The Final Victim

by that's me

  Doesn't an­y­body re­mem­ber that but me? Do­esn't an­y­body ca­re?

  "I ne­ed to call my fat­her," she in­forms Nydia curtly. "And my mot­her, too. Which hos­pi­tal is she at?"

  "I don't know."

  "Yes, you do. Y'all just don't want to tell me."

  "Your mot­her as­ked me to pro­tect you, Li­an­na." Nydia lo­oks Li­an­na in the eye and rests sta­unch hands on her sho­ul­ders.

  It isn't a hug-far from it Li­an­na can't ima­gi­ne this wo­man be­ing ca­pab­le of sho­wing af­fec­ti­on.

  But she sen­ses that the ges­tu­re is me­ant to com­fort her.

  And for so­me re­ason, it ac­tu­al­ly do­es.

  "Mrs. Ma­it­land didn't want the news to get to you be­fo­re she did," Nydia tells her. "She wan­ted to let you know abo­ut it her­self."

  "When?"

  "Whenever she gets ho­me-I'm su­re it'll be so­on."

  Never in her li­fe has Li­an­na felt mo­re alo­ne.

  "Can I call my fat­her?" she asks in a small vo­ice. "Ple­ase? He must ha­ve he­ard abo­ut this if re­por­ters are cal­ling, and he's go­ing to be wor­ri­ed abo­ut me."

  Nydia se­ems to mull that over. "Go ahe­ad," she says re­luc­tantly, re­le­asing her hold on Li­an­na.

  She di­als the num­ber hur­ri­edly, won­de­ring why, if he tri­ed to call and re­pe­atedly got a busy sig­nal-or, mo­re im­por­tantly, if he he­ard abo­ut the sho­oting-he hasn't shown up at Oak­ga­te to check on her.

  He must ha­ve a go­od re­ason, Li­an­na thinks.

  He al­ways do­es.

  Mimi can't help but find it iro­nic that po­li­ce he­ad­qu­ar­ters is lo­ca­ted on the cor­ner of Ha­ber­s­ham and Og­let­hor­pe-just down the stre­et from the spot whe­re last night's sho­oting oc­cur­red.

  In fact, she has to walk by the Ma­it­lands' new ho­me on her way the­re af­ter le­aving her ear in a par­king ga­ra­ge se­ve­ral blocks away.

  No, you didn't ha­ve to. You wan­ted to.

  All right. So she co­uld ha­ve par­ked so­mep­la­ce el­se, or wal­ked a dif­fe­rent ro­ute.

  She wan­ted to co­me this way; ne­eded to see the cri­me sce­ne, if only to ma­ke what hap­pe­ned last nig­ht-and her own in­vol­ve­ment-a re­ality.

  But she do­esn't al­low her­self to stop and sta­re, li­ke ot­her cu­ri­o­us on­lo­okers mil­ling aro­und the si­de­walk.

  No, she ke­eps right on wal­king, al­lo­wing her­self only a cur­sory glan­ce at the tall fra­me ho­use be­yond its yel­low cri­me sce­ne ta­pe.

  She ta­kes in the light gre­en pa­int and dark gre­en shut­ters with con­t­ras­ting oc­h­re trim, the lo­oming man­sard ro­of ador­ned with three ar­c­hed dor­mer win­dows, the small pil­la­red porch half a story abo­ve the si­de­walk.

  It was the­re, she knows, that Roy­ce Ma­it­land was gun­ned down.

  Turning her he­ad, she se­es that the ce­me­tery, too, is rin­ged in yel­low ta­pe. Se­ve­ral uni­for­med of­fi­cers are vi­sib­le among the tom­b­s­to­nes, un­do­ub­tedly lo­oking for clu­es to the sho­oter's iden­tity, una­wa­re that the per­son who holds the key is right he­re be­yond the black iron fen­ce.

  Mimi ta­kes one last lo­ok at the ho­use. It's not as grand, by any me­ans, as the Re­min­g­tons' plan­ta­ti­on ho­use on the nor­t­hern end of the is­land. But it's an ele­gant ho­me just the sa­me, cer­ta­inly su­itab­le for one of Sa­van­nah's most pres­ti­gi­o­us fa­mi­li­es, and lo­ca­ted in the he­art of the city's most so­ug­ht-af­ter-and ex­pen­si­ve- ne­ig­h­bor­ho­od.

  She can't help no­ting as well that this ho­use is a far cry from the Joh­n­s­tons' mo­dest Low Co­untry cot­ta­ge.

  But that's ho­me, and she do­esn't ha­ve any reg­rets. Not abo­ut gi­ving up col­le­ge and Euro­pe and mar­rying Jed and ha­ving Ca­me­ron, an­y­way.

