The Final Victim

by that's me

  "Run for yo­ur li­fe?" He tig­h­tens his grip on her arm. "Why wo­uld you be run­ning for yo­ur li­fe?"

  All right, it was an odd thing for her to say. For so­me! re­ason, the ima­ge just pop­ped in­to her he­ad. And now that it's the­re, she can't se­em to ma­ke light of it.

  "I just me­an, it wo­uldn't be easy if I had to," she tells Roy­ce.

  "Well, you wo­uldn't ha­ve to. I'd sco­op you up and carry you away from who­ever was cha­sing you."

  "Who wo­uld be cha­sing me?"

  "I don't know… a pack of ar­dent ma­le ad­mi­rers?"

  She lo­oks up to find him smi­ling at her-and promptly stum­b­les over a rock.

  You re­al­ly sho­uld ha­ve worn flats, she chi­des her­self ru­eful­ly, re­tur­ning her ga­ze to her fe­et as she re­su­med pic­king her way along the slo­pe.

  Yes, but the­se he­eled san­dals len­g­t­hen her ba­re legs, and they're a bright co­ral-red to match her fa­vo­ri­te sun-J dress. Roy­ce's fa­vo­ri­te sun­d­ress, re­al­ly-which ma­kes it,in turn, her own.

  She usu­al­ly do­esn't li­ke to ba­re her sho­ul­ders, be ca­use of an un­sightly bir­t­h­mark on her right sho­ul­der But so­me­ti­mes, the op­pres­si­ve sum­mer he­at al­lows com fort to out­we­igh con­cern abo­ut her ap­pe­aran­ce.

  She still re­cal­ls the way his eyes lit up in ap­pre­ci­ati­on the first ti­me he saw her in this par­ti­cu­lar out­fit, back when they we­re first da­ting. He didn't even se­em to no­ti­ce the bir­t­h­mark.

  "You lo­ok li­ke a lus­ci­o­us lob­s­ter," he sa­id with a low whis­t­le, and she co­uldn't help but la­ugh.

  "A lob­s­ter? Is that the best you can do?" He nuz­zled her neck and sa­id, "Lob­s­ter is a well-known ap­h­ro­di­si­ac."

  "I tho­ught that was oy­s­ters."

  "Well, you don't lo­ok a bit li­ke an oy­s­ter," was his res­pon­se, and they sha­red a la­ugh.

  A whir­l­wind co­ur­t­s­hip, a ye­ar of mar­ri­age, and still madly in lo­ve-this, she thinks of­ten, in gra­ti­tu­de la­ced with re­li­ef, is how mar­ri­age sho­uld be.

  Thank God, thank God, thank God for Roy­ce. Roy­ce, who he­aled her in so many ways. She emer­ged from her mar­ri­age to Vin­cent not just a be­re­aved mot­her, but a bar­ren wi­fe as well.

  Her first hus­band lost in­te­rest in her se­xu­al­ly the mo­ment she told him she was preg­nant with Adam. Her gyne­co­lo­gist, when she re­luc­tantly tur­ned to him in des­pa­ir, as­su­red her that it was a fa­irly com­mon syndro­me in men, and that on­ce the baby was born, and she re­ga­ined her fi­gu­re, and li­fe set­tled back to nor­mal, Vin­cent wo­uld want her aga­in. That didn't hap­pen. Ever.

  It wasn't un­til Roy­ce ca­me along that Char­lot­te dis­co­ve­red what it was to be truly de­si­red, un­con­di­ti­onal­ly. Truly lo­ved.

  Thank God, thank God, thank God for Roy­ce. With him, her li­fe is com­p­le­te.

  As com­p­le­te as it can ever be. Even a lo­ving hus­band can't fill the hol­low pla­ce left by Adam's de­ath. But if Roy­ce hadn't co­me along…

  Who knows what might ha­ve hap­pe­ned to her? Who knows how she wo­uld ha­ve ma­na­ged to go on li­ving?

  There was a ti­me, af­ter she lost Adam, when she didn't want to. When she even con­si­de­red se­e­ing to it that she wo­uldn't ha­ve to.

