The Final Victim

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The Final Victim Page 15

by that's me


  Lianna finds her­self stir­ring with an un­fa­mi­li­ar lon­ging des­pi­te her re­sol­ve to get the heck out of he­re. She ma­na­ges to squ­irm out of Ke­vin's grasp, only to ha­ve him grab her and kiss her aga­in, this ti­me on the mo­uth. She im­me­di­ately kis­ses him back.

  Later, she'll go over and over the mo­ment, anal­y­zing ever­y­t­hing abo­ut it.

  How his hand was slip­ping un­der her shirt aga­in, and this ti­me, she didn't bot­her to stop it…

  How her own arms cir­c­led up aro­und his neck al­most aga­inst her will, li­ke they be­lon­ged to so­me­body el­se…

  How her he­art must ha­ve be­en po­un­ding too lo­udly for her to he­ar fo­ot­s­teps ap­pro­ac­hing on the gra­vel path…

  How it must ha­ve lo­oked to her mot­her when she ca­me aro­und the cor­ner of the ho­use and saw them.

  Lianna will anal­y­ze the mo­ment be­ca­use she'll ha­ve lit­tle el­se to do, ha­ving be­en gro­un­ded-wit­ho­ut her cell pho­ne-for the rest of the sum­mer.

  "Mr. Re­min­g­ton?"

  Gib stops short, hal­f­way down the se­cond-flo­or hall to his bed­ro­om. He lo­oks over his sho­ul­der to see Gre­at-Aunt Je­an­ne's nur­se, Me­la­nie.

  "Yeah?" he asks, his ga­ze flic­king with in­te­rest from her blond ha­ir pul­led back in­to a be­co­ming pon­y­ta­il to her am­p­le bre­asts stra­ining the flo­ral fab­ric of her nur­se's smock. Even in the frumpy uni­form, she's hot­ter than the bla­zing Ge­or­gia sun.

  "Your aunt as­ked me to co­me down and find one of you."

  "One of me?" he asks, fi­xing her with a lazy grin, his tro­ub­les mo­men­ta­rily for­got­ten. "You can ha­ve all of me."

  She smi­les at the flir­ta­ti­o­us com­ment "I me­an, she as­ked me to find you, or yo­ur sis­ter, or yo­ur co­usin Char­lot­te."

  "I'm the most in­te­res­ting of the bunch… I pro­mi­se you that."

  He se­es the pink flush co­lo­ring her che­eks be­fo­re she ducks her he­ad, char­mingly flus­te­red.

  "All right, so let's go on up and I'll talk to the old gal. What's it abo­ut? Do­es she ne­ed me to mo­ve a pi­ece of fur­ni­tu­re? Or stop all tho­se an­no­ying de­vil vo­ices in her he­ad?"

  He la­ughs at his own joke.

  The lo­vely Me­la­nie se­ems to lack a sen­se of hu­mor. "Don't ma­ke fun of her… She's a swe­et lady."

  "I know she is. Swe­et and," he can't re­sist le­aning so clo­se he can smell her fresh her­bal scent-lo­ti­on, not per­fu­me, "you ha­ve to ad­mit, just a lit­tle bit…" He ro­ta­tes an in­dex fin­ger alon­g­si­de his ear.

  To her dis­c­re­dit, Me­la­nie aga­in fa­ils to crack a smi­le. She turns on the he­el of her sen­sib­le whi­te shoe and he­ads down the hall in the op­po­si­te di­rec­ti­on of the third-flo­or sta­ir­way.

  "Hey, whe­re are you go­ing? I tho­ught we we­re go­ing up to talk to Aunt Je­an­ne!"

  "You are," she calls over her sho­ul­der wit­ho­ut a bac­k­ward glan­ce. "I'm go­ing to get her so­me hot tea."

  Your loss, Gib thinks with a shrug as he ta­kes the sta­irs up two at a ti­me.

