The Final Victim

by that's me

  THE NEXT TO DIE

  The ca­bin's sturdy new do­or is still clo­sed and pad­loc­ked, just as it was left in the wee ho­urs Sa­tur­day mor­ning…

  And then the­re we­re two.

  "Yoo-hoo! La­di­es!"

  Oh, wa­it, it's not go­od man­ners to neg­lect to knock be­fo­re drop­ping in, so…

  The rub­ber-grip end of the he­avy flas­h­light be­ats a sa­tis­f­ying rhythm on the new do­or of the small brick ho­use.

  The key turns easily; the pad­lock falls away with a clan­king so­und. The do­or do­esn't even cre­ak as it swings open…

  A wall of stench rolls out thro­ugh the open do­or.

  The flas­h­light's be­am arcs ac­ross the ex­po­sed brick walls, the doll fur­ni­tu­re, the mag­got-fil­led car­cass that used to be Pammy Sue. Then it falls on what lo­oks li­ke a he­ap of rags on the dirt-or rat­her, mud-flo­or in the far cor­ner.

  After a swift, hard kick, the pi­le of rags in the op­po­si­te cor­ner squ­irms to li­fe.

  Phyllida Re­min­g­ton ga­zes up from the filth, blin­king in­to the light.

  Miss Be­verly Hills is be­a­uti­ful no mo­re.

  The ar­t­ful­ly scul­p­ted no­se was shat­te­red by the an­ti­que an­di­ron she ne­ver saw co­ming at her.

  Those sur­gi­cal­ly en­han­ced che­ek­bo­nes are swol­len pur­p­le and sme­ared with blac­ke­ned stre­aks of dri­ed blo­od.

  And her blue eyes are ro­und with fe­ar, be­wil­der­ment and, most sa­tis­f­ying of all: hor­ri­fi­ed, shoc­ked re­cog­ni­ti­on…

  Books by Wendy Corsf Staub

  DEARLY BELOVED

  FADE TO BLACK

  ALL THE WAY HOME

  THE LAST TO KNOW

  IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE

  SHE LOVES ME NOT

  KISS HER GOODBYE

  LULLABY AND GOODNIGHT

  THE FINAL VICTIM

  Published by Ken­sin­g­ton Pub­lis­hing Cor­po­ra­ti­on

  WENDY CORSI STAUB

  The FINAL VICTIM

  CONTENTS

  PRO­LO­GUE

  PAR­TI

  CHAP­TER 1

  CHAP­TER 2

  CHAP­TER 3

  PART II

  CHAP­TER 4

  CHAP­TER 5

  CHAP­TER 6

  CHAP­TER 7

  PART III

  CHAP­TER 8

  CHAP­TER 9

  CHAP­TER 10

  CHAP­TER 11

  CHAP­TER 12

  CHAP­TER 13

  PART IV

  CHAP­TER 14

  CHAP­TER 15

  CHAP­TER 16

  Part V

  CHAP­TER 17

  CHAP­TER 18

  EPI­LO­GUE

  ZEBRA BOOKS KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  ZEBRA BO­OKS are pub­lis­hed by Ken­sin­g­ton Pub­lis­hing Corp. 850 Third Ave­nue New York, NY 10022 Cop­y­right © 2006 by Wendy Cor­si Sta­ub All rights re­ser­ved. No part of this bo­ok may be rep­ro­du­ced in any form or by any me­ans wit­ho­ut the pri­or writ­ten con­sent of the Pub­lis­her, ex­cep­ting bri­ef qu­otes used in re­vi­ews.

  If you pur­c­ha­sed this bo­ok wit­ho­ut a co­ver you sho­uld be awa­re that this bo­ok is sto­len pro­perty. It was re­por­ted as "unsold and des­t­ro­yed" to the Pub­lis­her and ne­it­her the Aut­hor nor the Pub­lis­her has re­ce­ived any pay­ment for this "strip­ped bo­ok."

