The Final Victim

by that's me

  At last it lo­oms ahe­ad, fra­med by swa­ying oak bran­c­hes aga­inst a tur­bu­lent black sky; its win­dows dar­ke­ned and tightly clo­sed aga­inst the ga­le.

  Charlotte stops short as she re­ac­hes the top of the dri­ve, whe­re a mas­si­ve oak has fal­len be­si­de a car: Nydia's car.

  Her he­art ta­kes a de­ath plun­ge as she spots a pa­ir of fe­et prot­ru­ding from the mo­un­ta­in of bo­ughs.

  Dear God in he­aven…

  The tree to­ok a hu­man ca­su­alty on its way down.

  For a mo­ment, Char­lot­te can only sta­re. Then she rus­hes for­ward, pro­pel­led by she­er dre­ad; kno­wing she is bo­und to dis­co­ver that the fe­et be­long to one of a han­d­ful of Oak­ga­te re­si­dents. Char­lot­te prays fer­vently that the vic­tim is still ali­ve-and that it isn't the child she lo­ves mo­re than an­y­t­hing on this earth.

  No.

  It isn't Li­an­na.

  Numb with shock and re­vul­si­on, Char­lot­te mo­ves clo­ser, whim­pe­ring, her fe­et be­co­ming en­tan­g­led in the vi­ne­li­ke bran­c­hes that sna­ke at her an­k­les.

  Charlotte ga­zes in­to the eyes of Gran­dad­dy's ho­use­ke­eper, fro­zen wit­hin a gro­tes­que mask of ter­ror as Nydia sta­res at the last thing she ever saw on this earth.

  She must ha­ve se­en the tree co­ming at her.

  Her skull is split, a ga­ping wo­und bi­sec­ting her fo­re­he­ad from the brid­ge of her no­se stra­ight up thro­ugh her blo­od and bra­in and ra­in mat­ted ha­ir.

  "Drop the gun, Je­an­ne." Aimee's vo­ice is no lon­ger as de­adly calm as it was the first ti­me she sa­id it. Fro­zen on the sta­ir­way, her hand still clut­c­hing the ra­il, she do­esn't da­re to ta­ke a step for­ward, or back.

  She's af­ra­id.

  She thinks I'm go­ing to kill her.

  I think I'm go­ing to as well.

  'Jeanne, this is ri­di­cu­lo­us. Drop the gun."

  Jeanne sha­kes her he­ad, clut­c­hing her mot­her's pe­arl-han­d­led re­vol­ver in both hands, aiming di­rectly at the wo­man on the sta­irs. The wo­man who mur­de­red po­or Nydia and drag­ged her body out in­to the storm.

  "Where is Me­la­nie?"Jeanne de­mands aga­in.

  "I told you a hun­d­red ti­mes. I ha­ve no idea. She isn't he­re."

  "What did you do to her?"

  "I ha­ven't se­en her, Je­an­ne. She left ho­urs ago. I ha­ve no idea whe­re she went"

  Jeanne knows whe­re she went: to the li­qu­or sto­re on the is­land's so­ut­hern end, to buy Je­an­ne a bot­de of bo­ur­bon.

  "Please, Me­la­nie, my ner­ves are just shot with this storm and all that's hap­pe­ned with my gran­d­nep­hew,"

  Jeanne had told the nur­se, han­ding her a co­up­le of twen­ty-dol­lar bills.

  "Where did you get this?"

  "I sa­ved it. Ke­ep the chan­ge."

  "Oh, Je­an­ne, you don't ne­ed li­qu­or to calm yo­ur ner­ves. How abo­ut if I sing to you?"

  In that mo­ment, Je­an­ne knew she was do­ing the right thing.

  Nobody in this ho­use, not even Me­la­nie, can pos­sibly un­der­s­tand the depth of Je­an­ne's mi­sery.

