The Final Victim

by that's me

It's be­en a whi­le sin­ce they've be­en that lig­h­t­he­ar­ted, he no­tes grimly.

  And it's not as tho­ugh the­ir li­ves will brig­h­ten an­y­ti­me so­on.

  Not with Char­lot­te mo­ur­ning her gran­d­fat­her even mo­re de­eply than he'd an­ti­ci­pa­ted.

  She re­al­ly lo­ved the cranky old guy, Roy­ce re­ali­zes now.

  Sweet Char­lot­te, with her gen­t­le so­ul and kind, for­gi­ving he­art, might just be the only per­son who ever did.

  And she, in turn, might truly ha­ve be­en the only per­son the aging cur­mud­ge­on ever re­al­ly lo­ved.

  Royce pic­tu­res his wi­fe, who at this very mo­ment, a me­re fif­te­en blocks so­uth of he­re in Tyler Haw­t­hor­ne's law of­fi­ce fa­cing Forsyth Park, is wit­nes­sing the re­ading of her gran­d­fat­her's will. He won­ders whet­her her in­he­ri­tan­ce is of­fi­ci­al yet.

  We al­ways sa­id that when the ti­me ca­me, we'd just tuck it away and go on the sa­me as al­ways…

  Well, Dar­ling, Roy­ce thinks, wi­ping a be­ad of swe­at from his fo­re­he­ad, it lo­oks li­ke the ti­me is he­re.

  So.

  There it is.

  Malignancy.

  Not just any ma­lig­nancy, but a ra­re one.

  In ot­her words, a flu­ke.

  A cru­el twist of fa­te, li­ke be­ing struck by lig­h­t­ning, or at­tac­ked by a gre­at whi­te shark-eit­her of which wo­uld be pre­fe­rab­le to the ex­c­ru­ci­ating pa­in of slowly rot­ting away from the in­si­de out.

  Which is what is go­ing to hap­pen to Jed.

  There's no cu­re for the di­se­ase, known as Kep­ton-Man­ning Syndro­me. Dr. Red­mond de­li­vers that in­for­ma­ti­on with all the emo­ti­on of a me­te­oro­lo­gist pre­dic­ting ra­in.

  "What abo­ut so­me kind of tre­at­ment?" Mi­mi asks, when she can push past the cho­king gri­ef to find her vo­ice.

  Jed re­ma­ins fro­zen be­si­de her, still crus­hing her hand in his grip. She do­esn't da­re lo­ok at him.

  'There's no cu­re," Dr. Red­mond re­pe­ats ro­bo­ti­cal­ly.

  "I know," she snaps. 'The­re's no cu­re for lung can­cer, but the­re are tre­at­ments. Mo­re every day. So what I'm as­king is, what kind of tre­at­ment is ava­ilab­le for my hus­band?"

  Dr. Red­mond pa­uses bri­efly be­fo­re sa­ying, 'The­re is no ef­fec­ti­ve tre­at­ment."

  That slight he­si­ta­ti­on is eno­ugh to spark ho­pe, ho­we­ver fu­ti­le, in Mi­mi.

  'There must be so­met­hing that can be do­ne. Y’all can't just send him ho­me to-"

  Die.

  She won't say it Sa­ying it wo­uld ma­ke it re­al, and it isn't. No­ne of this is ac­tu­al­ly hap­pe­ning. It can't be.

  But she'll go along with the new nig­h­t­ma­re for now, un­til she opens her eyes and finds her­self s&e in her own bed. Just li­ke she al­ways wa­kes up to com­for­ting re­ality af­ter the re­cur­ring nig­h­t­ma­re of ha­ving a child drown on her watch.

  Except…

  That re­al­ly hap­pe­ned.

  Dear God, is this re­al­ly hap­pe­ning, too?

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Joh­n­s­ton, but the­re re­al­ly is no ef­fec­ti­ve^-"

  "But the­re is so­me kind of tre­at­ment?"

