The Final Victim

by that's me

  One wo­uld think that her brot­her-af­ter wat­c­hing his own me­an-tem­pe­red fat­her dri­ve his mot­her in the arms of anot­her man-wo­uld ha­ve le­ar­ned. On wo­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted Gil­bert Re­min­g­ton H to do ever­y­t­hing in his po­wer to ma­ke his own mar­ri­age work.

  But then, Gil­bert ne­ver did see the worst of what had hap­pe­ned bet­we­en his pa­rents. Only Je­an­ne was he­re, co­we­ring in her bed, on the night when the gun was drawn. Gil­bert was sa­fely off at Tel­fa­ir Aca­demy.

  Thus, the sins of the fat­her we­re pas­sed to the son, along with the al­ma ma­ter, the Re­min­g­ton mil­li­ons- and the wi­do­wer's cur­se.

  Life went on… for ever­yo­ne ex­cept Ele­ano­re.

  Jeanne won­ders to this day whet­her her brot­her sec­retly bla­med him­self for his wi­fe's su­ici­de.

  Just as she won­ders whet­her her own mot­her's fa­tal fall from a hor­se whi­le out ri­ding alo­ne was truly an ac­ci­dent-or in­s­te­ad a mur­de­ro­us rep­ri­sal for dra­wing a gun on her own hus­band.

  Marie fe­ared her hus­band's fi­er­ce tem­per. That much is cle­ar in her jo­ur­nals.

  But Je­an­ne will ne­ver know the who­le truth.

  And wha­te­ver her brot­her Gil­bert might ha­ve known, or sus­pec­ted, abo­ut the­ir pa­rents' dark past was bu­ri­ed with him in the gra­ve he sha­res with Ele­ano­re.

  Only the pe­arl-han­d­led pis­tol and the jo­ur­nals re­ma­in-in Je­an­ne's pos­ses­si­on-as evi­den­ce that any of it ever ever, hap­pe­ned at all.

  Now, lis­te­ning to the po­li­ce mo­ving thro­ugh the flo­ors be­ne­ath this one, Je­an­ne knows that she must get to it be­fo­re they do.

  She turns to Me­la­nie. "Can you push me over to the bu­re­au, ple­ase? Hurry."

  * * *

  "I sa­id I'm not an­s­we­ring any qu­es­ti­ons wit­ho­ut my at­tor­ney pre­sent," Gib in­sists, fi­xing the pa­ir of de­tec­ti­ves with a flinty sta­re.

  "And we just as­ked whe­re you we­re on Sa­tur­day night. If you don't ha­ve an­y­t­hing to hi­de, Mr. Re­min­g­ton, the­re's no re­ason why you sho­uld ha­ve a prob­lem an­s­we­ring that sim­p­le qu­es­ti­on."

  "I ha­ve ab­so­lu­tely not­hing to hi­de," he li­es, ho­ping his nar­ro­wed ga­ze masks his in­ner tur­mo­il. "But I hap­pen to be a law­yer myself, so I know bet­ter than to tell you an­y­t­hing that might be used aga­inst me.

  The do­or to his ro­om was left slightly aj­ar when the de­tec­ti­ves ca­me in to ro­use him from a so­und sle­ep. Now he can he­ar ac­ti­vity in the hall and be­yond; scur­rying fo­ot­s­teps, the rum­b­le of un­fa­mi­li­ar vo­ices, even what so­unds li­ke fur­ni­tu­re be­ing mo­ved abo­ut.

  Obviously, the po­li­ce are se­ar­c­hing the ho­use. They must ha­ve a war­rant.

  It's only a mat­ter of ti­me be­fo­re they ma­ke the­ir way in he­re and start go­ing thro­ugh Gib's things.

  And when they do…

  Feeling sick, Gib wat­c­hes Wil­li­am­son idly lift his cell pho­ne from the dres­ser. The de­tec­ti­ve exa­mi­nes it, tur­ning it over and over in his be­efy hands as tho­ugh he's ne­ver se­en such an obj­ect be­fo­re. Then he sets it down aga­in, we­aring a tho­ug­h­t­ful ex­p­res­si­on.

