The Final Victim

by that's me

  He'd gu­es­sed that Gil­bert ac­tu­al­ly had a con­s­ci­en­ce- and co­uld be con­vin­ced that le­aving Char­lot­te all his mo­ney was the best way to ap­pe­ase it. What bet­ter way to com­pen­sa­te his un­wit­ting gran­d­da­ug­h­ter for Gil­bert's own ro­le in her mot­her's pre­ma­tu­re de­ath?

  What Joseph didn't co­unt on was that Char­lot­te wo­uld work her way un­der his skin-or that it wo­uld be so dam­ned hard to see this thing thro­ugh to the end.

  Odette is much mo­re ca­va­li­er abo­ut it than he is. As she li­kes to tell him, "You've just got to do what you've got to do. You can't let emo­ti­ons get in the way."

  He's co­me to re­ali­ze that she's ab­so­lu­tely right And that when the ti­me co­mes, he will push asi­de his emo­ti­ons to do exactly what he's got to do.

  Heedless of the how­ling wind and dri­ving ra­in, Char­lot­te ra­ces aro­und the pe­ri­me­ter of the ho­use, trying first the si­de do­or, and then the back.

  Locked, both of them. Just as she ex­pec­ted.

  But that's okay. She knows whe­re Gran­dad­dy ke­eps the key.

  Heart po­un­ding, she scur­ri­es ac­ross the gar­den to the old sto­ne sun­di­al. With trem­b­ling fin­gers, she re­ac­hes in­to the over­g­rown plan­tings aro­und the ba­se.

  Where is it?

  She be­gins to claw fran­ti­cal­ly at the ra­in-dren­c­hed we­eds and pe­ren­ni­als.

  The key has to be he­re…

  It has to, be­ca­use now it's her only me­ans of get­ting to Li­an­na.

  Finally, she gi­ves up the fru­it­less se­arch.

  Think! The­re just must be anot­her way.

  Joseph Bor­ger wat­c­hed Char­lot­te for months, whi­le ma­king an ho­nest li­ving for a chan­ge, thanks to the tec­h­no­lo­gi­cal skills he le­ar­ned af­ter a yo­ut­h­ful stint in pri­son. For­tu­na­tely, he hasn't be­en in­car­ce­ra­ted sin­ce he be­ca­me pro­fi­ci­ent at his il­le­gal ca­re­er and com­pu­ter-sav­vy at his le­gal one.

  Not that the com­pu­ter tra­ining hasn't be­en be­ne­fi­ci­al in ot­her ways. The do­cu­ment for­gery was a snap; so was im­p­le­men­ting the sof­t­wa­re to fa­ke that air­port pho­ne call from Odet­te's cell pho­ne.

  It wasn't hard for Joseph to ini­ti­al­ly ke­ep a low pro­fi­le in Sa­van­nah, or even on the is­land. Not many pe­op­le pa­id much at­ten­ti­on to a qu­i­et "com­pu­ter nerd," as Odet­te li­ked to call him back then.

  But she wasn't the only one who was un­der­go­ing a physi­cal tran­s­for­ma­ti­on.

  Eventually, Joseph had his te­eth do­ne, too. He hi­red a tra­iner, too, and bo­ught gym equ­ip­ment that he used re­li­gi­o­usly. He al­so bo­ught a new war­d­ro­be, with the help of a per­so­nal shop­per.

  All the whi­le he was pre­pa­ring to be­co­me the das­hing Roy­ce Ma­it­land and swe­ep Char­lot­te off her fe­et, he was no­ting that the gri­eving mot­her kept to her­self, didn't da­te, didn't ha­ve fri­ends or a so­ci­al li­fe. That the only pe­op­le who se­emed ab­le to per­me­ate the walls she had bu­ilt aro­und her­self we­re her da­ug­h­ter, her gran­d­fat­her, and the mem­bers of her sup­port gro­up.

