The Final Victim (24 page)

    At last, the first rays of light appear in the eastern sky, bringing to a close what has felt like the longest night of the year… but, in terms of sunrise and sunset, was among the shortest This July Sunday dawns almost eerily still above the maritime woodland on
Achoco
Island, the air already warm: By late morning, it's bound to be hot and humid; the oppressive afternoon will undoubtedly usher the threat of thunderstorms.

    What else is new?

    The Low Country is hardly the ideal place to spend the summer months. Not unless one enjoys wading through soupy air while fully clothed, every time one steps outdoors.

    
Yes, but next summer at this time, I'll be someplace cool and comfortable
.

    Someplace where the air is crisp at night and the sea is refreshing. New
England,
or the Northwest Coast…

    Or perhaps the mountains would be a nice change of scenery. The Canadian Rockies are supposed to be beautiful.

    Yes, the mountains.
Definitely.
The high altitude would be welcome after drowning in summer days at Southern sea level.

    Perfect Next year, the sky will be the limit, quite literally.

    Next year? It won't be that long
.

    If all goes according to plan, it won't be long at all.

    Last night brought an important challenge that was met without complication.

    It was tempting to stick around for the aftermath, but nobody in their right mind would take that risk.

    Anyway, it isn't hard to figure out what came on the heels of an expert aim that easily found its target, and the resonant crack of gunfire.

    Here is what happened: Charlotte Maitland watched her husband drop at her feet like an arcade pin.

    She had to be utterly shocked and terrified.

    Indeed, her screams echoed faintly, and yes, quite satisfyingly, for quite some distance across the dark expanse of Colonial Park Cemetery.

    Ah, sweet Charlotte, it's only just begun
.

    "But first, I have places to go… people to see.
Right, ladies?
You're finally going to get that company we've been talking about. Won't that be fun
?…
What's that,
Pammy
Sue?"

    The blond doll gazes mutely from its little wooden chair.

    "Why don't you like visitors? Are you afraid they might be prettier than you are? Are you afraid that Joe will find somebody he likes better than he does you? Well, don't worry. Because Mama always says it isn't nice to play favorites. Don't you, Mama?"

    The redheaded doll is wrenched from its seat.

    "Why, Mama, it isn't nice to say that. You're supposed to like everybody just the same, just the way Daddy did. You're going to hurt poor Odette's feelings. And so is Joe."

    Birds nesting in the makeshift roof overhead chirp their early-morning song.

    "Don't worry, Odette." A gentle hand strokes the dark nylon hair of the third doll. "Joe loves you best, and so does Mama. Yes, she does. Don't you, Mama?"

    A rustling sound disturbs the thicket outdoors.
Probably a deer.
Or maybe a wild hog.

    "Shut up, Mama. That isn't kind. You shouldn't talk like that… Stop it, Mama!"

    With a brutal, satisfying twist, the red head snaps off the doll's body.

    
"Oh, Mama, look what you made me do.
Just like the snake."

    With a sigh, the head is tossed into the corner to join that of its reptilian counterpart.

    "It's okay, girls. I'll go get your visitor. But you'll have to wait until I have a chance to get her down here. You're going to be so surprised when you see who it is…"

    "So that's all we have to go on, Ms. Remington? The person who shot your husband was wearing dark clothes?"

    "That's all I saw-and it's
Mrs. Maitland
," she wearily corrects him for at least the third time since she sat down to face two uniformed officers from the Savannah-Chatham Police Department They're conducting the witness interview, which feels more like a suspect interrogation, in a private employee
breakroom
not for from the operating room where the doctors are working on Royce.

    "I'm sorry,
Mrs. Maitland
. I'll make a note of the name." Detective Williamson-who is, in Charlotte's opinion, a fat, balding, gruff cliché - scribbles something on his report. Considering his less-than-apologetic tone, it could just as easily be a reminder to bring home milk.

    "Thank you," she says stiffly.

    He doesn't reply. No, he's not the most pleasant guy in the world, but these are far from pleasant circumstances.

    Being called by her proper name and title should be the least of Charlotte's concerns at a time like this, but she can't help it. She's been the object of blatant curiosity ever since somebody on the hospital staff recognized the
Oakgate
address on the paperwork and asked- with the other ER waiting room occupants in earshot- whether she's one of ^
Remingtons
.

    As in, one of the
Remingtons
for whom the entire ambulatory wing of the hospital is named.

    Like his father and grandfather before him, Gran-daddy never was much of a philanthropist-not, that is, until fairly recently. But in Charlotte's opinion, the state-of-the-art addition to the hospital could hardly be considered too little, too late.

    She just wishes Royce had been brought to some other hospital, or that she hadn't been recognized.

    As word spread, some of the nurses seemed more curious about her pedigree-and the potential scandal of her husband being gunned down on a city street-than they were concerned about her husband's well-being.

    Oh, how the mighty have fallen
, she can imagine people thinking as they stare at her: unkempt, her rumpled linen shift covered in dried blood, her cheeks mascara-stained.

    She was a crying, quivering
mess,
perpetually on the verge of hysteria before she found out Royce is going to pull through.

    
But even now…

    
Somebody shot my husband. Dear God, this can't be happening…

    "What about the
perp's
build?" The question comes from the other officer, Detective Phillip Dorado, who's about twenty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter than his hulking partner. With his Latino good looks, he could be playing the role of a cop on one of those television dramas Royce likes to watch. And there's a shimmer of kindness in his rich mocha-colored eyes when he speaks, as though he, unlike his partner, realizes Charlotte is a victim, not a perpetrator.

