The Final Victim
Page 42
"What about Jed?" Mimi asked, unable to forget her husband's ominous comment about hurtling himself into the Atlantic during a storm.
Her mother told her that he'd been sleeping all afternoon. Mimi made her go check him again, and held her breath until her mother came back on the line to say that he was there, in bed, snoring.
So here Mimi sits, mulling over the latest incredible turn of events involving Gib's family, and then noticing an agitated elderly man talking to the desk sergeant.
He's a distinguished-looking fellow, despite a shock of wet, windblown white hair and a soaked trench coat.
Intrigued when she overhears him say, "Remington," Mimi casually gets up and goes to get a drink of water at a fountain within earshot of the conversation.
"No, it isn't life or death this very moment," she hears him saying, "but it is life or death for anyone who-" He breaks off, glancing at her.
She realizes she's forgotten the water fountain and is staring directly at him.
Embarrassed, she stoops over the spout and presses the lever.
The man resumes his conversation with the sergeant in a stringent whisper, all but drowned out by the running water.
But Mimi releases the lever just in time to hear the one phrase that compels her to instantly give up all pretense of good manners: Kepton-Manning Syndrome.
"Stop! Hey!"
Charlotte ignores the angry shout of the police officer behind her; ignores the black-and-white car with the flashing light as she sprints past it, onto the causeway.
It's about a mile, she calculates as she hurtles herself forward, driven by sheer panic.
Thank God she had jammed her feet into sneakers, and not her usual sandals this morning.
Each footstep that lands in the streaming roadway sends up a spatter of spray; she's being soaked and battered from every direction by stinging rain and a wind so strong it's all she can do to stay centered on the causeway.
I've got to get to Oakgate.
Got to get to Lianna.
Got to get to-
No, not Royce!
He isn't-
Yes, he is. He has to be.
He's her husband. She loves him.
And Aimee-Aimee is his daughter. Her stepdaughter.
Aimee wasn't lying. Detective Dorado said it himself.
Aimee was telling the truth… You were right about her being innocent all along.
Yes, she was right.
Aimee is innocent.
I knew she wouldn't hurt Royce. I knew it.
So what in the world is Detective Dorado talking about?
Maybe that wasn't him on the phone right now. Maybe it was somebody who read something in the media and decided to play a cruel prank…
A sharp stitch pierces Charlotte's left side.
Panting, she slows her pace.
Just a little.
Just enough to relieve the pain in her side.
She can't stop altogether.
She's only a third of the way across the bridge. She can see the towering white foam hurled repeatedly against the man-made rock retaining wall on the distant shore.
Turning her head to look down for the first time, she realizes that angry green-black waves are breaking close to the road's surface, held back only by a low concrete barrier.
If that washes away, so will she.
And she'll be overcome quickly-no doubt about it.
The strongest swimmer couldn't survive more than a few minutes in that churning vortex.
She'll drown, just like her son.
Oh, Adam.
Oh, baby…
Maybe that's what is meant to happen.
Maybe she, too, is meant for a watery grave. Maybe-
No! Lianna. Lianna needs me. I can't die.
There's nothing to do but go on. Keep her feet moving, one splashing down right after the other. Get to the island. Get to Oakgate. Get to Lianna.
And Royce?
What about Royce?
Royce is as much a victim as she is.
Somebody tried to kill Royce… Or were they trying to kill her?
Well, it couldn't have been Aimee. She was in New Orleans.
And obviously it couldn't have been Royce. He was the one who got shot. He didn't do the shooting.
So who was the phantom figure that Charlotte saw lurking among the tombstones in the cemetery?
Who shot her husband?
"Excuse me? Hello?"
Jeanne stiffens, hearing the door open at the foot of the stairs leading up to the third floor.
"Is anybody up there? Jeanne?"
She doesn't answer.
She just sits in her wheelchair, and she waits, her hands clutching the mother-of-pearl handle beneath the woolen shawl on her lap.
Footsteps creak on the worn wooden treads.
Tentative footsteps, climbing toward Jeanne's private roost-the only part of this old house that is hers… if any part of it ever really was.
The top of a blond head grazes the bottom of her line of vision down the steps.
"Jeanne? Are you okay up here? I'm looking for Lianna. Is she up here with you?"
Jeanne doesn't reply.
The next stair tread creaks; more of the blond head appears.
The bangs, Jeanne notices, are still damp from where they peeked out from the hood of the black rain cloak.
This is insane, Charlotte tells herself, nearing exhaustion. She stoops into the wind, dragging each foot forward as the furious sea spits vehement waves over the concrete barrier on either side of her.
What is she doing here?
What is she trying to prove?
Dorado's voice reverberates through her mind.
Aimee was telling the truth…
Yes! She was!
So why is Charlotte risking her life out here?
Rising water is beginning to lap at her feet. She's almost across. Just a few more yards, and she'll be there.
She just has to keep on going.
We confirmed everything with the airline. She went through Atlanta, just like you said…
Why did Dorado call?
It had to be Dorado; it couldn't be a prank. He knew J too much…
But then, why would he say what he did?
Royce Maitland and his daughter Aimee were killed…
Who's lying? Royce? Or Detective Dorado?
Not Aimee.
Aimee was telling the truth…
"… just barely made the connection to Savannah because the first flight was way behind schedule…"
Yes, she was on that same flight Royce takes.
Of course she wasn't lying.
I heard the airport in the background. I heard the flight announcement. Delta Flight 6- What was it?
Six-something.
Royce takes it whenever he comes home from New Orleans.
Delta…
Delta Airlines Flight 640.
