The Final Victim

by that's me

  No, don't go the­re, Mi­mi warns her­self, tur­ning in­to a for­tu­ito­usly va­cant spot be­ne­ath the par­king lot's lo­ne sha­de tree, a strag­gly-lo­oking oak.

  Don't think ahe­ad. Don't even con­si­der that. Daddy was a ti­me bomb; he smo­ked three packs a day. Jed do­esn't even-

  "Stop! "Jed calls sharply.

  She slams on the bra­kes and lo­oks at him in ho­pe­les­sness, won­de­ring how on earth she's go­ing to co­ax him in­to go­ing in to fa­ce the prog­no­sis. He didn't want to co­me, do­esn't want to know.

  When he's spo­ken at all in the ho­urs sin­ce the doc­tor's nur­se cal­led to sum­mon them he­re, it's to vo­ice his in­tent to ste­al a bo­at and hur­t­le him­self over­bo­ard far out in the At­lan­tic the next ti­me a storm blows in.

  I swe­ar, Mi­mi, if that doc­tor tells me so­met­hing's re­al­ly wrong with me, I'm not go­ing to sit he­re and the a slow de­ath…

  "Jed, I know this is hard," she says gently, her hands trem­b­ling on the ste­ering whe­el, fo­ot fro­zen on the bra­ke, "but we can get thro­ugh it, wha­te­ver-"

  "Broken glass," he in­ter­rupts.

  She sta­res at him. Now he's in­co­he­rent How on earth is she go­ing to get him to- "The­re." He po­ints to the par­king spa­ce she was abo­ut to ta­ke. Shards of a brown glass bot­tle are strewn with ot­her lit­ter bet­we­en the pa­ral­lel whi­te li­nes. "Don't pull in. You'll slash the ti­res."

  "Oh." She swal­lows hard, shifts in­to re­ver­se.

  Slashed ti­res can be pat­c­hed, rep­la­ced. Slas­hed ti­res are so easy, re­al­ly, in the grand sche­me of things; ri­di­cu­lo­usly sim­p­le to re­medy.

  "I'll find anot­her spot," she ma­na­ges to say aro­und the lump in her thro­at as she eases the car back in­to the mid­day sun's full gla­re on the as­p­halt.

  "Or we co­uld just le­ave. We co­uld go pick up Cam from yo­ur mot­her's and get the hell out of he­re."

  "And go whe­re?"

  "Who the hell ca­res? Ca­li­for­nia. Ha­wa­ii. Euro­pe. You've al­ways wan­ted to go to Euro­pe. You wo­uld ha­ve, I if it we­ren't for me."

  "Don't say that!"

  "Why not? It's true. If you hadn't sta­yed on the is­land and mar­ri­ed me, you wo­uld ha­ve even­tu­al­ly fo­und yo­ur way back to col­le­ge and fi­nis­hed yo­ur deg­ree."

  "Stop it That's not true!"

  Yes, it is. You know it is. But it do­esn't even mat­ter. You ne­ver se­cond-gu­es­sed yo­ur cho­ice.

  The sunny par­king lot di­sap­pe­ars be­hind a wa­tery ha­ze of te­ars. 'Jed, we'll go to Euro­pe. May­be next spring. We'll plan a trip."

  He's si­lent.

  Next spring.

  Please let us ha­ve next spring.

  And the one af­ter that…

  Please let us ha­ve ti­me.

  Heart po­un­ding in dre­ad, she pulls blindly in­to a par­king spot and turns off the en­gi­ne.

  "Ready?" she as­ks-and in­s­tantly reg­rets it. What a fo­olish thing to ask.

  He me­rely shrugs.

  Slowly, hand in hand, the way they used to tod­dle down Ac­ho­co Be­ach as chil­d­ren, they walk to­ward the cli­nic to he­ar the doc­tor's ver­dict.

  '"Bye," Li­an­na calls over her sho­ul­der, bol­ting from the car, her own gu­ilt, and ma­inly, her mot­her.

