Last to Die: A gripping psychological thriller not for the faint hearted (4 page)

C
aleb Switch was restless
. It was late on Saturday evening and he was back in the apartment in Charlotte. He had arrived home in the afternoon and gone to bed for a nap. Sleep had eluded him and now he was trying to put his finger on why he was so unsettled.

The long drive back to the city had been slow and irritating. His shoulders felt tense and he had a faint headache behind his eyes. Caleb switched on the light in the bathroom, swallowed a painkiller and studied his refection. Normally, after a successful hunt he felt calm for weeks, subdued even. But this time was different, this time he felt no such release. He felt no sense of accomplishment.

The girl had been too easy. It was as simple as that. He should have known better than to run a Category B target. They were only useful for two things: money or a cover story. That was it.

He ran water over his hands and dried them on a pink frilly towel.

She hadn’t even made it to the creek. He had scarcely believed it when he had discovered her hiding crouched behind a tree less than two miles from the release site. She was covered in scratches from where she had fallen and was sobbing loud enough to hear from thirty-five feet away.

Caleb shook his head. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel. Certainly, no great demands had been made on his skills. He hadn’t even bothered to quench his urges with her before he despatched her.

Despondent, he switched off the light and went to the kitchen. Though he had little appetite, he made a grilled cheese sandwich and carried it through to the dining nook. He sat at the mahogany table, surrounded by photos of Arthur Weils and his deceased aunt, the original owner of the apartment, Maryanne Weils. There were still a few hours to kill before he walked the four blocks to the nondescript office building where twice a week he volunteered on the Voice of Hope switchboard.

Thinking of the evening ahead cheered him up some. The job was a goldmine and was his fourth such stint as an operator. Caleb had long ago discovered the rich seam of rubes and targets that helplines like the Voice of Hope Church provided. True, there was no end to the sad sacks of shit who made self-pitying phone calls, seeking solace, seeking redemption, seeking to be heard and absolved. Throughout their tearful litanies they offered Caleb all manner of information about themselves. Information he took great care to sift through, searching the useless sands of their misery for the nuggets he desired. So far, it had been most productive. He had found what he hoped was a perfect Category A target and was in the process of selection. The process could not be rushed. Slow and steady was the way. It was a matter of stalking the game, learning what makes it tick, its habitats, strengths and weaknesses. In this type of pursuit Caleb excelled.

The Voice of Hope itself was a small Pentecostal church and the late Maryanne had been a member until she could no longer look after herself and the state had shipped her off to a wretched home where she had eventually died of boredom. Fortunately, long before she shuffled off the mortal coil, Maryanne had repeatedly told her church friends of her beloved nephew Art, who she claimed visited her often. So when ‘Art’ turned up in Charlotte to attend to his dead aunt’s estate, Caleb suddenly found himself a shining star in a tiny community grateful for young bucks who could quote a Bible chapter and verse (a gift from his mother this time). Caleb’s background check had been minimal. Pastor T Creedy claimed that, by default, a believer in Christ had to be a decent person. It had taken Caleb less than three weeks to wangle his way into the inner sanctum and become a valued and trusted member of the congregation.

Landing on his feet was nothing new to Caleb. He did not believe in luck, he believed in the law of nature. Animals did not rely on luck. They lived and died by their instincts. They made split-second decisions based on the information they had before them.

The night Caleb had met Arthur Weils he had been sitting on a bar stool in a town called Hickory. Caleb had been minding his own business; bored mostly, bored and watchful. Arthur had already sunk a skinful before he arrived and plonked down beside Caleb. He was drunk and morose and in need of a friend. Caleb might have finished his beer and left, if only Arthur had kept his mouth shut. But Arthur Weils was full of gin and regret; he began to complain about the hand life had dealt him, swirling his gin clockwise and leaning towards Caleb with watery, red-rimmed eyes.

Within minutes, Caleb had decided Arthur was a perfectly useful Category B candidate, and from that instant, poor, dumb Arthur might as well have had a bullseye painted on his chest.

