by that's me
And it's not as though she won't know what to do in a storm like this. She's from New Orleans, for heaven's sake. She's survived worse. Much, much worse.
New Orleans.
Charlotte's thoughts instantly dart back to the conversation she just had with Dorado. There's something…
New Orleans…?
Karen…?
There's something she should be remembering. Something about…
Maybe not New Orleans…
Then what?
Vince…?
No. There it is again! Some elusive thought that flits like a firefly into her consciousness, only to be instantly extinguished before she can catch it.
Think, think, think…
Maybe once she's safely back home, rather than making this treacherous drive from hell, it will come back to her.
For now, all she can do is drive- Startled by a loud crack, she watches a tree crash to the earth in a flooded field off the road.
Yes, drive, and try not to get myself killed in the process.
Listening to the torrents of rain pouring onto the roof just overhead, Jeanne is surprised it hasn't started leaking yet in its usual spot on the far side of the room.
This is almost as bad as a hurricane, and she's weathered quite a few of those in all her years here at Oakgate. The roof leaks; the basement is bound to fill up with a foot of water-it always does.
Yet Jeanne supposes that she-or at least, the old house-might weather this storm as well.
But this time, she isn't planning on sticking around to witness the outcome.
Where on earth is Melanie?
Pushing aside the wheelchair parked beside the bed, Jeanne gets to her feet and goes, a bit unsteadily, to the window overlooking the front of the house.
Gazing down at the driveway, the first thing she sees is that an enormous tree has fallen alongside one of the cars. From here, she can't tell whether it's Melanie's.
Then a movement closer to the house catches her eye, and she strains to see what it is.
Oh. Somebody is down there.
She can't tell who it is; they're wearing a long black-vinyl rain cloak that whips wildly about in the wind.
As the figure comes fully into view, she realizes that he-or she-is oddly stooped over.
Oh! That's because whoever it is happens to be dragging something that must be heavy down the steps of the portico…
Something that looks for all the world like a dead body swathed in a sheet of blue plastic.
Heedless of her wet, windblown hair, Mimi paces the tiny room that she was ushered into while she waits to speak with one of the detectives on the Remington case.
Her heart rate-catapulted to a lofty height the moment she opened that Web link-has yet to return to normal. When she closes her eyes, all she can see is the shocking link to that Louisiana newspaper.
How can this be?
And why?
It doesn't make sense.
There has to be some mistake, or some coincidence.
Yet what are the odds of that? All the details match…
But the photos don't.
The door opens.
Aimee turns to see Detective Dorado-the nice one-standing in the doorway.
"What is it, Mrs. Johnston?" he asks, catching sight of her face. "What's going on?"
"I don't know," she says in a rush, "but you've got to get somebody out to Oakgate right away because I think Charlotte Remington and her daughter are in terrible danger."
Incredulous, Jeanne watches the hooded figure below come to a stop with its tarp-shrouded burden.
Why now? Why there?
Whoever it is went to tremendous effort to drag whatever, or whoever, is wrapped in the tarp quite a distance from the house. Jeanne assumed they were headed for the nearest car, but the car was bypassed in favor of the sprawling branches of the newly fallen tree.
Now what?
Her own plans forgotten, her view partially obscured by cascading moss and foliage, Jeanne sees the flapping tarp come away completely, released to blow into obscurity, carried by the gusting wind. By the time the storm is over, it might very well have been ripped to shreds, or swept out to sea, or tangled in tree limbs miles from Oakgate, mingling with other innocuous storm debris.
Nobody will ever know that this particular tarp shielded not a roof, but, indeed, a corpse.
A female corpse with light-colored hair that Jeanne, even at this distance, finds chillingly familiar.
Part Five
The Final Victim
CHAPTER 17
"There"-Aimee expertly secures the last strip of clean gauze over the wound-"how does that feel? Too tight?"
"Not at all. You're an expert." Royce begins to lower his leg, propped on the toilet seat, with a grimace.