  She half-ex­pects Mom to ta­ke off as well, ti­res shri­eking. She wo­uldn't bla­me her.

  But the car re­ma­ins, en­gi­ne id­ling, as Li­an­na scur­ri­es up the walk le­ading to Ca­sey's fa­mily's red brick Co­lo­ni­al. Why? Is Mom go­ing to co­me af­ter her to apo­lo­gi­ze, or yell at her so­me mo­re? Or, uh-oh, is she sus­pi­ci­o­us?

  Liana for­ces her­self to turn and gi­ve a qu­ick wa­ve to show that ever­y­t­hing is all right Lo­oking in­to the bright sun­light, she can't see in­to the car. Which is fi­ne with her.

  Go on, Mom. Le­ave, wo­uld you? Just get out of he­re.

  It isn't un­til Li­an­na has di­sap­pe­ared thro­ugh the wro­ught iron si­de ga­te that le­ads along a sha­de-dap­pled path, and slam­med it firmly be­hind her, that she he­ars the Le­xus pull away.

  Go­od rid­dan­ce. Ge­ez.

  Dry-eyed aga­in, thank go­od­ness, she ma­kes her way be­ne­ath a ca­nopy of cen­tu­ri­es-old tre­es to­ward the back of Ca­sey's ho­use.

  It's pe­ace­ful he­re in the old-fas­hi­oned gar­den; the gro­unds as de­ser­ted as the ho­use it­self.

  Birds sing from over­he­ad bran­c­hes. Fat bum­b­le­be­es hum la­zily abo­ve ma­gen­ta hi­bis­cus blos­soms. A ste­ady tric­k­le of wa­ter flows in­to the lit­tle lily pond Ca­sey's fat­her bu­ilt for her mot­her last Chris­t­mas. Li­an­na's ste­ady fo­ot­s­teps crunch on the whi­te gra­vel path. Then she he­ars so­met­hing el­se… The slig­h­test rus­t­ling from be­hind a blo­oming shrub.

  Her he­ar­t­be­at qu­ic­ke­ning, Li­an­na bre­aks in­to a run-to­ward, not away from, the so­und.

  Rounding a bend in the gra­vel path, she smi­les.

  Kevin is wa­iting he­re for her.

  Just as he pro­mi­sed.

  "It's go­od to see you aga­in, Phylli­da. You're lo­oking lo­vely as al­ways." 'Thank you." As Tyler Haw­t­hor­ne us­hers her in­to the con­fe­ren­ce ro­om with a ha­le han­d­s­ha­ke, she can't help but think that her gran­d­fat­her's at­tor­ney wo­uld be a cas­ting agent's dre­am sho­uld a ro­le call for a sta­tely I So­ut­hern bu­si­nes­sman. The el­derly at­tor­ney co­mes com­p­le­te with three-pi­ece su­it, well-ten­ded thatch of whi­te ha­ir, and a bo­oming ac­cent thic­ker than pe­anut so­up.

  She hasn't se­en him sin­ce her wed­ding day. He in­vi­ted her to waltz, chat­ted char­mingly and flir­ted har­m­les­sly, then han­ded over an en­ve­lo­pe that con­ta­ined a card, with a sen­ti­men­tal, clic­hé-rid­den rhyme, and a tho­usand-dol­lar check.

  "I he­ar you and yo­ur hus­band ha­ve a lit­tle boy now. How are they?"

  "Fine-they're at the be­ach to­day." She can't help but no­ti­ce that Tyler se­ems oddly re­luc­tant to lo­ok her in the eye.

  Is it be­ca­use this is of­fi­ci­al bu­si­ness, and not a so­ci­al event?

  Or be­ca­use he's torn up over Gran­dad­dy's de­ath?

  She do­esn't even want to con­si­der what ot­her fac­tor might ha­ve ren­de­red him un­c­ha­rac­te­ris­ti­cal­ly re­ti­cent Not now. Not when fi­nan­ci­al sal­va­ti­on is as much wit­hin her grasp as Tyler Haw­t­hor­ne's cold hand.