  And Aunt Je­an­ne's, he adds, as a wall of he­at hits him.

  Hot tea? Is Me­la­nie trying to kill the old bat?

  "Cripes, it's a sa­una up he­re," he com­ments to the old wo­man, who's fa­cing the op­po­si­te di­rec­ti­on in her whe­el­c­ha­ir. "You ne­ed to open so­me win­dows, Aunt Je­an­ne."

  He stri­des to­ward the ne­arest dor­mer, de­ci­ding the lo­vely Me­la­nie lacks a sen­se of hu­mor and com­mon sen­se.

  'They are open," Aunt Je­an­ne tells him, and he re­ali­zes she's right. Se­ve­ral elec­t­ric fans are whir­ring as well.

  But with the la­te-af­ter­no­on sun be­aming in thro­ugh the glass and ba­king the ro­of over­he­ad, the­re is lit­tle that can be do­ne to suf­fi­ci­ently co­ol the lar­ge spa­ce.

  Why cen­t­ral air was ne­ver in­s­tal­led in this old ho­use, Gib will ne­ver un­der­s­tand.

  Maybe the­se crazy So­ut­her­ners are ac­cus­to­med to the he­at, but he per­so­nal­ly can't wa­it to get back to Bos­ton.

  Literally "crazy So­ut­her­ners" in Aunt Je­an­ne's ca­se, he no­tes as she turns her whe­el­c­ha­ir to fa­ce him, lo­oking so­mew­hat wild-eyed.

  "I ne­ed to know, Gil­bert."

  For a mo­ment, he­aring the cryptic de­mand and the for­mal na­me no­body ever, ever calls him, he won­ders if she thinks he's her de­ad brot­her.

  Then, her gnar­led old hands rol­ling the cha­ir clo­ser to him with sur­p­ri­sing spe­ed, she says, "I ne­ed to know what was in that will."

  The will.

  It co­mes cras­hing back with a ven­ge­an­ce; all the angst of the ca­la­mi­to­us ses­si­on in Tyler Haw­t­hor­ne's of­fi­ce.

  "Do you me­an what was in it for you?" he asks the ex­pec­tant Aunt Je­an­ne. "Be­ca­use that wo­uld be the sa­me thing that was in it for me. Not­hing."

  "Nothing?" Her vo­ice is tre­mu­lo­us, yet the­re se­ems to be a cu­ri­o­us lack of ex­p­res­si­on in her wrin­k­led fa­ce.

  "Nothing. He left ever­y­t­hing to de­ar co­usin Char­lot­te."

  Aunt Je­an­ne is nod­ding. For a mo­ment, he isn't su­re she even he­ard what he sa­id.

  Then she says, her jaw set in what se­ems to be re­sig­na­ti­on-or even, oddly, ac­cep­tan­ce, "That's just as I ex­pec­ted."

  * * *

  People re­al­ly sho­uldn't play fa­vo­ri­tes.

  It isn't ni­ce.

  Who was it who on­ce sa­id a lit­tle he­althy ri­valry ne­ver hurt an­yo­ne?

  Probably yo­ur mot­her… who el­se?

  Well, she was wrong. Abo­ut a lot of things.

  But now isn't the ti­me to worry abo­ut that.

  Now is the ti­me to ma­ke the fi­nal pre­pa­ra­ti­ons of the ca­bin that con­ti­nu­es to lo­ok for all the world li­ke a vi­ne-co­ve­red nur­sery rhyme cot­ta­ge-or so­me lucky lit­tle girl's ado­rab­le play­ho­use.

  Lucky lit­tle girl…

  Pammy Sue.

  Now the­re was a lucky lit­tle girl. With her blond rin­g­lets and big gre­en eyes, she was the ap­ple of ever­y­body's eye: Ma­ma's, and Aunt Ches­sie's, and Pas­tor Brig­ham's…

  Everybody's but mi­ne.

