The Final Victim

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The Final Victim Page 47

by that's me


  Big sis­ter has be­en ta­ken ca­re of.

  In ti­me, when all the fuss has sub­si­ded, lit­tle sis­ter will be, too.

  Or may­be not.

  Maybe Joseph sho­uld try to le­arn to li­ve with Li­an­na af­ter all. For a whi­le, at le­ast.

  Maybe he sho­uld spa­re his wi­fe the loss of anot­her child.

  Because he do­es lo­ve Char­lot­te. He re­al­ly do­es.

  And now he has it all. Ever­y­t­hing he ever wan­ted With the ex­cep­ti­on of Li­an­na.

  Oh, well, the­re's al­ways bo­ar­ding scho­ol-or Vin­ce. Let Daddy's lit­tle girl go li­ve with him for a whi­le.

  I can talk Char­lot­te in­to it. I can talk her in­to an­y­t­hing.

  Outside, it's still ra­ining ste­adily, but the sa­va­ge gusts ha­ve sub­si­ded.

  The worst of the storm is over.

  Isn't that the truth, Joseph thinks wryly.

  He limps pa­in­s­ta­kingly aro­und the clump of shrug that le­ad to whe­re he left Char­lot­te- Only to find that she's va­nis­hed.

  A wa­ve of pa­nic swe­eps thro­ugh him.

  Then a vo­ice com­mands, "Stop right the­re and pu up yo­ur hands."

  Charlotte's vo­ice.

  She's on her fe­et-and she's po­in­ting a gun…

  At him.

  As Char­lot­te wat­c­hes the ta­il­lights of the po­li­ce c di­sap­pe­ar thro­ugh a cur­ta­in of ra­in down the win­ding dri­ve, she sinks on­to the top sla­te step of the por­ti­co.

  Handcuffed in the bac­k­se­at is the man she knew Roy­ce Ma­it­land.

  In ti­me, she might find out exactly who he re­al­ly is or was.

  Maybe she ne­ver will.

  It do­esn't re­al­ly mat­ter now.

  It's over.

  Their uni­ver­se shat­te­red, she and Li­an­na are ne­ver ne­ver­t­he­less ali­ve.

  That's so­met­hing.

  No.

  It's ever­y­t­hing.

  "Mom?"

  She lo­oks up to see Li­an­na be­hind her, still pa­le, still qu­ive­ring, still co­ve­red in mud.

  "Is he go­ne?" she asks in a lit­tle-girl vo­ice that wrings the last bit of emo­ti­on from Char­lot­te's he­art.

  "Yes, Li­an­na," she ma­na­ges to say, "he's go­ne."

  "Mom… You sa­ved my li­fe."

  Charlotte sha­kes her he­ad, re­mem­be­ring what hap­pe­ned back the­re in the tre­ac­he­ro­us sea.

  If it wasn't for her da­ug­h­ter, she wo­uld ha­ve re­adily jo­ined her son.

  ‘’You sa­ved my li­fe, Li­an­na. Twi­ce."

  Her vo­ice gi­ves way then, and she ra­ises her arms in mu­te in­vi­ta­ti­on.

  Not so long ago, Char­lot­te had told her­self that when it co­mes to her da­ug­h­ter, all she can do is hold her bre­ath and let go.

  I was wrong, she thinks now, as she gat­hers Li­an­na in­to her arms at last. De­ad wrong.

  All I can do is bre­at­he a tre­men­do­us sigh of re­li­ef… and hold on tight.

  EPILOGUE

  The be­ach is pos­t­card-per­fec­ti­on on this, the first of­fi­ci­al we­ekend of sum­mer.

  Down be­yond the du­nes, whe­re sea oats sway in the warm salt bre­eze, brig­ht-co­lo­red blan­kets and um­b­rel­las dot pow­dery sand. Crisp whi­te sa­ils skim the ho­ri­zon. The oce­an air is ri­fe with the so­unds of gle­eful chil­d­ren splas­hing in the surf, the in­ces­sant ro­ar of the wa­ves, the squ­aw­king of cir­c­ling gulls, the hum of ban­ner-to­ting pla­nes cru­ising the co­ast.

