, she wept har-der and har-der.
Poor wo-man
, Ca-leb tho-ught.
Po-or Miss Re-ba. Po-or Gran-d-mot-her
.
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Suddenly Re-ba clut-c-hed the front of her black su-it and gas-ped lo-udly, then crum-p-led in her hus-band's arms. At first Ca-leb tho-ught she'd me-rely fa-in-ted, but then he he-ard Jim call out for Dr.
Mac-Na-ir. Af-ter a qu-ick exa-mi-na-ti-on, the doc-tor sho-o-ed ever-yo-ne asi-de.
"We ha-ve to get her to the hos-pi-tal im-me-di-ately," Mac-Na-ir sa-id. Then Ca-leb tho-ught he he-ard the doc-tor say so-met-hing abo-ut a he-art at-tack.
Big Jim swo-oped his wi-fe up in his arms and stom-ped thro-ugh the crowd, all but run-ning to-ward the black li-mo-usi-ne wa-iting at the he-ad of the fu-ne-ral pro-ces-si-on. Ca-leb sto-od by wat-c-hing, as did the ot-hers at the ce-me-tery, whi-le Jim pla-ced his wi-fe in the li-mo and is-su-ed or-ders to the dri-ver.
Murmurs ro-se from the crowd, ever-yo-ne spe-cu-la-ting abo-ut Miss Re-ba's he-alth, so-me ma-king odds on whet-her she'd li-ve to ma-ke it to the hos-pi-tal. Ca-leb ca-ught him-self on the ver-ge of sho-uting at tho-se in-sen-si-ti-ve bas-tards. In-s-te-ad he sho-ved his way thro-ugh the thick, mil-ling crowd and rus-hed to his T-bird, par-ked along the ro-ad out-si-de the ce-me-tery ga-tes. He star-ted the en-gi-ne, rev-ved the mo-tor, and wit-hin mi-nu-tes ca-ught up with the spe-eding li-mo-usi-ne. He wasn't go-ing to let Miss Re-ba die wit-ho-ut kno-wing she had anot-her gran-d-son, one who su-re as hell wo-uld li-ke the chan-ce to get to know her.
Jacob dro-ve to the hos-pi-tal with Dal-las, sin-ce the two had go-ne to the fu-ne-ral to-get-her.
Ne-it-her had Mis-sed Ca-leb McCord's re-ac-ti-on to Miss Re-ba's col-lap-se. He'd ac-ted li-ke a man who ca-red-ge-nu-inely ca-red-whet-her the wo-man li-ved or di-ed. En ro-ute to Che-ro-kee Co-unty Hos-pi-tal, they'd bri-efly dis-cus-sed the pos-si-bi-lity that McCord might ha-ve had so-met-hing to do with Jamie's mur-der. Af-ter all, he'd had mo-re than one mo-ti-ve.
When they in-qu-ired abo-ut Mrs. Up-ton's con-di-ti-on, they we-re di-rec-ted to the ICU wa-iting area up-s-ta-irs and we-re told that the-re was li-mi-ted se-ating.
"Already a crowd he-re?" Dal-las as-ked.
"If it was an-yo-ne ot-her than the two of you, I'd ha-ve told you to go ho-me and call back la-ter for an up-da-te on Mrs. Up-ton," the re-cep-ti-onist sa-id. "We've had to post a gu-ard out-si-de the wa-iting ro-om, mostly to con-t-rol the press. Wo-uld you be-li-eve that WMMK bro-ught in TV
ca-me-ras?"
"Yeah, I'd be-li-eve it," Jacob sa-id, kno-wing fir-s-t-hand that Bri-an Mac-Kin-non wo-uld stop at not-hing, wo-uld sto-op as low as he had to, in or-der to sen-sa-ti-ona-li-ze the news on his TV and ra-dio sta-ti-ons, as well as in his new-s-pa-per. That's the re-ason we're he-re-to ma-ke su-re this si-tu-ati-on do-esn't turn in-to a three-ring cir-cus."
"I'll co-or-di-na-te ef-forts with yo-ur chi-ef of se-cu-rity," Dal-las sa-id. "If you'll po-int me to his of-fi-ce, I'll check in with him whi-le the she-riff go-es on up-s-ta-irs and as-ses-ses the si-tu-ati-on the-re."
The re-cep-ti-onist sho-ok her he-ad. "Mr. Car-rut-hers, our se-cu-rity chi-ef, is up-s-ta-irs
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per-so-nal-ly ma-king su-re no one bot-hers Mr. Up-ton."
"I see," Dal-las sa-id. 'Thank you, ma'am."
They he-aded stra-ight for the ne-arest ele-va-tor. On the °de up, ne-it-her sa-id a word. The mi-nu-te the do-ors ope-ned, they he-ard a ruc-kus and saw two gu-ards es-cor-ting a TV
ca-me-ra-man down the cor-ri-dor.
Jacob wal-ked over to a burly gray-ha-ired man in uni-form. "Hey, Char-lie, ne-ed a lit-tle as-sis-tan-ce?"
Charlie Car-rut-hers grun-ted. "I've ne-ver se-en an-y-t-hing li-ke it. You'd think the qu-e-en of En-g-land was in our ICU the way folks are ac-ting."
"Miss Re-ba's he-art at-tack is big news, con-si-de-ring it hap-pe-ned at Jamie's fu-ne-ral, "Jacob sa-id.
''That po-or old wo-man." Char-lie sho-ok his he-ad sympat-he-ti-cal-ly. "It's no won-der she ke-eled over at the gra-ve-si-de. Not many of us co-uld go thro-ugh lo-sing both our kids and then our only gran-d-c-hild."
"Yeah, you're right abo-ut that." Dal-las nud-ged Jacob in the si-de and nod-ded to a spot to the left, a few fe-et be-hind Char-lie.
Jacob glan-ced over his sho-ul-der and scan-ned the area whe-re two hal-lways in-ter-sec-ted.
Le-aning aga-inst the wall ne-ar an al-co-ve whe-re se-ve-ral ven-ding mac-hi-nes sto-od, Ca-leb McCord lo-oked down at the flo-or, his hands stuf-fed in-to his poc-kets and his sho-ul-ders slum-ped.
Jacob left Dal-las tal-king to Char-lie whi-le he ca-su-al-ly ma-de his way down the hall to-ward the al-co-ve. When he ap-pro-ac-hed, McCord glan-ced up and the-ir ga-zes loc-ked in-s-tantly.
''You got a re-ason for be-ing he-re?" Jacob as-ked.
"I might."