  The doc­tor sha­kes his he­ad, lo­oking puz­zled.

  "You sa­id the­re was no ef­fec­ti­ve tre­at­ment. What kind of tre­at­ment is the­re? An inef­fec­ti­ve one?"

  I'm af­ra­id I don't fol­low yo­ur lo­gic. You're se­eking an inef­fec­ti­ve tre­at­ment?"

  "It's bet­ter than not­hing at all!" Her to­ne is bor­de­ring on hyste­ria. "It's bet­ter than sen­ding my hus­band ho­me to-"

  Die.

  "Mrs. Joh­n­s­ton," Dr. Red­mond says calmly, "as I sa­id, this is a ra­re di­se­ase. Very lit­tle re­se­arch has be­en do­ne. The­re's one physi­ci­an, in Euro­pe…"

  Europe. That can't be a co­in­ci­den­ce. Just mi­nu­tes ago, she and Jed we­re lon­ging to run away to Euro­pe, and now…

  "What?" she per­sists an­xi­o­usly, re­ali­zing the doc­tor has tra­iled off and is tap­ping the stack of lab re­ports on the desk, li­ning up the ed­ges in pre­pa­ra­ti­on for rep­la­cing them in the fi­le and dis­mis­sing the pa­ti­ent and his pesky wi­fe. "What is he do­ing in Euro­pe?"

  "She," Dr. Red­mond cor­rects.

  "She." Wha­te­ver. 'Who is she, and what is she do­ing?"

  The doc­tor do­esn't sigh in re­sig­na­ti­on, but he cle­arly wo­uld li­ke to as he says, "Her na­me is Pet­ra Von Ca­ve and she's spent de­ca­des con­duc­ting what amo­unts to highly con­t­ro­ver­si­al cli­ni­cal tri­als."

  Mimi se­izes that in­for­ma­ti­on li­ke a drow­ning vic­tim grab­bing a bu­oy. "I ne­ed to get in to­uch with her."

  "Mrs. Joh­n­s­ton…" Dr. Red­mond re­ac­hes ac­ross the desk and rests a hand on her wrist. His fin­gers are warm; his grasp al­most gen­t­le. So he's hu­man af­ter all. "Yo­ur hus­band is unin­su­red, and even if he had the best po­licy in the world, Dr. Von Ca­ve's 'tre­at­ment,' as it we­re, wo­uldn't be co­ve­red."

  "We'll find a way to pay for it," Mi­mi says fran­ti­cal­ly, sha­king off his hand.

  "Do you ha­ve any idea what kind of mo­ney you're tal­king abo­ut?"

  "So what? It's a chan­ce to sa­ve him. I don't ca­re what it costs. We can-"

  "Mrs. Joh­n­s­ton, ple­ase ta­ke this." The physi­ci­an opens a desk dra­wer and pulls out a stack of bu­si­ness cards. Re­mo­ving one, he thrusts it in­to her hand.

  She lo­oks down, ex­pec­ting to find Dr. Von Ca­ve's con­tact in­for­ma­ti­on.

  What she finds is the ad­dress and pho­ne num­ber for Bay­wa­ter Hos­pi­ce.

  "Make no mis­ta­ke abo­ut it, Mr. Haw­t­hor­ne, this will is go­ing to be con­tes­ted."

  Gib de­li­vers his par­ting shot from the do­or­way of the con­fe­ren­ce ro­om, then turns to fol­low his sis­ter, who­se Os­car-worthy sobs are audib­le from the re­cep­ti­on area.

  As rat­tled as the pla­te glass win­dows in the wa­ke of Gib's re­ver­be­ra­ting slam of the do­or, Char­lot­te lo­oks ac­ross the tab­le at Tyler Haw­t­hor­ne. He is rhythmi­cal­ly tap­ping the bot­tom ed­ge of his she­ath of pa­pers on the po­lis­hed ma­ho­gany sur­fa­ce, but she can see that the mo­ve­ment is mo­re fre­ne­tic than pro­duc­ti­ve.

