Last to die

  Last to die

  James Grippando

  Tatum Knight is a former contract killer. Ruthless. Conniving. And he's Jack's newest client. Tatum is the older brother of Jack's best friend, Theo. Theo himself spent time on death row until Jack found the evidence to prove him innocent. Jack isn't so sure about Tatum.

  A gorgeous young woman has been shot dead in her Mercedes on a Miami street. Tatum denies that he had anything to do with it, but he admits to Jack that he did meet with her in Theo's bar, where she tried to hire him.

  Sally Fenning was worth forty-eight million dollars when she died. Money had never made her happy, so she left it all to her enemies – left it for them to fight over, that is. She named six heirs in her will, but there's a catch: No one gets a penny until all but one of the heirs are dead. It's survival of the greediest.

  Quickly the lawyers gear up for a bitter legal battle, but Jack braces himself for much worse. He alone knows that heir number six – Tatum Knight – is a professional killer. As the heirs begin to fall, Jack and his unforgettable sidekick, Theo, are in a race against time to discover if Tatum is behind all the killing. Or is someone even more frightening, more dangerous, the odds-on favorite to be the last to die?

  James Grippando

  Last to die

  The third book in the Jack Swyteck series

  Prologue: 1996

  At last, the old house was quiet. Sally Fenning sat alone at her kitchen table, three stacks of bills before her-due, overdue, and hopeless.

  She didn’t know where to start. Tonight’s tips had been pathetic, hardly worth the aggravation of being a waitress. “Waitress” actually dignified what she did, slogging pitchers of beer and platters of spicy chicken wings to drunk tourists who grabbed an eyeful of T amp;A with every move she made. In her flimsy nylon jogging shorts and skintight tank top with the plunging neckline, she sometimes felt as though she might as well be dancing naked on tables. At least the pay wouldn’t suck.

  She pitched the telephone cancellation notice into the trash. They always sent two before actually cutting off service.

  Things hadn’t always been this bad. She and her husband once owned a little Italian restaurant in Miami Shores, found success, expanded, and promptly fell on their faces. Don’t mess with a good thing, was her take on expansion. But Mike was hell-bent on growth, dead-certain that they’d be selling franchises in five years. They used personal credit cards to finance the build-out, suckered by those low introductory rates that lasted six months, followed by a rate so high that your calculator overheats when you compute what you’re paying over the life of the loan. The paint on the walls was barely dry when a no-name tropical storm slammed into their shopping strip and sent their red-and-white-checkered tablecloths floating into the parking lot. No flood insurance. The restaurant never reopened. Three years later her husband was working two jobs and she was a Hooters Girl, hardly a dent made in the principal balance on their restaurant debt.

  Some people said she had no pride. But she had too much pride-too much to just throw in the towel and file for bankruptcy.

  “Mommeeeeee,” came the little voice from the bedroom at the end of the hall. Their four-year-old daughter was not a great sleeper, and calling out for Mommy at midnight was becoming routine.

  She looked up from her check ledger but didn’t move from her chair. “Katherine, go to sleep, please.”

  “But I want a story.”

  She hesitated. It was late, but working till eleven o’clock, five nights a week, didn’t allow her the luxury of putting her child to bed. That was Mike’s job, before he headed out for the eight-to-midnight shift as a security guard, or his mother’s, who was good enough to come over every night and watch television while Katherine slept, filling the gap between the time Mike left for his second job and Sally came home from hers. The thought of reading to her daughter made Sally’s heart melt. She rose from the table and went to the bedroom.

  “All right. One story.”

  “Yeah!”

  “But then you have to go to sleep. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She slid into the bed beside Katherine, her back against the head-board. Her daughter nuzzled close to her. “What story do you want?”

  “This one,” the little girl said as she took the book from the nightstand.

  “Where the Wild Things Are,” said Sally, reading the title. She knew it well, the story of a little boy whose imagination transforms his bedroom into a scary place where he must confront an island filled with monsters and become their ruler. Sally remembered how her own mother used to read the same story to her when she was going through her nightmare stage as a little girl. Twenty years later, the message was the same: Fear is all in your head.

  “Are you still having nightmares, sweetheart?”

  “Mmmm hmmm.”

  “Why?”

  “Scared.”

  “What are you scared of?”

  “Monster.”

  “There are no monsters.”

  “Yes, over there,” she said, pointing toward the drapes that covered the sliding glass door.

  “No, honey. There are no monsters out there.”

  “Uh-huh, for real.”

  “Come on. Let’s read the story.”

  Sally felt her daughter’s face press against her heart as she read aloud. She gave each monster its own voice, not too scary, so as not to frighten Katherine. She was asleep before the little boy named Max made it back from the faraway island to the safety of his own room. Sally quietly slid out of bed, kissed Katherine on the forehead, and tiptoed out of the room.

  Back to the bills. Greenleaf Financing. That was a beauty. Two thousand dollars’ worth of computer equipment and restaurant software that they’d leased over a five-year period for total payments of twenty-eight thousand dollars. What a deal.