  "Have a se­at, won't you?" He re­le­ases his grip ab­ruptly and turns to her brot­her, who's we­aring, as usu­al, a cus­tom-ma­de su­it, cus­tom-ma­de dress shirt with French cuffs, silk tie-and, to­day, the gre­enish pal­lor of I one who has had a few too many bo­ur­bons the night be­fo­re.

  "Gib, my boy, I see li­fe is tre­ating you well."

  Is it Phylli­da's ima­gi­na­ti­on, or is the­re a hol­low ring to Tyler's jovi­al words?

  "Settled so­mew­he­re up North now, are you?"

  "Boston. I pas­sed the bar a whi­le back."

  "Congratulations. Which firm are you with?" An in­vi­sib­le crank tig­h­tens Gib's po­li­te smi­le just a notch. "I ha­ven't jo­ined one yet. I'm still, uh, en­ter­ta­ining so­me of­fers."

  "All in go­od ti­me," is Tyler's res­pon­se, af­ter an aw­k­ward si­len­ce.

  Maybe, Phylli­da thinks, as she set­tles in­to one of the le­at­her cha­irs at the con­fe­ren­ce tab­le, he thinks we're un­der-ac­hi­evers. May­be he was ex­pec­ting me to be a big mo­vie star by now, and Gib to be a par­t­ner in so­me fancy firm.

  Well, it do­esn't mat­ter what Tyler Haw­t­hor­ne thinks of them. His ro­le he­re isn't to jud­ge Gran­dad­dy's he­irs, but to pre­sent them with Gran­dad­dy's mo­ney.

  She no­ti­ces a limp in Tyler's ga­it as he walks to
his own se­at, and he win­ces vi­sibly as he sits down.

  He lo­oks up and se­es that she's wat­c­hing him, so she po­li­tely asks, "Are you all right?"

  "I will be. I was hurt in an ac­ci­dent a whi­le ago." "What kind of ac­ci­dent?"

  "I was in the cros­swalk right out he­re on Dray­ton, in front of the bu­il­ding. It was ra­ining, and a car ca­me flying aro­und the cor­ner at top spe­ed…" "Was it a yo­ung kid? They're the worst." "I ha­ve no idea. Who­ever it was kept right on go­ing. Eit­her they didn't see me, or didn't ca­re." "Pro­bably a kid."

  "Probably. An­y­way, I bro­ke my leg and a co­up­le of ribs, but the doc­tor sa­id I'm lucky it wasn't wor­se. At my age, you don't bo­un­ce back as qu­ickly as you'd li­ke."

  Phyllida mur­murs an ap­prop­ri­ate com­ment, and sne­aks a glan­ce at her watch.

  "I trust yo­ur co­usin Char­lot­te is on her way?" Tyler asks, so­mew­hat an­xi­o­usly.

  As if on cue, the do­or to the con­fe­ren­ce ro­om opens. The re­cep­ti­onist an­no­un­ces, "Mrs. Ma­it­land is he­re."

  "Wonderful." Tyler's to­ne is he­arty. "We can get star­ted."

  But Phylli­da can't help but no­ti­ce that he lo­oks far mo­re ap­pre­hen­si­ve than he do­es re­li­eved.

  Dr. Ma­uri­ce Red­mond has gar­lic bre­ath and a splash of so­met­hing to­ma­to-oran­ge on his whi­te shirt, just be­low his col­lar.

  But that isn't why Mi­mi dis­li­kes him even mo­re in­ten­sely to­day than she did when they first met in Jed's hos­pi­tal ro­om.

  The man has ze­ro bed­si­de man­ner. He gre­ets them with all the warmth of the se­cu­rity gu­ard who va­li­da­ted the­ir par­king tic­ket dow­n­s­ta­irs.

  Now, af­ter brus­qu­ely or­de­ring them to ta­ke two har­d­back cha­irs pul­led up to his bat­te­red me­tal desk in an of­fi­ce with all the am­bi­an­ce of a pub­lic res­t­ro­om, he re­ac­hes un­ce­re­mo­ni­o­usly for a ma­nil­la fol­der.