  My pho­ne…

  Even if the­ir se­arch of Gib's ro­om so­me­how neg­lects to turn up an­y­t­hing in­c­ri­mi­na­ting, the po­li­ce are go­ing to go thro­ugh his te­lep­ho­ne re­cords.

  Gib's he­art be­ats fas­ter, his tho­ughts ca­re­ening wildly thro­ugh a men­tal ros­ter of po­ten­ti­al­ly da­ma­ging calls he's ma­de la­tely.

  There are plenty, sho­uld the de­tec­ti­ves go to the tro­ub­le of tra­cing the num­bers.

  But no­ne that can pro­ve I had an­y­t­hing to do with what hap­pe­ned Sa­tur­day night.

  "If you won't tell us whe­re you we­re," the ot­her de­tec­ti­ve, Do­ra­do, says ca­su­al­ly, "may­be you can just tell us whet­her you're go­ing to ha­ve so­me­body who can vo­uch for you. That way, we can start ma­king calls."

  "I told you, I'm not sa­ying an­y­t­hing un­til I can get a law­yer."

  And that's go­ing to ta­ke qu­ite so­me ti­me. Eno­ugh ti­me to al­low him to co­me up with a su­itab­le ali­bi… and co­ver his tracks.

  There's a knock on the do­or.

  "Yeah? What is it?" Wil­li­am­son asks in the sa­me brus­que to­ne he uses for in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on.

  The do­or opens wi­der.

  A uni­for­med of­fi­cer po­kes his he­ad in. "Mr. Re­min­g­ton's at­tor­ney is he­re, De­tec­ti­ve."

  Startled, Gib ra­ises an eyeb­row.

  "You al­re­ady cal­led an at­tor­ney?" Wil­li­am­son asks, equ­al­ly star­t­led.

  "No…"

  "I did." The do­or opens wi­der, and Gib se­es Char­lot­te stan­ding the­re.

  Behind her is Tyler Haw­t­hor­ne.

  "Oh, my God, I'm so happy to see-hey, who's she?" De­vin is stan­ding on the ele­va­ted sto­op of her pa­rents' ho­use on East Jones Stre­et, wat­c­hing Aimee wa­ve as she pulls away from the curb.

  "Royce's da­ug­h­ter." Re­ac­hing the top step, Li­an­na gi­ves her fri­end a qu­ick hug.

  "I didn't know he had a da­ug­h­ter."

  "Yeah, she do­esn't li­ve aro­und he­re. She's he­re be­ca­use… well, you know."

  "Right. How is he?"

  "Fine, I gu­ess. I me­an, he will be."

  "What's she li­ke?"

  "Aimee?" She rolls her eyes. "She's a ma­j­or pa­in in the butt."

  "Why?"

  "She talks too much. I swe­ar to God, my ears are rin­ging af­ter be­ing with her for the past ho­ur."

  All right, may­be that's a slight exag­ge­ra­ti­on, Li­an­na ad­mits, but only to her­self.

  Aimee do­es talk a lot, tho­ugh it wasn't ne­ces­sa­rily non­s­top chat­ter. She as­ked a lot of qu­es­ti­ons on the way to Bo­j­an­g­les, abo­ut what mu­sic Li­an­na li­kes, and which TV shows she wat­c­hes, and whe­re she go­es to scho­ol, and what her fa­vo­ri­te su­bj­ects are.

  They're the sa­me ba­sic, bo­ring qu­es­ti­ons all grow­nups ask when they're trying to ma­ke con­ver­sa­ti­on, and Li­an­na grud­gingly an­s­we­red them all.

  Until Aimee as­ked, just as ca­su­al­ly as she po­sed the ot­hers, "So do you ha­ve a boy­f­ri­end?"

  In the pas­sen­ger's se­at, Li­an­na in­s­tantly went from spraw­led to stiff-spi­ned. Did Mom tell Aimee abo­ut Ke­vin? Did she in­s­t­ruct her to try and get Li­an­na to spill the de­ta­ils abo­ut him? Is that why she re­len­ted on the gro­un­ding, and as­ked Aimee to dri­ve her to Sa­van­nah?

