The Final Victim

by that's me

  Lianna is une­asily awa­re of the rhythmic night so­unds; the dank, hu­mid smell of brac­kish wa­ter; the over­cast night sky vo­id of mo­on or stars.

  She re­ac­hes in­to her poc­ket for her small flas­h­light, but co­mes up em­p­ty-han­ded.

  Is it any won­der?

  Kevin had her shorts hal­f­way down her legs out the­re at the be­ach. The flas­h­light pro­bably fell out in­to the sand as they rol­led aro­und.

  Terrific.

  Now she'll ha­ve to sne­ak back in­to the ho­use in the dark.

  It's not that she's a big baby abo­ut the dark…

  Not li­ke Mom.

  No, but who wants to ven­tu­re in­to a cre­epy old ba­se­ment wit­ho­ut even a flas­h­light?

  The tho­ught of that is bad eno­ugh; she can't ima­gi­ne brin­ging her­self to en­ter the tun­nel and walk up two flights of the pit­ch-black hid­den sta­ir­way. The­re are de­fi­ni­tely spi­ders and mi­ce. And pro­bably even bats in the­re-what if one fli­es in­to her ha­ir?

  What if she lo­ses her ba­lan­ce and falls? Se­ve­ral of the run­g­li­ke steps ha­ve rot­ted away in the dam­p­ness; ot­hers, are abo­ut to. With a flas­h­light, she can pick her way past them. In the dark, she'd be pla­ying Rus­si­an ro­ulet­te1' with every step.

  Nobody wo­uld ever find her in the­re. Not with tho­se fo­ur­te­en-in­ch-thick tabby fo­un­da­ti­on walls that are pro­bably so­un­d­p­ro­of.

  Okay, so she ob­vi­o­usly isn't go­ing back in­to the ho­use the sa­me way she ca­me out.

  But may­be that's not ne­ces­sary an­y­way. Glan­cing at her watch, she se­es that it's well past fo­ur in the mor­ning. No­body will be stir­ring at this ho­ur. She can slip in­si­de thro­ugh the back do­or, using the key Gre­at-Gran­dad­dy al­ways kept hid­den among the pe­ren­ni­als that ring the ba­se of an old sto­ne sun­di­al in the gar­den.

  Her he­art po­un­ding, Li­an­na de­ci­des it's a bril­li­ant idea.

  It ta­kes her qu­ite a few mi­nu­tes of ro­oting aro­und for the key in the dewy, over­g­rown bed that con­ta­ins mo­re we­eds than flo­wers. So­met­hing pi­er­ces her fin­ger­tip, pro­bably a spi­der's bi­te, and she thrusts her stin­ging fin­ger in­to her mo­uth.

  This is a stu­pid idea. Re­al­ly stu­pid. What if the spi­der was po­iso­no­us? The­re are li­zards in he­re, too, and God knows what el­se. A dark, ro­dent-in­fes­ted tun­nel is now al­most mo­re ap­pe­aling than re­ac­hing back in­to the we­eds aga­in.

  But when she do­es, she finds the key al­most im­me­di­ately.

  All right, so this was a go­od plan af­ter all.

  The big do­or opens si­lently and the ro­oms are de­ser­ted, just as she knew they wo­uld be. She poc­kets the key, ho­ping she'll re­mem­ber to rep­la­ce it la­ter, in bro­ad day­light.

  It isn't un­til she re­ac­hes the do­or to her bed­ro­om that she re­ali­zes she's ma­de a hu­ge mis­ta­ke.

  It's lat­c­hed… from the in­si­de.

  How co­uld she ha­ve for­got­ten?

  Now what?

  Before she can plot her next mo­ve, she he­ars a mo­ve­ment be­hind her.

  A vo­ice drawls, "Well, lo­ok who's prow­ling aro­und at this ho­ur."

  Charlotte sits stra­ight up in bed, he­art ra­cing wildly.

  Then she re­ali­zes it was just a dre­am.

  No, not a dre­am. A nig­h­t­ma­re.

  Not even that.

  It re­al­ly hap­pe­ned.

  But it isn't hap­pe­ning now, she re­minds her­self, pres­sing her hand aga­inst her po­un­ding chest. It's over. Long over.

  She li­es back slowly aga­inst the pil­lows, clo­sing her eyes as if to block out the ima­ges that ha­ve ha­un­ted her for eight ye­ars. But they're still the­re, mo­re vi­vid than ever.

  She can see the fo­aming oce­an; can fe­el it, sun-war­med and sal­tily stin­ging her newly sha­ved legs; can fe­el her hands swir­ling hel­p­les­sly thro­ugh it, co­ming up empty aga­in and aga­in.

  She can he­ar scre­ams, her own scre­ams, as she bel­lows her son's na­me over and over aga­in in fu­ti­le, ex­ha­us­ting ef­fort.