  If only she co­uld ta­ke back so­me of the ot­her de­ci­si­ons she's ma­de in her li­fe…

  Specifically, de­ci­si­ons in­vol­ving Gib Re­min­g­ton.

  Then aga­in, if she hadn't got­ten in­vol­ved with him all tho­se ye­ars ago, she might ha­ve al­te­red her des­tiny in every way. So­me of them po­si­ti­ve, but ot­hers too he­art-wren­c­hing to even ima­gi­ne.

  As a ru­le, she tri­es not to.

  She tri­es to for­get what hap­pe­ned bet­we­en her and Gib, not just in high scho­ol, but that night on Ac­ho­co be­ach.

  It's just that so­me­ti­mes the past ro­ars in­to the pre­sent li­ke a ti­dal sur­ge in a hur­ri­ca­ne's wa­ke, and it's im­pos­sib­le to es­ca­pe its path.

  Mimi qu­ic­kens her pa­ce, sho­ul­ders hun­c­hed and her hands bu­ri­ed de­ep in the poc­kets of her kha­ki pants.

  "Where are you go­ing?" Jed had as­ked drow­sily, stir­ring on the co­uch when she'd lo­oked in on him.

  She gat­he­red her tho­ughts qu­ickly be­fo­re an­s­we­ring, and ha­ted her­self for lying to him. But the­re was no ot­her way. "I ha­ve to run to the sto­re. Do you ne­ed an­y­t­hing?"

  "Nothing you can buy at the sto­re."

  Those words pi­er­ced her he­art "Do you want so­met­hing to eat be­fo­re I go?" she ma­na­ged to ask.

  "Eat? No. No way."

  "Maybe just so­me Jell-O? Or broth?" He ma­na­ged to ke­ep both of tho­se down yes­ter­day, as far as she knows.

  "No, thanks." He shif­ted his po­si­ti­on on the cus­hi­on, win­cing as he did so. "Whe­re's Cam?"

  "At my mot­her's. She of­fe­red to ke­ep him for the day." That, at le­ast, is the ab­so­lu­te truth.

  Mimi has re­ac­hed the in­ter­sec­ti­on of Ha­ber­s­ham and Og­let­hor­pe at last The­re's the pre­cinct bu­il­ding, kit­ty-cor­ner from the nor­t­he­ast pe­ri­me­ter of Co­lo­ni­al Park Ce­me­tery.

  She for­ces her­self to cross the stre­et and walk di­rectly in­si­de, kno­wing that if she fal­ters for even a mo­ment, she'll risk lo­sing her ner­ve al­to­get­her.

  Long sha­dows fall thro­ugh Li­an­na's se­cond-flo­or win­dows, but she do­esn't bot­her to re­ach over and turn on the light. Hud­dled on her bed, her arms wrap­ped aro­und her kne­es, she can't se­em to do an­y­t­hing but sit he­re crying and fe­eling sorry for her­self.

  It isn't just be­ca­use her mot­her se­ems to ha­ve aban­do­ned her and her step­fat­her was shot by so­me lu­na­tic.

  Part of it is ut­ter frus­t­ra­ti­on that her fat­her was so clo­se by for an en­ti­re we­ekend, and she didn't even get to see him.

  For that, she bla­mes her mot­her, and Nydia, too. If the pho­ne hadn't be­en off the ho­ok for the bet­ter part of the day, Daddy wo­uld ha­ve be­en ab­le to get thro­ugh.

  When she re­ac­hed him on his cell pho­ne, he was al­re­ady back in Jac­k­son­vil­le. He told her he kept trying to call and tell her that he had go­ne out sa­iling ear­li­er with so­me fri­ends, and wo­uldn't be over un­til la­ter, on his way ho­me. When he got back from sa­iling and the pho­ne was still busy, he left for ho­me.

  "You know how it is, with Sun­day-night traf­fic on 1-95, ho­ney," he told Li­an­na, when she as­ked why he didn't just stop by, sin­ce he had to dri­ve norm to get to the ca­use­way.

  "I had to get mo­ving or I ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve got­ten back he­re. I ha­ve to work in the mor­ning."

  He was ma­king ex­cu­ses, she co­uld tell by the way he so­un­ded. He didn't drop by be­ca­use he was af­ra­id of what Mom wo­uld say if he did that.

  "It's okay," she sa­id, trying not to cry.

  Especially when she told her fat­her what hap­pe­ned to Roy­ce.

  He so­un­ded shoc­ked, and re­al­ly up­set. He as­ked her if she was okay abo­ut fifty ti­mes.

  All right, so it was only a few ti­mes.

  Her fri­end De­vin cal­led her, fre­aking out, abo­ut a m
i­nu­te af­ter she hung up with her fat­her.