  Watching him scan the re­port in­si­de, Mi­mi fan­ta­si­zes abo­ut bol­ting from the cli­nic with Jed in tow. Euro­pe… They re­al­ly sho­uld go to Euro­pe, li­ke Jed sug­ges­ted. Right this se­cond. They sho­uld grab Cam and get on the first pla­ne the hell out of he­re.

  Never mind that the­re are no di­rect over­se­as flights from Sa­van­nah, that they don't ha­ve pas­sports, that they can't af­ford a pack of gum, let alo­ne air­li­ne fa­res. No­ne of that mat­ters. All that mat­ters is es­ca­ping.

  Before it's too la­te.

  Before this un­p­le­asant man tells them his hor­rib­le news.

  And Mi­mi has no do­ubt that it will be hor­rib­le.

  Nothing po­si­ti­ve can pos­sibly tran­s­pi­re in a pla­ce li­ke this: scar­red li­no­le­um and flu­ores­cent lights. Con­c­re­te-block in­te­ri­or walls pa­in­ted mus­tard yel­low. The per­va­si­ve scent of Pi­ne-Sol that do­esn't qu­ite mask the un­der­l­ying odor of vo­mit.

  "Mr. Joh­n­s­ton, I ha­ve yo­ur test re­sults he­re."

  Dr. Red­mond has be­gun.

  God help us.

  Jed squ­e­ezes Mi­mi's hand.

  Not re­as­su­ringly.

  No, it's as tho­ugh he's hol­ding on for de­ar li­fe, ter­ri­fi­ed that wha­te­ver the doc­tor is abo­ut to tell them is go­ing to chan­ge the­ir li­ves fo­re­ver.

  "I'm af­ra­id…" The doc­tor pa­uses, ta­kes a de­ep bre­ath and se­ems to hold it in­de­fi­ni­tely.

  He's af­ra­id? Mi­mi thinks in­c­re­du­lo­usly. He's af­ra­id?

  "I'm af­ra­id," Dr. Red­mond re­pe­ats, "the tests in­di­ca­te a ra­re ma­lig­nancy."

  "I di­rect that all my debts and fu­ne­ral ex­pen­ses be pa­id as so­on af­ter my de­ath as may be prac­ti­cab­le. I fur­t­her di­rect…"

  The do­cu­ment trem­b­les in Tyler's hands as he pa­uses in the re­ading, just for a mo­ment. Just to gat­her his ner­ve for the gat­he­ring storm.

  The only so­und in the con­fe­ren­ce ro­om is the dis­tant wa­il of a si­ren so­mew­he­re up by the ri­ver. The three he­irs of Gil­bert Xa­vi­er Re­min­g­ton II are fo­cu­sed on him, the­ir col­lec­ti­ve si­len­ce and un­wa­ve­ring sta­res al­most as un­ner­ving as the pros­pect of what co­mes next.

  He con­ti­nu­es to re­ad the stan­dard lan­gu­age in­vol­ving es­ta­te and in­he­ri­tan­ce ta­xes, con­s­ci­o­us that no­body in the ro­om has mo­ved a mus­c­le, or ma­de a so­und.

  Is it be­ca­use they sen­se what's abo­ut to hap­pen?

  No.

  It's be­ca­use they con­ti­nue to er­ro­ne­o­usly an­ti­ci­pa­te what is not.

  Tyler can stall no lon­ger. "I gi­ve, de­vi­se, and be­qu­e­ath all of my es­ta­te of wha­te­ver kind and whe­re­so­ever si­tu­ated…"

  Tyler cle­ars his thro­at and adj­usts his re­ading glas­ses one last ti­me. He knows they're ex­pec­ting him to con­ti­nue with the phra­se "in equ­al sha­res."

  But that was in the old will.

  Tyler's vo­ice so­me­how holds ste­ady as he de­li­vers the ex­p­lo­si­ve lan­gu­age of this one-"to my gran­d­da­ug­h­ter, Char­lot­te Re­min­g­ton Ma­it­land, pro­vi­ded she sur­vi­ves me."