"Don't hurt yourself."
"I won't." He sets it gingerly on the floor and tries to stand, testing his weight on it.
Watching him, Aimee says, "The stairs were too much for you."
"I'm fine."
"No, you aren't."
"Well, I will be… as soon as Charlotte gets back. And she said she's on her way, so-"
She left that message a while ago. How long does it take to drive home from the supermarket, even in bad weather? And why isn't she picking up her cell phone?" Aimee shakes her head worriedly. "What about Lianna?" She's still in her room, right? We'd better go talk to her now."
"And tell her…?"
"That this is getting much too dangerous and as soon as Charlotte gets here," Royce says resolutely, "we're going to have to evacuate. We can't waste another minute." 'That'll go over like a lead balloon."
"No, come on…" He hobbles to the door and out into the hall. "It'll be fine. Let's tell her now."
"You go ahead. She hates me."
"She doesn't hate you."
"Wanna bet?" Aimee folds her arms across her chest and watches him knock on the closed door at the end of the hall.
"Lianna?" He can hear the television blasting, as usual, on the other side of the door. She must be thrilled they have yet to lose power. But he has a feeling that will be short-lived. "Lianna!"
"Are you sure she's in there?" Aimee asks, coming toward him.
'The TV is on. Lianna!" 'Try the door," Aimee says hurriedly.
He does. "It's latched. She has to be inside. Lianna!"
The only sound from within is an eruption of canned laughter from a studio audience.
His heart sinking, Royce commands tersely, "Aimee, get me a chair from the guest room."
"I told you your leg was going to give out," she says, shaking her head as she scurries to oblige.
"No, the chair isn't to sit on. I need to use it to break down this door."
"I'm sorry, ma'am," the uniformed officer, dressed in bright orange rain gear, shouts when she rolls down the driver's side window. "I can't let you go over the causeway. It's closed."
"But I live out there!" Charlotte prote
sts. "I have to get home to my family."
"Ma'am, that would be too dangerous. The storm surge is getting higher by the second. Already we've got waves washing over the road."
"But it's the only way to get back on the island!" she protests. "The other one washed away last fall."
"Exactly," he says with a meaningful nod. 'That's why I can't let you drive out there."
"Where am I supposed to go?" 'There's a school back that way that's been set up as a temporary storm shelter. Go wait it out."
"But that could be days!"
"Nah. It blew in faster than they thought. I expect it'll blow out faster, too. See where my car is parked?" He indicates the narrow road ahead. There's a police car perpendicular to the causeway with red lights flashing, acting as a makeshift barricade. 'There's a slight shoulder over there. It's wide enough for you to make your U-turn. Do you need directions to the high school?"
"The one on Topsail Road?"
"That's the one! Good luck!"
He waves her off.
Disheartened, she pulls slowly ahead, the windshield wipers now set at triple-time doing hide to clear the view.
Her cell phone rings as she pulls onto the shoulder where the officer indicated.
Good. She hasn't been able to get a signal in a while now. Snatching it up, she's certain it will be Royce, wondering why she's not back yet.
"Hello?"
Her greeting is met at first with just a burst of static.
Then she hears a male voice and the name, "Dorado."
"Detective? Is that you?"
"Yes! Mrs. Maitland… Are you…?"
"I'm sorry, your voice is breaking up." She shifts hurriedly into park and steps out of the car, hoping to get a better signal. It works.
"Mrs. Maitland, where are you?"
"I was trying to get home, but the causeway is closed."
"Don't go home. Whatever you do, don't go home! Do you hear me?"
"Not very well. It sounded like you said don't go home."
"I did! Listen to me very carefully…"
More static.
Behind her, she hears a shout and sees that the cop who stopped her is waving his arm in a circle, signaling her to get back into the car and turn it around.
"In a second! I have a phone call!" she shouts to him. But her words are drowned by rain and borne away on the wind.