  All Ken­sin­g­ton tit­les, im­p­rints, and dis­t­ri­bu­ted li­nes are ava­ilab­le at spe­ci­al qu­an­tity dis­co­unts for bulk pur­c­ha­ses for sa­les pro­mo­ti­on, pre­mi­ums, fund-ra­ising, edu­ca­ti­onal or in­s­ti­tu­ti­onal use.

  Special bo­ok ex­cerpts or cus­to­mi­zed prin­tings can al­so be cre­ated to fit spe­ci­fic ne­eds. For de­ta­ils, wri­te or pho­ne the of­fi­ce of the Ken­sin­g­ton Spe­ci­al Sa­les Ma­na­ger: Attn. Spe­ci­al Sa­les De­par­t­ment. Ken­sin­g­ton Pub­lis­hing Corp., 850 Third Ave­nue, New York, NY 10022. Pho­ne: 1-800-221-2647.

  Zebra and the Z lo­go Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN 0-8217-7971-0

  First Prin­ting: Ap­ril 2006

  10 987654321

  Printed in the Uni­ted Sta­tes of Ame­ri­ca

  For Mark, Mor­gan, and Brody.

  For my be­lo­ved fat­her, known to most as Reg Cor­si, and to a lucky few as simply "Pop­po."

  And in lo­ving me­mory of my che­ris­hed mot­her, Fran­cel­la Cor­si, Ap­ril 1942-May 2005.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The aut­hor ex­tends de­epest gra­ti­tu­de to La­ura Bla­ke Pe­ter­son, Nat­han Bran­s­ford, and the staff at Cur­tis Brown, Ltd.; John Scog­na­mig­lio and the staff at Ken­sin­g­ton Bo­oks; and Nancy Ber­land and the staff at Nancy Ber­land Pub­lic Re­la­ti­ons. In ad­di­ti­on, the aut­hor wis­hes to thank the staff at Bo­one Hall Plan­ta­ti­on; the staff at The Isa­i­ah Da­ven­port Ho­use; Bar­ba­ra McQu­e­eney, the con­ci­er­ge Marty We­iss, and the ef­fi­ci­ent staff at Mar­ri­ott Sa­van­nah Ri­ver­f­ront; the know­led­ge­ab­le gu­ides at Sa­van­nah's Old Town Trol­ley To­urs; and last al­p­ha­be­ti­cal­ly but ne­ver le­ast, Wendy Ze­man­s­ki.

  The aut­hor al­so ac­k­now­led­ges ha­ving ta­ken de­li­be­ra­te li­ber­ti­es with the ti­ming of ac­tu­al events de­pic­ted wit­hin this fic­ti­onal plot, ha­ving op­ted for li­te­rary li­cen­se over his­to­ric ac­cu­racy.

  PROLOGUE

  It to­ok two ye­ars for her to co­me back to the be­ach.

  Two ye­ars, the di­vor­ce, and the re­ali­za­ti­on that li­fe must go on.

  Charlotte Re­min­g­ton, who to­ok back her ma­iden na­me af­ter her hus­band left, has no cho­ice but to ke­ep get­ting up in the mor­ning, ke­ep mo­ving, ke­ep bre­at­hing… if only for her re­ma­ining child's sa­ke.

  Breathe.

  How many ti­mes du­ring the ini­ti­al shock did she ha­ve to re­mind her­self to do just that?

  Breathe, Char­lot­te. In and out. Just bre­at­he. Ke­ep bre­at­hing, even tho­ugh yo­ur chest is con­s­t­ric­ted and yo­ur he­art is bre­aking; even tho­ugh you want to stop bre­at­hing…

  Even tho­ugh you want to die.

  Charlotte Re­min­g­ton tho­ught she had ever­y­t­hing: lo­yal hus­band, lo­ving son, hap­py-go-lucky da­ug­h­ter, lo­yal fri­ends.

  Now they're all go­ne.