    "His build? I don't know…" Charlotte closes her eyes, trying to remember. "He was so far away from where I was in the window…" 'Was he tall? Short?" Williamson prods impatiently.

    "About medium-sized…"

    Hearing his snort in response, she keeps her eyes shut, not wanting to see his expression as he jots that down on his report.

    He's already all but berated her for not having any idea-who could possibly want to hurt Royce. He questioned relentlessly, as though if he asked enough times, she'd pull a likely suspect out of thin air-or confess to the crime herself.

    "Was he fat?" Dorado continues.
"Skinny?"

    "About medium weight, I guess," she reluctantly says again, and opens her eyes in time to see the look that passes between the two men.

    "Listen, I know I'm not much help, but I'm doing the best I can." Her tone is as steely as she can muster, and she clasps her hands on her lap beneath the table so they won't see how badly she's still shaking even now, a good eight hours after Royce was shot.

    "We're trying to help you, Ms.
Rem-Mrs
. Maitland,"

    Detective Dorado tells her. "We're going to do everything we can to find whoever did this to your husband. We just need every detail you can possibly come up with."

    "Okay."

    "Is there anything else you can tell us about his appearance?"

    "Just that I know the person was small enough and agile enough for me to think he might be a teenager. You know-he wasn't big and bulky." Like you, she adds silently to Detective Williamson.

    "Can you estimate his height?" Williamson asks.

    "Not really." Sensing by the look on his face that her answer isn't sufficient, she offers, "I guess somewhere between five-foot-five and six feet"

    He writes it down. "And weight?"

    "I don't know… under two hundred pounds, I guess."

    There's a moment of silence as the detective finishes writing. Then he closes his pad, a cue for him and Dorado to get to their feet and thank her.

    "What do y'all do now?" Charlotte asks them.

    "Now that the sun is up, we'll be conducting a more thorough investigation of the cemetery," Williamson informs her.

    "Let me know what y'all find." She, too, stands, and realizes her legs feel as though they're going to give out Well, what do you expect after a night without sleep and at least eighteen hours without food?

    She can't imagine eating anything right now, but she could probably force down a cup of coffee. She needs the caffeine. It's been a long night and it's going to be a long day.

    Royce won't be out of surgery for at least another hour. She'll go make a couple of phone calls, then stop in the cafeteria for coffee to bring back up.

    "We'll be back to check in with you as soon as we know something, Mrs. Maitland," Dorado says, and both men shake her hand. Williamson's beefy grasp is sweaty and it's all she can do not to wipe her palm on her dress. She's not exactly unsullied herself.

    After the detectives leave, she checks in with the head OR nurse to make sure there's no news about Royce. There isn't
Clutching
her cell phone in her hand, she hurries to the nearest exit, past signs indicating the turnoff toward the Remington Wing.

    The first call she places is to
Oakgate
, hoping someone will answer before the ringing wakes
Lianna
. Gran-daddy had never bothered getting an answering machine or voice mail.

    As the phone rings on and on with no answer, she remembers that it's Sunday, the housekeeper's day off. But Nydia usually doesn't leave until late morning, and it's still early, so maybe- "Hello?"

    
"Nydia?"

    "Yes?"

    "Have you heard what happened?"

    There's a pause. "What do you mean?"

    Charlotte fills her in as quickly as she can. T know this is your day off, but-"

    "I'll stay right here," Nydia offers without hesitation. "I didn't have any plans for today, anyway."

    Grateful, Charlotte doesn't argue with her. "This news is bound to get out, and when it does, reporters might call the house. Can y'all please make sure you don't give out any information? And whatever you
do
,don't
let
Lianna
find out. She shouldn't hear this from anyone but me."

    "I won't say a word."

    "Are my cousins there?"

    "I don't know. Do you want to hold on while I check?"

    No, she doesn't want to hold. She wants to do something else, anything else. She wants to be someplace other than this hospital; longs to flee the concrete walkway leading up to the surgical wing where her wounded husband lies unconscious and ripped open.

    "Yes," she tells Nydia, "I'll hold."

    She's gone several minutes. Charlotte listens to silence on the other end, watches a couple of
doctors
step outside and light cigarettes, joining a group of other employees on a smoking break. She turns her back on them, not in the mood to witness their easygoing, upbeat, meaningless chatter out here in the sunshine.

    The ER doctor told her Royce was lucky. The bullet lodged in the muscle tissue of his upper thigh.
If he had been hit as little as an inch in any other direction, things might have been very different.
He should regain full use of his leg after surgery, recuperation, and physical therapy.

    
Lucky.

    The irony of that word choice keeps coming back to haunt Charlotte.
Lucky, to be chosen at random by a sniper?

    "Mrs. Maitland?" Nydia is back on the line. "Mrs. Harper is here. I told her what happened and I'm handing her the phone now."

    
Phyllida
is on the line instantly, asking one fervent question after another. It takes a while for Charlotte to even get to the point of the call and ask her to bring a change of clothes and her toiletry bag to the hospital.

    There's a moment of silence. "I don't have a car, Charlotte."

    "Isn't
Gib
there?"

    "No. I don't know where he is, but I'll try to reach him on his cell. We'll be at the hospital with your things as soon as I find him."

    "Thanks."