  Nobody un­der­s­tands that it will ta­ke mo­re than a lit­tle song to lift her spi­rits; that it will ta­ke mo­re, too, than bo­ur­bon.

  The only two so­uls who wo­uld ha­ve un­der­s­to­od- Mot­her and Ele­ano­re-de­par­ted this earth ye­ars ago: one in a sus­pi­ci­o­us fre­ak ac­ci­dent, the ot­her by her own hand.

  Sleeping pills and li­qu­or.

  A let­hal com­bi­na­ti­on.

  Just as ef­fec­ti­vely let­hal as fi­ring a bul­let thro­ugh one's bra­in. But Ele­ano­re lac­ked the co­ura­ge, or per­haps me­rely the me­ans, to do that.

  Jeanne has the me­ans. In the end, what she in­he­ri­ted from her mot­her is far mo­re va­lu­ab­le than chi­na and crystal.

  But she do­esn't ha­ve the co­ura­ge. If she did, she'd ha­ve do­ne it we­eks ago, when she le­ar­ned that Gil­bert had left her not­hing.

  All the­se ye­ars, she had fo­olishly held out ho­pe that he wo­uld defy the­ir fat­her.

  All the­se ye­ars, she had be­en a fo­ol.

  All the­se ye­ars, she had fe­ig­ned de­men­tia, dun­king that if he saw that she was in­ca­pab­le of ta­king ca­re of her­self, he wo­uld fe­el sorry eno­ugh for her to ta­ke ca­re of her.

  And had it wor­ked… to an ex­tent. He didn't put her in a nur­sing ho­me-she knew he wo­uldn't. It wo­uldn't do to ha­ve all of Sa­van­nah buz­zing abo­ut Gil­bert's batty sis­ter. The fa­mily ho­nor had to be pro­tec­ted, at any cost.

  So, ever sin­ce she "lost her mind," Je­an­ne has had a fa­mi­li­ar dor­me­red ro­of over her he­ad, a sturdy tabby fo­un­da­ti­on be­ne­ath her.

  Oakgate is her ho­me.

  Just as it al­ways sho­uld ha­ve be­en.

  Just as it al­ways sho­uld be.

  Surely he sho­uld ha­ve se­en that.

  But her brot­her didn't le­ave her the ho­use.

  He didn't le­ave her an­y­t­hing at all.

  It do­esn't mat­ter now.

  Tucked be­ne­ath Je­an­ne's mat­tress is the oran­ge plas­tic bot­tle of Gil­bert's sle­eping pills, pil­fe­red from his me­di­ci­ne ca­bi­net we­eks ago.

  She was dis­ma­yed to find that the pres­c­rip­ti­on must ha­ve be­en al­most due for a re­fill.

  In and of them­sel­ves, the­re we­ren't eno­ugh cap­su­les in the bot­tle to do the job.

  But Ele­ano­re's let­hal re­ci­pe cal­led for one ot­her in­g­re­di­ent, and un­wit­tingly Me­la­nie ag­re­ed to pro­vi­de it "Yo­ur hands are sha­king pretty badly, Je­an­ne," Aimee ob­ser­ves. "How are you go­ing to sho­ot me? It ta­kes ste­ady hands to sho­ot a gun. Be­li­eve me, I'm awa­re of that. Do you know why?"

  Jeanne do­esn't reply, just strug­gles to ke­ep the gun tra­ined on her tar­get.

  "I'll tell you why. Be­ca­use I spent the last two ye­ars-two ye­ars, Je­an­ne-in mar­k­s­man­s­hip tra­ining. I can hit a ter­ro­rist on a pre­de­sig­na­ted frec­k­le on his arm from a block away." She emits a short la­ugh. "Or I can hit a re­gu­lar Joe in the leg from just ac­ross the stre­et, and, thanks to my me­di­cal bac­k­g­ro­und, be su­re to ta­ke him down… wit­ho­ut per­ma­nent da­ma­ge."

  Jeanne's jaw drops. "Are you tal­king abo­ut Roy­ce?"

