The Final Victim

by that's me

An un­b­ro­ken li­ne of craw­ling traf­fic stret­c­hes from the Ac­ho­co Is­land Ca­use­way all the way to the in­ter­s­ta­te. The­re's be­en no or­der to eva­cu­ate yet, not a man­da­tory one, an­y­way. But the storm system to­ok anot­her slight shift in the last few ho­urs, ac­cor­ding to the ra­dio me­te­oro­lo­gist. They're sa­ying to ex­pect flo­oding in low-lying are­as, and you can't get much lo­wer than the Joh­n­s­tons's ho­me on the ca­nal.

  I'll be back wit­hin the ho­ur, she si­lently pro­mi­ses her­self-and her fa­mily, who has no idea whe­re she is.

  She just co­uldn't go stra­ight ho­me af­ter le­aving Oak­ga­te. Not wit­ho­ut so­me an­s­wers. And she's go­ing to try to find them in the lo­cal ar­c­hi­ves at the lib­rary's ma­in branch on Bull Stre­et in Sa­van­nah.

  As she picks up spe­ed, pul­ling on­to the nor­t­h­bo­und ramp of 1-95, the ra­in se­ems to co­me down har­der. She in­c­re­ases the wi­pers' spe­ed, le­aning for­ward over the whe­el to see thro­ugh the win­d­s­hi­eld, ca­re­ful to ke­ep a sa­fe dis­tan­ce from the ta­il­lights of the eig­h­te­en-whe­eler that got on in front of her.

  Okay, this isn't the best we­at­her for a ro­ad trip.

  But she has no cho­ice.

  If what Dr. Von Ca­ve sug­ges­ted is ac­tu­al­ly true, then she might be on to so­met­hing.

  It wo­uld be so much easi­er if she co­uld just ha­ve spo­ken to Char­lot­te di­rectly.

  When she ran in­to the yo­ung, va­gu­ely fa­mi­li­ar blond wo­man in the hal­lway as she was abo­ut to let her­self out, she al­most spil­led the who­le sad story in res­pon­se to a sim­p­le, "Can I help you with so­met­hing?"

  Mimi fle­etingly con­fi­ded that she li­ves on the is­land and ne­eds to spe­ak with Char­lot­te abo­ut an ur­gent per­so­nal mat­ter.

  "She isn't he­re. Is it so­met­hing I can help you with, may­be?"

  "I don't think so," Mi­mi sa­id."It's… a me­di­cal is­sue."

  "I'm a nur­se."

  A nur­se…

  Is that why she lo­oks fa­mi­li­ar?

  "Do you by any chan­ce work at the Mag­no­lia Cli­nic in Sa­van­nah?"

  "No, I-"

  "It do­esn't mat­ter, ac­tu­al­ly, whe­re you work. I just ne­ed to get in to­uch with Char­lot­te as so­on as pos­sib­le. It's abo­ut my hus­band-he's be­en di­ag­no­sed with a ra­re sto­mach can­cer, and I fo­und out that Con­nie June Re­min­g­ton-"

  "Mrs. Joh­n­s­ton!" The ho­use­ke­eper scur­ri­ed in­to the hall just then, far less wel­co­ming than she was when she let Mi­mi in. "Mr. Ma­idand as­ked me to see that you had left. I'm sorry… You ne­ed to be on yo­ur way."

  Mimi nod­ded and lo­oked at the blond wo­man. "Can you tell Char­lot­te I was he­re, and to call me as so­on as she can? My na­me is Mi­mi Joh­n­s­ton; I li­ve down on the so­uth ca­nal."

  She do­ubts Char­lot­te will get the mes­sa­ge, let alo­ne call her.

  But then, she tho­ught the sa­me thing abo­ut Dr. Von Ca­ve.

  Of its own vo­li­ti­on, her fo­ot sinks slightly lo­wer on the gas pe­dal.

  And then, bra­zenly, lo­wer still.

