The Final Victim

by that's me

  "I don't." I didn't. But that was be­fo­re I ne­eded to dis­t­ract him from the mi­sery our li­ves ha­ve be­co­me.

  "When is it on?"

  "It was star­ting when we left ho­me just now, and I pro­mi­sed him he co­uld fi­nish wat­c­hing it he­re."

  "Oh, all right, swe­et pea. Let Granny chan­ge the chan­nel for you."

  "You don't ha­ve to do that, Mom." Mi­mi po­urs ste­aming cof­fee in­to a chip­ped mug from the plas­tic drying rack be­si­de the sink.

  Using the re­mo­te to chan­ge the chan­nel, much to Cam's de­light, Ma­ude says, "I was just wat­c­hin' the news, but all that's left now is the sports and yo­ur daddy is the only one who li­ked to watch that part. I just li­ke the news. Ha­ve y'all se­en what hap­pe­ned in Sa­van­nah?" She ri­ses from the cha­ir and sets Cam on it, in front of his prog­ram.

  "No, what hap­pe­ned?" Mi­mi turns to the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor for cre­amer:

  Thus, her back is tur­ned to her mot­her when Ma­ude in­forms her, "Char­lot­te Re­min­g­ton's hus­band was shot right on Og­let­hor­pe Ave­nue last night. You must know her, don't you? From when you used to run aro­und with that Re­min­g­ton boy? What was his na­me? I know it was Gil­bert, af­ter his daddy and Gran­dad­dy, but what did they used to call him aga­in?"

  Gib.

  "I know Char­lot­te-I me­an, I knew her a long ti­me ago." Ig­no­ring the ot­her qu­es­ti­on, Mi­mi lifts the car­ton of half-and-half from the shelf with a trem­b­ling hand. "I don't know her hus­band, tho­ugh. Is he…?"

  "Serious con­di­ti­on in the hos­pi­tal is all they're sa­yin' on the news."

  "Do they say who shot him?"

  Maude shrugs. "It's just li­ke tho­se sni­pers that go aro­und sho­otin' up ci­ti­es up North. Can't be­li­eve it's star­tin' down he­re."

  "I can't, eit­her." Mi­mi fum­b­les for a spo­on in the dra­wer, then stirs her cof­fee so vi­olently that it spills over the top of the mug.

  "Everybody al­ways tho­ught tho­se Re­min­g­tons had it all," Ma­ude mu­ses, sto­oping to pick up a lit­tle truck from the col­lec­ti­on of toys she pur­c­ha­sed at yard sa­les and ke­eps in a plas­tic la­undry ham­per for Ca­me­ron. "I'm star­tin' to think all they re­al­ly ha­ve is a who­le lot of mo­ney. I wo­uldn't tra­de pla­ces with any one of 'em. How 'bo­ut you?"

  "Of co­ur­se not," Mi­mi mur­murs, wat­c­hing her son hap­pily grasp the used toy in his chubby lit­tle hands.

  Tucked in­to the poc­ket of his lig­h­t­we­ight black-wo­ol dress pants, Gib's cell pho­ne rings just as he re­ac­hes the Bryan Stre­et par­king ga­ra­ge whe­re he left his ren­tal car the night be­fo­re.

  He con­tem­p­la­tes not an­s­we­ring it, hardly in the mo­od to talk af­ter the night he just had.

  But cu­ri­osity gets the bet­ter of him and he re­ac­hes for the pho­ne to see who's cal­ling.

  The num­ber on the cal­ler ID scre­en isn't lo­cal, and it ta­kes Gib a mo­ment to pla­ce the area co­de.

  Oh. Ca­li­for­nia.

  He flips the pho­ne open. "Ye­ah, Phylli­da."

  "Where are you?"

  "Why?"

  "Because I want to send you flo­wers," is the sar­cas­tic res­pon­se. "What do you think? For one thing, it's Sun­day mor­ning and I'm as­su­ming you ne­ver ca­me ho­me last night and I ha­ve no idea whe­re you are."

