The Final Victim

by that's me

  We? As in Li­an­na?

  Who the heck- Oh. It hits her, then, and she re­ali­zes who this Aimee is.

  She's Roy­ce's da­ug­h­ter.

  Mom must ha­ve cal­led her.

  She cal­led her, but she didn't call me.

  "When did you get he­re?" she asks, trying to so­und fri­endly.

  "First ti­ling this mor­ning. I had to fly in from N'Awlins, whe­re I li­ve."

  It ta­kes a mo­ment for Li­an­na to de­cip­her that-at le­ast, most of it.

  "From whe­re?" she asks.

  "N'Awlins."

  "New Or­le­ans," Mom cla­ri­fi­es with a la­ugh. "And you must be ex­ha­us­ted, Aimee. I know you didn't sle­ep any mo­re than I did last night, and you spent the who­le day with me at the hos­pi­tal."

  Lianna lo­oks at the new­co­mer, fur­t­her re­sen­ting her. Not just for the ob­vi­o­us clo­se­ness bet­we­en the two of them af­ter a day spent to­get­her, and a sha­red tra­gedy.

  But al­so for her lo­oks. Aimee is as be­a­uti­ful as Mom is, with sa­me kind of long, thick ha­ir-ex­cept hers is gol­den-and the sa­me per­fect fi­gu­re.

  Lianna is con­s­ci­o­us that her own ha­ir is mat­ted to her he­ad-thanks to Mom and her sloppy te­ars-and that she's still we­aring the ratty T-shirt she threw on when she fo­und out Dad wo­uldn't be co­ming. Her be­a­uti­ful sun­d­ress li­es in a he­ap so­mew­he­re on the flo­or at the fo­ot of her bed.

  But Mom didn't say an­y­t­hing abo­ut that, or abo­ut the ge­ne­ral mess in the ro­om she told Li­an­na to cle­an yes­ter­day.

  Naturally, Li­an­na for­got abo­ut that un­til just now.

  "Aimee is a nur­se," Mom in­forms Li­an­na, as if that mat­ters in the le­ast.

  "I star­ted out as a ha­ir­d­res­ser," Aimee says wryly, "but then I got ca­ught up in an aw­ful hur­ri­ca­ne, and I re­ali­zed what re­al­ly mat­ters. So now I can sa­ve pe­op­le's li­ves, in­s­te­ad of just fi­xing the­ir ha­ir."

  Lianna's hand go­es in­s­tin­c­ti­vely to her own he­ad, even as she no­ti­ces that Mom is lo­oking at Aimee tho­ugh she's so­me kind of su­per­he­ro.

  "Have you eaten din­ner, Li­an­na?" Mom asks, pat­ting her hand, then her he­ad, li­ke she's a very yo­ung child or a cu­te pet. Or may­be she's just trying to fix Li­an­na’s ha­ir wit­ho­ut Aimee no­ti­cing.

  "No," she says glumly.

  I ha­ven't eaten lunch, eit­her.

  She thinks lon­gingly of her fat­her.

  Daddy, I wish you we­re he­re.

  I wish you we­re he­re, and this Aimee per­son wasn't.

  "I'm go­ing to ask Nydia if she can ma­ke so­met­hing for the three of us whi­le I go ta­ke a sho­wer and g cle­aned up," Mom says, get­ting up off the bed.

  The three of us ?

  Does she ha­ve to eat with them, too?

  "I'm re­al­ly not hungry," Li­an­na says, fol­ding h arms ac­ross her chest.

  "I'm not eit­her, but we ha­ve to eat," Mom tells he "And you can get to know Aimee. You al­ways sa­id you wan­ted a sis­ter."

  "I ne­ver sa­id that."

  Mom gi­ves her a lo­ok that says don't be ru­de. Now she lo­oks mo­re li­ke her usu­al self-the self she's be­en la­tely, an­y­way.

  Lianna fe­els mo­re li­ke her usu­al self when she in­sists, fe­eling or­nery, "Well, I didn't."

  "You did. May­be you don't re­mem­ber." Mom la­ughs the ner­vo­us la­ugh she do­es whe­ne­ver Li­an­na is em­bar­ras­sing her in front of so­me­one. "When you we­re lit­tle, it's all you used to talk abo­ut. You wan­ted me and yo­ur fat­her to ha­ve anot­her baby, a girl, so that you co­uld ha­ve a sis­ter."

  "I don't re­mem­ber that."

  No, all I re­mem­ber is wan­ting my big brot­her back.

  Lianna lo­oks away, to­ward the col­lec­ti­on of an­ti­que dolls that li­ne a bo­ok­s­helf, and blinks an­no­ying te­ars out of eyes.

  But her mot­her is re­ac­hing out to to­uch her chin, for­cing her to turn her he­ad back.

