The Final Victim (43 page)

    Plus, she's wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and Dr. Scholl's- hardly camera-ready attire.

    All right, so if she's not a reporter, who is she?

    "Mr. Maitland, I'm so sorry to bother you-"

    The moment she speaks that preamble, in precisely the words she spoke to him once before-
Mr
. Maitland, I'm so sorry
-Royce recognizes her.

    Not from the six o'clock news…

    No, Royce realizes, as the toast and honey roil on a churning sea in his gut, she was a lifeguard at the beach on that fateful Labor Day weekend.

    "So, we meet again," Williamson says, baring his teeth in what doesn't quite pass as a smile as
Gib
settles into the interrogation room for what promises to be yet another round of relentless questioning.

    Tyler is here, which is a good sign. When he left yesterday,
Gib
wasn't entirely certain he'd see the lawyer again.
Which might not be such a bad thing.

    After Tyler had badgered him for every detail of his trip to Mexico-which, of course,
Gib
claimed not to recall-he left, saying he was going to verify that
Gib
really had been on the flights he'd claimed to have taken, and that he was going to locate Cassandra, provided she's listed in the Boston white pages.

    
Gib
would venture to guess that she is, but who the hell knows?

    If Tyler really wants her number that badly,
Gib
isn't about to keep it from him. It's in his cell phone's memory.

    Along with a couple of other numbers he isn't particularly anxious to have come to light.

    In response to Williamson's smarmy greeting, because it seems the detective is waiting for a response,
Gib
says, "Yes, we're all in our places with bright, shiny faces."

    All right, that probably wasn't the kind of response Williamson had had in mind.

    Tyler glares at
Gib
,
then
asks the officers to explain the reason for this meeting.

    "I'm glad you asked," Williamson says, "because I'm pretty anxious to tell you. In fact, I couldn't wait to get here."

    He shoots a significant look in
Gib's
direction.

    
Terrific.

    Are they going to: (a) have
Grandaddy's
body
exumed
, (b) try to pin a murder on him, to complement the assault charge, or (c) come up with some bogus witness who claims to be able to place him in the cemetery that night?

    The answer,
Gib
discovers as he listens to Williamson's preamble with mounting anxiety, is (d)
none of the above.

    In the end, it's Dorado who delivers the sucker punch.

    "We went through the evidence we took from your room again, Remington," the detective says, a gleam in his dark eyes, "… and we found something very interesting hidden in what looked like regular-old containers of shaving cream and hair gel."

    "Hey, where have you been?" Kevin's voice asks, so loud in
Lianna's
ear that she instinctively shushes him,
then
feels ridiculous.

    It's not as though anyone can hear his voice coming over the phone line in the study with the door closed.

    Royce is safely stuck downstairs on the couch; her mother's car isn't in the driveway.

    "I've been stuck at
Oakgate
, where else would I be?"

    "You said you'd try to meet me yesterday afternoon. You never even called to set it up."

    "I know." Her tone is hushed. "But I couldn't."

    
"How come?
Was your mother up your butt now that she's hanging around at home again?"

    "Actually, I fell asleep."

    He snorts.

    "It's the truth,"
Lianna
tells him with a shrug. "I was really wiped out. I slept all afternoon."
Which is probably why she managed to wake up so early this morning.
It wasn't even nine o'clock when her eyes opened of their own accord.

    "Anyway," she tells Kevin, "I found out my mother changed the number here last week and didn't tell me. Were you trying to call me at all?"

    "Uh… Yeah. All weekend."

    "That's why you couldn't get me. Sorry."

    "It's okay. I'm glad you called. Let's hook up tonight."

    
"Tonight?"
Lianna
hesitates. "I don't know if I should sneak out, Kevin. If my mother catches me again…"

    "Come on, she'll never know. And I miss you."

    A smile curves her lips. "I miss you, too."

    "So then let's go. I'll pick you up."

    "What time?"

    
"Midnight?"

    
"Midnight?
That's so late." 'Take another nap. You'll be fine."

    "How about this afternoon instead?" she suggests.

    
'This afternoon?
What are we going to do in the middle of the day?"

    "You know… talk." Kiss…

    
Except not like we would if it was night and we were alone together.

    It'll be safer.

    Safe is good.

    She'll just tell her mother she's going to take a nap for a few hours since it's such a crappy day out, and nobody will even realize she's gone.

    Kevin hedges. "I don't know… I might have to work."

    "I thought you said before you were off today."

    "I'm supposed to be, but-"

    "Look, do you want to meet me, or what?"

    "I do.
Just… tonight."

    "Yeah, well, I don't want to wait that long," she says softly. "You know… I miss you.
A lot."

    "Okay, okay. What time?" 'Two?"

    "I'll pick you up."

