The Final Victim

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.