The Final Victim (14 page)

    Dry-eyed again, thank goodness, she makes her way beneath a canopy of centuries-old trees toward the back of Casey's house.

    
It's
peaceful here in the old-fashioned garden; the grounds as deserted as the house itself.

    Birds sing from overhead branches. Fat bumblebees hum lazily above magenta hibiscus blossoms. A steady trickle of water flows into the little lily pond Casey's father built for her mother last Christmas.
Lianna's
steady footsteps crunch on the white gravel path. Then she hears something else…
The slightest rustling from behind a blooming shrub.

    Her heartbeat quickening,
Lianna
breaks into a run-toward, not away from, the sound.

    Rounding a bend in the gravel path, she smiles.

    Kevin is waiting here for her.

    
Just as he promised.

    "It's good to see you again,
Phyllida
. You're looking lovely as always." 'Thank you." As Tyler Hawthorne ushers her into the conference room with a hale handshake, she can't help but think that her grandfather's attorney would be a casting agent's dream should a role call for a stately I Southern businessman. The elderly attorney comes complete with three-piece suit, well-tended thatch of white hair, and a booming accent thicker than peanut soup.

    She hasn't seen him since her wedding day. He invited her to waltz, chatted charmingly and flirted harmlessly, then handed over an envelope that contained a card, with a sentimental, cliché-ridden rhyme, and a thousand-dollar check.

    "I hear you and your husband have a little boy now. How are they?"

    "Fine-they're at the beach today." She can't help but notice that Tyler seems oddly reluctant to look her in the eye.

    Is it because this is official business, and not a social event?

    
Or because he's torn up over
Grandaddy's
death?

    She doesn't even want to consider what other factor might have rendered him uncharacteristically reticent Not now. Not when financial salvation is as much within her grasp as Tyler Hawthorne's cold hand.

    "Have a seat, won't you?" He releases his grip abruptly and turns to her brother, who's wearing, as usual, a custom-made suit, custom-made dress shirt with French cuffs, silk tie-and, today, the greenish pallor of I one who has had a few too many bourbons the night before.

    "
Gib
, my boy, I see life is treating you well."

    Is it
Phyllida's
imagination, or is there a hollow ring to Tyler's jovial words?

    "Settled somewhere up North now, are you?"

    "Boston. I passed the bar a while back."

    "Congratulations. Which firm are you with?"
An invisible crank tightens Gib's polite smile just a notch.
"I
haven't
joined one yet. I'm still, uh, entertaining some offers."

    "All in good time," is Tyler's response, after an awkward silence.

    
Maybe
,
Phyllida
thinks, as she settles into one of the leather chairs at the conference table,
he thinks we're under-achievers. Maybe he was expecting me to be a big movie star by now, and
Gib
to be a partner in some fancy firm.

    Well, it doesn't matter what Tyler Hawthorne thinks of them. His role here isn't to judge
Grandaddy's
heirs, but to present them with
Grandaddy's
money.

    She notices a limp in Tyler's gait as he walks to his own seat, and he winces visibly as he sits down.

    He looks up and sees that she's watching him, so she politely asks, "Are you all right?"

    "I will be. I was hurt in an accident a while ago." "What kind of accident?"

    "I was in the crosswalk right out here on Drayton, in front of the building. It was raining, and a car
came
flying around the corner at top speed…" "Was it a young kid? They're the worst." "I have no idea. Whoever it was kept right on going. Either they didn't see me, or didn't care."
"Probably a kid."

    
"Probably.
Anyway, I broke my leg and a couple of ribs, but the doctor said I'm lucky it wasn't worse. At my age, you don't bounce back as quickly as you'd like."

    
Phyllida
murmurs an appropriate comment, and sneaks a glance at her watch.

    "I trust your cousin Charlotte is on her way?" Tyler asks, somewhat anxiously.

    As if on cue, the door to the conference room opens. The receptionist announces, "Mrs. Maitland is here."

    "Wonderful." Tyler's tone is hearty. "We can get started."

    But
Phyllida
can't help but notice that he looks far more apprehensive than he does relieved.

    Dr. Maurice Redmond has garlic breath and a splash of something tomato-orange on his white shirt, just below his collar.

    But that isn't why Mimi dislikes him even more intensely today than she did when they first met in Jed's hospital room.

    The man has zero bedside
manner
. He greets them with all the warmth of the security guard who validated their parking ticket downstairs.

    Now, after brusquely ordering them to take two hardback chairs pulled up to his battered metal desk in an office with all the ambiance of a public restroom, he reaches unceremoniously for a
manilla
folder.

    Watching him scan the report inside, Mimi fantasizes about bolting from the clinic with Jed in tow. Europe… They really should go to Europe, like Jed suggested.
Right this second.
They should grab Cam and get on the first plane the hell out of here.

    Never mind that there are no direct overseas flights from Savannah, that they don't have passports, that they can't afford a pack of gum, let alone airline fares. None of that matters. All that matters is escaping.

    
Before it's too late.

    
Before this unpleasant man tells them his horrible news.

    And Mimi has no doubt that it will be horrible.