  "Royce?" she ec­ho­es. "Su­re, we'll call him Roy­ce for a lit­tle whi­le lon­ger if you li­ke. But we don't ha­ve much ti­me."

  "For what?"

  "It's al­most over, Je­an­ne. You've li­ved a long li­fe. Is the­re an­y­t­hing you want to tell me?"

  "What… What do you me­an?" 'You know… an­y­t­hing you'd li­ke to sha­re, be­fo­re you die. Pe­op­le li­ke to do that, Je­an­ne. And I li­ke to lis­ten. It was part of my job, and I kind of miss it, you know?"

  Aimee mo­ves to ta­ke a step for­ward, be­li­eving that Je­an­ne might be so en­g­ros­sed in her story that she won't no­ti­ce.

  "Stay the­re!"

  Aimee obeys Je­an­ne's sharp com­mand. But she ke­eps tal­king.

  "I'm a nur­se. Did you know that? Just li­ke yo­ur fri­end Me­la­nie. So I know all abo­ut pe­op­le li­ke you."

  "And I know all abo­ut pe­op­le li­ke you. "Je­an­ne gla­res at her.

  Ignoring that, Aimee go­es on, "I used to ta­ke ca­re of lo­nely old pe­op­le. So­me of them didn't ha­ve an­y­body el­se in the who­le world who wo­uld ta­ke ca­re of them, or an­y­body to le­ave the­ir mo­ney to. A few of them ac­tu­al­ly left it to me, not that they had much. Still, it was ni­ce of them, don't you think? And you'd be sur­p­ri­sed how many of them had lots of cash hid­den right the­re in the­ir ho­uses."

  Jeanne thinks of the wad of twen­ty-dol­lar bills, now se­a
led in an en­ve­lo­pe with Me­la­nie's na­me on it Just yes­ter­day, Me­la­nie fi­nal­ly re­ve­aled that her be­ne­fac­tor was a mar­ri­ed con­g­res­sman. He di­ed a few ye­ars ago, le­aving her with only the con­do he bo­ught for her.

  So Me­la­nie can use Je­an­ne's bir­t­h­day mo­ney-me­ager a sum as it is. Along with the cash, she's le­aving Me­la­nie a no­te: a su­ici­de no­te, as it we­re, to thank Me­la­nie for all she did, and apo­lo­gi­ze for what Je­an­ne has to do.

  "A lot of old pe­op­le don't be­li­eve in banks. Do you, Je­an­ne? Oh, wa­it, I gu­ess it do­esn't mat­ter. I gu­ess you don't ha­ve any mo­ney to start with."

  Jeanne's fin­ger tig­h­tens over the trig­ger.

  "But my fa­vo­ri­te part of the job was just lis­te­ning. So­me of tho­se de­at­h­bed con­fes­si­ons can be re­al­ly in­te­res­ting. Ta­ke Si­las Ne­vil­le's, for in­s­tan­ce."

  Silas Ne­vil­le?

  The va­gu­ely fa­mi­li­ar na­me se­ems to ho­ver be­fo­re Je­an­ne in a fog.

  Then Je­an­ne plucks the re­col­lec­ti­on from the chasm of lost me­mory. He was a fri­end of Gil­bert's, she now re­cal­ls. Ever sin­ce he was a boy.

  "Remember him, Je­an­ne?" Aimee smi­les. "His was the most in­te­res­ting con­fes­si­on of all. And I was the only one who he­ard it. Just li­ke I'll be the only one to he­ar yo­urs. So, Je­an­ne, do you ha­ve any fi­nal re­qu­ests? Any pro­fo­und last words?"

  Jeanne swal­lows hard, sta­ring in­to gre­en eyes-un­na­tu­ral­ly gre­en-that are ab­la­ze with mad­ness.

  "No?" Aimee asks, af­ter a short pa­use. "Then I'd say it's ti­me to call it qu­its."