  She's ca­ught up to the truck, clo­se eno­ugh to re­ad the "How's My Dri­ving?" sign on the back, des­pi­te the dow­n­po­ur and the spray.

  Impatient to get to the lib­rary, he­ed­less of the we­at­her and the slick ro­ad, she de­ci­des to pass.

  The mo­ment she pulls out, a car horn bla­res, clo­se be­hind her.

  Too clo­se.

  It sends her swer­ving back in­to the right la­ne, out of con­t­rol.

  But only for a se­cond.

  A se­cond is all it wo­uld ha­ve ta­ken! her in­ner vo­ice shri­eks. You co­uld ha­ve be­en kil­led.

  Where wo­uld that le­ave Cam and Jed?

  The ste­ering whe­el clen­c­hed in her whi­te-knuc­k­led hands, she has no cho­ice but to slow to a re­la­ti­ve crawl on­ce aga­in, sta­ring ble­akly thro­ugh the win­d­s­hi­eld at the po­uring ra­in.

  This is be­co­ming too pre­ca­ri­o­us. Much, much too pre­ca­ri­o­us.

  An ex­hi­la­ra­ting, he­althy lit­tle risk is one thing; fo­ol-har­di­ness is al­to­get­her so­met­hing el­se.

  And I'm no fo­ol.

  Complications are es­ca­la­ting li­ke the wind spe­ed off the oce­an. The­re's only one thing to do: eli­mi­na­te them, step by step.

  First things first.

  Time to do away with Miss Be­verly Hills. It sho­uldn't ta­ke long-and she'll ma­ke so­me hungry ga­tor a ni­ce, fil­ling lunch, just li­ke Pammy Sue did. It didn't ta­ke long af­ter she was dum­ped in a shal­low po­ol for the snap­ping jaws to emer­ge and de­vo­ur her fe­tid re­ma­ins. Lin­ge­ring in the marsh to wit­ness that fren­zi­ed fe­ast was al­most as gra­tif­ying as it wo­uld be to watch Pammy Sue the all over aga­in.

  In the end, the­re was not­hing left of Ma­ma's gol­den girl. Not­hing at all.

  Too bad al­li­ga­tors don't eat ra­di­os.

  It, too, will ha­ve to be hid­den… aga­in.

  The first ti­me, it was to pre­vent Char­lot­te from ta­king it to a re­pa­ir­man who wo­uld open it up, un­do­ub­tedly see that it had be­en im­mer­sed in wa­ter, and tell Char­lot­te that was why it had stop­ped wor­king.

  Who knows what con­c­lu­si­on she might draw from that? 'She's smar­ter than she lo­oks-un­li­ke her West Co­ast co­usin.

  Hmm… may­be the ra­dio can be we­ig­h­ted with a rock and sunk in the marsh on the way to the ho­use.

  That will ha­ve to do. The im­por­tant thing is to get back to Oak­ga­te be­fo­re the storm's full fury des­cends.

  A dank sea bre­eze in­ces­santly rus­t­les the palm fronds and moss-clot­ted fo­li­age over­he­ad, and the ra­in is pic­king up along with the wind. The sky has tur­ned an omi­no­us yel­low-black over the At­lan­tic to he­rald the ar­ri­val of Tro­pi­cal Storm-or per­haps it's Hur­ri­ca­ne, by now- Do­ug­las.

  Ah, yes… the pro­fes­si­onal chefs kni­fe is even mo­re ef­fec­ti­ve at cle­aring away tro­ub­le­so­me vi­nes than the uti­lity kni­fe was.

  It will ha­ve to be tho­ro­ughly cle­aned of blo­od-not to men­ti­on fur­ti­vely shar­pe­ned-be­fo­re it's be­en re­tur­ned to the kit­c­hen dra­wer back at Oak­ga­te. Just in ca­se.