  A sob es­ca­pes her thro­at even now.

  She shud­ders and rolls to­ward Roy­ce's si­de of the bed, ne­eding to fe­el his warm body aga­inst hers. He alo­ne un­der­s­tands. He's be­en the­re, too.

  Even on the­ir ho­ney­mo­on, when they fo­und them­sel­ves stan­ding at the brink of Ni­aga­ra Falls, he knew in­s­tin­c­ti­vely what she was thin­king as she ga­zed down at the chur­ning blue-gray wa­ter. He was thin­king it, too. "Co­me on," he sa­id, and qu­i­etly led her away.

  Charlotte ne­eds him now as she ne­eded him then.

  But the co­vers are thrown back on his si­de of the bed; his spot as cold and empty as her arms that ac­he for a child who will ne­ver co­me ho­me.

  * * *

  Even in the dim light from a dis­tant scon­ce, Gib can see the pa­nic in the kid's eyes.

  "What are you up to, Le­igh Ann?" he asks, re­min­ded sud­denly of a chil­d­ho­od fis­hing ex­pe­di­ti­on with his ma­ter­nal gran­d­fat­her in Nar­ra­gan­sett Bay: the em­po­we­ring sen­sa­ti­on of ga­zing down at a hel­p­less cod trap­ped in his net.

  "Lianna," she says, lif­ting her chin, and it ta­kes him a mo­ment to re­ali­ze she's cor­rec­ting him abo­ut her na­me.

  "Lianna," he re­pe­ats, amu­sed by the in­sult that now min­g­les with pa­nic in her ga­ze. "Sorry abo­ut that."

  She shrugs and tri­es to se­em ca­su­al as she in­qu­ires, "What are you do­ing up?"

  "I as­ked you first."

  "Well, I'm go­ing back to bed."

  "So am I," he tells her, tho­ugh it's not en­ti­rely true.

  He hasn't yet be­en to bed in his as­sig­ned gu­est ro­om. But he's wil­ling to bet Cas­san­d­ra has long be­en as­le­ep be­ne­ath the old-fas­hi­oned eye­let ca­nopy. He can fe­el his lo­ins tig­h­ten at the me­re tho­ught of her, na­ked, bet­we­en the she­ets.

  He'll get to her mo­men­ta­rily.

  For now, he can't re­sist to­ying with Char­lot­te's da­ug­h­ter. Po­or thing cle­arly didn't in­he­rit the Re­min­g­ton ge­nes when it ca­me to lo­oks. Per­haps she lo­oks li­ke her fat­her, al­t­ho­ugh he can't se­em to co­nj­ure an ima­ge of Char­lot­te's first hus­band. Gib saw him only ra­rely, and hasn't in ye­ars.

  Lianna isn't unat­trac­ti­ve, yet hardly pos­ses­ses her mot­her's be­a­uty, or Phylli­da's, or even Gib's. May­be she'll get the­re one day, but for now, she's on the scrawny si­de, with sharp fe­atu­res and a slight over­bi­te. Bra­ces wo­uld help, Gib con­c­lu­des. Bra­ces, and lon­ger ha­ir. Hig­h­lights in her ha­ir wo­uld be go­od, too-or even if she was a bru­net­te li­ke her mot­her…

  Instead, her ha­ir is a dull, sandy sha­de that co­uld, Gib sup­po­ses, pass for blond-just not to a con­no­is­se­ur, li­ke him.

  "I'd be wil­ling to bet," he says, le­aning in, "that yo­ur mot­her do­esn't know you're loc­ked out of yo­ur ro­om at this ho­ur."

  "What ma­kes you think I'm loc­ked out?"

  "I saw you try the do­or and I he­ard you cur­se when it didn't open."

  There's lit­tle she can say to that, of co­ur­se. To her cre­dit, she re­ma­ins si­lent, gla­ring up at him.

  No stran­ger him­self to ado­les­cent prow­ling in the wee ho­urs, Gib can't help but ad­mi­re her spunk. As he re­cal­ls, Char­lot­te wasn't the kind of girl who wo­uld be ca­ught de­ad di­so­be­ying her pa­rents' ru­les. How in­te­res­ting that this ap­ple fell hard and rol­led qu­ite a long way from the tree.

  "So what are you go­ing to do now?" he asks Li­an­na, fol­ding his arms. "Wa­it it out un­til mor­ning? Bre­ak the do­or down?"

  Before she can an­s­wer, his ears pick up the so­und
of a do­or cre­aking clo­sed down the hall. Fo­ot­s­teps ap­pro­ach.

  "Please don't tell," Li­an­na his­ses at him, be­fo­re slip­ping in­to a sha­dowy ne­arby no­ok.