  "What?" she asks, hu­mi­li­ated to be ca­ught crying, es­pe­ci­al­ly in front of an out­si­der.

  To her cre­dit, Aimee has drif­ted clo­ser to the do­or aga­in, and se­ems to be ca­ught up in exa­mi­ning the frin­ged sha­de of an old lamp.

  "Come on dow­n­s­ta­irs for din­ner," her mot­her says in that kind to­ne aga­in. "I want to spend so­me ti­me with you. I've mis­sed you all day."

  I've mis­sed you, too, Li­an­na thinks sadly. And for a who­le lot lon­ger than just a day.

  The po­li­ce sta­ti­on is bus­t­ling on this sum­mer Sun­day eve­ning.

  Mimi wa­its to spe­ak to the jol­ly-lo­oking desk ser­ge­ant, me­an­w­hi­le nib­bling her lo­wer lip so fi­er­cely she tas­tes blo­od.

  Finally, it's her turn. She gi­ves her na­me, fe­eling as tho­ugh she's go­ing to fa­int any se­cond.

  "How can we help you, Mrs. Joh­n­s­ton?"

  "I ne­ed to spe­ak to, um, so­me­body. Abo­ut a ca­se."

  "About a re­port you fi­led?"

  "No…"

  He wa­its. Be­ne­ath brows ra­ised in ob­vi­o­us qu­es­ti­on, his eyes are kind.

  Nonetheless, she's pa­ral­y­zed with fe­ar, ba­rely ab­le to draw a bre­ath.

  This is it.

  If she re­ve­als an­y­t­hing to the po­li­ce, she'll of­fi­ci­al­ly be in­vol­ved. She do­esn't ne­ed this com­p­li­ca­ti­on in her li­fe. Not right now.

  But what el­se can she do?

  Run out of he­re?

  What if the ser­ge­ant co­mes af­ter her, de­man­ding that she talk?

  Come on. That won't hap­pen.

  He do­esn't even know which ca­se I me­an.

  All right, so she can pro­bably get away, if she fle­es the sta­ti­on right now, and no­body will ever be the wi­ser.

  But how will she be ab­le to li­ve with her­self?

  You won't.

  Besides, don't you re­mem­ber what he did to you?

  Don't you re­mem­ber that day in the dor­mi­tory at Tel­lfa­ir Aca­demy?

  Yes.

  She re­mem­bers.

  Sorry, Gib, she thinks now, ste­eling her ner­ve, pay­back can be a re­al bitch…

  And so can I.

  She le­ans to­ward the of­fi­cer and con­fi­des, "I ha­ve so­me in­for­ma­ti­on abo­ut the sho­oting last night on Og­let­hor­pe Ave­nue."

  "Goodness, I'm so smart to ha­ve tho­ught of pic­king up this hand truck at Ho­me De­pot the ot­her day, don't you think? Oh, I for­got… you can't say an­y­t­hing. For a chan­ge. Well, si­len­ce is gol­den, as Ma­ma used to say. Shoo!"

  Another pesky in­sect is buz­zing aro­und the cor­p­se las­hed to the hand truck as the ti­res be­co­me bog­ged down, on­ce aga­in, in mud.

  "Shoo… go away."

  It ta­kes a go­od fi­ve mi­nu­tes to free the cart and its grisly car­go. The pro­cess en­ta­ils re­pe­atedly swat­ting at in­sects and jug­gling the flas­h­light from hand to hand, ac­ci­den­tal­ly drop­ping it, se­ve­ral ti­mes, in­to the muck.

  At last, the cart is on its way aga­in, fol­lo­wing the now-fa­mi­li­ar path thro­ugh the marsh, well lit by the flas­h­light's gla­re.

  The brick ca­bin isn't all that far from the ma­in ho­use, re­al­ly-but it re­ma­ins as much a world away now as it did back in sla­very ti­mes. God for­bid the Re­min­g­tons find it ne­ces­sary to as­so­ci­ate with the ho­use­hold help.

  "Here we are, ho­me swe­et ho­me… what do you think? Oh, I ke­ep for­get­ting… you can't tell me what you think an­y­mo­re. Well, that's a dar­ned sha­me but I ha­ve to say it was ine­vi­tab­le."

  The han­d­cart drops with a thud be­si­de the old brick do­or­s­tep. The flas­h­light's be­am pi­vots wildly over the dar­ke­ned lan­d­s­ca­pe, the flas­h­light
it­self clen­c­hed ear to sho­ul­der, le­aving both hands free to work the pad­lock.

  "Yoo-hoo, la­di­es, I've bro­ught a vi­si­tor, just li­ke I pro­mi­sed."

  At that, the cor­p­se is cut lo­ose from the hand truck and drag­ged over the thres­hold.