  In one ab­rupt mo­ve­ment, she re­ac­hes for her poc­ket.

  She's go­ing for a gun, Je­an­ne re­ali­zes.

  Then a de­afe­ning blast swo­ops her to a pla­ce whe­re the­re can be no mo­re pa­in.

  "Li­an­na!"

  Her step­fat­her's vo­ice is fa­int, drif­ting to her ears from so­mep­la­ce abo­ve her, up in the ho­use.

  Co­we­ring on the sta­ir­way in the damp, dark tun­nel con­ce­aled be­hind the wall of her ro­om, she won­ders if she sho­uld go down and try to es­ca­pe thro­ugh the ba­se­ment af­ter all.

  She de­ci­ded aga­inst it ear­li­er, af­ra­id that so­me­body wo­uld see her thro­ugh one of the win­dows as she tri­es to flee the ho­use-or, even mo­re frig­h­te­ning, that she might be lying in wa­it in the cel­lar.

  Roy­ce's da­ug­h­ter.

  Aimee.

  Thin­king aga­in of what she saw up­s­ta­irs in the mas­ter bed­ro­om, Li­an­na clo­ses her eyes to shut out the dis­gus­ting vi­si­on of fat­her and da­ug­h­ter-in each ot­her's arms.

  So en­g­ros­sed we­re they that they ne­ver even re­ali­zed they had be­en se­en.

  Not that Li­an­na lin­ge­red in the do­or­way for mo­re than a na­use­ating split se­cond.

  That was all it to­ok for her to re­ali­ze that her step­fat­her isn't the man she and her mot­her be­li­eved him to be…

  And that her step­sis­ter is pre­ci­sely what Li­an­na in­s­tin­c­ti­vely per­ce­ived her to be: a lying, con­ni­ving fra­ud.

  He­aring an ex­p­lo­si­on over­he­ad, Li­an­na be­li­eves for I a mo­ment that anot­her tree has fal­len-this ti­me on the ho­use.

  Then she re­ali­zes that it wasn't a tree.

  That ti­me, it re­al­ly was a gun­s­hot.

  Charlotte he­ars a lo­ud bang, and this ti­me, she in­s­tantly re­ali­zes what it is: a crack of gun­fi­re.

  And that it ca­me from in­si­de the ho­use.

  She ne­ver even con­si­ders run­ning down the dri­ve­way to­ward the ga­te and the old sto­ne wall; run­ning for help.

  That isn't an op­ti­on.

  Her only tho­ught is that she has to get to her da­ug­h­ter.

  Please, God, let her be all right.

  Her oozing sne­akers po­und up the steps and ac­ross the wet flag­s­to­ne of the por­ti­co.

  Please let her be ali­ve.

  Too la­te, she re­ali­zes that the do­or is loc­ked, and that she do­esn't ha­ve a key.

  Lianna's in­s­tinct is to hurl her­self down the sta­ir­way in the dark, an­y­t­hing to get away from who­ever has the gun.

  But she's out­num­be­red al­re­ady; the­re are two of them.

  Royce is so­mew­he­re abo­ve, but the­re's no tel­ling whe­re Aimee is.

  Well, Li­an­na will ha­ve to ta­ke her chan­ces.

  She has to try to get away.

  This is her own fa­ult. She sho­uld ha­ve be­en bra­ver. She sho­uld ha­ve go­ne shop­ping with her mot­her this mor­ning, in­s­te­ad of sul­king, and then co­we­ring, in her ro­om.

  Now she has no­body to bla­me but her­self.

  Nobody is go­ing to co­me and sa­ve her, just li­ke no­body co­uld sa­ve Adam.

  But that wasn't his fa­ult.

  It was mi­ne.

  And now I'm be­ing pu­nis­hed for what I did… just li­ke I al­ways knew I wo­uld be.

  * * *

  Royce has just en­co­un­te­red what fe­els li­ke a lo­ose pa­nel be­si­de the fi­rep­la­ce when he he­ars a gun go off up­s­ta­irs.