    She hangs up, thinking that if her mother seems suspicious when she says she's taking a nap in the middle of the day, she'11 just-
Lianna
freezes.

    A floorboard creaked just now, in the hallway outside the closed door.

    Was somebody eavesdropping on her call?

    With a whispered curse,
Lianna
contemplates the wisdom of opening the door to see who it is.

    
Nydia?
Aimee?

    It can't be Mom. She would have burst in here making accusations.

    
Unless she decided to catch me in the act
.

    
Lianna
frowns, pondering the situation.

    There's no way to check from here whether her mother's car is back. The upstairs study faces the back of the house.

    Okay, so she has two choices: She'll either have to disappoint Kevin by staying put this afternoon, or take the risk.

    
Nothing worthwhile in life comes without risk.

    
Right.

    Who was it who said that to her recently?

    
Devin…?

    Dad…?

    
Definitely not Mom.
No, she's not about to go around telling
Lianna
to take chances.

    Well, whoever it was,
Lianna
tells herself now, they were absolutely right.

    
How could you have been so stupid?

    Why didn't Mimi ever consider, in her urgency to get to Charlotte, that she might find herself face-to-face again with Royce Maitland?

    She saw the recognition in his eyes before she even had a chance to introduce herself.

    Now, still taken aback both by his reaction and at finding him in a hospital bed, it feels lame to interrupt her apologetic introduction with a blurted, "I heard you say I'm a reporter, but I'm not. I'm Mimi
Johnst
-"

    "I know who you are." His gaze is harder than the marble mantelpiece on the far end of the room.

    She thinks quickly, determined to salvage the conversation. "Yes, I'm the one who went to the police with the tip that led them to
Gib's
arrest in your attack."

    He raises a dark eyebrow at that.

    
He didn't know
, she realizes.
Okay, so maybe that'll help me. I put his attacker behind bars
.

    But his expression quickly reverts to stone as he responds, "No, you're the one who let my only son drown."

    "Mr. Maitland-"

    "Why are you here? And how did you even get in?"

    "The gate was open, so-"

    He curses. Then he demands, again, "Why are you here?"

    She falters.

    She could tell him she wanted to pay him a visit, to make sure he's recovering after the terrible shooting.

    But she doesn't even have a bouquet of flowers or a box of muffins to enhance the ruse. The truth is, she never even thought twice about what happened to Charlotte's husband when she decided to come running over here.

    She was thinking only of her own husband, consumed by the need to save his life, and desperate to ask Charlotte about what Dr. Von Cave revealed.

    Now, she dismisses offering any false pretense for her visit.

    "I'm here to see your wife," she says, plain and simple.

    "My wife isn't here. She won't be back for a few days. So please leave."

    He's lying.

    Mimi can tell.

    "Mr. Maitland, if you would just listen-"

    
"As I said, please leave."

    
"Mr. Maitland-"

    "Good-
bye!"He
folds his arms and turns away as much as his position in the bed will allow.

    Still, she wavers, knowing this might be her one chance, and Jed's last chance.

    "If you don't leave now, I'll call the police. You're trespassing on private property. I swear, they'll come and take you to jail for days."

    That can't happen. Jed needs her. Cam needs her. She doesn't have days to spend away from them, days to sit in jail.

    Still, she doesn't move. If she could just- "That's it." Royce Maitland reaches for the phone. There's nothing for Mimi to do but go.

    The parking lot, aisles, and checkout lines of
Achoco
Island's only supermarket are jammed with locals and summer residents alike, snapping up cases of bottled water, plus batteries, canned meals, and all kinds of other staples to make it through the approaching storm.

    Next door, the hardware store is equally busy, doing a brisk business on generators, flashlights, and blue-plastic roofing tarp. There's already a generous supply of that in the basement at
Oakgate
, thanks to leaks in the attic during last year's harsh hurricane season.

    Already weary, having woken up drowsy once again today, it takes Charlotte nearly two exhausting hours to plod through the store filling her cart, and another twenty minutes to make it through the line. The job would have been much easier had
Lianna
agreed to come along, but she simply glowered when Charlotte poked her head in tins morning to ask her.

    Oh, well. Between the solo drive over and the prolonged trip through the aisles she has plenty of time to ponder her cousin's inexplicable disappearance. But it doesn't appear that
Phyllida
met with foul play-at least, not as far as Charlotte can tell.

    The guestroom her cousin was using, when Charlotte looked into it yesterday, bore no trace that she had ever been there. Her clothing, toiletries, and luggage were gone; the bed made up neatly with Nydia's unmistakable perfectly creased hospital corners.

    So it doesn't seem as if
Phyllida
vanished from the house under extraordinary circumstances. When she left, it was apparently under her own steam, with her personal belongings in tow. It really looks as though she must have gone to the airport, but maybe she took another flight to California. Or maybe she went to Rhode Island, to visit her mother.