  He, too, is sha­ken.

  Charlotte le­ans back in her cha­ir and kne­ads her fo­re­he­ad with her thumb and fin­ger­tips. The mig­ra­ine she felt co­ming on in the car af­ter the sce­ne with Li­an­na is full blown now.

  "Tyler," she says, still dum­b­fo­un­ded, as much by what was in the will as by her co­usins' ref­le­xi­ve, me­lod­ra­ma­tic res­pon­ses, "what on earth just went on he­re?"

  "Your gran­d­fat­her left most of his mo­ney to you."

  "Most?" she ec­ho­es, sha­king her he­ad. 'Tyler, he left all of it."

  "Not all."

  "You're right, I for­got… He did in­c­lu­de my co­usins." The cor­ners of her mo­uth twist sar­do­ni­cal­ly.

  Yes, he left both Phylli­da and Gib the sa­me to­ken sum he had be­qu­e­at­hed to his ma­id and his cha­uf­fe­ur.

  Turning the stack of pa­pers ho­ri­zon­tal­ly, Tyler con­ti­nu­es his fid­gety pre­ten­se at ef­fi­ci­ency. "Fa­ce it, Char­lot­te, you we­re al­ways Gil­bert's fa­vo­ri­te. You we­re the only one who ever ga­ve him the ti­me of day. And he knew you much bet­ter-You li­ved down he­re; they didn't"

  "Come on, you know that ne­ver mat­te­red to Gran-dad­dy. An­y­way, Gib li­ved he­re, too, when he was in high scho­ol."

  She was mar­ri­ed to Vin­ce by that ti­me, and ra­rely saw her co­usin, who at­ten­ded Tel­fa­ir Aca­demy.

  "Your gran­d­fat­her li­ked you best, Char­lot­te."

  Sh
e do­esn't bot­her to ar­gue the po­int with Tyler. He's right. Still…

  "Both my co­usins we­re in the will as equ­al he­irs all the­se ye­ars. Why wo­uld he chan­ge it now?"

  "Maybe they sa­id or did so­met­hing he didn't li­ke."

  "Both of them to­get­her?" She dis­mis­ses that no­ti­on with lit­tle con­si­de­ra­ti­on. "They li­ve on op­po­si­te ends of the co­untry, and they ne­ver vi­sit Oak­ga­te. I can't see them te­aming up to do or say so­met­hing dras­tic eno­ugh to get cut out of the will."

  Tyler shrugs. "I'm su­re Gil­bert had his re­asons. In fact, I as­su­med the three of you must know what they we­re."

  "I'm clu­eless."

  "I'll bet yo­ur co­usins aren't."

  Charlotte isn't so su­re abo­ut that. Gib and Phylli­da se­emed as stun­ned as she was to le­arn that they had be­en re­le­ga­ted to the in­he­ri­tan­ce le­vel of me­re ho­use­hold help.

  Gib did co­me out slightly ahe­ad of his sis­ter: Gran­dad­dy be­qu­e­at­hed to him a pa­ir of he­ir­lo­om pla­ti­num mo­nog­ram­med cuf­flinks that had be­lon­ged to the first Gil­bert Xa­vi­er Re­min­g­ton.

  But the ges­tu­re was pro­bably mo­re prac­ti­cal than sen­ti­men­tal on Gran­dad­dy's part: who but a man who sha­res his unu­su­al ini­ti­als-and is si­mi­larly in­c­li­ned to we­ar Fren­ch-cuf­fed shir­ts-wo­uld ha­ve any use for the cuf­flinks?

  "Now what?" she asks Tyler, pres­sing her thumb and mid­dle fin­ger­tip in­to her tem­p­les to so­mew­hat ease the throb­bing.

  "Now yo­ur co­usins hi­re a law­yer and con­test the will."

  "Are they go­ing to be suc­ces­sful?"