  But Pammy Sue ne­ver fi­gu­red that out, not as a child, not even now, all grown up. It wo­uld simply ne­ver oc­cur to her that one of her ne­arest and de­arest co­uld pos­sibly dis­li­ke her.

  Dislike?

  Hah.

  Even lo­at­he is an un­der­s­ta­te­ment.

  Yet no­body in all tho­se ye­ars ever se­emed to sus­pect the pu­re hat­red ex­pertly con­ce­aled by a mask of be­ne­vo­lent af­fec­ti­on.

  Pammy Sue might ha­ve won the le­ad in every scho­ol play, but her so-cal­led ac­ting ta­lent didn 't hold a can­d­le to mi­ne.

  It's iro­nic, even now, to re­call that the spot­light and the ap­pla­use al­ways be­lon­ged to Pammy Sue when the truly mas­ter­ful per­for­man­ce was un­fol­ding right be­fo­re ever­yo­ne's eyes, un­de­tec­ted. Unap­pre­ci­ated.

  Blind, smit­ten fo­ols.

  Yes, and you we­re right the­re in the front row every ti­me, be­aming, clap­ping for Pammy Sue along with tho­se blind, smit­ten fo­ols.

  Ah, well, the per­pe­tu­al de­cep­ti­on was cer­ta­inly go­od prac­ti­ce for all that li­es ahe­ad.

  And it won't be long now be­fo­re the ul­ti­ma­te cur­ta­in call is car­ri­ed out in ven­ge­ful per­fec­ti­on.

  The marsh af­ter dark isn't a par­ti­cu­larly ap­pe­aling pla­ce to be… not even with a co­up­le of ke­ro­se­ne lan­terns. The­ir fla­mes flic­ker eerily on the brick walls, cas­ting the lo­ne hu­man sha­dow lar­ger than li­fe.

  Which is as it s
ho­uld be.

  At le­ast I'm the mas­ter of this do­ma­in.

  Yes, but what go­od is that? ta­unts an in­ner vo­ice. It's still empty.

  Although not for long.

  Just out­si­de the do­or li­es a brown car­ton, its si­des damp and pun­gent with ab­sor­bed hu­mi­dity.

  Inside are the last few items ne­ces­sary to turn this lit­tle ho­use in­to a ho­me.

  First, a lar­ge flat­te­ned car­d­bo­ard box must be la­in ac­ross the mud flo­or li­ke a fi­ne car­pet. The new do­or ca­me in­si­de it.

  Next, the pi­eces of fur­ni­tu­re are ar­ran­ged one by one on the ma­kes­hift rug: a small wo­oden tab­le and three small cha­irs.

  Finally, the fa­mily ma­te­ri­ali­zes.

  Three small dol­ls-a blon­de, a bru­net­te, and a red­he­ad-per­fectly sca­led to oc­cupy the fur­ni­tu­re, the­ir plas­tic lips fro­zen in ga­rish smi­les, un­b­lin­king eyes unab­le to wit­ness what will un­fold wit­hin the­se walls.

  * * *

  The lush, lan­d­s­ca­ped gro­unds at Oak­ga­te might be in­vi­ting du­ring the day, but at night, even with a three-qu­ar­ter mo­on ho­ve­ring abo­ve the oaks, it's the op­po­si­te.

  Phyllida is glad she tho­ught to stop in the kit­c­hen and hunt down a flas­h­lig­ht-she fo­und it in the uti­lity dra­wer-be­fo­re slip­ping out the back do­or; she wo­uldn't want to be alo­ne out he­re in the dark.

  She do­esn't want to be alo­ne out he­re at all, but she has to ma­ke this call. Bri­an and Wills are as­le­ep in her ro­om up­s­ta­irs and she do­esn't want to dis­turb them. Nor do­es she want to risk be­ing over­he­ard by an­y­body in the ho­use.