  "Save the wor­rying for yo­ur kid, Phyll. I'm a big boy. So­me­ti­mes the­se things hap­pen."

  "Trust me, I'm not all that wor­ri­ed abo­ut you right now, Gib. But I ne­ed you to get back he­re as so­on as you can, and…"

  "And what?" he asks ed­gily when she tra­ils off.

  "And I ho­pe you can ac­co­unt for every se­cond of the last twel­ve ho­urs."

  "Why?" he asks, his he­art po­un­ding.

  "Because so­me­body shot Char­lot­te's hus­band."

  Pacing the nar­row ais­le bet­we­en two short rows of un­com­for­tab­le cha­irs, Char­lot­te in­s­tantly re­cog­ni­zes the slen­der yo­ung blon­de who bursts in­to the pri­va­te sur­gi­cal wa­iting ro­om, pul­ling a rol­ling su­it­ca­se.

  Royce's da­ug­h­ter.

  At last

  "Charlotte Ma­it­land?"

  "That's me. You must be Aimee."

  "Yes." Her step­da­ug­h­ter rus­hes over to her, grab­bing her in a tight em­b­ra­ce.

  Caught off gu­ard by the fer­vent gre­eting, Char­lot­te re­turns it gra­te­ful­ly. The­se ha­ve be­en the lon­gest, lo­ne­li­est ho­urs of her li­fe, and Aimee fe­els less a stran­ger to her than her own co­usins did when they we­re he­re ear­li­er.

  "I'm so glad you're he­re," Char­lot­te tells her, but the words so­und mo­re stra­ined than she in­ten­ded.

  Probably be­ca­use I've ne­ver met her be­fo­re in my li­fe, and he­re I am clin­ging to her li­ke she's my long-lost best fri­end.

  She re­le­ases Aimee from her grasp.

  "My lug­ga­ge," the girl says, tur­ning to the su­it­ca­se she left be­hind in the do­or­way.

  "I'll get it. Sit down." Char­lot­te hur­ri­es over to grab the bag, no­ti­cing the air­li­ne tag aro­und the han­d­le. "You had to check it?"

  Too big for car­ry-on. I didn't know how long I'd be he­re, so I just threw ever­y­t­hing in­to the big­gest bag I had." 'That's go­od." Char­lot­te nods, trying to think of so­met­hing el­se to say, and mis­sing her hus­band mo­re than ever. This wasn't how she was sup­po­sed to me­et Roy­ce's da­ug­h­ter for the first ti­me.

  "When I didn't see you in the big wa­iting ro­om I was wor­ri­ed that so­met­hing went wrong and he was still in sur­gery, but I can tell by yo­ur fa­ce that Daddy's okay. He is, isn't he?" Aimee adds an­xi­o­usly.

  "He's out of the OR but still in re­co­very. They told me I co­uld wa­it in he­re in­s­te­ad of go­ing down to the big wa­iting ro­om."

  "Why?"

  The qu­es­ti­on is per­fun­c­tory, yet Char­lot­te do­esn't want to an­s­wer it.

  She sus­pects the nur­ses al­lo­wed her to re­ma­in in this small, empty wa­iting ro­om rat­her than min­g­le with the mas­ses be­ca­use she's a Re­min­g­ton, a VIP. Or may­be it's be­ca­use of the com­mo­ti­on ca­used ear­li­er down the hall when a co­up­le of pesky re­por­ters tri­ed to qu­es­ti­on her, be­fo­re a stern nur­se or­de­red them out.

  It do­esn't mat­ter why she's he­re. She's far mo­re com­for­tab­le in sec­lu­si­on, whe­re she can we­ep and pa­ce and worry away from the prying eyes of stran­gers.

  "How did the ope­ra­ti­on go?" Aimee asks.