  She knew from ex­pe­ri­en­ce that the world wo­uld go on spin­ning wit­ho­ut her; that in ti­me, she'd be just ail ot­her scan­da­lo­us ske­le­ton in the Re­min­g­ton fa­mily clo­set.

  After all, she wo­uldn't be the first yo­ung Re­min­g­ton mot­her to com­mit su­ici­de.

  Thank God she bac­ked away from the ed­ge of that pre­ci­pi­ce. But she's ne­ver for­got­ten what it felt li­ke to te­eter the­re, not even ca­ring that her li­fe hung in the ba­lan­ce.

  If an­y­t­hing ever hap­pens to Roy­ce, or to Li­an­na-

  She cur­ta­ils the chil­ling tho­ught with an oft-re­pe­ated re­min­der that she's en­du­red her sha­re of sor­row.

  Nothing will hap­pen to her hus­band or da­ug­h­ter.

  They're both sa­fe.

  There will be no mo­re tra­gedy in Char­lot­te's li­fe.

  Nagging fe­ar is a na­tu­ral re­sult of all that's hap­pe­ned to her, and to Roy­ce.

  She can let it con­su­me her, or she can ig­no­re it.

  I've got to ig­no­re it, she thinks re­so­lu­tely, lif­ting her Re­min­g­ton chin with con­vic­ti­on.

  "Where are we go­ing?" Li­an­na asks Ke­vin Tin­k­s­ton when they re­ach the fork of the plan­ta­ti­on ro­ad.

  From he­re, the­re are only two cho­ices: go pretty much stra­ight west to­ward the nor­t­her­n­most of the two ca­use­ways le­ading to the ma­in­land, or ve­er to the left to­ward the is­land's com­mer­ci­al dis­t­rict down at the so­ut­her­n­most tip.

  All that li­es north and east of Oak­ga­te, be­yond ac­res of al­li­ga­tor- and rat­tles­na­ke-in­fes­ted mar­s­h­land, is a nar­row strip of sea oat-co­ve­red du­nes and the At­lan­tic Oce­an.

  But why he­ad so­uth? Ke­vin knows they can't risk be­ing se­en in pub­lic on the is­land, han­ging aro­und at the bo­ar­d­walk T-shirt and surf shops, or the ice-cre­am pla­ce or ca­fe.

  Which le­aves the wi­de, mi­les-long stretch of sand along the so­ut­he­as­tern co­ast.

  She hasn't set fo­ot back on that be­ach sin­ce that aw­ful La­bor Day we­ekend when Roy­ce's son drow­ned. Tho­ugh Theo was a stran­ger-and Li­an­na and her mot­her co­uld ne­ver ha­ve known that his fat­her wo­uld be­co­me a part of the­ir li­ves-wit­nes­sing a tra­gic in­ci­dent that ec­ho­ed of her own fa­mily's worst nig­h­t­ma­re left an in­de­lib­le mark on her.

  "Are we go­ing to the be­ach?" she de­mands, trying to ke­ep her vo­ice from ri­sing in pa­nic.

  "No."

  T don't be­li­eve you."

  Kevin turns his ga­ze away from the ro­ad just long eno­ugh to wink at her and drawl, "It's a sur­p­ri­se. You'll see."

  Some sur­p­ri­se. He's pro­bably ta­king her to his fa­mily's ram­s­hac­k­le ho­use down on the so­ut­h­west ca­nal, whe­re they're among a han­d­ful of ye­ar-ro­und re­si­dents. Most of the ot­hers are fis­her­men and Nor­t­hern re­ti­re­es.

  Lianna has yet to me­et the Tin­k­s­tons and she isn't su­re what, exactly, Ke­vin's pa­rents do be­si­des drink be­er and squ­ab­ble with each ot­her and the­ir sons, ac­cor­ding to lo­cal gos­sip.

  "Local gos­sip" be­ing her fri­end Gra­ce, who­se fa­mily has a sum­mer ho­use out on the is­land. It was Gra­ce who first had the crush on Ke­vin, and drag­ged Li­an­na to me­et him at the Mo­bil sta­ti­on, whe­re he was pum­ping gas. But it was Li­an­na he no­ti­ced.