  Now the­re is only Char­lot­te, ha­un­ted and be­reft; and a sad-eyed lit­tle girl who wat­c­hed her big brot­her drown on a be­a­uti­ful July day, just yards from the sho­re­li­ne. This sho­re­li­ne.

  But it hap­pe­ned a long ti­me ago; a li­fe­ti­me ago. The first ti­me, af­ter­ward, that Char­lot­te re­tur­ned to the so­ut­he­as­tern sho­re of Ac­ho­co Is­land to in­ha­le brac­kish air, fe­el sand be­ne­ath her fe­et, and ga­ze aga­in over the sea, she wan­ted to flee.

  But she for­ced her­self to stay.

  Bre­at­he. Just ke­ep bre­at­hing.

  And she for­ced her­self to ke­ep co­ming back, all thro­ugh that first sum­mer wit­ho­ut Adam. And aga­in the fol­lo­wing ye­ar. And the one af­ter that… It's be­en fi­ve ye­ars now. Fi­ve ye­ars and se­ven we­eks, to be exact. He­re she sits amidst the La­bor Day we­ekend crowd, the day af­ter a la­vish fa­mily wed­ding. She has a po­un­ding he­adac­he, tho­ugh not from ove­rin­dul­ging last night the wed­ding was dry. Gran­dad­dy, a fi­er­cely de­di­ca­ted te­eto­ta­ler, won't al­low li­qu­or to cross his thres­hold. But the­re was a band, and a crowd, and Char­lot­te dan­ced too much, and sta­yed up far too la­te chat­ting with pe­op
­le she hadn't se­en in ye­ars.

  It was fun. She has few reg­rets abo­ut last night as she lo­un­ges in her blue and whi­te stri­ped can­vas sand cha­ir with her wo­ven swe­et­g­rass hat on her ac­hing he­ad, a ro­man­ce no­vel in her hands, and her da­ug­h­ter at her si­de.

  Lianna ne­ver go­es in­to the wa­ter. Not he­re. Not an­y­w­he­re. Not even a po­ol.

  The ot­her pa­rents in Char­lot­te's be­re­ave­ment sup­port gro­up back in Sa­van­nah ha­ve ex­pe­ri­en­ced si­mi­lar re­ac­ti­ons in the­ir sur­vi­ving chil­d­ren. One, who lost a te­ena­ger in a traf­fic ac­ci­dent, sa­id his yo­un­ger son had pa­nic at­tacks for months every ti­me they got in­to the car. Anot­her, who­se tod­dler suc­cum­bed to a ra­re sto­mach di­se­ase, sa­id the ol­der sib­ling even­tu­al­ly de­ve­lo­ped ano­re­xia, af­ra­id to eat lest she so­me­how "catch" what her lit­tle sis­ter had.

  Perhaps Li­an­na will ne­ver ven­tu­re in­to the wa­ter aga­in. Then aga­in, may­be she will. The child psychi­at­rist she's be­en se­e­ing sin­ce the tra­gedy told Char­lot­te not to push her. So she do­esn't.

  She just brings her to the is­land be­ach on be­a­uti­ful sum­mer days, whe­re they sit com­pa­ni­onably si­de by si­de with the­ir bo­oks, and they bre­at­he salt air.

  Just bre­at­he.

  The be­ach is pos­t­card-per­fec­ti­on on this, the last 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.

  Largely un­po­pu­la­ted un­til the last de­ca­de or so, Ac­ho­co Is­land li­es off the co­ast of Ge­or­gia, abo­ut mid­way bet­we­en Tybee and the Gol­den Is­les; now­he­re ne­ar the to­urist hub of eit­her. The en­ti­re nor­t­hern end, abo­ve the lon­ger of the two ma­in­land ca­use­ways, con­sists of a wet­land wil­d­li­fe re­fu­ge and what re­ma­ins of the Re­min­g­ton fa­mily's pri­va­te es­ta­te.

