Last to Die: A gripping psychological thriller not for the faint hearted by Arlene Hunt Page B
Authors: Arlene Hunt
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by the collar of her shirt and began to haul her across the dead grass towards the sidewalk. Jessie choked and gagged from the pressure on her neck. Buttons pinged as she scrambled to get her feet under her. She heard someone screaming.
‘Javier!’
Her shirt ripped. Jessie pitched forward onto her knees, gasping and sucking air. She curled into a tight ball but he managed to deliver a vicious kick to her ribs. Jessie cried out in pain. She tried to cover her head and caught a glimpse of a young girl flying down the steps, with an older man on her heels. The older man threw his arms around the young man who had attacked her and the girl disentangled his hands from what was left of Jessie’s shirt.
The older man was not large, but he was strong, and he hoisted her attacker into the air, away from Jessie towards the house. Jessie rolled onto her knees and managed to get to her feet. She staggered out to the car where she collapsed against the passenger side. She spat, wiped dirt from her mouth, and looked up. The older man was half pushing and half carrying the screaming Javier up the steps, where Hector’s mother now stood motionless. They passed her by and she leaned and closed the door behind them. After a moment, she walked down the garden to the fence. The younger girl fell into step behind her.
People had come out of their homes. They stood on their porches, silent, watching. Jessie used the car to haul herself upright. She was badly shaken; she realised most of her upper body was exposed. She pulled the tatters of her shirt around her.
‘I— I am…’
Jessie leaned against the side of her car, struggling to find words. She realised she had no idea how to begin, or how to articulate her thoughts. In the end, Ana Diaz spoke first.
‘You are the woman who shot Hector.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I wanted … to see you, to tell you that I’m sorry about what happened.’
The woman’s gaze did not waver, nor did her expression change in any way. She turned and began to walk towards the house.
‘Please, you must believe me. I am so sorry,’ Jessie cried. ‘He gave me no choice.’
Ana Diaz stopped walking. She said something in Spanish to the younger girl, and then went inside.
The girl retrieved the collar of Jessie shirt and carried it to her.
‘Thank you,’ Jessie said.
The girl dropped the collar into her hand, leaned back, and without warning spat in Jessie’s face.
Jessie wiped the spittle away with the collar. She pushed her hair back from her forehead and limped around to the other side of her car. She got in and tried to start it. It took her a number of attempts before she managed to get it going. At the end of the street she slowed for a stop sign and sat there, shaking. Another car drove up behind her and blasted its horn. Panicked, Jessie stalled the engine. He honked again. Then he pulled around her and drove away, leaving a blue plume of impatience in his wake.
18
B illy McCann’s ‘office’ was a small rough-and-tumble bar on the outskirts of town called The Rookery. Darla pulled into the parking lot shortly after six. She made sure there was nothing of value visible in her car, locked the doors and set the alarm. She had learned this particular lesson the hard way from previous visits.
Billy McCann was of Protestant Scottish stock. He was notoriously hot tempered and a monumental drinker. He had been a good lawyer once, way back in the days before he decided he preferred the company of loose women and hooch. Not that Darla could really remember – he had been disbarred long before she left high school – but he and her father had been tight. So, when Teddy Levine needed someone he could rely on to garner information on his third wife, the much-hated Stacy, it was to Billy that he turned. When Teddy died three years ago Darla had inherited Billy, along with the family home.
She found him now, seated with his back to the wall in his usual alcove inside
‘Javier!’
Her shirt ripped. Jessie pitched forward onto her knees, gasping and sucking air. She curled into a tight ball but he managed to deliver a vicious kick to her ribs. Jessie cried out in pain. She tried to cover her head and caught a glimpse of a young girl flying down the steps, with an older man on her heels. The older man threw his arms around the young man who had attacked her and the girl disentangled his hands from what was left of Jessie’s shirt.
The older man was not large, but he was strong, and he hoisted her attacker into the air, away from Jessie towards the house. Jessie rolled onto her knees and managed to get to her feet. She staggered out to the car where she collapsed against the passenger side. She spat, wiped dirt from her mouth, and looked up. The older man was half pushing and half carrying the screaming Javier up the steps, where Hector’s mother now stood motionless. They passed her by and she leaned and closed the door behind them. After a moment, she walked down the garden to the fence. The younger girl fell into step behind her.
People had come out of their homes. They stood on their porches, silent, watching. Jessie used the car to haul herself upright. She was badly shaken; she realised most of her upper body was exposed. She pulled the tatters of her shirt around her.
‘I— I am…’
Jessie leaned against the side of her car, struggling to find words. She realised she had no idea how to begin, or how to articulate her thoughts. In the end, Ana Diaz spoke first.
‘You are the woman who shot Hector.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I wanted … to see you, to tell you that I’m sorry about what happened.’
The woman’s gaze did not waver, nor did her expression change in any way. She turned and began to walk towards the house.
‘Please, you must believe me. I am so sorry,’ Jessie cried. ‘He gave me no choice.’
Ana Diaz stopped walking. She said something in Spanish to the younger girl, and then went inside.
The girl retrieved the collar of Jessie shirt and carried it to her.
‘Thank you,’ Jessie said.
The girl dropped the collar into her hand, leaned back, and without warning spat in Jessie’s face.
Jessie wiped the spittle away with the collar. She pushed her hair back from her forehead and limped around to the other side of her car. She got in and tried to start it. It took her a number of attempts before she managed to get it going. At the end of the street she slowed for a stop sign and sat there, shaking. Another car drove up behind her and blasted its horn. Panicked, Jessie stalled the engine. He honked again. Then he pulled around her and drove away, leaving a blue plume of impatience in his wake.
18
B illy McCann’s ‘office’ was a small rough-and-tumble bar on the outskirts of town called The Rookery. Darla pulled into the parking lot shortly after six. She made sure there was nothing of value visible in her car, locked the doors and set the alarm. She had learned this particular lesson the hard way from previous visits.
Billy McCann was of Protestant Scottish stock. He was notoriously hot tempered and a monumental drinker. He had been a good lawyer once, way back in the days before he decided he preferred the company of loose women and hooch. Not that Darla could really remember – he had been disbarred long before she left high school – but he and her father had been tight. So, when Teddy Levine needed someone he could rely on to garner information on his third wife, the much-hated Stacy, it was to Billy that he turned. When Teddy died three years ago Darla had inherited Billy, along with the family home.
She found him now, seated with his back to the wall in his usual alcove inside
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