  "Oh my God, Li­an­na, are y'all okay? I've be­en trying to get you all day. I he­ard abo­ut Roy­ce and I tho­ught may­be so­met­hing ter­rib­le hap­pe­ned to you, too!"

  "No, just my step­fat­her… And he's okay. I me­an, he will be."

  "Is he, li­ke, un­con­s­ci­o­us and all blo­ody and ever­y­t­hing?"

  Lianna was for­ced to ad­mit that she hadn't even se­en him, let alo­ne tal­ked to her mot­her, sin­ce it hap­pe­ned. He­aring that, De­vin felt as sorry for her as she felt for her­self.

  "I can't be­li­eve yo­ur mot­her wo­uld to­tal­ly le­ave you alo­ne out the­re when so­me crazy lu­na­tic is go­ing aro­und sho­oting at yo­ur fa­mily."

  Lianna, who hadn't even tho­ught of it that way, grew even mo­re up­set at her mot­her, who su­re se­emed to be ta­king her swe­et old ti­me co­ming ho­me.

  Seated be­si­de his sis­ter in the last row of the dar­ke­ned mo­vie the­ater, Gib sta­res un­se­e­ingly at the scre­en. This is the­ir se­cond mo­vie in a row, and the sum­mer's big­gest bloc­k­bus­ter. But it co­uld be a thri­ce-vi­ewed 1980s B-flick for all the in­te­rest Gib has in the he­ro­ine's in­vol­ve­ment in the as­sas­si­na­ti­on plot on­s­c­re­en.

  He has his own prob­lems right now. Prob­lems that, for all he knows, are es­ca­la­ting back at Oak­ga­te even as he and Phylli­da hi­de out at this mul­tip­lex off the in­ter­s­ta­te.

  We aren't hi­ding out, he ad­mo­nis­hes him­self. We're just…

  Lying low.

  That's how he phra­sed it to his sis­ter, when he out­li­ned the plan for the eve­ning, which in­c­lu­ded din­ner at Chi­li's just off the exit-which tur­ned out to be jam­med-and will en­ta­il one mo­re film af­ter this one. By the ti­me they re­turn to Ac­ho­co Is­land, ever­yo­ne in the ho­use­hold sho­uld be as­le­ep.

  There will be no ac­cu­sa­tory sta­res or pro­bing qu­es­ti­ons. No in­si­nu­ati­ons that Gib and Phylli­da are an­y­t­hing but sympat­he­tic abo­ut what hap­pe­ned to Char­lot­te's hus­band.

  "Is that the guy who was in that car be­fo­re?" Phylli­da whis­pers, and it ta­kes Gib a mo­ment to re­ali­ze she's tal­king abo­ut-and ac­tu­al­ly fo­cu­sed on-the mo­vie. Le­ave it to the wo­uld-be qu­e­en of Hol­lywo­od.

  "Yeah, that's him," he tells her, tho­ugh he has no idea.

  "But I tho­ught he was the one who shot-"

  "Shhh!"

  Grateful to the an­no­yed pat­ron be­hind them, Gib re­turns in pe­ace to his own tho­ughts.

  No, not in pe­ace.

  He's fe­eling an­y­t­hing but pe­ace­ful at the mo­ment.

  In fact, he had to for­ce him­self to stick to his own plan, rat­her than go rus­hing back to Oak­ga­te to ta­ke ca­re of un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness.

  That, he ke­eps tel­ling him­self, can wa­it.

  It's not as tho­ugh an­yo­ne is li­kely to go se­ar­c­hing his ro­om.

  And even if they did, they wo­uldn't find it.

  Reassured, Gib fi­nal­ly helps him­self to the tub of pop­corn he bo­ught ear­li­er in the ho­pe that he'd ap­pe­ar-to an­yo­ne who might hap­pen to no­ti­ce him, let alo­ne re­cog­ni­ze him as a Re­min­g­ton-for all the world li­ke a re­la­xed mo­vi­ego­er…

  And not li­ke the on-sc­re­en fu­gi­ti­ve to whom he can sud­denly, dis­tur­bingly, re­la­te.

  A bright swo­op of ap­pro­ac­hing he­ad­lights re­ac­hes Je­an­ne's at­tic ro­om be­fo­re the so­und of ti­res on crus­hed shells drifts thro­ugh the open win­dow.

  She rolls over to see who it is, and is sur­p­ri­sed to see two cars pul­ling up to the por­ti­co. One is the fa­mi­li­ar whi­te SUV; the ot­her a se­dan Je­an­ne do­esn't re­cog­ni­ze.

  Charlotte climbs out from be­hind the whe­el of the first; an un­fa­mi­li­ar wo­man-at le­ast from this perch, with Je­an­ne's fa­iling eye­sig­ht-emer­ges from the ot­her.

  Or may­be I do know her.

  Jeanne squ­ints in­to the twi­light, se­ar­c­hing her me­mory.