  But the is­land's so­ut­he­as­tern sho­re is te­eming with ac­ti­vity on this clo­ud­less Sep­tem­ber af­ter­no­on. A ste­ady stre­am of be­ach traf­fic sna­kes from the bo­ar­d­walk be­yond the du­nes to both the north and so­uth ca­use­ways, and no do­ubt all the way back to the ma­in­land hig­h­way to In­ter­s­ta­te 95.

  That's why this day was cho­sen. Be­ca­use of all the pe­op­le.

  The ho­li­day crowd sur­pas­ses every ex­pec­ta­ti­on and will ser­ve its pur­po­se. No­body pays the le­ast bit of at­ten­ti­on to the lo­ne oc­cu­pant of a blan­ket ca­re­ful­ly spre­ad a stra­te­gic dis­tan­ce from any of the three li­fe­gu­ard to­wers.

  Nobody sus­pects that this id­y­l­lic ho­li­day we­ekend is abo­ut to gi­ve way to cha­os-and tra­gedy-the li­kes of which this be­ach hasn't se­en in fi­ve ye­ars.

  Or, to be mo­re pre­ci­se, fi­ve ye­ars and se­ven we­eks.

  "Well, lo­ok at you! If it isn't Mi­mi Gas­par, all grown up and gor­ge­o­us!"

  Perched high abo­ve the sun-ba­ked sand on the wo­oden li­fe­gu­ard to­wer, Mi­mi-nee Mar­t­ha Ma­ude- Gas­par do­esn't al­low her ga­ze to le­ave the surf for even a split se­cond.

  The wa­ters off Ge­or­gia's crow­ded is­land be­ach are choppy to­day, co­ur­tesy of a new tro­pi­cal dep­res­si­on chur­ning six hun­d­red mi­les so­ut­he­ast in the Ca­rib­be­an.

  Anyway, she can iden­tify the spe­aker by his vo­ice alo­ne, tho­ugh it's be­en a few ye­ars sin­ce she he­ard Gib Re­min­g­ton's tra­de­mark low-pit­c­hed, lazy drawl. A fa­ke drawl, as far as Mi­mi is con­cer­ned.

  He didn't even grow up in the So­uth-he was ra­ised in Rho­de Is­land, whe­re his mot­her's fa­mily li­ved. Af­ter he was kic­ked out of his bo­ar­ding scho­ol the­re, he was sent to Tel­fa­ir Aca­demy, his fat­her's and gran­d­fat­her's al­ma ma­ter down he­re, pre­su­mably whe­re his stern Gran­dad­dy co­uld ke­ep an eye on him. A lot of go­od that did.

  "What's the mat­ter, you're still not spe­aking to me?" he asks.

  "I fi­gu­red y'all we­re back for yo­ur sis­ter's wed­ding yes­ter­day," Mi­mi says at last.

  The be­a­uti­ful Phylli­da Re­min­g­ton might be li­ving among the mo­vie stars in Ca­li­for­nia's Be­verly Hills- with ho­pes of be­co­ming one her­self-but she cho­se to marry at the fa­mily's ni­ne­te­en­th-cen­tury man­si­on right he­re in the Low Co­untry. The wed­ding was the so­ci­al event of the sum­mer for the hun­d­reds who we­re in­vi­ted.

  Mimi was not among them. She do­ubts she'd ha­ve be­en wel­co­me even if she was still da­ting Gib. He ne­ver did bring her ho­me to me­et his fa­mily.

  "I'm only he­re till to­mor­row. I'm flying back up to Bos­ton first thing in the mor­ning," Gib in­forms her im­por­tantly. 'The fall se­mes­ter starts Wed­nes­day."

  Law scho­ol. So­me fancy one in New En­g­land, may­be Ivy Le­ague. She do­esn't know for cer­ta­in, and she do­esn't ca­re.

  "What abo­ut yo­urs?" Gib asks.

