The Final Victim

by that's me

  "I don't know," she calls from the far si­de of the ho­use. "I'm trying to see."

  It so­un­ded as tho­ugh one of the tre­men­do­us tre­es ca­me down alon­g­si­de the ho­use. This storm is far wor­se than he had an­ti­ci­pa­ted. And whe­re on earth is Char­lot­te?

  She sho­uld ha­ve be­en back from the gro­cery sto­re ho­urs ago.

  This day has go­ne dow­n­hill fast, ever sin­ce he lo­oked up and saw that li­fe­gu­ard stan­ding in the par­lor.

  He he­ars Aimee's hur­ri­ed fo­ot­s­teps in the hall. "Did you find out what it was?"

  She ap­pe­ars in the par­lor do­or­way. "One of the li­ve oaks right next to the dri­ve­way. It al­most crus­hed Nydia's car and it to­ok down so­me wi­res, too. I can't be­li­eve we didn't lo­se the elec­t­ri­city."

  "I'm su­re it'll go so­oner or la­ter. The lights ke­ep flic­ke­ring." He ex­ha­les ner­vo­usly. "Whe­re is Nydia?"

  "Still up­s­ta­irs so­mew­he­re, I gu­ess. I ha­ven't he­ard her."

  That do­esn't me­an she's not aro­und, Roy­ce thinks, kno­wing how the ho­use­ke­eper tends to cre­ep aro­und the ho­use, pop­ping up whe­re you le­ast ex­pect her.

  For all he knows, she co­uld be eaves­d­rop­ping on the ot­her si­de of the par­lor do­or. It wo­uldn't sur­p­ri­se him in the le­ast.

  "This storm is nasty," Aimee com­ments, as the wind las­hes at the clo­sed par­lor win­dow.

  "And Char­lot­te is out in it so­mew­he­re."

  "I know. Try to get her on her cell aga­in. May­be she'll pick up this ti­me. He­re, I'll di­al; you talk."

  Royce nods, ta­king the re­ce­iver Aimee hands him.

  She be­gins pres­sing but­tons, but he qu­ickly sha­kes his he­ad.

  "Wait, the­re's no di­al to­ne."

  "Sorry." She jig­gles the crad­le but­ton, then be­gins di­aling aga­in.

  "Still no di­al to­ne," he says sharply. 'The pho­ne is de­ad."

  "What abo­ut yo­ur cell pho­ne?"

  "I ha­ve no idea whe­re it even is. Pro­bably in a poc­ket so­mew­he­re in my clo­set or the ham­per." “I’ll go up­s­ta­irs and lo­ok for it."

  "I'll help you. It'll be fas­ter."

  "What abo­ut the sta­irs? And yo­ur leg?" Aimee asks.

  "Don't worry. I'm fi­ne… and ever­y­t­hing el­se is go­ing to be fi­ne, too."

  "I'm not wor­ri­ed."

  "Yes, you are. Abo­ut Char­lot­te. I can tell."

  "So are you," she ac­cu­ses.

  "You're right. But I know her bet­ter than you do. The­re's no way she isn't do­ing ever­y­t­hing in her po­wer to get ho­me. I'm su­re she'll be he­re any mi­nu­te now."

  "I ho­pe so."

  "She will." He opens his arms wi­de. "Co­me over he­re, sca­red lit­tle Baby Girl…"

  "Don't call me that," she pro­tests, but her mo­uth qu­irks wi­uh a sup­pres­sed smi­le.

  "You co­me over he­re and let yo­ur daddy gi­ve you a hug," he says, grin­ning too as he pulls her clo­se and ten­derly stro­kes her blond ha­ir. "We're go­ing to be just fi­ne. I pro­mi­se."

  In the lib­rary, Mi­mi sits be­fo­re the mic­ro­fic­he scre­en, di­sap­po­in­ted.

  Obituaries so­me­ti­mes men­ti­on the pre­ci­se ca­use of de­ath-or at le­ast in­di­ca­te what it was, with a re­qu­est for a do­na­ti­on to a cha­ri­tab­le fund for Kep­ton-Man­ning Syndro­me.

  But ac­cor­ding to every old new­s­pa­per she chec­ked, Con­nie June Re­min­g­ton "di­ed at ho­me af­ter an ex­ten­ded il­lness. Do­na­ti­ons can be ma­de to the new Re­min­g­ton Am­bu­la­tory Wing at-"

  The lights flic­ker.

  Disconcerted, Mi­mi glan­ces up, then out the win­dow at the ga­le. She has to get out of he­re. She re­al­ly do­es.

  But first, she'll check the In­ter­net for any fur­t­her in­for­ma­ti­on on Char­lot­te's mot­her.

  "Excuse me, ma'am, the lib­rary is go­ing to be clo­sing early be­ca­use of the storm."