  Creating a fic­ti­onal son was as easy for Joseph as it was for him to co­me up with a fa­ke iden­tity for him­self and Odet­te. No­body ever qu­es­ti­oned that his na­me was Roy­ce Ma­it­land, or that his son had be­en lost in the wa­ter that day.

  The be­ach was jam­med with pe­op­le. No­body pa­id him any at­ten­ti­on at all un­til he ran scre­aming for the child who didn't exist.

  But "Roy­ce" had the do­cu­men­ta­ti­on to pro­ve that Theo had, sho­uld an­yo­ne think to qu­es­ti­on it: birth cer­ti­fi­ca­te, so­ci­al se­cu­rity card, de­ath cer­ti­fi­ca­te… An­yo­ne who knew the­ir way aro­und the In­ter­net as well as he did co­uld co­me up with that stuff.

  He'd do­ne it plenty of ti­mes, for sim­p­le in­su­ran­ce cons.

  But no­ne of tho­se co­uld com­pa­re to this.

  No ot­her scam de­man­ded the pa­ti­en­ce, the com­p­lex plan­ning; no­ne pro­mi­sed to de­li­ver the stag­ge­ring pa­yoff.

  Not yet, tho­ugh. We're not the­re yet.

  "Why'd you go and sho­ot the old lady?" he asks Odet­te in dis­gust. 'The­re wasn't sup­po­sed to be anot­her body left be­hind. It was hard eno­ugh to co­ver up what we had to do with our lit­tle eaves­d­rop­per."

  Nydia.

  Yes, if she had just min­ded her own bu­si­ness, she'd still be ali­ve. But she al­ways did ha­ve a way of pop­ping up when you le­ast ex­pec­ted it. Chan­ces are, she didn't over­he­ar an­y­t­hing, but Odet­te wasn't ta­king any chan­ces. And when Nydia pop­ped up one ti­me too many, she hap­pe­ned to be con­ve­ni­ently wit­hin re­ach of the sa­me brass an­di­ron that si­len­ced Phylli­da Har­per when she wal­ked in on them in bed in the wee ho­urs of Sa­tur­day mor­ning.

  "I told you we sho­uld ha­ve drug­ged her, too," Odet­te his­sed to him back then, as she pre­pa­red to drag Phylli­da out of the par­lor.

  "How? I do­ubt she's any mo­re li­kely than you are to to­uch that dis­gus­ting swe­et tea. Too many carbs," he ad­ded, ec­ho­ing Odet­te's res­pon­se to just abo­ut every fo­od she must avo­id to ma­in­ta­in her new fi­gu­re.

  But it's worth it. He enj­oys be­ing with a wo­man who lo­oks li­ke her-as much as he's sec­retly enj­oyed be­ing with Char­lot­te.

  That was the part that just abo­ut did Odet­te in, mo­re than on­ce. It kil­led her to know that he was ma­king lo­ve to his new wi­fe, tho­ugh he re­pe­atedly cla­imed that he didn't enj­oy it. He swo­re that he tho­ught only of Odet­te when he to­ok Char­lot­te in his arms.

  What a sha­me that he didn't get to do just that to ce­leb­ra­te his re­turn from the hos­pi­tal.

  Ah, but a je­alo­us Odet­te saw to it that it wo­uldn't hap­pen. He fo­und it al­most amu­sing that she in­ge­ni­o­usly ren­de­red the ele­va­tor ino­pe­rab­le, just so that he wo­uldn't be ab­le to sha­re a bed with Char­lot­te the­se last few nights. Amu­sing, too, that she ma­de su­re Char­lot­te wo­uld sle­ep so­undly thro­ugh the night so the­re was no risk of "fat­her and da­ug­h­ter" be­ing ca­ught sha­ring the hos­pi­tal bed be­hind clo­sed par­lor do­ors.

  Phyllida Re­min­g­ton Har­per did catch them-which ren­de­red her yet anot­her ca­su­alty of the best-la­id plans go­ing slightly awry.

  But not­hing will go wrong from he­re on in.

  Just as long as he do­esn't get sloppy and le­ave a tra­il.