  'The sur­ge­on sa­id we're lucky it didn't shat­ter the bo­ne, or hit an ar­tery…" She shud­ders at what might ha­ve be­en.

  "Oh, God." Te­ars spring to Aimee's eyes. "I've be­en so wor­ri­ed… I tri­ed to call you when I lan­ded but I got yo­ur vo­ice ma­il. Is Daddy awa­ke? Has he sa­id an­y­t­hing?"

  "I don't know, I ha­ven't se­en him. The doc­tor sa­id they we­re ab­le to re­mo­ve the bul­let and re­pa­ir the da­ma­ge to his leg."

  Charlotte can't help but fe­el as tho­ugh she's met­ho­di­cal­ly re­ci­ting a re­port she's gi­ven be­fo­re, and in a sen­se, she is. She re­pe­ated the sa­me in­for­ma­ti­on to both her co­usins when they we­re he­re ear­li­er.

  It to­ok at le­ast two ho­urs af­ter she cal­led Phylli­da for her to show up with Gib. They both se­emed sha­ken, and as­ked if the­re was an­y­t­hing el­se they co­uld do.

  There are pro­bably a lot of things they co­uld do, if Char­lot­te was ca­pab­le of thin­king stra­ig­ht-and wil­ling to ask.

  But she is ne­it­her. Not un­der the cir­cum­s­tan­ces.

  "So Daddy will re­al­ly be okay?"

  They sa­id he will."

  Thank God." Aimee's vo­ice is rag­ged; she sinks in­to a cha­ir. "It must h
a­ve be­en aw­ful… You must ha­ve be­en so sca­red." “I was."

  Charlotte clo­ses her eyes tightly, trying to block out the bar­ra­ge of me­mo­ri­es.

  The de­afe­ning re­port of what she didn't even re­ali­ze was gun­fi­re…

  The shoc­king sight of Roy­ce lying at her fe­et, ble­eding…

  Cradling her mo­aning hus­band in her lap on the wo­oden porch flo­or, pres­sing the open wo­und in his leg with her ba­re hand…

  It se­emed as tho­ugh she sat that way fo­re­ver, fe­aring the worst, re­li­ving the frig­h­t­ful mo­ments on the be­ach that day as the li­fe­gu­ards se­ar­c­hed for her lost son in the surf. But that to­ok ho­urs; this co­uldn't ha­ve be­en very long at all.

  No, she he­ard si­rens scre­aming thro­ugh the night even as the 9-1-1 ope­ra­tor she had re­ac­hed on her cell pho­ne told her to stem the flow, ke­ep him alert, and stay on the pho­ne-that help was on its way.

  They let Char­lot­te ri­de in the back of the am­bu­lan­ce with him, and she wat­c­hed as the pa­ra­me­dics sta­bi­li­zed him and stop­ped the ble­eding. Roy­ce was con­s­ci­o­us, mo­aning, but unab­le to res­pond to the qu­es­ti­ons the me­dics we­re as­king.

  Mostly the qu­es­ti­ons we­re abo­ut his pa­in, but one of them did ask if he had any idea who co­uld ha­ve shot him.

  Royce co­uld only gro­an in res­pon­se.

  At the ti­me, Char­lot­te was ir­ked that the me­dics wo­uld even ask such a qu­es­ti­on at a ti­me li­ke that.

  Now she un­der­s­tands that it was ne­ces­sary; that they we­re pro­bably tra­ined to do so.

  And when Aimee asks al­most the sa­me ti­ling now- "Did the po­li­ce get who­ever shot him?"-Charlotte is less ir­ked than she is re­luc­tant to reply.

  "I wish I co­uld tell you they'd fo­und him, but they ha­ven't. They think it might ha­ve be­en ran­dom, a sni­per at­tack."

  "Oh, my God." Aimee digs her fin­ger­tips in­to her scalp be­ne­ath a thick ma­ne of fla­xen ha­ir. "Po­or, po­or Daddy."