Caleb bought him a drink, listening as his new buddy sobbed and gibbered and spoke of being dumped by a woman, how he hated his job. He wept when he said his only remaining relative, a kindly aged aunt from Charlotte, had upped and died and he, Arthur, was returning there to pack up her home and join her in the great hereafter. The more Arthur rambled on about his grief, his wasted life, his fear of rejection, his lack of a sex life, his anger at the outside world and its rejection of him, the more Caleb’s instincts kicked in.

When the time came to act it had been ridiculously easy. Arthur, so trusting of his new friend, had invited him back to his tiny apartment to partake of some drinks. Caleb offered to drive them.

That was the last anyone ever saw of the real Arthur Weils.

After that, it had simply been a matter of Caleb shedding his identity – or rather the identity he had been using – and adopting Arthur’s. It helped enormously that Arthur was an unlikeable idiot and that his only living relation had conveniently died.

Free from restraints, Caleb made his way to Charlotte and began to avail of his new identity with impunity, starting with Arthur’s inheritance and now mining the life of Aunt Maryanne for useful progression.

Caleb sat at the table in the dining nook and picked up his longbow. He unstrung it and checked it for signs of damage. He pulled out a tin of wax from a leather bag and began to smooth the strings. As he worked, he became dimly aware of the news running softly on the television in the living room. He reached for the remote and turned up the volume.

‘America stunned as another high school shooting rips a community apart.’

Caleb watched the story unfold with little interest. He thought the anchorman fake and his tone risible. Then the red print speeding across the bottom of the screen attracted his attention.

‘Jessie Conway, a remarkable hero who saved so many lives…’

Hero
.

Caleb curled his lip. Hero was a junk word much bandied about by the media. Footballers were heroes when they scored a touchdown; firefighters doing their damned jobs were heroes; nurses were heroes, no wait … they were 
angels
. Heroes: the word had been diluted down to nothing by lazy rhetoric.

A photo of a smiling redhead appeared on screen. Caleb leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. She was pretty: shy smile, pale skin and wide, expressive eyes.

‘Tonight Jessie Conway remains in hospital, although her condition is said to be no longer critical. Reports say the Special Education teacher and Coach was operated on earlier today and is recovering well from her ordeal. Mrs Conway was injured during a struggle with one of the shooters during the Rockville High attack, resulting in the deaths of three innocent people. Among the dead are Vice-Principal Alan Edwards and teaching assistant Tracy Flowers, as well as pupil James Aldershot. A number of other pupils remain in hospital, though their injuries are not thought to be life-threatening.’

The clip then changed to a roving reporter giving an overview of the shooting. Footage taken on the day in question popped up on screen. Caleb watched a grainy video of Jessie Conway being wheeled out of the school on a stretcher, surrounded by SWAT officers.

Caleb turned back to his weapons. Hero. People didn’t even know the meaning of the word. He glanced at the screen once more. They were now talking to another woman, a larger lady who a caption identified as Principal Carmichael. Caleb switched off the television and returned to his work.

J
essie opened
her eyes and blinked at the brightness of the overhead lights. She was thirsty and her mouth felt dry and sticky. Her head hurt; she raised her hand to it and felt bandages under her fingers.

‘How are you feeling?’

Jessie turned her head slightly. Fay Conway, Mike’s mother, sat by the side of the bed on a plastic chair. Fay was a sprightly, rather glamorous sixty-four-year-old. She had ash-blonde hair cut in a chic bob, lived in pastel linen pantsuits and her glasses hung around her neck on a fine gold chain. Jessie could not recall a time she had ever seen her mother-in-law without makeup.

‘Would you like me call the doctor?’ Fay rose from the chair and reached for a red button.

‘No. No, thank you.’

Jessie closed her eyes again. She was in pain and confused. She tried to remember where she was. She had no recollection of being moved into the room in which she now found herself. She tried to focus, but could only picture a yellow sundress. She saw the red stain spreading across it. She saw Tracy Flowers lying on her side by the drinks machine.

She opened her eyes and looked at Fay.

‘Is Tracy dead?’

Fay lifted Jessie’s right hand from the bed cover and held it in between her own. Jessie searched her mother-in-law’s face. She and Fay had never been close, but she knew Fay to be a woman of integrity. The expression on her face was almost more than Jessie could bear. More memories came now, rushing in like raging waters. Edwards’ fingers scrabbling on the floor, children screaming, the boy looking up at her, the blood staining his teeth.