  Not lo­oking up from the com­pu­ter key­bo­ard, Mi­mi nods. "I'll be fi­nis­hed in just a few mi­nu­tes."

  Googling Con­nie June Re­min­g­ton's na­me yi­elds no new in­for­ma­ti­on.

  Even as Mi­mi tells her­self that she sho­uld gi­ve up and go ho­me, her left in­dex fin­ger strays to­ward the T key, and her right im­me­di­ately slips one spa­ce over, to the H.

  No! Don't do it! That has not­hing to do with this.

  No, it do­esn't, but se­e­ing Roy­ce Ma­it­land to­day bro­ught it all back.

  It do­esn't ta­ke much.

  Her mid­dle fin­ger on the left hand pres­ses the E key.

  Why are you do­ing this? What do you think you 're go­ing to find?

  At the ti­me, she re­fu­sed to re­ad the pa­pers, or watch the news, or lis­ten to pe­op­le dis­cus­sing the tra­gedy. And ne­ver on­ce, in the past three ye­ars sin­ce, has she al­lo­wed her­self to lo­ok for it on the In­ter­net.

  But may­be it's ti­me she did.

  Maybe se­e­ing it he­re, and fa­cing he­ad-on her own ro­le in the tra­gedy, will help her to put it to rest. May­be she'll stop ha­ving that aw­ful nig­h­t­ma­re that ha­unts her even now, when she's sle­eping be­si­de her dying hus­band, li­ving a nig­h­t­ma­re that's even wor­se.

  After Theo, she qu­ickly types Ma­it­land, hits en­ter, and holds her bre­ath.

  Detective Do­ra­do was right. The storm has de­fi­ni­tely be­gun, and with a ven­ge­an­ce.

  Charlotte ke­eps one eye on the ra­in-spat­te­red win­dow, and the swa­ying tre­es be­yond, as she calls her ho­me te­lep­ho­ne num­ber.

  A re­cor­ded vo­ice co­mes on the li­ne. "All cir­cu­its are busy. Ple­ase try yo­ur call aga­in la­ter."

  She lo­oks at Do­ra­do, who must ha­ve over­he­ard.

  He nods. 'Try aga­in." '’They sa­id la­ter."

  "It's la­ter. Try aga­in."

  She do­es. This ti­me, the­re's a click, fol­lo­wed by a ra­pid busy sig­nal.

  "Oh, I must ha­ve di­aled the old num­ber," she re­ali­zes, and dis­con­nects the call. "Sorry."

  "Try aga­in."

  "I will," she snaps-and im­me­di­ately wis­hes she hadn't. Not at him, an­y­way. He's just trying to do his job-tr­ying to help her, and Roy­ce-she sho­uld ap­pre­ci­ate his kin­der, gen­t­ler ap­pro­ach, as op­po­sed to his par­t­ner's.

  It's just that her ner­ves are ra­pidly fra­ying. Ge­nu­ine pre­mo­ni­ti­on or ir­ra­ti­onal fe­ar… all she wants is to get back ho­me be­fo­re so­met­hing hap­pens.

  She calls the num­ber aga­in, mo­re slowly this ti­me, ta­king ca­re to di­al the right one.

  Again, the un­ner­ving up-tem­po busy sig­nal.

  She lo­oks an­xi­o­usly at Do­ra­do. "You don't think an­y­t­hing is wrong over the­re, do you?" 'The storm," he says with a dis­co­ura­ged sha­ke of his he­ad. "The pho­nes must be out of com­mis­si­on."

  "I'll try my hus­band's cell pho­ne."

  She do­es, but it go­es right in­to vo­ice ma­il. Lis­te­ning to his re­as­su­ring vo­ice on the out­go­ing mes­sa­ge, she won­ders how much to tell him. Now isn't the ti­me to get in­to the de­tec­ti­ve's re­qu­est, or the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. She opts to le­ave a bri­ef mes­sa­ge: "Roy­ce, it's me. I'm on my way ho­me right now, but it might ta­ke me a whi­le be­ca­use of the we­at­her. I lo­ve you. See you so­on."

  She hangs up. "Can I ple­ase go now? If it's that bad I re­al­ly ha­ve to get back the­re to my fa­mily."

  "If it's that bad," Do­ra­do re­turns, "I re­al­ly wo­uldn't ad­vi­se yo­ur go­ing an­y­w­he­re."

  "I ha­ve to. My hus­band is inj­ured and my da­ug­h­ter is only thir­te­en, and my po­or aunt is old and fe­eb­le. They all ne­ed me at ho­me."

  "Are they alo­ne?
"

  "No," she ad­mits. "My step­da­ug­h­ter is the­re, and the ho­use­ke­eper-and my aunt do­es ha­ve a nur­se, but… I ne­ed to be the­re."