  "We ha­ve to do so­met­hing abo­ut the old lady," he says, his tho­ughts ra­cing.

  "Oh, don't worry abo­ut de­ar Aunt Je­an­ne, Joe. She to­ok ca­re of her­self. I didn't ha­ve to."

  "What are you tal­king abo­ut?"

  Odette la­ughs. "Po­or thing put a gun in­to her mo­uth and blew her bra­ins out be­fo­re I co­uld do it for her."

  Her pal­pi­ta­ting he­art con­s­t­ric­ted in her rib ca­ge, Li­an­na do­esn't lin­ger on the un­s­tab­le third step, fe­eling the old wo­od be­gin to buc­k­le be­ne­ath her we­ight.

  She swiftly lo­wers her fo­ot to fe­el for the next, mo­re so­lid, tre­ad be­low. Sa­fely the­re, she pro­ce­eds to the next, and then the next…

  Step-by-step, she des­cends in­to the black vo­id, re­mem­be­ring that day; that aw­ful, aw­ful day eight ye­ars ago.

  Her brot­her wasn't sup­po­sed to ha­ve his autog­rap­hed ba­se­ball at the be­ach, or an­y­w­he­re out­si­de the ho­use, for that mat­ter. Dad had bo­ught it for him, and told him he had to ke­ep it on a shelf in his ro­om.

  But Adam co­uldn't part with it. He snuck it in­to the be­ach bag so that he co­uld show his fri­ends. Li­an­na saw him do it; he ma­de her swe­ar not to tell.

  She didn't.

  N
o, she did so­met­hing far, far wor­se.

  When Mom was ope­ning the co­oler to set out the san­d­wic­hes she'd bro­ught for the­ir lunch, Li­an­na grab­bed Adam's pre­ci­o­us ball and threw it with all her might, in­to the surf.

  It was a joke.

  She la­ug­hed at Adam's dis­ma­yed ex­p­res­si­on, then snic­ke­red be­hind her hand as he snuck back down to the wa­ter, away from Mom.

  But Li­an­na's amu­se­ment tran­s­for­med qu­ickly in­to fe­ar as she wat­c­hed the cur­rent swe­ep the ball far­t­her and far­t­her from Adam's grasp.

  The li­fe­gu­ard was blo­wing his whis­t­le, but Adam pa­id no he­ed.

  Then, sud­denly, he was go­ne, swept away in a rip­ti­de, le­aving Li­an­na to sta­re in shock as her mot­her lo­oked for him on the sand-her puz­zled, then fran­tic vo­ice cal­ling Adam's na­me.

  That was the first ti­me, the first of many, that Li­an­na wis­hed she had be­en the one…

  Wished she was the one who had di­ed, not Adam.

  Now, as she con­ti­nu­es the long, slow des­cent to the cel­lar, step af­ter pa­in­s­ta­king step, she can't help but won­der if the first part of that wish might be abo­ut to co­me true.

  "Jeanne kil­led her­self?" Joe asks Odet­te in dis­be­li­ef. *Yup. I've ne­ver se­en an­y­t­hing li­ke it What a mess."

  He sha­kes his he­ad, not su­re whet­her to be­li­eve her. She isn't the most ho­nest gal in the world…

  Which is why we're a per­fect match.

  He didn't al­ways think so. He was ori­gi­nal­ly smit­ten by her ol­der sis­ter, Pammy Sue: the slen­der, gre­en-eyed blon­de who, iro­ni­cal­ly, the for­merly frumpy Odet­te now re­sem­b­les so clo­sely.

  But Pammy Sue lac­ked her yo­un­ger sis­ter's cle­ver in­ge­nu­ity. For­tu­na­tely for Odet­te and Joseph, she al­so lac­ked the na­tu­ral cu­ri­osity that might ha­ve ma­de an­yo­ne el­se at le­ast won­der why they we­re be­ing as­ked to ta­ke an ear­ly-mor­ning flight from New Or­le­ans to Sa­van­nah.