  When Li­an­na didn't an­s­wer, Aimee glan­ced over at her, and she must ha­ve se­en the lo­ok on Li­an­na's fa­ce, be­ca­use she sa­id, "Not a go­od to­pic, huh?"

  Lianna sho­ok her he­ad, tur­ned up the ra­dio, and re­ma­ined si­lent all the way to the res­ta­urant She wasn't plan­ning to or­der an­y­t­hing when they got the­re, out of spi­te. But when she smel­led fo­od, her ap­pe­ti­te re­tur­ned with a ven­ge­an­ce. She re­ali­zed she hadn't eaten much of an­y­t­hing sin­ce the yo­gurt la­te Sa­tur­day night. When it was the­ir turn at the re­gis­ter, she fo­und her­self or­de­ring a big bis­cu­it with sa­usa­ge gravy, and fri­ed chic­ken on the si­de.

  "Fried chic­ken for bre­ak­fast?" Aimee as­ked du­bi­o­usly. "Do­es yo­ur mot­her gi­ve you that at ho­me?"

  "My mot­her wo­uld pro­bably spo­on-fe­ed me Ger­ber stra­ined pe­ac­hes from a lit­tle jar if she had her way," Li­an­na re­tor­ted.

  Aimee la­ug­hed. "Pa­rents are to­ugh, aren't they? I'm twen­ty-fi­ve and my fat­her still calls me 'Baby Girl.' Or­der what you want. I just can't be­li­eve they re­al­ly ser­ve fri­ed chic­ken at this ho
­ur."

  Aimee just or­de­red a cup of cof­fee, sa­ying she ne­ver eats bre­ak­fast. "If I did, I'd lo­ok li­ke… well, li­ke her," she sa­id with a tilt of her he­ad to­ward the lar­ge wo­man ad­ding nap­kins and con­di­ments to her lo­aded tray of chic­ken and fri­es.

  Lianna told her­self that that was re­al­ly me­an, even tho­ugh it was the kind of thing her fri­ends wo­uld say, and she wo­uld gig­gle at.

  The truth is, she do­esn't want to li­ke Aimee. She ne­ver wan­ted a sis­ter, ol­der or yo­un­ger, step or ot­her­wi­se, no mat­ter what her mot­her li­kes to think.

  Now, with De­vin ap­pa­rently wa­iting for her to go in­to de­ta­il abo­ut Aimee, she just shrugs and asks, "Are we go­ing in­si­de, or what?"

  "Nah. My mot­her and Ray are still sle­eping. They we­re out la­te at so­me party, and I bet they're re­al­ly hung-over. Let's just get out of he­re."

  Lianna's first tho­ught is that her mot­her pro­bably thinks she's spen­ding the day sa­fely at De­vin's ho­use.

  Her next tho­ught is, who ca­res what her mot­her thinks? If she was so eager to un­lo­ad Li­an­na for the day that she do­esn't even re­mem­ber she's be­en gro­un­ded, that's her prob­lem.

  "Where do you want to go?" she asks De­vin.

  "Do you ha­ve any mo­ney with you?"

  Aimee as­ked the sa­me thing, just be­fo­re she pul­led up at De­vin's.

  When Li­an­na sa­id no, she re­ac­hed in­to her pur­se and pul­led out a co­up­le of twen­ti­es. "He­re," she sa­id easily. "Ta­ke it. You know… in ca­se you and yo­ur fri­end want to do so­met­hing la­ter."

  "Like what?"

  "Like go to a mo­vie, or shop­ping, or so­met­hing. I don't know, what do y'all usu­al­ly do when you hang out?"

  Wondering aga­in if she was be­ing ba­ited by a nosy step­sis­ter on be­half of a no­si­er mot­her, Li­an­na just shrug­ged.

  But she to­ok the mo­ney with mum­b­led thanks.