  That was in June and he's be­en her sec­ret boy­f­ri­end ever sin­ce. Her fri­en­d­s­hip with Gra­ce is of­fi­ci­al­ly over.

  She hasn't had any reg­rets abo­ut the who­le thing re­al­ly…

  Well, not un­til now.

  "So are we go­ing to yo­ur ho­use?"

  "What, are you sick? No!" 'Then whe­re?"

  Silence.

  "I don't want to go to the be­ach," she warns Ke­vin. "If that's what you we­re sec­retly plan­ning."

  "No one will be down the­re to see us. Not whe­re we're go­ing."

  Her pul­se qu­ic­kens. "So? My mot­her fin­ding out isn't the only re­ason I don't want to go to the be­ach."

  "Yeah, well, the sun's not out?"

  Right. Now what? She's be­en using a fa­ke sun al­lergy to avo­id me­eting him the­re du­ring the day the­se last few we­eks. That, and the thre­at that her mot­her might find out abo­ut it.

  But she can't use eit­her of tho­se ex­cu­ses now.

  And she'll ha­ve to go back to the be­ach so­oner or la­ter, won
't she?

  Besides, an­y­w­he­re is bet­ter than glo­omy old Oak­ga­te, es­pe­ci­al­ly to­night, with ever­yo­ne mo­ping aro­und af­ter' Gran­dad­dy's fu­ne­ral.

  Which is why she text mes­sa­ged Ke­vin ear­li­er and as­ked him to co­me get her. She didn't even ha­ve to tell him whe­re to find her. Af­ter a few nights of sne­aking out to me­et him, the ro­uti­ne is set. He al­ways picks her up just be­yond the plan­ta­ti­on ga­tes, whe­re she; wa­its in her usu­al spot in the sha­dows of a to­we­ring li­ve oak.

  As far as her mot­her and Roy­ce know, she's loc­ked sa­fely and sul­lenly in her ro­om.

  As far as Li­an­na knows, no­body-ot­her than Ke­vin,of co­ur­se-is awa­re of the con­ce­aled pa­nel le­ading to a sec­ret do­or be­si­de the fi­rep­la­ce. No­body ali­ve to­day, that is.

  "The wi­pers on the bus go swish swish swish," Mi­mi Gas­par Joh­n­s­ton sings for per­haps the twen­ti­eth ti­me to­day. "Swish swish swish. Swish swish sw-"

  "Babe, ha­ve you se­en my keys?" Un­li­ke her son, Mi­mi wel­co­mes the in­ter­rup­ti­on. "On the hal­lway tab­le," she tells her hus­band, who's stan­ding in the do­or­way of the baby's ro­om, we­aring je­ans and a T-shirt and clut­c­hing his tra­vel mug.

  Tow-headed, blue-eyed Ca­me­ron, who in­he­ri­ted his mot­her's co­lo­ring and his fat­her's ener­ge­tic per­so­na­lity, squ­irms in Mi­mi's arms as she tri­es to jam his arms in­to his blue and whi­te stri­ped pa­j­ama top.

  Jed is spe­aking, but wha­te­ver he's sa­ying is drow­ned out by Ca­me­ron sho­uting, "Sing, Mommy! Sing!" 'Just a se­cond, Cam. What did you say, Jed?" "I sa­id, I al­re­ady chec­ked the­re." "Milky, Mommy!"

  "I pro­mi­se you can ha­ve milk and co­oki­es as so­on as you're dres­sed, but you ha­ve to let me and Daddy talk," Mi­mi ad­mo­nis­hes her son, then asks her hus­band, "Did you lo­ok un­der the pi­le of ma­il on the hall tab­le?" "No, but-"

  "Look un­der the pi­le of ma­il," Mi­mi says abo­ve Ca­me­ron's howl as, top on at last, she at­tempts to stick °ne of his chubby, wrig­gling legs in­to the pa­j­ama bot­toms.

  "I don't think they're the­re."