  Royce wel­co­mes the blast of dim, co­ol air as he steps in­to the small ca­fe a sto­ne's throw from the loft spa­ce he rents for his com­pu­ter-con­sul­ting bu­si­ness.

  Beyond the pla­te glass win­dows, Bro­ug­h­ton Stre­et is awash in re­len­t­less no­on­day sun and te­eming with hot, sticky pe­des­t­ri­ans.

  Ella Fit­z­ge­rald cro­ons a blu­esy bal­lad on the ca­fe's ret­ro so­un­d­t­rack as he wa­its his turn be­hind a mid­dle-aged co­up­le. If the­ir Yan­kee ac­cents didn't gi­ve them away as to­urists, the­ir or­der wo­uld: two lar­ge "iced" te­as, un­s­we­ete­ned.

  Here in the So­uth, it's swe­et tea, su­gary as gum-drops. Even his wi­fe, who al­ways drinks di­et so­da and swe­etens her cof­fee with Splen­da, enj­oys her da­ily glass of swe­et tea be­fo­re din­ner.

  Royce or­ders his from Sher­yl-or is it Sher­ri?-the mul­ti­pi­er­ced, col­le­ge-aged Goth Girl he finds be­hind the re­gis­ter every we­ek­day abo­ut this ti­me.

  Her black-po­lis­hed fin­ger­na­ils clack on the keys as she rings it up. "We ha­ve yo­ur fa­vo­ri­te eg­gplant san­d­wich on who­le gra­in bre­ad as a spe­ci­al to­day, Mr. Ma­it­land."

  "That so­unds tem­p­ting, but I can't ha­ve lunch to­day.

  I've got a me­eting to get to down the stre­et in fif­te­en mi­nu­tes." He checks the Bre­gu­et watch Char­lot­te ga­ve him on the­ir wed­ding day, and amends, 'Ten mi­nu­tes."

  "Maybe to­mor­row."

  "Maybe," he ag­re­es, ope­ning his wal­let to re­mo­ve two dol­lar bills, fully awa­re that Sheryl or Sher­ri is chec­king him out, as usu­al.

  He pro­bably sho­uld be flat­te­red that a girl mo­re than half his age finds him at­trac­ti­ve-and so­me days, he is. Es­pe­ci­al­ly with his fif­ti­eth bir­t­h­day lo­oming in just a few months.

  Fifty? How can it be? Roy­ce do­esn't fe­el that old, nor, he's cer­ta­in, do­es he lo­ok it. Tho­se who don't know his true age-and very few in this world do-wo­uld most li­kely think he's in his mid-thir­ti­es.

  Nevertheless, the mi­les­to­ne bir­t­h­day sits squ­arely on the ho­ri­zon li­ke an op­pres­si­ve char­co­al storm clo­ud over the sea.

  But Roy­ce do­esn't want to think abo­ut that at the mo­ment. Nor is he in the mo­od for ca­su­al ban­ter with the co­un­ter girl, who fills a cle­ar plas­tic cup with ice, then po­urs the tea from a tall me­tal dis­pen­ser.

  Moments la­ter, he's back out in the ste­amy So­ut­hern sun, gul­ping the tran­s­lu­cent brown be­ve­ra­ge he tends to find far too syrupy to ef­fec­ti­vely qu­ench his thirst. Re­gar­d­less, he dra­ins his cup qu­ick
ly and de­po­sits it in a trash can as he stri­des to­ward the in­ter­sec­ti­on of Bro­ug­h­ton and Bull.

  He checks his watch aga­in as he wa­its to cross. When Char­lot­te ga­ve it to him, he pro­tes­ted that it was far too ex­t­ra­va­gant a gift.

  "Oh, co­me on," she sa­id, la­ug­hing, "you de­ser­ve a lit­tle bling bling."

  "Bling bling?" he ec­ho­ed with a grin. "Ha­ve you be­en han­ging aro­und with Jen­ny from the block aga­in?"