Yes, that's it. Flight 640. The one that's always on time.<
br />
"Delta Airlines Flight 640 to Atlanta is now at the gate and will begin boarding momentarily. "
Yes!
Yes…
There it is.
At last, the firefly-thought alights, barely within her grasp, flickering faintly like a birthday candle in a breeze.
No… Don't…
Charlotte desperately lunges for the memory before it can be extinguished.
"Please have your tickets ready so we can board the plane for an on-time departure…"
Yes, that's it.
The thought fully ignites, burning into her like a flame to scorch her world-her precious new life-to ashes.
An image flashes into her brain. Herself and Royce, seemingly standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon on a picture-perfect day.
The souvenir photo was a staged visual backdrop.
Is it possible that the airport announcement could have been a staged audio one?
Come on, Charlotte, think. Think about it.
She heard the airport announcement with her own ears, the plane was at the gate and they would be making an on-time departure. Aimee later mentioned it went smoothly.
But on that day, the first flight was late getting into New Orleans and back out again to Atlanta. Dorado said so himself.
Charlotte covers the last few yards toward the end of the causeway.
Somebody's lying.
But not Royce. Royce was shot. Royce has been her lone ally in this mess over the will. Royce doesn't care about money. He told her to go ahead and give it away.
But did he really think you would?
Was it all an act, her husband's utterly refreshing lack of greed?
No. It couldn't have been. Whatever the explanation for this chaos, Royce wouldn't lie to her. She believes in him. She believes him.
So who else are you going to believe?
Detective Dorado or Aimee?
Hearing a roar, she turns to see a towering wall of seawater coming at her.
It slams into her, sweeping her to blackness.
CHAPTER 18
Mimi watches as Detective Talibah Jones, a stunning African-American woman with a no-nonsense attitude, impatiently rifles through the sheaf of damp papers she just removed from the envelope the elderly gentleman tossed on the table.
"Start at the beginning, Mr. Hawthorne. I'm not following what you're trying to tell me."
"It's all there, like I said," responds the man who earlier, and hastily, introduced himself to Mimi as the Remingtons's attorney, Tyler Hawthorne.
"But what, exactly, is 'it'?" The detective looks ques-tioningly from him to Mimi, who shrugs.
Hawthorne replies, "You're holding pertinent medical records and legal contracts-"
"Which would take me hours to go through. And believe me, Mr. Hawthorne, I don't have hours to spare."
"When you find out what I'm telling you, Detective Jones, I'm sure you'll agree that it's worth your while."
"I hope so. But tell me. Don't show me." She waves the papers at him. "What's going on with this? And how; is Mrs. Johnston here involved?"
"She isn't. She happened to be here dealing with another issue altogether and she overheard me. It turns! out that her husband has been stricken by the same terminal illness-Kepton-Manning Syndrome, an incredibly rare condition for which there is no cure-that & referred to in these files."
No cure.
That isn't news to Mimi. Yet hearing her husband's inescapable doom affirmed again makes her want to stick her fingers into her ears and scream.
She refrains. That isn't going to help anybody. Certainly not Jed.
Nor is her being a part of this disclosure likely to help him, but she manages to maintain control of her emotions, just as she did when she revealed Gib Remington's incriminating comment the day of the shooting.
That was even more difficult. Gib might have committed far worse crimes than she, but that doesn't alleviate the guilt she's lived with for three years.
The night of Theo Maitland's drowning, Jed was working a double shift.
But Gib was there, on the beach, watching the search for the boy's body. He was the one who comforted Mimi when they gave up looking-comforted her with bourbon from his silver flask, then with kisses that quickly led to passion.
It was just that one night. And Jed never knew.
But Mimi will forever be haunted by the consequences of that day, for reasons that go well beyond the drowning on her watch.
"Kepton-Manning Syndrome?" Detective Jones frowns. "I've never heard of it."
Mimi informs her, "That's because it's so rare. Chances of coming down with this disease are one in a million-"
"They're much lower than that," Hawthorne interrupts. "Statistically speaking, there's a relative handful of documented Kepton-Manning cases worldwide each year."
"And…?" Jones looks from Hawthorne to Mimi, and back again.
"And there have been more than half a dozen cases on Achoco Island."
Jones nods, steepling her hands as if in prayer. "What does this have to do with the Remingtons?"
Tyler Hawthorne clears his throat. "For one thing, Connie June Remington, Charlotte's mother, died of this disease, but nobody ever knew it. Not even Connie June herself."
"She didn't know she was ill?"
"Oh, she knew she was ill." Tyler's abrupt laugh is utterly devoid of mirth. 'There was no doubt about that."
Fists clenching in her lap, Mimi pictures Jed, gaunt and helpless, wasting away before her eyes.'
Tyler leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. "But her physician told her it was cancer."
Both Mimi and Jones gape at the attorney, who goes on to reveal, "The physician's name was Silas Neville."
Silas Neville…
Yes. Old Doc Neville. He treated Mimi's family for as long as she can remember; it was he who referred Daddy to a lung specialist in Atlanta.
Daddy-
"That's it!"
Mimi doesn't realize she'd spoken aloud until both Jones and Hawthorne look over at her, startled.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, shaking her head, brows knit. "I just remembered something."
She knows where she's seen that nurse before-the one she encountered in the hall at Oakgate this morning: at the Baywater Hospice office on the mainland.
She was there on that awful, memorable day when Mimi went to set up her father's care, when he first became ill three years ago.
Only back then, the nurse was a good thirty pounds heavier, her hair was short and dark…
And her eyes were brown, not green.
Plunged into the raging tide at the causeway's island edge, Charlotte narrowly misses striking a concrete piling that juts from the frenzied water.