  Dull-witted Pammy Sue did it, no qu­es­ti­ons as­ked, car­rying her sis­ter's ID and bag­ga­ge, for a co­up­le hun­d­red bucks. Odet­te had as­su­red him that af­ter she pic­ked up her sis­ter-with the lug­ga­ge and ID-at the air­port that mor­ning, she dro­ve Pammy Sue stra­ight to the bus sta­ti­on and put her on the Grey­ho­und back to Ten­nes­see. Still no qu­es­ti­ons as­ked.

  Joseph so­me­ti­mes for­gets that he had ever cho­sen Pammy Sue over Odet­te. And he isn't the only one who did. The­ir mot­her, the vo­la­ti­le red­he­aded Mrs. Krupp, bla­tantly fa­vo­red her el­dest da­ug­h­ter. No won­der po­or Odet­te al­ways re­sen­ted her big sis­ter. No won­der she wor­ked her butt off to get out of Pi­ge­on Cre­ek and ma­ke so­met­hing of her li­fe. Nur­sing scho­ol was her tic­ket…

  Nursing scho­ol, and la­ter, Char­lot­te Re­min­g­ton.

  So lo­ok who's on top now, Babe, Joseph li­kes to po­int out to her. For­get Pammy Sue. You're the one who's got it all: lo­oks, bra­ins, me… and, pretty so­on, mil­li­ons of dol­lars.

  "I'm se­ri­o­us, Joe," Odet­te is sa­ying now, ever in­dus­t­ri­o­us. "All we ha­ve to do is le­ave Je­an­ne just the way she is. The gun is still in her hand; her prints are the only ones on it. All the fo­ren­sics ex­perts in the world will co­me to the sa­me con­c­lu­si­on: that she kil­led her­self. It's the truth."

  "Why do you think she did it?"

  "Because she's a nut­ca­se? Be­ca­use she was wat­c­hing out the win­dow when the tree fell on po­or old Nydia, and she just lost it? Who ca­res? We can use this, Joe. You'll say that the tree fell, the old bat shot her­self, and Char­lot­te and Li­an­na to­ok off in the­ir car to get help. They we­re dri­ving too fast, all sha­ken up, and… Bam.1" She slips the palm of one hand ac­ross the ot­her, si­mu­la­ting a car go­ing over a pre­ci­pi­ce.

  "It co­uld work."

  "It will work. This is a ter­rib­le storm. Pe­op­le get kil­led in this kind of we­at­her. It hap­pens all the ti­me. No­body's go­ing to qu­es­ti­on it."

  "No, I know. That's why we to­ok ad­van­ta­ge of the storm. But we we­ren't co­un­ting on the old lady, and the ho­use­ke­eper, and-" 'Joe, re­lax. You we­re al­re­ady shot on­ce. No­body's go­ing to sus­pect an­yo­ne but Gib of an­y­t­hing. And even if they do, they'll as­su­me Gib hi­red so­me­one to pull it off. He's con­nec­ted. The cops didn't miss that, trust me. They didn't miss much, when it co­mes to Gib."

  Joe's lips cur­ve in­to a smi­le as he re­cal­ls how he slip­ped the cuf­flinks out of Gil­bert's jewelry box, le­aving them on the led­ge out­si­de the back do­or, with the dress sho­es, for Odet­te to ta­ke.

  Joseph te­ased Odet­te re­len­t­les­sly when she in­for­med him that with the ad­di­ti­on of a few cot­ton balls to stuff the to­es, Gib's sho­es fit her over­si­zed, clod­hop­per fe­et per­fectly.

  Then she had the ner­ve to com­p­la­in that they we­re hard to run in, that she ne­arly twis­ted an an­k­le that night as she fled ac­ross Co­lo­ni­al Park Ce­me­tery.

  Twisted an an­k­le? he ec­ho­ed. At le­ast you didn't ha­ve to get shot in the leg.