  Struck by a wa­ve of re­ne­wed lon­ging for Roy­ce, Char­lot­te fum­b­les in her pur­se for a tis­sue, fin­ding only a clump of damp used ones.

  She turns her back, ho­ping Aimee won't he­ar her snif­fling, and wi­pes her eyes with the back of her hand.

  Royce. I ne­ed you, Roy­ce.

  "Here…" Aimee is pres­sing a pac­ket of Kle­enex in­to her hand. "Ta­ke this."

  "Thank you," she ma­na­ges to say, be­fo­re her vo­ice gi­ves way to sobs.

  CHAPTER 9

  'Jeanne?"

  It ta­kes her a mo­ment to wa­ke from a so­und sle­ep. When she do­es, she opens her eyes to find Gil­bert's ho­use­ke­eper stan­ding abo­ve her bed.

  It's la­te mor­ning-she can tell by the an­g­le of the light co­ming in the bull's-eye win­dow abo­ve her bed.

  "I'm sorry to wa­ke you, but I tho­ught you sho­uld know."

  "Know what?" Her bra­in still fuzzy with sle­ep, she sits up, rub­bing her eyes.

  "Mr. Ma­it­land was… inj­ured last night In Sa­van­nah."

  "What hap­pe­ned to him?"

  Nydia he­si­ta­tes.

  "Was it a car ac­ci­dent? Is he all right? Was Char­lot­te with-"

  Jeanne clo­ses her mo­uth ab­ruptly, re­mem­be­ring be­la­tedly not to ap­pe­ar too lu­cid, even in front of Nydia.

  The ho­use­ke­eper se­ems to fal­ter a bit-unu­su­al for her-be­fo­re ad­mit­ting, "It wasn't a car ac­ci­dent. He was shot by a sni­per."

  Jeanne gasps in hor­ri­fi­ed dis­may. "No! Oh, no. Char­lot­te…?"

  "She was with him, but she's fi­ne. And Mr. Ma­idand is in sur­gery, from what I un­der­s­tand."

  Jeanne nods, pres­sing her fist aga­inst her qu­ive­ring mo­uth.

  "I just tho­ught you sho­uld know." Nydia turns to le­ave.

  "Thank you. Will you… tell me how he is? When you know mo­re?"

  "Of co­ur­se."

  Jeanne wat­c­hes Gil­bert's ho­use­ke­eper ma­ke her exit She wa­its un­til the do­or clo­ses at the fo­ot of the sta­irs be­fo­re slip­ping from be­ne­ath the co­vers.

  It ta­kes a mi­nu­te for her ba­re fe­et to grow ac­cus­to­med to stan­ding. Gra­du­al­ly, the cir­cu­la­ti­on re­turns to her wobbly old legs be­ne­ath the cot­ton sum­mer nig­h­t­gown, and they fe­el sturdy eno­ugh to carry her ac­ross the ro­om, ca­re­ful not to let the flo­or­bo­ards cre­ak.

  At the bu­re­au, she opens the top mid­dle dra­wer and re­ac­hes be­ne­ath the stack of han­d­ker­c­hi­efs, the shawl, the jo­ur­nals and pho­to al­bum.

  Taking out the loc­ked wo­oden box, she sets it on the bu­re­au top, and glan­ces over her sho­ul­der as if she's go­ing to find so­me­body wat­c­hing her.

  There's no­body up he­re, Je­an­ne, don't be silly.

  Nobody but the ghosts… And they know all abo­ut this.

  They know ever­y­t­hing.

  Jeanne re­ac­hes in­to the la­ce-ed­ged nec­k­li­ne of the nig­h­t­gown and ret­ri­eves a long gold cha­in that on­ce be­lon­ged to Mot­her. Dan­g­ling from it are a loc­ket that con­ta­ins a pic­tu­re of Ma­rie Re­min­g­ton in her yo­uth, and a small sil­ver key.