  "If they can pro­ve that Gil­bert was un­der du­ress when he ma­de the chan­ge, yes. Or that he was se­ni­le. Or that the will is in­va­lid due to so­me le­gal tec­h­ni­ca­lity-trust me, it isn't. My nep­hew over­saw the chan­ge, but I went over ever­y­t­hing."

  "Well, Gran­dad­dy wasn't se­ni­le, eit­her."

  "No," Tyler ag­re­es, of­fe­ring a half-smi­le at the no­ti­on, "he wasn't."

  "So chan­ces are, Gib and Phylli­da aren't go­ing to over­turn the will."

  "People ra­rely ma­na­ge to do that. But it do­esn't stop them from em­bar­king on drawn-out, ex­pen­si­ve le­gal bat­tles. It hap­pens every day."

  "I'm su­re that when things set­tle down a bit, they'll co­me to the­ir sen­ses."

  "Don't be so su­re. Gre­ed is a po­wer­ful dri­ving for­ce."

  "You've se­en my co­usins. Phylli­da has a be­a­uti­ful ho­me and a nanny and a ca­re­er in Ca­li­for­nia. Gib went Ivy Le­ague all the way and now he's a law­yer in Bos­ton. They-"

  "He hasn't jo­ined a firm yet."

  "He isn't hur­ting. Tho­se clot­hes he was we­aring to­day cost mo­re than a ye­ar's tu­iti­on at Li­an­na's scho­ol."

  Tyler shrugs. "May­be the­re's mo­re to them than me­ets the eye."

  "Maybe… But I've known them my who­le li­fe. They're fa­mily. I don't think they'll want an ugly, en­d­less bat­tle over this."

  "Do you know what physi­og­nomy is, Char­lot­te?"

  She sha­kes her ac­hing he­ad.

  "It's the an­ci­ent art of fa­ce-re­ading: stud­ying physi­cal fe­atu­res to de­ter­mi­ne tem­pe­ra­ment, cha­rac­ter, per­so­na­lity… I've do­ne so­me re­ading on the su­bj­ect. So­me tri­al law­yers-not me-con­sult physi­og­no­mists abo­ut the­ir cli­ents, wit­nes­ses, pros­pec­ti­ve jurors…"

  Unsure what he's get­ting at, she mur­murs, "It so­unds fas­ci­na­ting."

  "It is-not that I'm in­c­li­ned to put much stock in such a su­bj­ec­ti­ve 'sci­en­ce.' An­y­way, a Swiss es­sa­yist na­med Johann Kas­per La­va­ter was the fat­her of mo­dern physi­og­nomy. The­re are a num­ber of well-known qu­otes that are at­tri­bu­ted to him, but my fa­vo­ri­te is: 'Say not that you know anot­her en­ti­rely, un­til you ha­ve di­vi­ded an in­he­ri­tan­ce with him. 'You'd be wi­se to ke­ep that in mind, Char­lot­te."

  She nods, pus­hing back her cha­ir. "I will. I just wish I knew why Gran­dad­dy did what he did."

  "I'm af­ra­id his re­aso­ning was bu­ri­ed with him," Tyler says with a shrug. "All we can do now is see that his fi­nal wis­hes are car­ri­ed out."

  * * *

  Mimi hurls the whi­te rec­tan­g­le to­ward Dr. Red­mond, only to ha­ve it flut­ter be­nignly on­to his desk. She wis­hes it had be­en so­met­hing jag­ged, and he­avy… so­met­hing that wo­uld inj­ure him the way he had just rip­ped in­to her.

  "Mrs. Joh­n­s­ton, ple­ase ta­ke the card. You're go­ing to ne­ed it"

  "I know whe­re that of­fi­ce is." It's lo­ca­ted on the ma­in­land, bet­we­en the Ac­ho­co Is­land ca­use­way and the in­ter­s­ta­te, ho­used in a re­no­va­ted ranch ho­use pa­in­ted in de­cep­ti­vely che­er­ful tu­lip sha­des: yel­low clap­bo­ard with red shut­ters and trim. "I've be­en the­re."