  She sho­ves asi­de a swe­at-dam­pe­ned ten­d­ril of blond ha­ir that has es­ca­ped her pon­y­ta­il. 'They are."

  "I don't think so." Jed turns on the he­el of his ste­el, to­ed bo­ot and le­aves the ro­om.

  "Sing, Mommy!"

  With an in­ner sigh, Mi­mi ob­li­ges. 'The whe­els of the bus go-"

  "No. Wi­pers! Swish swish, Mommy!" or­ders the mi­ni! tyrant who has re­cendy pos­ses­sed her swe­et-tem­pe­red child.

  Mimi sings abo­ut wi­pers swis­hing whi­le get­ting his legs in­to his pa­j­amas and his fe­et in­to the lit­tle su­ede so­led blue Pad­ders. As she lets him squ­irm out of her grasp at last, she ru­eful­ly no­tes that Cam is ra­pidly out-: gro­wing both the slip­pers and the pa­j­amas.

  How the heck are they go­ing to squ­e­eze mo­re out this month's al­re­ady-ex­ha­us­ted bud­get? Mi­mi can't her mot­her to stretch her fi­xed in­co­me aga­in-she re­ady pa­id for Cam's last chec­kup at the doc­tor's.

  "Vail re­al­ly ne­ed me­di­cal in­su­ran­ce," she re­cently ad­mo­nis­hed Mi­mi, as she of­ten has. "If we hadn't had it when yo­ur fat­her got sick…"

  She al­ways tra­ils off at that po­int, but Mi­mi knows the rest of the story. Mi­mi knows her fat­her had the best ca­re pos­sib­le af­ter be­ing di­ag­no­sed with lung di­se­ase knows that the doc­tors bo­ught him mo­re ti­me. Tim eno­ugh to see his only da­ug­h­ter mar­ri­ed and his first gran­d­c­hild born.

  "We'll get in­su­ran­ce, Mom." Yes, and so­me­day, we'll get to Euro­pe, too. 'Just as so­on as Jed finds a re­gu­lar job with be­ne­fits."

  God only knows when that will be. Jed is back, stan­ding in the do­or­way dan­g­ling his keys. "You we­re right." She in­ter­rupts her sin­ging and her pri­va­te bud­ge wor­ri­es with a sa­tis­fi­ed, "Told you so."

  "Do you ha­ve to say that?"

  "Yes," she rep­li­es with a grin as Jed steps over scat­te­red DUP­LO blocks to em­b­ra­ce her, "I do."

  Her son tugs on the hem of her ho­me­ma­de cu­toff de­nim shorts as her hus­band pulls her clo­se. "Milky, Mommy."

  "Hmmm?" Ex­ha­us­ted, Mi­mi rests her he­ad on Jed's sho­ul­der. She can't help wis­hing she was al­re­ady in bed, rat­her than fa­cing ho­use­hold tasks she's be­en me­aning to get to all day-and wis­hing that Jed was in bed with her, in­s­te­ad of he­ading out to start the over­night ro­ad-crew shift he's be­en wor­king sin­ce last Oc­to­ber, when a hur­ri­ca­ne all but des­t­ro­yed the so­ut­her­n­most of Ac­ho­co Is­land's two ca­use­ways.

  Now the­re's only one way on and off the is­land, who­se bur­ge­oning po­pu­la­ti­on ma­kes for fre­qu­ent traf­fic tie-ups, par­ti­cu­larly du­ring be­ach se­ason. Jed and the crew are un­der a lot of pres­su­re to fi­nish the job.

  "Milky, Ma­ma," Ca­me­ron per­sists, tac­king on an ado­rab­le, "Pwe­ase?"

  Stifling a yawn, Mi­mi re­cal­ls a li­ne of an old Ro­bert Frost po­em:

  But I ha­ve pro­mi­ses to ke­ep,

  And mi­les to go be­fo­re I sle­ep…

  "Hungry, Char­lot­te?" Roy­ce asks, as they emer­ge on bus­t­ling Ri­ver Stre­et not far from the res­ta­urant. The warm air is thick with the tan­ta­li­zing aro­ma of de­ep-fri­ed shel­lfish.