  With a qu­ive­ring hand, Je­an­ne re­mo­ves the chain from her neck and in­serts the key in­to the lock on the box.

  She opens the co­ver and glan­ces down at the con­tents.

  This, too, be­lon­ged to her mot­her.

  This small pis­tol with the mot­her-of-pe­arl han­d­le that was Ma­rie Re­min­g­ton's pro­tec­ti­on-and may pro­ve to be her da­ug­h­ter's sal­va­ti­on.

  "I can't be­li­eve this is hap­pe­ning," Aimee says yet aga­in, as she and Char­lot­te wa­it si­de by si­de for word abo­ut Roy­ce.

  Dry-eyed at last, Char­lot­te nods, too numb to say much. She just wis­hes the nur­ses wo­uld co­me and tell her so­met­hing abo­ut Roy­ce's con­di­ti­on, but the­re's be­en no word for qu­ite so­me ti­me now.

  "I can't be­li­eve just a few ho­urs ago I was hap­py-go-lucky, han­ging out in New Or­le­ans with my fri­ends." Aimee pro­no­un­ces it the sa­me as Roy­ce do­es, li­ke a true na­ti­ve: N'Awlins. Her ac­cent is even thic­ker than his-of co­ur­se, sin­ce she still li­ves the­re.

  With her mot­her.

  Charlotte won­ders idly whet­her Ka­ren, Roy­ce's ex-wi­fe, is awa­re of what hap­pe­ned. Not that it mat­ters. They're ne­ver in con­tact, as far as she knows.

  But if so­met­hing vi­olent ever hap­pe­ned to Vin­cent, she wo­uld want to know. He's the fat­her of her child.

  Surely Aimee told her mot­her why she was le­aving town ab­ruptly.

  "I'm just glad you fo­und a se­at on a pla­ne," Char­lot­te tells Aimee. "I was wor­ri­ed you wo­uldn't be ab­le to, on a we­ekend."

  "After I got yo­ur mes­sa­ge last night, I went stra­ight to the air­port. But I mis­sed the last flight that co­uld ha­ve pos­sibly con­nec­ted to Sa­van­nah be­fo­re this mor­ning. I was in such a pa­nic. I cal­led the ma­in li­ne for the hos­pi­tal a few ti­mes du­ring the night, but no­body wo­uld tell me an­y­t­hing. It was hor­rib­le." She bu­ri­es her fa­ce in her hands, so­un­ding as tho­ugh she's on the ver­ge of bre­aking down in sobs.

  "I'm sorry." Char­lot­te wis­hes she felt com­for­tab­le eno­ugh to just re­ach out and gi­ve Aimee a re­as­su­ring hug.

  But it might not be wel­co­me now that the­ir ini­ti­al, emo­ti­on-dri­ven physi­cal con­tact has be­en bro­ken.

  For all she knows, Aimee re­sents her fat­her's se­cond wi­fe. She wo­uldn't be the first step­da­ug­h­ter to fe­el that way. And she's cer­ta­inly ca­pab­le of re­sen­t­ment, con­si­de­ring that she re­fu­sed to spe­ak to her fat­her for so long af­ter her brot­her's de­ath.

  But when Aimee lo­oks up at her aga­in,
Char­lot­te se­es im­me­di­ately that the­re's not­hing but ge­nu­ine con­cern in her ga­ze. Her eyes, Char­lot­te no­ti­ces, are a be­a­uti­ful sha­de of light gre­en, not brown li­ke Roy­ce's. She must ha­ve in­he­ri­ted them from her mot­her.

  Charlotte ra­rely gi­ves Roy­ce's first wi­fe much tho­ught, but for the se­cond ti­me in as many mi­nu­tes, she finds her­self won­de­ring abo­ut her. Won­de­ring if she's as be­a­uti­ful as Aimee, if she has the sa­me wil­lowy bu­ild, fa­ir ha­ir, and tawny com­p­le­xi­on…