Jessie began to shake.

‘Oh!’ Fay looked alarmed. She jabbed the buzzer by the bed with her thumb.

‘Now Jessie, you listen to me. Everything is going to be okay. Mike will be back shortly. He was here earlier. He would have been here, but I sent him home to grab a shower and a change of clothes. We weren’t sure when you might wake up.’

‘Is Tracy dead?’

‘We can talk about this later honey, I think I should go find—’

‘Fay, please.’

Jessie tightened her grip on Fay’s hand. Fay glanced towards the door, then her shoulders slumped.

‘She didn’t make it. I’m sorry … but she’s gone.’

‘How … many others?’

‘Three dead, five wounded.’

Jessie squeezed her eyes shut tight.

‘Would have been a whole lot more too if it hadn’t been for you. What you did … what you did was incredibly brave. Jessie Conway, you saved them.’

‘Those boys … why did they do this?’

‘I don’t know. I heard they left some kind of tape, but I don’t know what was on it. Karen will know more. She’ll be here shortly.’

Jessie choked back a sob. ‘I saw her. I saw Tracy in her dress. I couldn’t reach her.’

‘Oh no, Jessie, no, there was nothing you could have done. I am sorry for your friend but I believe she died instantly.’

Jessie could no longer contain her emotions. She wept. Fay tried to comfort her, but nothing could stem her grief. A blonde nurse came in. She spoke awhile with Fay and left. When she returned, she was carrying a needle filled with liquid, which she injected into the drip by Jessie’s bed. Jessie closed her eyes, her body stopped trembling and she returned to the darkness.

When she woke again it was dark outside. Fay was gone and Mike had taken her place. He sat twisted sideways, his head resting on the thumbs of each hand, one leg hooked under her bed. She watched him for a moment, letting her eyes roam over his weathered skin, his tousled brown hair. He wore a clean denim shirt open at the neck, blue jeans and, she knew without looking, tan boots, laced but one from the top.

‘Mike.’

Mike turned his head. Jessie was shocked to see how exhausted and worn out he looked.

‘Hey.’

He bent over her and kissed her forehead. She smelled soap and diesel on his skin and a faint trace of jasmine.

‘Is it true? Three dead?’

‘She had no business talking about that to you.’

‘I asked her. Is it true?’

‘Yes.’

‘They were children, the shooters, Mike. They were just children.’

Mike’s expression tightened. ‘There was a detective here earlier; he wants to talk to you, get your statement.’

‘I scarcely know what to tell him.’

They sat in silence for a while.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Fuzzy. My head hurts.’

Jessie studied her husband’s eyes. They were cool green, like the still water in the lake behind their house.

‘What is it?’

‘I can’t believe this happened.’ Mike took her hand in his. He pressed his finger down on the soft spot between her thumb and her index finger. Jessie eased her way closer to him.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘I don’t know, numb I guess. I can’t … there are gaps.’

‘I’m not surprised; you took a fair amount of shot to your head.’

‘The boy … Saunders, he started shooting at people, like we were animals or something. Like we were nothing.’ She swallowed. ‘He was laughing, Mike, he laughed the whole time.’

‘Shush, Jessie, don’t upset yourself.’

‘The other boy, the one I shot …’ She closed her eyes and waited until her voice was steady enough to ask the question she needed to ask. She pulled back and looked at her husband. ‘Who is he?’

Mike smiled, but only with his mouth; his eyes remained troubled. ‘We don’t need to talk about that right now. What we need to concentrate on is getting you better and getting you home. I swear, that dog of yours is more work than one man can handle.’

‘Do they know why they did this? Fay mentioned a tape or —’

‘Jess.’

‘I want to know. I 
need
 to know.’

Mike’s grip grew uncomfortably tight, but she gave no outward sign. After a prolonged silence he sighed and began to tell her what he had learned. When he was done talking she no longer cared that her head ached. She no longer cared about her hair or her ear.

‘He was fourteen?’

‘He was fourteen with a loaded gun. Jessie, he tried to blow your head off.’

‘But he was 
fourteen
 – a child.’