  So he­re she is, clad in a filmy sum­mer nig­h­t­gown, ma­king her way thro­ugh the sha­dowy back gar­den. The wet grass brus­hes aga­inst her ba­re fe­et in has­tily don­ned flip-flops. She tri­es not to think abo­ut sna­kes, or an­y­t­hing el­se that might be slit­he­ring ne­arby, as she he­ads as far away from the ho­use as she da­res to go.

  The night is still and mo­ist; the li­ve oaks form a ca­nopy over­he­ad, al­t­ho­ugh it's an­y­t­hing but pro­tec­ti­ve. Phylli­da won't ima­gi­ne what cre­atu­res might be tuc­ked amid the fo­li­age web­bed in dry Spa­nish moss, po­ised to drop on her he­ad at any mo­ment.

  She co­mes to a halt when she re­ac­hes the small ce­me­tery sur­ro­un­ded by a low iron­work fen­ce.

  Gravestones of her an­ces­tors lo­om eerily in the night. So­me are thin, le­aning slabs who­se et­c­hing is all but worn away, glo­wing whi­te be­ne­ath the mo­on. Ot­hers, li­ke the lar­ge one be­lon­ging to Gran­dad­dy and the gran­d­mot­her Phylli­da ne­ver knew, are ela­bo­ra­te mo­nu­ments car­ved in po­lis­hed black gra­ni­te, ri­sing from the earth li­ke for­mi­dab­le war­ri­ors stan­ding gu­ard over fal­len com­ra­des.

  Phyllida ta­kes a few mo­re ten­ta­ti­ve steps for­ward, un­til so­me win­ged cre­atu­re ab­ruptly de­parts an over­he­ad branch with a rus­t­ling flut­ter.

  She stops short, her he­art po­un­ding.

  That's it. Phylli­da won't ven­tu­re any clo­ser to the gra­ve­yard, and she cer­ta­inly has no de­si­re to ven­tu­re past it.

  Night so­unds re­ver­be­ra­te from the thic­ket on the far si­de of the iron fen­ce: cric­kets, frogs, owls, an omi­no­us, oc­ca­si­onal rus­t­ling in the un­der­g­rowth, a dis­tant splas­hing so­und from the marsh and ti­dal cre­eks.

  The cur­rent pro­perty li­ne ex­tends a lit­tle ways in. Be­yond that li­ne, to ti­le north and east, are ac­res upon ac­res of wo­ods and wet­lands that we­re on­ce a part of the Re­min­g­tons's plan­ta­ti­on. Gran­dad­dy sold the en­ti­re par­cel ye­ars ago to so­me de­ve­lo­per, who had plan­ned to bu­ild a spraw­ling con­do com­mu­nity, un­til a vo­cal en­vi­ron­men­tal gro­up suc­ces­sful­ly chal­len­ged the plan. Now it's a wil­d­li­fe re­fu­ge, pro­tec­ted in its na­tu­ral sta­te from fur­t­her de­ve­lop­ment.

  When Phylli­da was a lit­tle girl and Daddy wo­uld bring them down to vi­sit his fa­mily on the co­as­tal is­land, she and her brot­her lo­ved to ex­p­lo­re the aban­do­ned por­ti­on of the pro­perty, es­pe­ci­al­ly the rem­nants of sla­ve ca­bins.

  It's hard to be­li­eve no­body kept a clo­ser eye on them. But then aga­in, Mot­her wasn't he­re to do it be­ca­use she ra­rely ca­me So­uth. She sa­id she didn't li­ke the he­at and hu­mi­dity, but Phylli­da sus­pec­ted that in re­ality, she didn't li­ke Gran­dad­dy any mo­re than he li­ked her.

  Back then, the un­der­g­rowth didn't se­em this den­se- or may­be it was, and Phylli­da and her brot­her bra­zenly pus­hed the­ir way thro­ugh it an­y­way, not ca­ring abo­ut things li­ke mud, or rat­tles­na­kes and ga­tors.