  In ca­se, say, so­me­body wo­uld li­ke to pre­pa­re a fancy French se­afo­od re­ci­pe…

  Or if a go­od, freshly whet­ted bla­de is ne­eded for so­me al­to­get­her dif­fe­rent pur­po­se.

  "So, li­ke, he just cal­led me to say that the­re's this re­al­ly bad storm co­ming," Li­an­na tells De­vin, prac­ti­cal­ly whis­pe­ring in­to the te­lep­ho­ne re­ce­iver.

  "Right. My mom is fre­aking out. Tro­pi­cal Storm Do­ug­las."

  "Whatever… he has to work now be­ca­use all the­se pe­op­le are gas­sing up the­ir cars to le­ave the is­land… so he sa­id for­get it and let's do it to­night in­s­te­ad."

  "Where wo­uld you even go?"

  "He sa­id we co­uld just, you know, hang out in his car, but…"

  "What, you don't want to? That so­unds ro­man­tic. Es­pe­ci­al­ly in a storm."

  Lianna he­si­ta­tes. "I don't know. I just don't know if I be­li­eve him."

  "About what?"

  "Having to work. Even tho­ugh I co­uld he­ar, li­ke, all this no­ise in the bac­k­g­ro­und…"

  "What did it so­und li­ke?"

  "Like he was wor­king at a gas sta­ti­on in the ra­in."

  "Yeah, well, that do­esn't me­an an­y­t­hing," De­vin says dis­mis­si­vely. "When my dad was ha­ving his af­fa­ir be­fo­re my pa­rents split up, he used to ma­ke all the­se bo­gus sta­ged calls to my mom to co­ver his butt. Li­ke, he'd say he was cal­ling from the car, stuck in traf­fic, or from the air­port or so�
�met­hing, and he wasn't. It just so­un­ded li­ke it be­ca­use he was using this sof­t­wa­re-dow­n­lo­ad ser­vi­ce on his cell pho­ne to ma­ke it so­und li­ke he was cal­ling from so­mew­he­re el­se."

  "You're kid­ding."

  "Nope. I chec­ked it out myself, ac­tu­al­ly, a whi­le back. Be­fo­re I fi­gu­red out that now that my dad's go­ne and my mom's in char­ge, I can pretty much do what I want an­y­way. But if I wan­ted to co­me up with a go­od lie and co­ver my butt with fa­ke bac­k­g­ro­und no­ise, I easily co­uld, and Ke­vin co­uld, too."

  "So you think he's lying, too?" Li­an­na asks, in­c­re­du­lo­us that he wo­uld go to such lengths to ma­ke her think he's at work.

  "I wo­uldn't be sur­p­ri­sed."

  "So what sho­uld I do?"

  "Meet him to­night and call him on it. That's all you can do." 'Ye­ah, or not show up," Li­an­na says, glan­cing to­ward the win­dow as the pa­nes rat­tle in the wind. "Hey, the we­at­her do­es lo­ok pretty bad. Did you say this is a hur­ri­ca­ne?"

  "Nah, just a tro­pi­cal storm. At le­ast, so far. My step-dad says it's no big de­al. Trust me, it isn't." 'Ye­ah, well, you're up in Sa­van­nah. I'm stuck out he­re on this stu­pid is­land. I swe­ar, I can't wa­it un­til we mo­ve back to the-"

  There's a bo­oming crack and then a de­afe­ning crash out­si­de.

  "Did you he­ar that?" she asks De­vin. "God, it so­unds li­ke a gun just… De­vin? De­vin?"

  The pho­ne, Li­an­na re­ali­zes with a sic­ke­ning fe­eling, has go­ne de­ad.

  * * *

  Waiting in the win­dow­less in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on ro­om at the po­li­ce sta­ti­on, whe­re the de­tec­ti­ves aban­do­ned her ages ago with a pro­mi­se to be back shortly, Char­lot­te is gro­wing in­c­re­asingly cla­us­t­rop­ho­bic.