  Charlotte sits in her blue and whi­te can­vas cha­ir, pro­tec­ted from the mid­day sun by her cot­ton co­ver-up and the um­b­rel­la's sha­de. Ro­man­ce no­vel in hand, wo­ven swe­et­g­rass hat on her he­ad, she smi­les, wat­c­hing a lit­tle boy splash, shir­t­less, in the surf.

  On his sho­ul­der is a tel­lta­le bir­t­h­mark.

  Charlotte told him it's an an­gel's kiss, just as she told lit­tle Adam ye­ars ago.

  Adam wo­uld ha­ve gra­du­ated from col­le­ge last month, had he li­ved-anot­her un­re­ac­hed mi­les­to­ne to jo­in the ot­hers in Char­lot­te's men­tal scrap­bo­ok. If she clo­ses her eyes, she can see her lost son: pro­ud te­ena­ger in cap and gown, das­hing gro­om in a wed­ding bo­uton­ni­ere, ten­der new fat­her crad­ling an in­fant.

  Milestones…

  Next month, Char­lot­te will kiss her da­ug­h­ter go­od­b­ye and send her off to her fres­h­man ye­ar at Prin­ce­ton.

  Initially, Li­an­na didn't want to go that far from Oak­ga­te. She li­kes to stay clo­se to ho­me. And Char­lot­te wo­uld sec­retly lo­ve to ke­ep her the­re, sa­fely tuc­ked un­der her wing.

  Yes, it's tem­p­ting to just hang on tight, fo­re­ver.

  But I can't.

  It's ti­me to let go at last.

  Milestones…

  The lit­tle boy in the wa­ter will be star­ting first gra­de in Sep­tem­ber at Tel­fa­ir Aca­demy, just as his mot­her did al­most three de­ca­des ago.

  He, too, will be on a scho­lar­s­hip-of sorts.

  Charlotte has ar­ran­ged to pay lit­tle Ca­me­ron Joh­n­s­ton's pri­va­te scho­ol tu­iti­on. She'll send him to col­le­ge, too, when the ti­me co­mes.

  For his mot­her, Mi­mi, one mo­re se­mes­ter at Ge­or­gia So­ut­hern will yi­eld that elu­si­ve deg­ree in in­ter­na­ti­onal stu­di­es at last. But she's al­re­ady be­en to Euro­pe. Many, many ti­mes. Not on bu­si­ness, or ple­asu­re, but a mis­si­on.

  Mission ac­com­p­lis­hed.

  "How can I ever re­pay you for all you’ve do­ne for us, Char­lot­te?’’ Mimi asks, of­ten.

  Charlotte simply tells her that pay­back isn't ne­ces­sary.

  She ne­ver men­ti­ons what she fi­gu­red out on a July day three ye­ars ago, the first ti­me she jo­ined the Joh­n­s­tons at the be­ach…

  That lit­tle Ca­me­ron is fa­mily.

  Nor do­es she ever re­mo­ve her swim­su­it co­ver-up when Jed is aro­und. If he ever no­ti­ced the iden­ti­cal an­gel's kiss on her sho­ul­der, he wo­uld re­ali­ze that his son has Re­min­g­ton blo­od in his ve­ins.

  Devoted, lo­ving Jed is Ca­me­ron's fat­her in every way that co­unts.

  Gib Re­min­g­ton, sen­ten­ced to a long pri­son term on drug-smug­gling char­ges, will ne­ver ha­ve to know that his long-ago one-night stand with Mi­mi Gas­par re­sul­ted in a preg­nancy. She and Jed we­re mar­ri­ed so­on af­ter she fo­und out she was ex­pec­ting, and she had op­ted ne­ver to tell him the truth.

  "It's bet­ter this way," Mi­mi had sa­id when Char­lot­te con­f­ron­ted her and she ad­mit­ted that Gib had in­de­ed fat­he­red her son. "Jed's suf­fe­red eno­ugh pa­in. He'll ne­ver ha­ve to know."

  Charlotte may not ne­ces­sa­rily ag­ree with Mi­mi's de­ci­si­on, but who is she to jud­ge?

  She her­self has ma­de mis­ta­kes.

  Everyone do­es. It to­ok three ye­ars of the­rapy for Char­lot­te and Li­an­na to co­me to terms with the­ir own, to for­gi­ve them­sel­ves-and each ot­her.