  “Mommy.” It was another call from the bedroom.

  “What is it, honey?”

  “Scared. There’s monsters.”

  She pushed away from the kitchen table and went to the bedroom, but she stopped short in the doorway, refusing to let herself be manipulated into coming inside. “There’s no such thing as monsters.”

  “But, Mommy-”

  “It’s time to go to sleep.”

  “Can you leave the light on?”

  “I’ll leave the hall light on.”

  “Thank you, Mommy. You the best.”

  It was hard to be firm with someone who told you you’re the best and truly believed it. She smiled and said, “Good night. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She returned to the kitchen, but she didn’t have the stomach to go back to those stacks of bills. The rent was due, and Lord only knew where that was going to come from. Renting a house instead of an apartment was an extravagance in their financial straits, even if it was a dumpy old two-bedroom/one-bath that any builder would have considered a tear-down. But Sally had grown up in an apartment, no yard, no privacy, no chimney for Santa to climb down on Christmas Eve. Katherine deserved better, even if it meant forcing the landlord to throw them out on the street.

  She opened the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of orange juice.

  “Mommy, I want something to drink.”

  Sally turned, but Katherine wasn’t there. She was still in bed. That girl has ESP. “Go to sleep, baby.”

  “But, Mommy, please. I didn’t see you all day.”

  That got to her, tapping straight into a working mother’s guilt. One last time, she went to her daughter and sat on the edge of the bed. The light from the hallway was just enough to reveal the fear in her eyes.

  “Are you still scared?”

  Katherine nodded.

  Sally felt her forehead. It was
clammy with sweat but not from fever. She was just overheated from lying in bed with the covers pulled over her head. “Why are you so afraid?”

  “The monster.”

  “If I lie down with you for a little while, will you go to sleep?”

  “I want to sleep in your room. Just till Daddy comes home.”

  “Honey, you’re a big girl now. This is your room.”

  “But the monster.”

  “There is no monster.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “You look, please?”

  She sighed, exasperated. “Yes, I’ll look.” She got down and checked under the bed. “Nothing under here.”

  “No, no. Over there.” She was pointing toward the drapes again, the ones that covered the sliding glass door.

  Sally hesitated. Even in the dim lighting she could make out the playful pink images of birds, rabbits, and other nursery-rhyme animals that danced across the balloon draperies. Hardly the stuff of a monster’s cloak, but her heart still fluttered. The fear in her daughter’s eyes seemed so genuine.

  “There’s no monster.”

  “Go check, Mommy. Please.”

  She looked harder this time. Strange, but she found herself wondering if the rabbit was in the same place it had been a minute ago, or if it had moved. It seemed that it was no longer lined up with the little yellow duck on the other panel. She thought her eyes were playing tricks, until she saw it again.

  That rabbit moved. Ever so slightly, it had definitely moved.

  The air conditioner clicked off, and the knot in her belly loosened as the draperies settled back into place. The cool draft from the air conditioner had evidently caught the pleats, causing the subtle shift. No monsters.

  “Will you, Mommy?”

  “Will I what?”

  “Look for the monster.”

  “Okay. I’ll check.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Mommy, go.”

  She suddenly felt foolish. She had actually considered switching on the lamp, then chided herself for even thinking about doing something that might convey her own irrational fear to her daughter. All this talk of monsters was actually getting to her, making her feel alone, making her realize how defenseless they really were, how vulnerable they might be, separated from the outside world and everyone in it by a flimsy lock and a mere pane of glass.

  Stop it. She started across the room, one step at a time. It seemed to be taking forever. She was taking half steps, she realized, another sign of fear.

  This is crazy.

  Finally, she made it. She glanced back toward the bed and saw Katherine peering out from beneath the blanket, all but her eyes and the top of her head hidden. Sally’s pulse quickened as she reached out and gently pinched the fabric’s edge between her thumb and index finger, getting no closer to the sliding glass door than was absolutely necessary. Katherine ducked beneath the covers. Sally drew a deep breath. In a slow, tentative motion she pulled back the panel.

  Nothing.

  “See,” said Sally. “I told you. No monsters.”

  Katherine was still hiding beneath the covers. In a muffled voice she said, “The other end. Check the other end, too.”

  Sally hesitated. She wasn’t sure if it was instinct or paranoia that was telling her not to go there, but she couldn’t let Katherine see her silly fears. She took a half step, then another, moving closer to the draperies’ edge-the far edge where that bunny had moved.

  “Careful, Mommy.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, sweetheart.” She didn’t like the sound of her own voice. It was as if she were trying to convince herself.

  Her gaze drifted across the draperies, a happy portrait of dancing ducks and singing birds. Finally, her eyes locked on the bunny, and she waited. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, exactly, just movement of any kind. But she knew that if you stared at anything long enough it would seem to move, the way stars seem to swirl in the night sky if you lie on your back and stare up long enough. Still, she couldn’t tear her eyes away. The bunny was motionless, and then it happened. Maybe it was an illusion, like swirling stars, but the bunny’s chest seemed to swell and then shrink. It was as if it were breathing.