  "My what?" She skims the whi­te­caps for the pa­le he­ad of a sur­fer who just to­ok a har­ro­wing tum­b­le off his bo­ard. It's one of the Tin­k­s­ton brot­hers, pro­bably Ke­vin, the yo­un­gest of the fo­ur no­to­ri­o­us lo­cal hell-ra­isers. Down at the wa­ter's ed­ge, two fel­low li­fe­gu­ards stand at the re­ady with oran­ge res­cue tu­bes.

  "Your fall se­mes­ter."

  Yeah, right.

  Once upon a ti­me, her fu­tu­re was pro­mi­sing. She had be­en a full-sc­ho­lar­s­hip stu­dent at Tel­fa­ir Aca­demy-li­ve out, of co­ur­se-and fol­lo­wed up her high scho­ol ca­re­er with anot­her free ri­de at Ge­or­gia So­ut­hern. She was wor­king on a deg­ree in in­ter­na­ti­onal stu­di­es, dre­aming of one day mo­ving ab­ro­ad.

  But that was be­fo­re Daddy, a fis­her­man and he­avy smo­ker, was di­ag­no­sed with lung di­se­ase.

  Now, as be­ach se­ason draws to a clo­se and her pals pre­pa­re to he­ad back to dor­mi­to­ri­es and lec­tu­re halls, she'll be ped­dling her me­ager re­su­me aro­und Sa­van­nah. She has to get a re­gu­lar job and help her pa­rents ma­ke ends me­et-ne­ver an easy task for them, but ne­arly im­pos­sib­le now.

  "Let's ho­ok up to­night and catch up," Gib sug­gests, un­da­un­ted by her fa­ilu­re to res­pond to his last qu­es­ti­on. "What ti­me are you off duty?"

  Ignoring that as well, Mi­mi wat­c­hes the Tin­k­s­ton boy re­sur­fa­ce among the bre­akers and promptly pad­dle back out with his bo­ard in tow, re­si­li­ent, she thinks, as her ex-boy­f­ri­end he­re at the ba­se of the li­fe­gu­ard to­wer. Gib se­ems to ha­ve for­got­ten that the last ti­me they saw each ot­her she in­for­med him she ne­ver wan­ted to see him aga­in.

  Technically, she still hasn't. Se­en him, that is.

  But cu­ri­osity gets the best of her now. She flicks her ga­ze dow­n­ward to catch a glim­p­se of him.

  Big mis­ta­ke.

  Law scho­ol ob­vi­o­usly ag­re­es with Gil­bert Xa­vi­er Re­min­g­ton IV.

  So do­es yet anot­her sum­mer spent in New En­g­land as a li­fe­gu­ard on a co­as­tal is­land pre­su­mably worlds away from this one.

  Deeply tan­ned, clad only in red and whi­te hi­bis­cus-print bo­ard shorts and sun­g­las­ses, Gib is all abs and bi­ceps. His ha­ir is lon­ger than it was when he li­ved un­der his fat­her's ro­of. The sea bre­eze whips the sun-st­re­aked locks back from his fa­ce to re­ve­al a fa­mi­li­ar jaw­li­ne Mi­mi of­ten tra­ced with her fin­ger­tips, and the full lips that ha­ve be­en kis­sing ot­her gir­ls-co­un­t­less o
t­her girls, she's su­re.

  She sho­uldn't ha­ve lo­oked at him, damn it.

  Now it's al­most im­pos­sib­le to drag her eyes away and fo­cus them back on the wa­ter, whe­re they be­long.

  She's al­re­ady got a boy­f­ri­end: Jed Joh­n­s­ton, whom she's known her who­le li­fe. His fa­mily li­ves a few do­ors down from hers in Ti­de­wa­ter Me­adow, a low-in­co­me is­land ho­using de­ve­lop­ment. The two of them we­re in­se­pa­rab­le un­til Mi­mi went to pres­ti­gi­o­us Tel­fa­ir Aca­demy and Jed to tiny Ac­ho­co Pub­lic.