  To le­arn to com­mu­ni­ca­te, to trust, to ta­ke chan­ces aga­in.

  So Li­an­na will go off to col­le­ge next month.

  As for Char­lot­te…

  If she hadn't got­ten to know Mi­mi and Jed, hadn't se­en the strength of the­ir lo­ve in the fa­ce of de­ath-def­ying odds, she might ne­ver ha­ve da­red to ta­ke the big­gest chan­ce of all.

  A yo­ung child's sud­den squ­e­al re­ac­hes Char­lot­te's ears, and her he­art skips a be­at.

  She darts an an­xi­o­us glan­ce at the sho­re­li­ne to see Ca­me­ron, gle­eful as his ro­bust fat­her swings him in­to a wa­ve, hol­ding tight to tho­se ca­pab­le hands.

  Don't let go, she thinks, wat­c­hing as the wa­ve was­hes over fat­her and son. Not yet.

/>   "Don't worry, Char­lot­te. Jed's got him."

  In the next cha­ir, Mi­mi is smi­ling re­as­su­ringly.

  "I know he do­es… I just…" She tra­ils off.

  There are so­me wo­unds that ne­ver fully he­al.

  Some you carry with you fo­re­ver, with only ti­me- and lo­ve-as balm.

  Mimi to­uc­hes Char­lot­te's arm gently. Mi­mi knows. She ca­me har­ro­wingly clo­se to lo­sing so­me­one she lo­ves des­pe­ra­tely.

  But that didn't hap­pen. Char­lot­te pa­id for the trips to Euro­pe, for the ex­pe­ri­men­tal tre­at­ment that sa­ved Jed's li­fe and has sin­ce sa­ved co­un­t­less ot­hers.

  The only thing that ma­kes Gran­dad­dy's cri­me be­arab­le is the fi­nal irony that his sec­ret, si­zab­le con­t­ri­bu­ti­ons fun­ded Dr. Pet­ra Von Ca­ve's re­se­arch for all tho­se ye­ars-and ul­ti­ma­tely pro­vi­ded the cu­re for Kep­ton-Man­ning di­se­ase.

  Grandaddy's es­ta­te co­ve­red the vast, on­go­ing cost of cle­aning up the for­mer che­mi­cal was­te dump on Ac­ho­co Is­land. Ti­de­wa­ter Me­adow was torn down; it will be ye­ars be­fo­re the si­te is sa­fe for ha­bi­ta­ti­on. Its re­si­dents ha­ve scat­te­red, most to ot­her is­lands.

  Maude Gas­par is one of the few who sta­yed. She li­ves with her da­ug­h­ter and son-in-law now, in the lit­tle ca­nal-si­de cot­ta­ge that's bur­s­ting at the se­ams. She's con­tent to ca­re for Ca­me­ron and his baby sis­ter, Je­an­nie, whi­le the­ir pa­rents work, and study-and la­bor on the new fo­ur-bed­ro­om ho­me they're bu­il­ding ne­ar the be­ach.

  But it's slow go­ing. Jed is busy with anot­her job, one with go­od pay and be­ne­fits: over­se­e­ing the on­go­ing re­no­va­ti­on of Oak­ga­te.

  The brick sla­ve ca­bins ha­ve be­en torn down, that patch of marsh fil­led in. A me­mo­ri­al gar­den marks the spot whe­re Phylli­da Re­min­g­ton Har­per's re­ma­ins we­re fo­und, along with tho­se of Odet­te's sis­ter, Pammy Sue Krupp. Bri­an ca­me from Ca­li­for­nia with his son for the gar­den's de­di­ca­ti­on. Char­lot­te was glad they ca­me, and glad Phylli­da's li­fe in­su­ran­ce po­licy pa­id off the Har­pers's debts.

  Charlotte cre­ated a trust fund for lit­tle Wills, who has no me­mory of his mot­her or Oak­ga­te, no com­p­re­hen­si­on of the Re­min­g­ton le­gacy. Per­haps in the end, he's bet­ter off.

  Inside the man­si­on, be­yond the en­du­ring brick fa­ca­de, co­un­t­less walls ha­ve co­me down.