  As if something behind it had just taken a breath.

  “Is it okay, Mommy?”

  On impulse, she grabbed the cord and pulled. The drapes flew open, and she froze. She was staring at her own faint reflection in the sliding glass door. Behind her, in the bed, Katherine’s head emerged from beneath the covers.

  Sally gave her own fears a moment to subside, then tried to play it cool. “See. I told you there were no mon-”

  The closet door burst open, and from the corner of her eye Sally saw a blur in the darkness coming toward her. She heard her own scream and then her daughter’s cry. “Mommy!”

  The blur hit her full speed and broadside, smashing her against the wall. She turned and let her fist fly with all her might, but it was all too quick, and he was far too strong. A blow to her belly took her breath away. Her head snapped back as the attacker grabbed her by the hair. She clawed at his face with her nails, but it was covered with a nylon stocking. Her body twisted, her daughter screamed, and Sally’s eyes widened as she saw the shiny blade glisten in the stream of light from the hallway. It was coming toward her, as if in slow motion, but she felt powerless to stop it. She twisted once more, a futile effort to escape.

  Her blouse came up, and she watched the blade disappear as the man’s fist met her flesh.

  She screamed and fell to the floor, gasping for air, trying to stop the hot, wet river of pain that was flowing from the hole below her ribs.

  Blood. So much blood.

  “Mommy, Mommy!”

  Katherine’s cries gave her strength, and somehow she sprang into action and grabbed her attacker by the ankles. It was like tackling a mule, and his kick stopped her cold. She tried to rise again, but the room was swirling.

  “Don’t hurt…my daughter,” she said, but she could barely get the words out.

  He kicked her once more, harder this time. She felt her teeth crack, and the salty taste of blood filled her mouth. She struggled to lift her head, but it dropped to the floor.

  “Mommy, the monster! The monster!”

  Her daughter’s screams faded, and Sally’s world went black.

  Part One

  Five Years Later

  One

  The rainstorm was blinding, and Sally was way behind schedule. She hadn’t intended to be late, fashionably or otherwise. She just wasn’t good with directions, and this wasn’t exactly her neck of the woods.

  Sheets of water pelted the windshield, sounding like marbles bouncing off glass. She adjusted the wipers, but they were already working at full speed. She couldn’t remember rain like this in years, not since she and her first husband lost their restaurant to that no-name tropical storm.

  Orange taillights flashed ahead. A stream of cars was inching down the highway at the speed of cooling lava. She slowed to somewhere below the school-zone limit, then checked her watch. Eleven twenty-five.

  Damn. He’d just have to wait. She’d get there, eventually.

  Their meeting had been arranged by telephone. They’d spoken only once, and his instructions were simple enough. Thursday, 11 P.M. Don’t be late. She didn’t dare reschedule, not even in this weather. This was her man. She was sure of it.

  Just ahead, a neon sign blinked erratically, as if shaken by the storm. It was like trying to read an eye chart at the bottom of a lake, and she could only make out part of it: S-P-something-something-KY-apostrophe-S.

  “Sparky’s,” she read aloud. This was the place. She steered off the highway and pulled into the flooded parking lot. Under all this water, she could only guess as to the exact location of the parking spot. She killed the engine and checked her face in the rearview mirror. Lightning flashed-a close one. It lit up the inside of her car and unleashed a crack of thunder
that sent shivers down her spine. It frightened her, then triggered a bemused smile. How ironic would that have been? After all this planning, to get hit by lightning.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. No turning back now. Just go for it.

  She jumped down from the car and started her mad dash across the parking lot in the pouring rain. Almost immediately a blast of wind snatched her umbrella from her hand and pitched it somewhere into the next county. Wearing no coat, she covered her head with her hands and just kept running, splashing with each footfall. In a matter of seconds she reached the door, soaked to her undergarments, her wet jeans and white blouse pasted to her body.

  A muscle-bound guy wearing a Gold’s Gym T-shirt was standing at the entrance, and he opened the door for her. “Wet T-shirt contest’s not till tomorrow, lady.”

  “You wish,” she said, then headed straight to the restroom to see if she could dry off. She looked in the mirror and gasped. Her nipples were staring back at her, right through her bra and wet blouse.

  Good God!

  She punched the hand dryer, hoping for hot air. Nothing. She tried again, and again, but to no avail. She reached for a paper towel, but the dispenser was empty. Toilet paper would have to do. She went to the stall, found a loose roll atop the tank, and proceeded to dab furiously from head to foot. It was single-ply paper, not terribly absorbent. She went through the entire roll. She exited the stall, took another look at her reflection in the mirror, and gasped even louder this time. Her entire body was covered with shredded remnants of cheap toilet paper.

  You look like a milkweed.

  She started laughing, not sure why. She laughed so hard it almost hurt. Then, with her hands braced on the edge of the sink, she leaned forward and hung her head. She could feel her emotional energy drifting up to that ever-present knot of tension at the base of her skull. Her shoulders started to heave, and the laughter turned to tears. She fought it off and quickly regained her composure.