‘Three people are dead because of Kyle Saunders and Hector Diaz. Don’t you go feeling bad about the hand 
they
 forced. They had the school on lockdown; they meant business. From what I’m told, Saunders left some kind of video bragging about what he was planning to do. He would have slaughtered anyone who crossed his path.’

Jessie thought of the boy – no, she knew his name now – she thought of Hector Diaz on his back, with his fingers curled by his side, the bubbles popping between his bloodstained teeth. She began to cry, silently at first, then harder, as sobs wracked her body.

‘Jessie, listen to me,’ Mike held her, his voice firm. ‘Everyone knows what you did. You prevented a massacre and that’s the fact of it. What you did was unbelievable, I don’t—’

The door to Jessie’s room opened and a large shape in a powder-blue suit filled the gap.

‘Knock knock! May I enter?’

Jessie wiped her eyes and blinked. She recognised Zachary Williams, pastor from the Church of the Risen Lord. Pastor Williams was something of a celebrity in Rockville. He had a weekly radio show and was as media-friendly as he was spiritually connected to the Lord. Fay was one of his most ardent admirers and attended his services weekly.

‘Pastor,’ Mike nodded, smiling.

Pastor Williams set a large garish bunch of flowers on Jessie’s bed.

‘My dear,’ he said, taking Jessie’s free hand in his massive, freckled paws. ‘It is truly a miracle to see you with us this day. The Lord in his infinite wisdom has watched over you.’

Jessie attempted a smile but could not quite pull it off. She did not much care for Pastor Williams and had endured a number of run-ins with him over the years. He was on the board of Rockville High; she thought him to be a bully and a bigot behind his pious façade. Not that it mattered what she thought. He was a local, born and bred; adored by many from the tips of his expensive python-skin boots to his barley-coloured locks and whiskers, the cultivation of which Jessie believed was another calculated act.

‘Everyone asks after you and I 
mean
 everyone. They want you to know that you are in their prayers young lady.’

‘Thank you.’

‘How 
are
 you?’

‘Tired.’

‘That is understandable.’ He sighed deeply, rolling his shoulders back as though the weight of the world rested upon them. ‘This is an exacting time. I have this moment come from the grieving family of poor James Aldershot. Seventeen years old. Those poor people, the light has gone from their lives.’

Jessie did not know how to respond. Her head ached so badly it was all she could do to focus on his face.

‘They ask for answers, but what answer can I give that will comfort them now? We are becoming what God warned us about in Isaiah 5:20. These evils, these trials. God warned us, for he said, “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter.”’

Pastor Williams paused in a theatrical fashion, as though he stood in the ornately carved pulpit of his church. ‘We have put everything before our God. We leave our children to fend for themselves, to seek solace and understanding in video games and violent programmes. Then we ask, “
Who
 is to blame?” Who can we point the finger of recrimination at next? God’s revelations, his very words are being ignored. His love is constantly rebuked. We are staring into the abyss and we—’

Jessie could stand it no longer. ‘I’m sorry, Pastor Williams. But please … I am very tired. Perhaps we can talk another time.’

‘Of course.’ He placed his hand on her forehead. His skin felt smooth and dry, like that of a snake. ‘I will stop by tomorrow when you are feeling more up to company. May the Lord keep and protect you.’

As he moved away to the door, he paused, as though something had occurred to him.

‘Where is my head today, I almost forgot. Jessie, Mike, I have a small favour to ask.’

‘What is it?’

‘Darla Levine, you know, our own local girl from 
The Gazette
. Well Darla wondered if perhaps you might give her a moment of your time. When you feel up to it of course.’

Jessie’s chest tightened. ‘I don’t really feel up to speaking to the media.’

‘Of course, I completely understand.’ Pastor Williams smiled. ‘Darla though, well, she is not really media as such; she’s one of us. She would be highly respectful of your sensibilities.’

‘Then let her start now,’ Jessie said, feeling a wave of exhaustion she could barely fight. She glanced at her husband. ‘Mike.’

‘I think Jessie needs her rest, Pastor. We can speak about this tomorrow.’

‘Of course,’ Pastor Williams said again. He turned to the door, but not before Jessie caught the glint in his eye and knew he had placed another black mark against her name.