  As hap­pens with in­c­re­asing fre­qu­ency, the se­arch yi­elds not­hing.

  She isn't par­ti­cu­larly sur­p­ri­sed. This day has be­en mo­re dif­fi­cult than most. Per­haps if Me­la­nie had be­en he­re…

  But as fa­te wo­uld ha­ve it, Sun­days are her days off. Je­an­ne has spent the day alo­ne, wit­ho­ut an­yo­ne to bring her me­als. Gil­bert or Char­lot­te al­ways to­ok ca­re of that on Sun­days.

  One wo­uld think Nydia might ha­ve ta­ken pity on her, con­si­de­ring that her car has re­ma­ined in the dri­ve­way all day. She, too, is usu­al­ly off on Sun­days; she may be una­wa­re that Je­an­ne has be­en left he­re to star­ve.

  But you wo­uld think she might ha­ve chec­ked in, at le­ast You wo­uld think she might ha­ve up­da­ted Je­an­ne on Roy­ce's con­di­ti­on as she pro­mi­sed… and let her know whet­her the­re are any sus­pects yet in the sho­oting.

  Through the scre­en, Je­an­ne wat­c­hes the yo­un­ger wo­man he­ave a lar­ge su­it­ca­se from the car trunk, with Char­lot­te rus­hing to help. To­get­her, they pull it to­ward the ho­use.

  Just be­fo­re they di­sap­pe­ar from vi­ew, the so­und of la­ug­h­ter flo­ats up to Je­an­ne's ears.

  Her mo­uth tig­h­tens with di­sap­pro­val.

  If they're la­ug­hing, she con­c­lu­des, then Roy­ce Ma­it­land must still be ali­ve.

  At long last, Li­an­na's mot­her shows up, bur­s­ting in­to the ro­om wit­ho­ut even knoc­king, and rus­hing over to the bed.

  "Lianna! Nydia sa­id you know… Oh, swe­etie, I've be­en trying to get back he­re to you all day, but I co­uldn't le­ave Roy­ce."

  Unexpectedly over­co­me by a wa­ve of emo­ti­on that swe­eps the an­ger away, Li­an­na al­lows her­self to be hug­ged fi­er­cely. Her mot­her rocks her back and forth, crying in­to her ha­ir.

  What a re­li­ef. A re­li­ef to ha­ve Mom back he­re with her, a re­li­ef to fe­el Mom's arms aro­und her.

  She hasn't hug­ged me in so long, Li­an­na re­ali­zes, with te­ars stre­aming from her own eyes. She hasn't be­en ni­ce to*& in so, so long…

  "Is he okay, Mom? Is Roy­ce all right?"

  "He will be…"

  "Who did this to him?"

  "Nobody knows… The po­li­ce say it was ran­dom."

  Mom re­le­ases her, ta­kes a de­ep bre­ath and lets it out, then plucks a co­up­le of Kle­enex from the box on Li­an­na's nig­h­t­s­tand. She hands one to Li­an­na, who wi­pes her eyes as her mot­her do­es the sa­me.

  Lianna crum­p­les the tis­sue and turns to pitch it in­to the was­te­bas­ket ac­ross the ro­om.

  That's when she se­es the stran­ger stan­ding in the do­or­way.

  "Hi, Li­an­na." The wo­man wa­ves.

  She knows me. Who the heck is she, and why do­es she know me?

  "Oh, Aimee… I'm sorry, co­me on in. I gu­ess I lost my com­po­su­re when I saw my baby girl the­re for a se­cond. Li­an­na, this is Aimee."

  Aimee? Who the heck is Aimee?

  Mom is ac­ting li­ke she sho­uld know, and so is the stran­ger, who cros­ses right over to the bed and re­ac­hes down to gi­ve her a hug.

  Lianna stif­fens.

  Confused, she lo­oks up at her mot­her.

  "I told Aimee she sho­uld stay he­re with us," Mom says-as if that ex­p­la­ins ever­y­t­hing.

  'Yes, and y'all ha­ve no idea how gra­te­ful I am, Mrs. Ma­it­land."

  Wow, Aimee's ac­cent is re­al­ly thick.

  "I ke­ep tel­ling you," Li­an­na's mot­her says with a go­od-na­tu­red la­ugh. "It's Char­lot­te. If you don't fi­gu­re that out so­on, yo­ur wic­ked step­mot­her is go­ing to in­sist on be­ing cal­led Mom."

  Aimee la­ughs, too.

  Huh?
Wic­ked step­mot­her? Who's that?

  "I'll find Nydia so she can help you get set­ti­ed down the hall," Char­lot­te says.

  "Are y'all su­re it's no tro­ub­le?"

  "Positive. Roy­ce is so glad you're sta­ying he­re-and so are we."