  Rigor mor­tis has set in; it ta­kes qu­ite a bit of ef­fort to get it prop­ped just right in the pla­ce of ho­nor at the small tab­le, po­si­ti­oned bet­we­en the red­he­aded doll and the bru­net­te. The blond doll sits ac­ross, se­eming to sta­re at the new­co­mer, who­se wi­de gre­en eyes are fro­zen in an ex­p­res­si­on of eter­nal hor­ror.

  "It's li­ke lo­oking in­to a mir­ror, isn't it Pammy Sue? Oh, wa­it… the­re are two Pammy Su­es now. And isn't it iro­nic? Ne­it­her of you can say a word!"

  Laughter fills the old ca­bin.

  But with it drifts the ec­ho of a long ago vo­ice. Ma­ma's vo­ice, scol­ding.

  You na­ughty, na­ughty child. What ha­ve you do­ne?

  But Ma­ma isn't he­re. She can't be he­re. Ma­ma is de­ad.

  The flas­h­light's be­am bo­un­ces aro­und wildly, re­ve­aling one re­as­su­ringly empty cor­ner af­ter anot­her.

  "See? No­body he­re but me. And you, Pammy Sue. One, two, Pammy Su­es."

  Another wa­ve of hyste­ri­cal la­ug­h­ter.

  Then the flas­h­light bo­un­ces from the red­he­aded doll to the bru­net­te. "Oh, no, I didn't for­get. You're both he­re, too. Now we can ha­ve our lit­tle doll tea party. Just li­ke old ti­mes."

  The tea set, de­li­ve­red to the ca­bin on an ear­li­er trip, is ret­ri­eved from its shop­ping bag and la­in out on the tab­le. It's the one that was pur­c­ha­sed two de­ca­des ago at the Pi­ge­on Cre­ek fi­ve and di­me, an ex­t­ra­va­gant bir­t­h­day gift for Pammy Sue.

  Those fa­mi­li­ar gre­en eyes se­em to be fol­lo­wing the ac­ti­on with un­ner­ving in­ten­sity, al­most as tho­ugh they re­cog­ni­ze the chil­d­ho­od re­lic.

  But that's ri­di­cu­lo­us, of co­ur­se. They aren't re­al­ly wat­c­hing.

  Pammy Sue is de­ad. She can't see any mo­re than she can spe­ak.

  Which is why I get to do all the tal­king from now on. And that's just fi­ne with me.

  "Oh, lo­ok… one of the cups is chip­ped. How on earth can that ha­ve hap­pe­ned? Oh, wa­it, I re­mem­ber!"

  Yes, it hap­pe­ned on Pammy Sue's bir­t­h­day, when she left the ro­om to get her fa­vo­ri­te doll, le­aving the tea set spre­ad out on the kit­c­hen tab­le. It was so pretty, the whi­te chi­na sprig­ged with lit­tle pink ro­ses. It must ha­ve be­en ex­pen­si­ve.

  I ne­ver got such an ex­pen­si­ve, be­a­uti­ful bir­t­h­day gift in my li­fe. Not in that li­fe, an­y­way.

  That was why it was so tem­p­ting, that day-Pam­my Sue's bir­t­h­day-to snatch the ne­arest cup. It was hur­t­led to the flo­or in a sud­den burst of ra­ge, so hard that it sho­uld ha­ve smas­hed in­to tiny shards.

  But it didn't. It hit the ed­ge of the thick bra­ided rag rug and bo­un­ced gently on­to the li­no­le­um.

  Only a sli­ver of por­ce­la­in splin­te­red off the rim, so. slight a bre­ak that Pammy Sue didn't even no­ti­ce it when she ca­me back in­to the ro­om with her doll.

  And when she fi­nal­ly did see the chip­ped spot, days la­ter, she tho­ught she must ha­ve do­ne it her­self so­me­how.

  Stupid, stu­pid girl.

  "Here you go." The chip­ped cup is pla­ced in front of the cor­p­se. "You won't mind. You pro­bably won't even no­ti­ce."

  What fun this is. Just li­ke old ti­mes.

  "All right, now, we'll ha­ve to pre­tend the­re's tea in the cups." The lit­tle chi­na spo­ut is po­si­ti­oned over each of the fo­ur rims and the pot is til­ted as if to dis­pen­se its ste­aming be­ve­ra­ge. "And we'll pre­tend the­re are co­oki­es on the pla­tes, too… what's that, Pammy Sue? You don't li­ke to pre­tend?"

  Silence.

  Of co­ur­se.

  Because Pammy Sue can't spe­ak.

  And she can't see.

  Really, she can't.

  But I can't help it. I ne­ed to ma­ke su­re…

  Rage swe­eps in, the sa­me as it did on Pammy Sue's long ago bir­t­h­day. This ti­me, it's a lit­tle sil­ver te­as­po­on that is snat­c­hed ab­ruptly from the tab­le.