  When she nods, De­vin de­ci­des, "We'll go to the mall, then. I ne­ed to get so­me stuff for scho­ol."

  "It do­esn't even start for we­eks."

  "Whatever. It's an ex­cu­se to buy new clot­hes, right?"

  Lianna grins. "Right."

  "Your mot­her's not go­ing to show up he­re lo­oking for you any ti­me so­on, is she?"

  "No way. She's go­ing to the hos­pi­tal. Trust me, she won't even think abo­ut me for ho­urs."

  "That's gre­at."

  Yeah, Li­an­na thinks, fol­lo­wing De­vin back down the steps to the stre­et. Just gre­at.

  Tyler clo­ses the do­or to Gil­bert's pri­va­te study with a qu­aking hand, trying not to re­mem­ber what tran­s­pi­red the last ti­me he cros­sed this par­ti­cu­lar thres­hold, with Si­las Ne­vil­le on his he­els.

  He pa­uses to gat­her his com­po­su­re be­fo­re tur­ning to fa­ce his la­te fri­end's gran­d­son.

  Gib has ta­ken a se­at-or rat­her, col­lap­sed-on the co­uch ac­ross from the an­ti­que desk whe­re ge­ne­ra­ti­ons of Re­min­g­ton men ha­ve con­duc­ted the­ir very suc­ces­sful bu­si­ness de­alings.

  Never, Tyler thinks, wo­uld any of them ha­ve ima­gi­ned that one day, the lo­ne re­ma­ining Re­min­g­ton son-the only ho­pe for car­rying on the fa­mily na­me-wo­uld be sit­ting he­re ac­cu­sed of an un­t­hin­kab­le cri­me.

  Tyler can't help but ac­k­now­led­ge the bit­ter irony: Af­ter the ex­t­ra­or­di­nary lengths Gil­bert went to in or­der to pre­ser­ve the le­gacy, this yo­ung, cocky suc­ces­sor has se­emingly des­t­ro­yed the who­le dam­ned thing.

  He knew plenty of brash yo­ung men li­ke Gib Re­min­g­ton in his days at Tel­fa­ir Aca­demy. Ar­ro­gant of­f­s­p­ring of we­althy fa­mi­li­es, be­li­eving that the ru­les didn't apply to them. They star­ted out bre­aking cur­fews.

  Some-like, per­haps, Gib Re­min­g­ton-went on to bre­ak laws.

  I was one of them, Tyler thinks, a wa­ve of na­usea swis­hing thro­ugh his gut.

  But that was long ago. Too long ago to dwell on now-or he­re.

  This is abo­ut a new ge­ne­ra­ti­on-not the Tel­fa­ir Trio.

  Gib's fa­ce is drawn; he's ob­vi­o­usly qu­ite sha­ken.

  "Is the­re an­y­t­hing you want to tell me?" Tyler stu­di­o­usly avo­ids Gil­bert's tidy desk as he pulls a cha­ir adj­acent to the co­uch and sits down to fa­ce his wo­uld-be cli­ent Gib shrugs, re­fu­sing to me­et his ga­ze. 'Just that I ha­ven't do­ne an­y­t­hing wrong."

  Tyler nods. It's not as tho­ugh he ex­pec­ted a con­fes­si­on. He cros­ses his legs and le­ans for­ward, his chin res­ting on his fist as he stu­di­es Gib's fa­ce.

  If he sub­s­c­ri­bed to the the­ori­es of La­va­ter's physi­og­nomy, as so­me tri­al law­yers-and, sub­con­s­ci­o­usly, jurors-do, he wo­uld de­em Gib Re­min­g­ton in­no­cent just ba­sed on his lo­oks. With that shock of blond ha­ir, wi­de-set eyes the sha­de of a sum­mer sea, and strong jaw, he's a mir­ror ima­ge of his gran­d­fat­her at that age, right down to the cow­lick. In ot­her words, Gib, li­ke Gil­bert be­fo­re him, is the po­lar op­po­si­te of the be­ady-eyed, un­s­ha­ven ca­ri­ca­tu­re of a cri­mi­nal.