  "It so­unds li­ke they're in go­od hands, Mrs. Ma­it­land. Don't you ha­ve a ho­use right down the block? Why don't you stay the­re?"

  "Because I'm go­ing ho­me." She me­ets his wor­ri­ed brown eyes with a de­fi­ant gla­re. "Ho­me to Oak­ga­te."

  Huddled be­ne­ath a black um­b­rel­la that do­es not­hing to shut out the ra­in blo­wing si­de­ways, Tyler cros­ses the de­ser­ted ex­pan­se of Forsyth Park. He mo­ves as qu­ickly as his old legs can carry him. That isn't sa­ying much, thanks to in­c­re­asingly fra­gi­le bo­nes and his re­cent inj­ury, which hap­pe­ned a sto­ne's throw from he­re, on a day al­most as blus­tery as this.

  Today, as then, he wo­uld much pre­fer to be snug at his ho­me on Aber­corn Stre­et, per­haps enj­oying a Cu­ban ci­gar and a sin­g­le-malt scotch.

  Ah, but Gil­bert wo­uldn't ap­pro­ve, he finds him­self thin­king, then ac­k­now­led­ging, on­ce and for all, the irony that a man who di­sap­pro­ved of such "immo­ral" vi­ces as smo­king and drin­king wo­uld go to the im­mo­ral lengths he did to sa­ve his for­tu­ne, and his pri­de-at the ex­pen­se of co­un­t­less pe­op­le's li­ves.

  And you hel­ped him to do it, Tyler re­minds him­self as he steps in­to the cros­swalk whe­re he was ne­arly kil­led last win­ter. You and Si­las.

  Silas's ro­le in the co­ver-up was far mo­re in­c­ri­mi­na­ting than his own. But in the end, we­re any of them any less, or mo­re, gu­ilty?

  Tyler's inj­ured leg is ac­hing, but he for­ces him­self to ta­ke the sta­irs, rat­her than the ele­va­tor. Pu­nis­h­ment, he thinks wryly, but hardly harsh eno­ugh.

  His mind flas­hes to Gib Re­min­g­ton, sit­ting be­hind bars, ha­ving con­fes­sed to the drugs but not to at­tem­p­ted mur­der. He won't be jet­ting off with a be­a­uti­ful blon­de any ti­me so­on.

  Tyler won­ders, aga­in, abo­ut Gib's ro­le in what hap­pe­ned he­re in Sa­van­nah-and at Oak­ga­te.

  Perhaps the truth abo­ut Gil­bert's de­ath will ne­ver be known.

  But the truth abo­ut his li­fe will.

  In his of­fi­ce, Tyler go­es to the tall wo­oden fi­le ca­bi­net and opens the loc­ked bot­tom dra­wer using his key-the one who­se dup­li­ca­te no­body, in­c­lu­ding his gran­d­nep­hew Jame­son, has.

  It ta­kes him a long ti­me to re­mo­ve all the han­ging fi­les and stack them ne­atly on the flo­or be­si­de the ca­bi­net. Then, prying with a poc­ket­k­ni­fe on his key ring, he lifts the fal­se bot­tom from the dra­wer and re­mo­ves the ma­nil­la en­ve­lo­pe be­ne­ath it.

  Unlike the ot­her two mem­bers of the Tel­fa­ir Trio, Tyler Haw­t­hor­ne won't carry blind lo­yal­ty-or to­xic gu­ilt-to his gra­ve.

  Nothing co­mes up in res­pon­se to Mi­mi's Go­og­le re­qu­est.

  Nothing that per­ta­ins to a child's drow­ning de­ath off Ac­ho­co Is­land, an­y­way. She scans the be­gin­ning of a long list of re­fe­ren­ces to the na­mes Theo and, se­pa­ra­tely, men­ti­ons of the last na­me Ma­it­land. It wo­uld ta­ke her ho­urs to wa­de thro­ugh this.

  She types in The­odo­re Ma­it­land AND drow­ning, a trick she le­ar­ned in a col­le­ge com­pu­ter class, to nar­row down the se­arch en­gi­ne's hits.

  The re­sults pop up with plenty of en­t­ri­es that con­ta­in eit­her The­odo­re or Ma­it­land or drow­ning, or even two of the three words. But no­ne of it is what she's lo­oking for, at le­ast, not right he­re at the top. She has hardly be­gun scan­ning the lengthy pa­ges of en­t­ri­es when the lib­ra­ri­an in­ter­rupts her.

  "Ma'am? We re­al­ly are clo­sing."

  "I'm sorry, I'm just abo­ut fi­nis­hed he­re."

  She can't was­te ti­me wa­ding thro­ugh this list.

  Biting her lo­wer lip in­tently, she types in Theo Ma­it­land AND Roy­ce Ma­it­land AND New Or­le­ans AND drow­ning.