  Then the cor­p­se is grab­bed ro­ughly by its blond ha­ir, now mat­ted with co­agu­la­ted blo­od.

  The ed­ge of the spo­on is jam­med in­to the soc­ket be­ne­ath Pammy Sue's mo­ti­on­less right eye. It go­uges mer­ci­les­sly, in a se­emingly fu­ti­le ef­fort un­til sud­denly, the eye­ball is se­ve­red.

  Ah, the­re.

  The gory orb plops, oozing, on­to a small chi­na pla­te. Its co­un­ter­part fol­lows af­ter anot­her bri­ef strug­gle with the spo­on.

  Then the cor­p­se is re­tur­ned to its po­si­ti­on and the pla­te is set in the mid­dle of the tab­le li­ke a gru­eso­me cen­ter­pi­ece.

  '’There… I'm af­ra­id we're all out of co­oki­es, but he­re's a de­li­ci­o­us tre­at just for you, Pammy Sue. Go ahe­ad, dig in. I'm su­re you won't mind if I don't stay… I've got to be go­ing now, be­fo­re so­me­body mis­ses me. But I'll be back so­on for anot­her vi­sit. I pro­mi­se."

  CHAPTER 11

  First thing Mon­day mor­ning, Char­lot­te finds her­self fa­cing De­tec­ti­ves Wil­li­am­son and Do­ra­do on­ce aga­in.

  But this ti­me, it's on her turf: in the se­cond of the do­ub­le par­lors at Oak­ga­te, with the do­ors clo­sed.

  And this ti­me, Aimee is at her si­de.

  When the de­tec­ti­ves sho­wed up unan­no­un­ced, Char­lot­te was just abo­ut to le­ave for the hos­pi­tal with her step­da­ug­h­ter.

  They ini­ti­al­ly as­ked to spe­ak to Char­lot­te in pri­va­te. She qu­ickly spo­ke up and told them she wo­uld fe­el mo­re com­for­tab­le with her step­da­ug­h­ter the­re.

  "Aimee sho­uld he­ar an­y­t­hing y'all ha­ve to say-Roy­ce is her fat­her. She flew in yes­ter­day from New Or­le­ans and she's as con­cer­ned as I am."

  To her re­li­ef, and frankly, her sur­p­ri­se, even Wil­li­am­son didn't op­po­se her re­qu­est.

  "Do you know who did this?" Char­lot­te asks the fo­ment they're all se­ated-on a clus­ter of cir­c­le-bac­ked ni­ne­te­en­th-cen­tury cha­irs up­hol­s­te­red in yel­low silk; Wil­li­am­son's am­p­le girth over­f­lo­wing be­ne­ath the wo­oden arms on eit­her si­de of his.

  "Not yet" He do­esn't ela­bo­ra­te.

  Frustrated, Char­lot­te snaps, "Well, what did you find out?"

  And why are you he­re? Don't you re­ali­ze that I ha­ve to get back to my hus­band's bed­si­de?

  Dorado ta­kes over. "Mrs. Ma­it­land-and Miss Ma­it­land, is it?" At Aimee's nod, the de­tec­ti­ve go­es on, "Ha­ve y'all be­en he­re all night?"

  "Ever sin­ce we left the hos­pi­tal at aro­und se­ven," Char­lot­te tells him, bris­t­ling at the qu­es­ti­on. Su­rely he do­esn't con­si­der her a sus­pect at this po­int, do­es he?

  "Can you just tell us what you did he­re, and who all was in the ho­use?"

  Suppressing a sigh, Char­lot­te re­co­unts the eve­ning step-by-step: she tal­ked to her da­ug­h­ter, spo­ke to the, ho­use­ke­eper abo­ut din­ner, then to­ok a sho­wer whi­le Aimee set­tled in­to Gran­dad­dy's ro­om with Nydia's as­sis­tan­ce…

  "Nydia? She's the ho­use­ke­eper who let us in just now?" Wil­li­am­son in­ter­rupts, jot­ting so­met­hing on his pad. 'The one you men­ti­oned yes­ter­day when we as­ked; who was li­ving in the ho­use?"

  "Yes." 'We'll want to talk to her."

  "Fine, but I don't know what she can pos­sibly tell; y'all."

  Keeping her ga­ze fo­cu­sed on the pa­ir of an­ti­que an­di­rons at the far end of the ro­om so that she w
on't ha­ve to lo­ok at Wil­li­am­son, Char­lot­te go­es on with her; ac­co­unt of last night. She fa­ils to men­ti­on that Nydia was si­lently di­sap­pro­ving when Char­lot­te as­ked her to; put fresh she­ets on the bed; cle­arly, she do­esn't think an­y­body sho­uld be mo­ving in­to the ro­om so so­on af­ter Gran­dad­dy's de­ath.