  She squ­e­ezes her eyes clo­sed, re­mem­be­ring that aw­ful August day three sum­mers ago. It was she who had to go ma­ke the ar­ran­ge­ments for her fat­her. Ne­it­her of her pa­rents was ab­le to ac­cept the ine­vi­ta­bi­lity of his de­ath. May­be that lin­ge­ring ho­pe is what hel­ped him to sur­vi­ve for as long as he did-much lon­ger than the spe­ci­alists and even the hos­pi­ce wor­kers an­ti­ci­pa­ted.

  Well, this ti­me, with Jed, it's Mi­mi who will re­fu­se to gi­ve up ho­pe.

  "Mrs. Joh­n­s­ton, I un­der­s­tand how dif­fi­cult this is-"

  "Difficult?" she shri­eks. "You sit the­re han­ding out de­ath sen­ten­ces and call it 'dif­fi­cult'?"

  "Mimi, for God's sa­ke, stop it!"

  Startled, she clo­ses her mo­uth and lo­oks at Jed at last.

  She im­me­di­ately wis­hes she hadn't. Te­ars are stre­aming down his che­eks. £ "We don't ha­ve mo­ney for any kind of tre­at­ment, and the tre­at­ment do­esn't work an­y­way, and I don't ha­ve a chan­ce. Okay?"

  "No, Jed. Not okay." She's crying, too. "We're not go­ing to walk out of he­re and gi­ve up."

  "What cho­ice do I ha­ve? I'm go­ing to die."

  "We're not go­ing to let that hap­pen. We ha­ve to fight" She cho­oses the pro­no­un de­li­be­ra­tely, re­fu­sing to let him sho­ul­der his fa­te alo­ne.

  We. Not I.

  We're in it to­get­her, Jed, un­til de­ath do us part.

  And de­ath, as far as Mi­mi is con­cer­ned, isn't an op­ti­on.

  Money.

  It all co­mes down to mo­ney.

  A vast sum.

  A sum that, un­bek­nownst to Jed, may not be out of re­ach at all.

  CHAPTER 5

  "You've re­ac­hed Roy­ce Ma­it­land Net­work Con­sul­ting. Ple­ase le­ave a de­ta­iled mes­sa­ge at the to­ne and we will re­turn yo­ur call."

  There's a long pa­use be­fo­re the to­ne-too long. Why hasn't Char­lot­te ever no­ti­ced that be­fo­re?

  Maybe it just se­ems en­d­less to­day, be­ca­use she's so an­xi­o­us-des­pe­ra­te, re­al­ly-to spe­ak with her hus­band.

  "Royce, it's me. I al­re­ady tri­ed yo­ur cell but it went right in­to vo­ice ma­il. Are you still in yo­ur me­eting? Or are you the­re wor­king? Pick up if you are… Roy­ce?"

  She wa­its for a click and her hus­band's re­as­su­ring vo­ice.

  It do­esn't co­me.

  "Okay. Ple­ase call me as so­on as you can. I ne­ed to talk to you."

  It ta­kes three stabs at the cell pho­ne's key­pad with a shaky in­dex fin­ger be­fo­re she ma­na­ges to press the end but­ton.

  She stas­hes the pho­ne back in her pur­se.

  Now what?

  Her mig­ra­ine is gro­wing wor­se. The car is stif­ling: do­ors clo­sed, win­dows rol­led up. She re­ac­hes for the keys she tos­sed on­to the pas­sen­ger's se­at when she got i
n.

  She can't just sit he­re in the par­king lot of Tyler Haw­t­hor­ne's law firm all day, trying to di­gest what just hap­pe­ned.

  But she isn't par­ti­cu­larly an­xi­o­us to go ho­me, eit­her.

  Not with Phylli­da and Gib ine­vi­tably wa­iting the­re to po­un­ce on her.