  "Aimee?" With a cur­se, he rus­hes to the hal­lway, drag­ging his bad leg. "Are you all right?"

  Odette ap­pe­ars, hol­ding her pis­tol. "She was ar­med up the­re, Joe."

  "Shhh!" He ges­tu­res wildly to alert her that she's slip­ped up and cal­led him by the wrong na­me: his re­al na­me. Not that an­yo­ne el­se gets away with the shor­te­ned ver­si­on of it.

  Aside from his mot­her back ho­me in Chi­ca­go, who calls him Jo­ey, he's be­en Joseph his en­ti­re li­fe, Joseph Bor­ger… well, that is when he's not busy be­ing Roy­ce Ma­it­land or wha­te­ver de­arly de­par­ted so­ul he's had the ple­asu­re of im­per­so­na­ting for the pur­po­se of a well-plan­ned con.

  "Oh, gi­ve it up al­re­ady, Joe. Who's go­ing to he­ar?" Go­ne is the ho­ney-swe­ete­ned N'Awlins drawl, rep­la­ced by the twang of the Ten­nes­see mo­un­ta­ins, whe­re Odet­te Krupp-AKA Aimee Ma­it­land-was born and bred.

  "The old lady's de­ad, and so is the ho­use­ke­eper," Odet­te in­forms him. "All we ha­ve to do is grab the kid and Char­lot­te, and we're ho­me free."

  Incredulous at her la­id-back at­ti­tu­de, he snaps, "All we ha­ve to do? It's not that sim­p­le."

  "Sure it is. Re­mem­ber, Daddy} You ca­me up with the plan yo­ur­self. We just use this"-she wa­ves the gun- to con­vin­ce yo­ur lo­vely wi­fe and step­da­ug­h­ter to get in­to the car and dri­ve. Then I grab the whe­el and ma­ke su­re that they over­s­ho­ot the fo­ot of the ca­use­way-so easy to do in this nasty we­at­her-and land in the wa­ter. Oh, but first I ha­ve to re­mem­ber to jump out."

  She flas­hes the daz­zling row of whi­te te­eth Joseph pa­id a for­tu­ne to ha­ve cap­ped. That was al­most as ex­pen­si­ve as the li­po­suc­ti­on, but not as much as what he spent on the co­lo­red con­tacts, the fre­qu­ent ha­ir sa­lon vi­sits, the gym, and the per­so­nal tra­iner.

  But it was worth all the mo­ney and well worth the wa­it. Odet­te Krupp was tran­s­for­med in­to a tawny So­ut­hern be­a­uty. She lo­oked at le­ast ten-or twel­ve, to be exact-ye­ars yo­un­ger. She co­uld easily pass for a nu­bi­le twen­ty-fi­ve, vir­tu­al­ly un­re­cog­ni­zab­le as the mo­usy nur­se who had on­ce wor­ked for the hos­pi­ce cli­nic-and stum­b­led ac­ross a mul­ti­mil­li­on-dol­lar sec­ret.

  At first, when she told Joseph, he tho­ught they might just blac­k­ma­il the old man with what they knew.

  Then Joseph lo­oked a lit­tle mo­re clo­sely at the il­lus­t­ri­o­us fa­mily tree, and re­ali­zed that the­re might just be an old-fas­hi­oned, le­gi­ti­ma­te way to in­he­rit the en­ti­re Re­min­g­ton for
­tu­ne: by mar­rying in­to it May­be he sho­uld ha­ve left it at that. As Char­lot­te's hus­band, even with Char­lot­te in­he­ri­ting just one-third of the for­tu­ne, he wo­uld be set for li­fe. No­body wo­uld ever ha­ve to know who and what he re­al­ly was.

  But his own gre­ed, and Odet­te, got to him.

  He wan­ted it all.

  So he to­ok a gam­b­le-and he won.