  So what do­es that tell you?T­y­ler asks him­self wryly.

  All right, then, when it co­mes to non­ver­bal in­di­ca­ti­ons of pos­sib­le gu­ilt, he's far bet­ter off con­si­de­ring de­me­anor-and Gib's is tel­ling, par­ti­cu­larly in res­pon­se to the next qu­es­ti­on.

  "You might as well tell me now: is the­re any chan­ce at all that tho­se de­tec­ti­ves are go­ing to turn up an­y­t­hing of in­te­rest when they se­arch yo­ur ro­om?"

  Gib do­esn't reply, but the an­s­wer is pla­in to see in a pa­ir of fists that clench and un­c­lench in his lap.

  Then he lo­oks up, but not at Tyler-and not in re­sig­na­ti­on. Gib's ga­ze shifts di­rectly to­ward the win­dow, whe­re a slight bre­eze stirs sun-dap­pled bo­ughs. "Why are you he­re, Mr. Haw­t­hor­ne?"

  Irritated by the in­do­lent to­ne-or per­haps, by the re­ali­za­ti­on that it ec­ho­es his own, and Gil­bert's, in the­ir own yo­ut­h­ful era of en­tit­le­ment-Ty­ler snaps, "Well, it's not be­ca­use I ha­ve ESP, that's for dam­ned su­re. You he­ard what yo­ur co­usin told the de­tec­ti­ves in the­re, didn't you? She cal­led me."

  "No, I me­an, why did you ag­ree to co­me rus­hing right over he­re? You're Char­lot­te's law­yer, not mi­ne."

  "No, I'm not her law­yer, eit­her. I'm yo­ur Gran­dad­dy's law­yer." And his ol­dest, most fa­it­h­ful fri­end, dam­mit.

  "As you may re­call," Tyler can't re­sist ad­ding with a tin­ge of sar­casm, "I rep­re­sent his es­ta­te."

  "Which he didn't le­ave to me."

  "Which has not­hing to do with this." Tyler de­li­be­ra­tely in­serts a sig­ni­fi­cant pa­use be­fo­re as­king, "Do­es it?"

  "No!" Gib ra­ises a hand to thrust his blond cow­lick far­t­her away from his fo­re­he­ad, a ges­tu­re Tyler no­ted re­pe­atedly in his of­fi­ce last we­ek, as the ten­si­on mo­un­ted af­ter the will was re­ad.

  But Gib's cur­rent le­vel of stress do­esn't ne­ces­sa­rily me­an he's gu­ilty. An­y­body wo­uld be up­tight un­der the­se cir­cum­s­tan­ces, Tyler ac­k­now­led­ges.

  Nor has Gib Re­min­g­ton be­en for­mal­ly ac­cu­sed of any cri­me… yet.

  "Do you want me to le­ave?" Tyler asks, en­ti­rely po­ised to do so. "I'm not abo­ut to was­te my ti­me he­re, or yo­urs."

  "With any luck, this is go­ing to turn out to be a was­te of ever­yo­ne's ti­me," is the surly reply.

  Tyler un­c­ros­ses his legs and be­gins to stand.

  "Wait!"

  The word is spo­ken shar­p­ly-al­most des­pe­ra­tely.

  He lo­oks at Gib to see a row of per­fect te­eth-pro­fes­si­onal­ly whi­te­n
ed, no do­ubt-des­cend over his lo­wer lip and bi­te down, hard. When they lift, a be­ad of blo­od ap­pe­ars.

  Then, for the first ti­me, Gib Re­min­g­ton lo­oks Tyler in the eye.

  "Don't go," he says he­avily. "I think I'm go­ing to ne­ed you."

  Charlotte le­ans in the do­or­way of Gib's ro­om, arms fol­ded ac­ross her mid­dle in as la­id-back a pos­tu­re as she can ma­na­ge. In­si­de, she's a mess, her tho­ughts ra­cing with pos­si­bi­li­ti­es she ne­ver be­fo­re wo­uld ha­ve wil­lingly en­ter­ta­ined.