  Her cell pho­ne do­esn't work in he­re, and she re­al­ly sho­uld call ho­me and let them know whe­re she is. They must be get­ting wor­ri­ed, es­pe­ci­al­ly if that storm is still blo­wing in. It might even be star­ting to ra­in al­re­ady; it co­uld ta­ke her lon­ger than usu­al to get back.

  On top of that, most of the gro­ce­ri­es she bo­ught are go­ing to be a to­tal loss, sit­ting in the back of the SUV in the warm par­king ga­ra­ge.

  She sup­po­ses she co­uld ha­ve stas­hed them in the frid­ge at the new ho­use, con­ve­ni­ently lo­ca­ted just down the block. But that wo­uld ha­ve me­ant set­ting fo­ot in the­re aga­in, and she isn't re­ady to do that. She co­uldn't even bring her­self to dri­ve down Og­let­hor­pe Ave­nue to get he­re, in­s­te­ad go­ing out of her way to avo­id it.

  She checks her watch aga­in, wis­hing the de­tec­ti­ves wo­uld at le­ast stick the­ir he­ads in, so that she co­uld ask if she can le­ave the ro­om to ma­ke a call.

  Then aga­in, she's al­most af­ra­id to call ho­me, es­pe­ci­al­ly kno­wing that Aimee might pick up.

  Of co­ur­se Char­lot­te do­esn't be­li­eve Roy­ce's da­ug­h­ter, of all pe­op­le, had an­y­t­hing to do with the sho­oting…

  But the de­tec­ti­ves don't se­em as con­vin­ced.

  And now, with all this ti­me to sit and think, Char­lot­te is star­ting to get pa­ra­no­id.

  What if it was Aimee? What if she's so bit­ter over the loss of her brot­her that she wan­ted to hurt her fat­her?

  No. I can't be that po­or a jud­ge of cha­rac­ter, can I?

  No. I can't be that po­or a jud­ge of cha­rac­ter… can I?

  Still…

  What if Aimee re­al­ly did use an old bag­ga­ge tag, li­ke they sa­id?

  But I know she was cal­ling me from the air­port. I he­ard it in the bac­k­g­ro­und. I he­ard the flight an­no­un­ce­ment. Del­ta Flight 6-

  "Mrs. Ma­it­land?" De­tec­ti­ve Do­ra­do stri­des thro­ugh the do­or­way, sans Wil­li­am­son. "I'm sorry to ha­ve left you he­re for so long."

  "It's okay, I just-I re­al­ly ne­ed to call ho­me and let them know whe­re I am."

  "You sho­uld-and you sho­uld pro­bably stay he­re un­til the storm is over."

  "What?" she asks in dis­may.

  "It's get­ting pretty nasty out the­re-es­pe­ci­al­ly down off the co­ast. Wil­li­am­son was he­aded down to Jac­k­son­vil­le to lo­ok up yo­ur ex-hus­band but he just cal­led and sa­id he had to get off the ro­ad." 'The storm star­ted al­re­ady?" She pus­hes back her cha­ir. "I can't stay in Sa­van­nah. I ha­ve to go back."

  He holds up a hand. "Be­fo­re you do, you sho­uld know one thing abo­ut yo­ur step­da­ug­h­ter."

  Once aga­in, a cor­p­se is drag­ged from the ca­bin to the ne­arest po­ol of wa­ter, con­si­de­rably de­eper al­re­ady be­ca­use of the tro­pi­cal ra­in.

  There, Phylli­da Re­min­g­ton Har­per's he­ad­less cor­p­se is un­ce­re­mo­ni­o­usly de­po­si­ted with a splash.

  Her he­ad was inad­ver­tently ne­arly se­ve­red when she tri­ed to bolt in ter­ror as her thro­at was cut.

  Her fa­ult, not mi­ne. I only me­ant to slash her thro­at.