  There are mo­re win­dows, to ba­nish the sha­dows and let in the sun­light.

  Central air-con­di­ti­oning was ad­ded, the duct-work fil­ling what was on­ce a sec­ret pas­sa­ge­way from the se­cond flo­or to the ba­se­ment.

  The en­ti­re third flo­or has be­en rec­la­imed as at­tic spa­ce for co­un­t­less an­ti­qu­es: Re­min­g­ton re­lics Char­lot­te can't bring her­self to part with.

  Maybe so­me­day she'll go thro­ugh them.

  But this isn't a ti­me to re­vi­sit the past; it's a ti­me to lo­ok ahe­ad.

  On the se­cond flo­or of the old plan­ta­ti­on ho­use is a brand-new mas­ter su­ite: the ho­ney­mo­on su­ite, Phil in­sists on cal­ling it, tho­ugh the new­l­y­wed pe­ri­od of­fi­ci­al­ly en­ded with the­ir first wed­ding an­ni­ver­sary last month.

  A ye­ar al­re­ady.

  It to­ok lon­ger than that for Char­lot­te to ag­ree to the­ir first da­te. Gra­du­al­ly, she le­ar­ned to trust the han­d­so­me de­tec­ti­ve, to re­cog­ni­ze that his con­cern for her and Li­an­na had shif­ted from pro­fes­si­onal to per­so­nal.

  Their wed­ding last June was in the frag­rant ro­se gar­den be­hind Oak­ga­te, with Li­an­na crying happy te­ars as ma­id of ho­nor and Wil­li­am­son at his par­t­ner's si­de, as al­ways, grin­ning pro­udly as best man.

  Who wo­uld ha­ve ima­gi­ned that be­hind the crusty fa­ca­de was a hu­man teddy be­ar?

  It just pro­ves what Char­lot­te le­ar­ned in the most tra­gic way pos­sib­le: that no bo­ok sho­uld ever be jud­ged by its co­ver.

  In her li­fe, the chap­ter in­vol­ving Joseph Bor­ger is clo­sed. He'll be in pri­son long af­ter her co­usin Gib is re­le­ased-most li­kely for the rest of his li­fe.

  For Char­lot­te and Li­an­na and the Joh­n­s­tons, a new chap­ter has be­gun.

  Survivors ne­ed a fresh start, just as ho­uses so­me­ti­mes do.

  Adjoining the mas­ter su­ite at Oak­ga­te, the cozy ro­om that was on­ce Gil­bert Re­min­g­ton's study has be­en do­ne over in sha­des of pas­tel blue.

  Baby blue.

  With luck, the whi­te nur­sery fur­ni­tu­re will be de­li­ve­red by the Fo­urth of July, as pro­mi­sed…

  A long sha­dow falls over the sand.

  Charlotte lo­oks up to see her hus­band stan­ding over her, his brown skin glis­te­ning with drop­lets of se­awa­ter, moc­ha-co­lo­red eyes twin­k­ling down at her. "Hey, how's the be­ach ball?" 'Just fi­ne." She smi­les as he gently pats her enor­mo­us sto­mach and is met with a re­as­su­ring kick from the­ir son's tiny fo­ot.

  "It's a boy, Mr. and Mrs. Do­ra­do," the ob­s­tet­ri­ci­an sa­id the day she ga­ve them the am­ni­ocen­te­sis re­sults.

  It's a boy.

  A son.

  A son who will one day so­on be roc­ked in his mot­her's em­b­ra­ce, and swung high abo­ve the surf in his fat­her's hands, and who will ask his big sis­ter a mil­li­on cu­ri­o­us qu­es­ti­ons when she co­mes ho­me to vi­sit.

  But for now, for one last sum­mer, Li­an­na is ho­me- and so­on, the baby will be, too.

  Home at Oak­ga­te.

  Pressing her thumb to her eyeb­rows, Char­lot­te shi­elds her eyes to cast a re­as­su­ring ga­ze out over the oce­an.

  Yes, Li­an­na is the­re, just be­yond the bre­akers, flo­ating se­re­nely in the spar­k­ling blue sea be­ne­ath the gol­den sum­mer sun.

  And abo­ve her, a lo­ne whi­te gull so­ars to the he­avens.

 

 

 


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