  It ta­kes three at­tempts be­fo­re Mi­mi's vi­olently trem­b­ling hands are suc­ces­sful in fas­te­ning the car­se­at buc­k­le snugly ac­ross her son's chest.

  By then, Ca­me­ron is as­le­ep aga­in, as blis­sful­ly una­wa­re of his mot­her's gro­wing pa­nic as he was be­fo­re she pluc­ked him from his bed fi­ve mi­nu­tes ago.

  Mimi sli­des in­to the dri­ver's se­at, ma­na­ges to get the key in­to the ig­ni­ti­on, and says a bri­ef pra­yer as she backs out in­to the stre­et.

  Please, de­ar God, don't let an­y­t­hing hap­pen to Jed.

  Then she shifts in­to DRI­VE and ra­ces off to­ward the hig­h­way that le­ads to Sa­van­nah, and the hos­pi­tal emer­gency ro­om.

  Moments af­ter Gib wat­c­hes Char­lot­te's da­ug­h­ter di­sap­pe­ar in­to the sha­dows of the hall, her step­fat­her ap­pe­ars.

  Royce is fully dres­sed, car­rying lug­ga­ge, and stri­ding briskly, tho­ugh he stops short at the sight of Gib stan­ding be­fo­re him.

  "Hey, what's up?" Gib asks, as tho­ugh they're ca­su­al ac­qu­a­in­tan­ces run­ning in­to each ot­her on the stre­et in bro­ad day­light.

  "I'm le­aving to catch an early flight. What are you do­ing…?" The re­ma­in­der of Roy­ce's sen­ten­ce tra­ils off, as tho­ugh he isn't su­re whet­her to con­c­lu­de it with an "up" or a "he­re."

  "I'm go­ing to bed af­ter a la­te night," Gib says trut­h­ful­ly. He adds, at Roy­ce's do­ub­t­ful lo­ok, "I co­uldn't sle­ep so I dro­ve down to the ot­her end of the is­land for a nig­h­t­cap at the Re­ef. That al­ways was my fa­vo­ri­te be­ach bar-It su­re lo­oks a lot dif­fe­rent the­se days, tho­ugh. It used to be a di­ve."

  He just ho­pes Roy­ce isn't, say, fri­ends with the ow­ner or so­met­hing. The last thing he ne­eds is to be ca­ught in a lie.

  "Where's yo­ur gir­l­f­ri­end?"

  Gib re­sists the ur­ge to cor­rect the ter­mi­no­logy. Let Roy­ce think wha­te­ver he wants abo­ut his re­la­ti­on­s­hip with Cas­san­d­ra. It'll be much easi­er that way. "She's pro­bably as­le­ep. She sta­yed he­re."

  Royce frowns.

  "What's the mat­ter?" Gib asks.

  "Nothing, I just… I tho­ught you we­re tal­king to so­me­one. I he­ard vo­ices."

  Gib he­si­ta­tes, we­ig­hing his op­ti­ons.

  Should he tell Roy­ce abo­ut his step­da­ug­h­ter sne­aking aro­und in the mid­dle of the night? How will he re­act? Gib do­esn't know what kind of guy he is-they ne­ver even met be­fo­re this we­ek. But he se­ems li­ke a de­cent fel­low, un­li­ke Char­lot­te's first hus­band. He co­uldn't stand Vin­ce, and the fe­eling se­emed mu­tu­al on the few oc­ca­si­ons they we­re thrown to­get­her for fa­mily fun­c­ti­ons.

  Anyway, Roy­ce wo­uld pro­bably go tell Char­lot­te that her kid is up to so­met­hing. Why get the kid in­to tro­ub­le? Gib has to gi­ve her cre­dit, ha­ving this much spunk with such a Go­ody Two Sho­es for a mot­her.

  So he shrugs and tells Roy­ce, "I don't know what you he­ard… may­be it was just me, tal­king to myself. I do that so­me­ti­mes."

  "We all do, I sup­po­se." Roy­ce ba­rely cracks a smi­le.

  "Have a go­od trip," Gib calls af­ter him in a whis­per as Roy­ce walks off down the hall, un­wit­tingly pas­sing wit­hin a few fe­et of his step­da­ug­h­ter's hi­ding pla­ce. "See you when you get back."

  "Maybe not. I'll be go­ne for a few days."

  "Oh, I'll be he­re," Gib rep­li­es, re­lis­hing the stif­fe­ning-just ba­rely vi­sib­le-of the ot­her man's spi­ne at the news.

  Yes, he'll be he­re. Whe­re el­se is he go­ing to go? Oak­ga­te is as much his ho­me as an­y­body el­se's, and at this po­int, it's the only one he has. Not that he's abo­ut to let on to his sis­ter or co­usin or even Cas­san­d­ra.