  After she stop­ped fla­iling and gur­g­ling, the sharp chefs kni­fe fi­nis­hed the job with a ne­at, sa­tis­f­ying sli­ce thro­ugh the re­ma­ining ten­dons and spi­nal cord.

  Satisfying, yes, but I sho­uld ha­ve left her he­ad dan­g­ling if only to sa­ve an ex­t­ra trip thro­ugh this go­daw­ful storm.

  No rest for the we­ary. Not to­day.

  It's pro­bab­le that the ga­tors will ha­ve dis­po­sed of the tor­so and limbs by the ti­me the he­ad is ret­ri­eved from the ca­bin.

  But sur­p­ri­singly, the snap­ping jaws ha­ve yet to ap­pe­ar when the re­turn trip has be­en ma­de. The ga­tors re­ma­in sub­mer­ged and the body is still the­re, bob­bing in the storm-tos­sed wa­ter.

  Maybe the lur­king cre­atu­res are wa­iting for the storm to end be­fo­re they sur­fa­ce. Who can bla­me them? The we­at­her is get­ting nas­ti­er by the se­cond.

  This ti­me, the­re can be no lo­ite­ring to watch the ga­tors do the­ir grisly work. Not with the storm ra­ging and so much go­ing on back at the ho­use.

  "Good-bye, Phylli­da de­ar."

  With that, the di­sem­bo­di­ed he­ad of the wo­uld-be Re­min­g­ton he­iress is tos­sed li­ke a bow­ling ball in­to the chur­ning, ga­tor-in­fes­ted wa­ter.

  Charlotte holds her bre­ath, fe­aring wha­te­ver Do­ra­do is abo­ut to tell her abo­ut her step­da­ug­h­ter, trying to pre­pa­re her­self for the worst.

  "Aimee was tel­ling the truth abo­ut be­ing on that flight from New Or­le­ans."

  "Thank God." Char­lot­te re­le­ases the bre­ath audibly, thro­ugh puf­fed che­eks. "Oh, thank God," she says aga­in.

  Then, with a pang of gu­ilt and a si­lent apo­logy to Aimee for even con­si­de­ring the worst, she adds, "But I ne­ver re­al­ly had any do­ubt."

  Not re­al­ly.

  "We con­fir­med ever­y­t­hing with the air­li­ne. She went thro­ugh At­lan­ta, just li­ke you sa­id, Mrs. Ma­it­land-and just ba­rely ma­de the con­nec­ti­on to Sa­van­nah be­ca­use the first flight was way be­hind sche­du­le get­ting in and then back out of New Or­le­ans. In any ca­se, we trac­ked her all the way thro­ugh, and her bag as well. She did check it. You we­re right abo­ut her be­ing in­no­cent all along."

  Weak with re­li­ef, Char­lot­te ma­na­ges to say only, 'Thank you."

  I knew it… I knew Aimee co­uld ne­ver hurt Roy­ce. Wha­te­ver she bla­med him for in the past, she lo­ves him… I co­uldn 't be mis­ta­ken abo­ut that.

  But Ka­ren…

  "Did you con­tact Roy­ce's ex-wi­fe?"

  "No. We tri­ed to find her in New Or­le­ans, but the­re's no lis­ting. We'll ne­ed to talk to yo­ur hus­band abo­ut her, and we'll ne­ed to get an ad­dress and pho­ne num­ber for her."

  "I'll call you with it as so­on as I get ho­me."


  "Actually…" Do­ra­do ges­tu­res to­ward the do­or. "Let's call yo­ur hus­band right now."

  "Do we ha­ve to do it this way? Over the pho­ne? Ple­ase, De­tec­ti­ve, he's re­co­ve­ring from a ma­j­or tra­uma."

  "And we're trying to in­ves­ti­ga­te the so­ur­ce of that tra­uma." His vo­ice is gen­t­le, but firm. "Let's call."

  "Aimee?" Roy­ce calls from the par­lor. "Aimee! What the heck was that crash?"