  But it was worth it in the end, just as he'd known it wo­uld be. The worst part was ta­king that bul­let-ma­de slightly mo­re be­arab­le thanks to a lo­cal anes­t­he­tic, co­ur­tesy of Odet­te, that he had inj­ec­ted in­to his thigh whi­le pre­ten­ding to re­me­asu­re the bat­h­ro­om.

  If Gib Re­min­g­ton hadn't be­en so easily fra­med, thanks to the unex­pec­ted be­qu­est of the cuf­flinks that en­han­ced things so ni­cely, the who­le plot might ha­ve be­co­me tran­s­pa­rent at any gi­ven sta­ge.

  But it had all fal­len in­to pla­ce.

  Now, no­body in Sa­van­nah, or on Ac­ho­co Is­land, will see Roy­ce Ma­it­land as an­y­t­hing but a fi­ne, up­s­tan­ding ci­ti­zen, and a vic­tim him­self.

  Gib Re­min­g­ton can rot in ja­il, pro­tes­ting his in­no­cen­ce un­til the day he di­es. No­body's go­ing to be­li­eve him.

  As for Gil­bert Xa­vi­er Re­min­g­ton II-the old man got what he de­ser­ved that day in the bat­h­tub.

  It's just too bad he didn't suf­fer as much as the many pe­op­le who­se li­ves he des­t­ro­yed.

  So Joseph do­esn't fe­el bad abo­ut him. Nor will he fe­el bad abo­ut Char­lot­te's pa­in-in-the-ass kid.

  Not as bad as he's go­ing to fe­el abo­ut-No. Don't even think abo­ut that un­til you ha­ve to.

  Instead, he re­mem­bers what it was li­ke to hold a classy, be­a­uti­ful wo­man li­ke Char­lot­te in his arms.

  What li­es ahe­ad is go­ing to be hard on him. He has a he­art, af­ter all.

  But what has to be do­ne will be do­ne. She just won't de­ser­ve it.

  Not li­ke Gil­bert did.

  When Roy­ce ap­pro­ac­hed him to say his shady co­ver-up had be­en de­tec­ted, Gil­bert didn't even ask how. With re­sig­na­ti­on, as tho­ugh he had be­en wa­iting for the day so­me­body wo­uld dis­co­ver his dup­li­city, he simply as­ked his gran­d­son-in-law how much he wan­ted to ke­ep qu­i­et.

  When Roy­ce told him it wo­uld ta­ke mo­re than a lit­tle hush mo­ney-that in­de­ed, he wo­uld ha­ve to chan­ge his will to ma­ke Char­lot­te his only he­ir-Gil­bert bal­ked. But only un­til Roy­ce sho­wed him the let­ter de­ta­iling the co­ver-up, and pro­mi­sed him the­re was a dup­li­ca­te in a sa­fe pla­ce that wo­uld co­me to light if he didn't ac­qu­i­es­ce.

  So Gil­bert chan­ged the will, un­do­ub­tedly spur­red as much by his own gu­ilt as by his ne­ed to pro­tect his sec­ret.

  There's no do­ubt that he ado­red Char­lot­te. No do­ubt that he knew how des­t­ro­yed she wo­uld be if she fo­und out what he had do­ne.

  Gilbert must ha­ve be­li­eved, as Roy­ce had an­ti­ci­pa­ted
, that le­aving his en­ti­re es­ta­te to her wo­uld so­me­how jus­tify it in the end. He didn't ca­re abo­ut Gib and Phylli­da an­y­way. Char­lot­te was the only one who had ever lo­ved him, or res­pec­ted him.

  If Gil­bert had known what Roy­ce was re­al­ly up to…

  But he ne­ver sus­pec­ted. He must ha­ve be­li­eved that his gran­d­da­ug­h­ter's hus­band had stum­b­led ac­ross the sec­ret and was per­haps at worst an op­por­tu­nist lo­oking out for her best in­te­rests in ad­di­ti­on to his own.

  "Come on, I think I just fo­und so­me kind of fal­se wall in the bed­ro­om," he tells Odet­te now, he­ading in that di­rec­ti­on.