    Charlotte decides to call Brian when she gets back home, even if it is still early on the West Coast. If
Phyllida
turned up last night, Charlotte will be relieved. If she didn't, Charlotte will ask if he has checked with Aunt Susan.

    At last, she makes it through the long line and wheels her cart out to the parking lot. The sky over the water is ominously dark, and a warm, indisputably tropical wind is blowing in from the southeast.

    After the pleasantly air-conditioned store, the air feels terribly oppressive. Charlotte's white sleeveless T-shirt and gray cotton-knit shorts stick uncomfortably to her skin as she works to hurriedly load the groceries into her SUV.

    Her cell phone rings as she's loading the last bag, the one that holds the frozen items. Hoping the rapidly softening ice cream-mint chocolate chip,
Lianna's
favorite-won't melt entirely before she gets it home, she slams the hatch and checks her caller ID.

    
Private name, private number.

    Okay, good, at least it isn't from
Oakgate
. Despite her growing uneasiness, undoubtedly augmented by the fact that her cousin seems to have vanished into thin air, nothing terrible has happened to Royce or
Lianna
…

    Or has it?

    What if the call is coming from the hospital
ER,
or- "Hello?" she blurts into the phone.

    "Charlotte Maitland?"

    "Yes?" She holds her breath.

    "This is Detective Dorado. I tried to reach you at home, but the number-"

    "I'm sorry, I had to change it and I forgot to let you know." That's becoming her mantra. "Is something wrong?"

    There's a pause.

    Her heart quickens.

    "Actually, there's been a new development in the case. Would it be possible for us to come right out to the house to speak to you?"

    "How about if I come there?" she suggests, dunking quickly. The last thing she wants now is for poor Royce to have to deal with the police showing up again.

    She's anxious to get back to him. But Aimee is there. She told Charlotte to take her time shopping and not worry about anything. He's in capable hands.

    'That would be fine," Detective Dorado informs her, after conferring with somebody else in the room, probably Williamson.
'Just as long as you can get right over here.
We don't want to delay this."

    "I'm headed straight to the causeway," she promises, sliding into the driver's seat, the ice cream in back forgotten.

    "Looks like the storm really is coming, Jeanne," Melanie comments from the window, which she just lowered to a crack to keep the rain from blowing in. "Tropical Storm Douglas. The sky is getting dark out over the water."

    Jeanne nods.

    "I don't think it'll be upgraded to a full-blown hurricane, though. At least, I hope not."

    "So do I," Jeanne lies.

    A hurricane would be wonderful, really.
A hurricane that would flatten the whole darned place.
Then it would no longer be in her hands.

    Hers…

    
And Melanie's.

    
I can't do it without her help
.

    But she'll be happy to oblige, as she always is.

    You know I'd do anything for you,
hon
…

    
Anything?

    There's only one way to find out.

    "Melanie," she says heavily, "I hate to send you out in this, but I need you to do something for me before the storm gets any worse."

    With another high-pitched, desperate grunt,
Phyllida
slams her bare feet against the door.

    It refuses to budge.

    She sinks back in exhaustion, her legs raw and bleeding where they're bound at the ankles and knees with unforgiving nylon rope. It's the same with her wrists, bound behind her. And her shoulders and upper back throb unbearably after hours-days… weeks?-in this excruciating position.

    She has no* idea how long it's been, or even where she's imprisoned. She only knows that she's in some kind of brick, windowless room, maybe a cellar or an underground bunker.

    There's no food or water in the room, but it's far from empty.

    The first tiling she found was her
Grandaddy's
antique radio, of all things. At least, she thinks that's what it is. She accidentally struck the object when she was rolling around the mud floor, in a futile search for…

    
Something.
Anything that might help her to get out of here.

    It was only when her fumbling fingertips found the big, old-fashioned dials that she realized what the object was-and that it was useless in terms of a possible means of escape.

    She's simply trapped here in the dark, with the radio-and other things.

    At first, she thought she had found a child's body. It would explain the fetid odor that hovers in the stagnant air.

    Then she realized it was a doll.

    There are three of them.
Doll furniture, too.

    She stopped exploring when her hand grazed what felt like a coiled snake, and waited in terror for it to strike.

    But it didn't.

    She isn't going to explore anymore. Not in the dark.

    There's not even a hint of daylight around the perimeter of the only door; no way of sensing the passing of time… when she's even conscious to think about it.

    Most of the time, she's out cold, which is a blessing.

    Then she won't have to think about what happened to her… or of what might happen next.

    But somebody has to be looking for her out there.

    Brian will try to find her.

    Once he realizes I'm missing. God only knows how long it's been.

    Or even Charlotte… Charlotte might realize…

    
Please, Charlotte. Please open your eyes. Please take a look at what's going on right under your nose, for God's sake! Please!