  "Hungry-and ho­me­sick," she rep­li­es, lon­ging for the­ir new ho­me on a le­afy block fa­cing Co­lo­ni­al Park Ce­me­tery not far from he­re.

  "Me, too. It won't be long now."

  "Maybe we can co­me back ho­me by the end of July," she tells Roy­ce ho­pe­ful­ly-tho­ugh even if that's pos­sib­le, she'll be fa­cing al­most a month at Oak­ga­te wit­ho­ut her gran­d­fat­her… or with his ghost, de­pen­ding on one's wil­lin­g­ness to sus­pend dis­be­li­ef.

  "I do­ubt we'll be in be­fo­re August. Even if the in­te­ri­or work is do­ne, they'll still ha­ve to pa­int and pa­per, and fi­nish the wo­od­work-" Cat­c­hing sight of her ex­p­res­si­on, he adds re­as­su­ringly, "But I'm su­re we'll be ho­me be­fo­re scho­ol starts, li­ke I pro­mi­sed Li­an­na."

  "I ho­pe so." The­re will be hell to pay if the tem­pe­ra* men­tal thir­te­en-ye­ar-old fa­ces even anot­her day of be­ing dri­ven for­ty-fi­ve mi­nu­tes from the plan­ta­ti­on to Sa­van­nah Co­untry Day Scho­ol by Step­hen, Gran­dad­dy's lon­g­ti­me cha­uf­fe­ur.

  Lianna is em­bar­ras­sed by the long black town car and, in­fu­ri­atingly, by kindly old Step­hen. She's con­ve­ni­ently for­got­ten that the cha­uf­fe­ur was her he­ro when he sup­pli­ed her with poc­kets full of bub­ble­gum back id the early days af­ter the di­vor­ce, when they we­re first li­ving at Oak­ga­te.

  These days, Li­an­na finds fa­ult with ever­y­t­hing abo­ut Step­hen-from his be­ing hard of he­aring to his Euro­pe­an for­ma­lity.

  "Does he ha­ve to we­ar that stu­pid uni­form?" she fre-qu­endy grum­b­led thro­ug­ho­ut the scho­ol ye­ar, al­ways fol­lo­wed by her da­ily plea, "Why can't you just dri­ve me, Mom?"

  Because you'd ha­ve me so up­set by the ti­me we got to town, that's why.

  But Char­lot­te wo­uld al­ways ma­na­ge to sum­mon every bit of ma­ter­nal pa­ti­en­ce she pos­ses­sed and ke­ep her tho­ughts to her­self. She just shrug­ged and told Li­an­na that Step­hen wo­uld be dri­ving her for as long as they we­re sta­ying at Oak­ga­te, pe­ri­od.

  Now, strol­ling along Ri­ver Stre­et, with its row of brightly lit res­ta­urants and shops ho­used in for­mer cot­ton wa­re­ho­uses, Char­lot­te so longs for her old li­fe back that she's tem­p­ted to la­unch in­to a Li­an­na-st­y­le whi­ne.

  This, not Oak­ga­te, is her ho­me now.

  Savannah, and the ni­ne­te­en
­th-cen­tury ar­c­hi­tec­tu­ral gem she and Roy­ce bo­ught this win­ter, with its dor­me­red man­sard ro­of, brac­ke­ted cor­ni­ces, and lush gar­dens now frag­rant with sum­mer blo­oms.

  It isn't far from whe­re she grew up. But sadly, that Be­a­ux Arts man­si­on on Aber­corn Stre­et-li­ke its fi­nal ow­ners-didn't li­ve to see the turn of the mil­len­ni­um. A bank now stands whe­re Char­lot­te's gir­l­ho­od ho­me on­ce was; her pa­rents lie mi­les away, in the ce­me­tery at Oak­ga­te.

  Daddy went first: cir­rho­sis of the li­ver, co­ur­tesy of the sa­me li­fe­long pas­si­on for So­ut­hern bo­ur­bon, of which his sta­unch So­ut­hern Bap­tist fat­her didn't ap­pro­ve.