  Cassandra.

  Stirred by re­ne­wed lust, he hur­ri­es off down the hall, le­aving Li­an­na to re­sol­ve her own di­lem­ma. She'll un­do­ub­tedly be gra­te­ful he didn't rat her out to the old man. It might ha­ve be­en tem­p­ting if Char­lot­te's se­cond hus­band didn't se­em to ha­ve the tem­pe­ra­ment of a tree stump.

  The kid will just ha­ve to owe me a fa­vor, Gib de­ci­des, smi­ling as he lets him­self in­to his ro­om.

  A big fa­vor that he has every in­ten­ti­on of col­lec­ting at so­me po­int. But for now the­re are ot­her things on his agen­da.

  Slipping in­to his ro­om, he ste­als ac­ross the car­pet to the ca­nopy bed.

  There, in­s­te­ad of a slum­be­ring be­a­uty, he finds a no­te im­pa­led on the pil­low with an an­ti­que hat pin.

  He has to turn on the bed­si­de lamp to re­ad it, but he pro­bably sho­uldn't even ha­ve bot­he­red.

  Gib,

  I de­ci­ded to go back to Bos­ton.

  Sorry,

  Cassandra.

  For a mo­ment, he stands the­re sta­ring at it.

  Then, with a smirk, he plucks the pa­per from the pin, wads it in­to a ball, and tos­ses it in the ge­ne­ral di­rec­ti­on of the was­te­bas­ket. The pin he stabs in­to pla­ce on the cus­hi­oned top of a dusty se­wing box that rests on the ne­arby bu­re­au, a for­got­ten re­lic of so­me bygo­ne Re­min­g­ton spin­s­ter.

  Easy co­me, easy go, Gib thinks as he crawls in­to bed alo­ne.

  Phyllida is awa­ke­ned by Bri­an's prod­ding hand in her si­de, his sta­le, bo­ozy bre­ath waf­ting be­ne­ath her nos­t­rils.

  She yawns, ope­ning her eyes to dar­k­ness. "What ti­me is it?"

  No reply, just an ur­gent, "Co­me on, Phyll," as he tugs at her cot­ton nig­h­t­gown.

  "Come on, what?" She rolls away-or tri­es to. This isn't the­ir Ca­li­for­nia King. The­re's lit­tle ro­om to es­ca­pe him on a full-si­zed mat­tress that butts up aga­inst the wall on her si­de.

  "You know…"

  She knows. And she isn't in the mo­od.

  "Did you just get ho­me now?" she asks, flin­c­hing be­ne­ath his cold to­uch on her ba­re skin.

  "No, I got ho­me ho­urs ago. You we­re as­le­ep." He mo­ves clo­ser and nuz­zles the back of her neck with his ra­zor stub­ble.

  Phyllida en­du­res it for a few mo­ments, won­de­ring if he might ac­tu­al­ly be ab­le to aro­use her for a chan­ge.

  Nah. Try as she might, she can't even pre­tend he's so­me­body el­se. The­re are oc­ca­si­ons when that works, but not this ti­me.

  "Stop, Bri­an. We can't," she tells him softly, nud­ging his pro­bing fin­gers from her hip.

  "Sure we can."

  "No. The baby is right he­re."

  Baby? Wills is no mo­re a baby than Bri­an is the man of her dre­ams.

  Yet her son is sle­eping in a crib aga­in, and right he­re in the ro­om, a me­re few fe­et from the­ir bed, just as he was as an in­fant Back then, of co­ur­se, it was with gre­at re­luc­tan­ce that Phylli­da war­ded off her hus­band's ad­van­ces.

  "He's as­le­ep," Bri­an pro­tests, just li­ke old ti­mes.

  Unswayed, Phylli­da whis­pers, "If he wa­kes up, he'll be tra­uma­ti­zed for li­fe."

  "Yeah, right." He re­su­mes his neck-nuz­zling.

  She brus­hes him away. "Se­ri­o­usly, Bri­an, cut it out."

  "Jesus, you're no fun an­y­mo­re, you know that?" 'Ye­ah, I know. You ke­ep re­min­ding me."

  He rolls on­to his back, the bed­s­p­rings cre­aking lo­udly be­ne­ath his we­ight.

  She won­ders if he re­al­ly was he­re, as­le­ep be­si­de her, for ho­urs as he cla­imed.

  She wo­uldn't know. As Bri­an li­kes to say, she sle­eps li­ke the de­ad.

  "What ti­me is it?" Phylli­da asks aga­in.


  "Who knows? Fo­ur? Fi­ve?"

  She gro­ans. "I'm go­ing back to sle­ep."

  So le­ave me alo­ne.

  The un­s­po­ken words lin­ger in the dar­k­ness bet­we­en them.