  Charlotte ca­red. She ne­ver ca­me with them. She might ha­ve be­en ol­der, but she was al­ways squ­e­amish, not to men­ti­on af­ra­id of ever­y­t­hing, even the dark.

  Wanting to get this over with so she can go back to bed and may­be get so­me sle­ep at last, Phylli­da flips open her cell pho­ne, pres­ses a spe­ed di­al but­ton, and holds it aga­inst her ear, lis­te­ning to it ring.

  "Hello?"

  Her thro­at clog­ged with emo­ti­on, she ma­na­ges to say, "Mom? It's me."

  "Phyllida?"

  "Yes…" She's crying, then. She can't help it.

  "What's wrong, Dar­ling? What is it?"

  "He cut us out of the will. Both me and Gib. He left ever­y­t­hing to Char­lot­te."

  On the ot­her end of the pho­ne, Su­san Re­min­g­ton gasps. "Oh, no!"

  "I'm af­ra­id, Mommy," Phylli­da sobs. "What are we go­ing to do now? We we­re all co­un­ting on that mo­ney… all of us."

  "I know, I know…" Her mot­her's vo­ice is so­ot­hing. "Don't worry, swe­et­he­art, we'll sur­vi­ve. We al­ways ha­ve."

  "I know, but…" She snif­fles. "I don't know how."

  "What do­es yo­ur brot­her say abo­ut this?"

  "That we're go­ing to con­test the will." 'That's my bril­li­ant at­tor­ney son. That's exacdy what you'll do."

  Still snif­fling, Phylli­da wi­pes her eyes with the back of her hands, fe­eling bet­ter al­re­ady. She knew she wo­uld, if she co­uld just talk to her mot­her.

  Mommy al­ways ma­kes her fe­el bet­ter.

  "There, now, Dar­ling, you just calm down and get so­me sle­ep. It's la­te."

  "I know."

  "Where's yo­ur brot­her? Is he the­re? Can I spe­ak to him?"

  "He went out so­mep­la­ce," Phylli­da says trut­h­ful­ly, then adds, "ple­ase don't tell him I told you abo­ut the will, okay, Mom? He didn't want to worry you with it"

  No, but I did. Be­ca­use I'm a big baby, in­ca­pab­le of de­aling with an­y­t­hing on my own.

  Or so her brot­her li­ked to tell her, when they we­re yo­un­ger.

  'That's my son," her mot­her says with af­fec­ti­on. "Always pro­tec­ti­ve. I wish he wo­uldn't worry abo­ut me."

  Phyllida bi­tes back a com­ment.

  If her mot­her hasn't fi­gu­red out by now that Gib wor­ri­es abo­ut no­body ot­her than him­self, she ne­ver will.

  What on earth is she do­ing out he­re at this ti­me of night?

  The arc of her flas­h­light swings dan­ge­ro­usly clo­se to the no­ok be­si­de the back steps. Any se­cond now, it might ex­po­se this hi­ding spot.

  And then what?

  That won't hap­pen. Don't even think abo­ut it.

  Just hold yo­ur bre­ath and don't mo­ve.

  Yes, but it's ne­arly im­pos­sib­le to stay mo­ti­on­less when mos­qu­itos ho­ver abo­ut one's ex­po­sed skin, lan­ding and stin­ging in a fren­zi­ed blo­od fe­ast.

  Giving in to the al­most over­w­hel­ming de­si­re to slap at an in­sect wo­uld ca­use qu­ite a stir in the qu­i­et eve­ning, and un
­do­ub­tedly ma­ke it ne­ces­sary to ex­tin­gu­ish the hu­man pest as well, with con­si­de­rably mo­re blo­od­s­hed.

  That might be in­fi­ni­tely sa­tis­f­ying in the mo­ment, but wo­uld po­se an un­ne­ces­sary risk, ove­rall.

 

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