  There!

  The na­me Roy­ce Ma­it­land jumps out at her.

  "Ma'am! Ple­ase!"

  "I'm sorry. I'll shut down."

  But be­fo­re she do­es, she scrolls ra­pidly to click on the link for the first Roy­ce Ma­it­land entry.

  Moments la­ter, Mi­mi is run­ning for the exit in a ra­ce that has not­hing to do with the lib­rary's clo­sing or the im­pen­ding storm.

  You are such a fre­aking baby, Li­an­na scoffs at her­self as she co­wers on her bed aga­inst the in­ner wall, as far from the rat­tling win­dows as she can pos­sibly get. She clo­sed and loc­ked them when the ra­in star­ted blo­wing in… as if that can re­al­ly ke­ep a storm this fi­er­ce at bay.

  Yes, but this is a so­lid old ho­use. It's be­en he­re for ne­arly a hun­d­red and fifty ye­ars.

  Uh-huh. So has the tree that ca­me cras­hing down out­si­de.

  The tho­ught of the wind gus­ting strong eno­ugh to des­t­roy the for­mi­dab­le oak-and, pos­sibly, im­p­lo­de the ho­use's ori­gi­nal win­dows-is eno­ugh to ma­ke her want to bolt from the ro­om.

  She for­ces her­self to stay put.

  First, you screw things up with yo­ur boy­f­ri­end be­ca­use you're af­ra­id he'll try to go too far.

  Now it's all you can do not to go run­ning dow­n­s­ta­irs to find yo­ur mommy be­ca­use you 're sca­red of a lit­tle storm.

  A tre­men­do­us blast howls aga­inst the glass as if the storm begs to dif­fer with her in­ner bully.

  Okay, so it's a big storm.

  But it isn't a hur­ri­ca­ne.

  If it we­re a hur­ri­ca­ne, Li­an­na tells her­self, you co­uld go run­ning to yo­ur mommy.

  Her mot­her must be ho­me by now, al­t­ho­ugh she wasn't a lit­tle whi­le ago, when Li­an­na had as­ked Nydia. That's when Li­an­na al­so fo­und out it was a tree out front that had knoc­ked out the pho­ne li­nes when it ca­me down.

  Terrific.

  The only thing wor­se than be­ing stuck at Oak­ga­te in bad we­at­her is be­ing stuck at Oak­ga­te in bad we­at­her wit­ho­ut a pho­ne.

  Hey-maybe I sho­uld go find Mom and ask her if I can ha­ve my cell back, Li­an­na thinks sud­denly.

  After all, this is an emer­gency. It's not li­ke she can use the re­gu­lar pho­ne. And it's pro­bably go­ing to be days be­fo­re they fix the li­nes. She can't go for days wit­ho­ut tal­king to her fri­ends… or Ke­vin.

  Right, Ke­vin.

  Her mot­her isn't go­ing to gi­ve her the pho­ne back. No way.

  All right, so I'll just ha­ve to go find it myself.

  Yeah, and when she se­es the bill, she'll know you used it when you we­ren’t sup­po­sed to.

  True, but that's pro­bably a month away. Li­an­na will de­al with the fal­lo­ut when the ti­me co­mes.

  Her mind ma­de up, she slips qu­i­etly out of her bed­ro­om and down the hall.

  The do­or to the ro­om her mot­her sha­res with Roy­ce is clo­sed.

  She opens it slowly, ple­ased when it do­esn't cre­ak li­ke most of the ot­her old do­ors in the ho­use…

  And what she finds on the ot­her si­de is the most sic­ke­ning shock of her yo­ung li­fe.

  Praying the ti­res won't lo­se trac­ti­on and hydrop­la­ne, Char­lot­te ste­ers the Le­xus for­ward thro­ugh yet anot­her flo­oded low spot on the hig­h­way le­ading from the in­ter­s­ta­te to the Ac­ho­co Is­land Ca­use­way. At le­ast she's dri­ving the SUV to­day, and not Roy­ce's lit­tle Audi that she of­ten ta­kes.

  Still, it isn't a go­od idea to be out in this storm in any kind of ve­hic­le-un­less it's a bo­at, she ac­k­now­led­ges, ste­ering ca­re­ful­ly aro­und a wi­de, de­ep pud­dle.

  She just has to get ho­me.

  They must be so wor­ri­ed abo­ut her-and God knows, she's wor­ri­ed abo­ut them. Chan�
�ces are, ever­y­t­hing is fi­ne and the storm just knoc­ked out the pho­ne ser­vi­ce…

  But she wo­uld fe­el a who­le lot bet­ter if she co­uld just get ho­me to Roy­ce and Li­an­na.

  At le­ast Aimee is the­re, she re­minds her­self.