"Detective Dorado…" Frustrated, she steps farther from the car, buffeted by the gale. "What did you say?"
His next words are punctuated by another burst of crackling interference, but the few she does make out chill her to the bone.
"Royce… and… Aim… kill."
Clutching her cell phone against her ear, Charlotte is certain she misunderstood, because…
She can't have just heard what she thought she did.
Heart racing, she moves farther away from the car, shouting over the wind, "What did you say, Detective? It sounded like-"
"I said, Royce Maitland and his daughter Aimee were killed in a car accident ten years ago in New Orleans."
* * *
The manilla envelope is tucked safely into the waistband of Tyler's trousers, beneath a protective layer of shirt and his soaked trenchcoat.
The wind repeatedly turns the umbrella inside out as he zigzags his way northeast, toward police headquarters on the corner of Oglethorpe and Habersham. Finally, the metal spokes begin to pop away from the center, and he shoves the umbrella into the nearest trash can. It was useless, anyway, in this storm.
He supposes that a man who wasn't hell-bent on self-punishment would have gone home with the envelope, figuring the contents will keep for another day or two.
But this has waited long enough.
Come hell or high water-and Tyler is enduring his share of both at the moment-he will get this information to the authorities today.
At last, he's arrived at the familiar station house where his business has brought him so often in the past.
The desk sergeant greets him by name.
"Mr. Hawthorne, what brings you out in this weather?"
He hesitates only briefly before answering.
Just long enough to send a silent apology to Silas and Gilbert, wherever they are.
"I have no idea what you're trying to say to me!" Charlotte protests into the phone, screaming to be heard above the roar of the storm, and the louder roar of panic beginning to mount inside her. "Royce and Aimee are at Oakgate. I'm trying to get home to them now."
Even as she speaks, his baffling words echo in her brain.
Killed…
Ten years ago?
Ten years ago!
What in the world is he talking about?
"No-please, Charlotte…" Gone is the masterful interrogator; gone is the Mrs. Maitland-or, for that matter, Ms. Remington.
Dorado's voice is strained as he says, 'You have to listen to me; I just read the obituaries myself, I saw the pictures myself. Royce was forty at the time of the accident ten years ago, and bald. Aimee was fifteen, and a redhead…"
"No, no, no," she says, relief melding into the river of panic within. 'That isn't them. They-"
"Charlotte-"
"You have their names mixed up with somebody else… Aimee is a blonde, and Royce certainly isn't fifty, or bald," she protests with a brief, brittle laugh, wondering how on earth he got so confused. "You met-"
"Charlotte! For God's sake, listen to me. Your life and your daughter's life might depend on it."
Your daughter's life…
"Royce and Aimee Maitland are dead. They were hit by a drunk driver near the French Quarter during Mardis Gras ten years ago." His tone leaves no room for argument.
'Then who-"
She tries again, struggling to stay sane in the face of her own hysteria.
"Who is at my house with my daughter?"
When Dorado speaks, the three words are drenched in the same frantic anguish that has broken like a tidal wave over Charlotte.
"I don't know."
* * *
Anxiety gnawing at her gut, Mimi sits on a bench in the station house outside the office where Dorado is presumably attempting to alert the authorities on Achoco Island.
Why would the imposter known as Royce Maitland have fooled his own wife, for God's sake? And it isn't just him-it's his daughter as well.
Mimi can't help but remember a movie she once saw, about the witness protection program-or so you were led to think. In the end, it turned out the hero and heroine really were running for their lives, and had taken on the identity of a dead couple to save themselves.
But even if that's the case with the Maitlands… Where… How does little Theo fit into the picture?
Another wave of nausea sweeps through her, along with yet another memory of the drowning on her watch.
All she wants is to go home, but she can't. Dorado convinced her that she's stuck here now, for the duration of
the storm.
She did manage to reach her mother by telephone and learned that they've lost power out on the island, but that she found candles and flashlights. Cam is doing just fine playing shadow puppets on the wall.