    Nothing positive can possibly transpire in a place like this: scarred linoleum and fluorescent lights. Concrete-block interior walls painted mustard yellow.
The pervasive scent of Pine-Sol that doesn't quite mask the underlying odor of vomit.

    "Mr. Johnston, I have your test results here."

    Dr. Redmond has begun.

    
God help us
.

    Jed squeezes Mimi's hand.

    Not reassuringly.

    No, it's as though he's holding on for dear life, terrified that whatever the doctor is about to tell them is going to change their lives forever.

    "I'm afraid…" The doctor pauses, takes a deep breath and seems to hold it indefinitely.

    
He's afraid?
Mimi thinks incredulously.
He's
afraid?

    "I'm afraid," Dr. Redmond repeats, "the tests indicate a rare malignancy."

    "I direct that all my debts and funeral expenses be paid as soon after my death as may be practicable. I further direct…"

    The document trembles in Tyler's hands as he pauses in the reading, just for a moment. Just to gather his nerve for the gathering storm.

    The only sound in the conference room is the distant wail of a siren somewhere up by the river. The three heirs of Gilbert Xavier Remington II are focused on him, their collective silence and unwavering stares almost as unnerving as the prospect of what comes next.

    He continues to read the standard language involving estate and inheritance taxes, conscious that nobody in the room has moved a muscle, or made a sound.

    Is it because they sense what's about to happen?

    No.

    It's because they continue to erroneously anticipate what is not.

    Tyler can stall no longer. "I give, devise, and bequeath all of my estate of whatever kind and
wheresoever
situated…"

    Tyler clears his throat and adjusts his reading glasses one last time. He knows they're expecting him to continue with the phrase "in equal shares."

    But that was in the old will.

    Tyler's voice somehow holds steady as he delivers the explosive language of this one-"to my granddaughter, Charlotte Remington Maitland, provided she survives me."

    Royce welcomes the blast of dim, cool air as he steps into the small cafe a stone's throw from the loft space he rents for his computer-consulting business.

    Beyond the plate glass windows, Broughton Street is awash in relentless noonday sun and teeming with hot, sticky pedestrians.

    Ella Fitzgerald croons a bluesy ballad on the cafe's retro soundtrack as he waits his turn behind a middle-aged couple. If their Yankee accents didn't give them away as tourists, their order would: two large "iced" teas, unsweetened.

    Here in the South, it's sweet tea, sugary as gum-drops. Even his wife, who always drinks diet soda and sweetens her coffee with
Splenda
, enjoys her daily glass of sweet tea before dinner.

    Royce orders his from Sheryl-or is it Sherri?-the
multipierced
, college-aged Goth Girl he finds behind the register every weekday about this time.

    Her black-polished fingernails clack on the keys as she rings it up. "We have your favorite eggplant sandwich on whole grain bread as a special today, Mr. Maitland."

    "That sounds tempting, but I can't have lunch today.

    I've got a meeting to get to down the street in fifteen minutes." He checks the
Breguet
watch Charlotte gave him on their wedding day, and amends, 'Ten minutes."

    
"Maybe tomorrow."

    "Maybe," he agrees, opening his wallet to remove two dollar bills, fully aware that Sheryl or Sherri is checking him out, as usual.

    He probably should be flattered that a girl more than half his age finds him attractive-and some days, he is.
Especially with his fiftieth birthday looming in just a few months.

    
Fifty?
How can it be? Royce doesn't feel that old, nor, he's certain, does he look it. Those who don't know his true age-and very few in this world do-would most likely think he's in his mid-thirties.

    Nevertheless, the milestone birthday sits squarely on the horizon like an oppressive charcoal storm cloud over the sea.

    But Royce doesn't want to think about that at the moment. Nor is he in the mood for casual banter with the counter girl, who fills a clear plastic cup with ice, then pours the tea from a tall metal dispenser.

    Moments later, he's back out in the steamy Southern sun, gulping the translucent brown beverage he tends to find far too syrupy to effectively quench his thirst. Regardless, he drains his cup quickly and deposits it in a trash can as he strides toward the intersection of Broughton and Bull.

    He checks his watch again as he waits to cross. When Charlotte gave it to him, he protested that it was far too extravagant a gift.

    "Oh, come on," she said, laughing, "you deserve a little
bling
bling
."

    "
Bling
bling
?" he echoed with a grin. "Have you been hanging around with Jenny from the block again?"

    It's been a while since they've been that lighthearted, he notes grimly.

    And it's not as though their lives will brighten anytime soon.

    Not with Charlotte mourning her grandfather even more deeply than he'd anticipated.

    She really loved the cranky old guy, Royce realizes now.

    Sweet Charlotte, with her gentle soul and kind, forgiving heart, might just be the only person who ever did.

    And she, in turn, might truly have been the only person the aging curmudgeon ever really loved.

    Royce pictures his wife, who at this very moment, a mere fifteen blocks south of here in Tyler Hawthorne's law office facing Forsyth Park, is witnessing the reading of her grandfather's will. He wonders whether her inheritance is official yet.

    We always said that when the time came, we'd just tuck it away and go on the same as always…

    Well, Darling
, Royce thinks, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead,
it looks like the time is here.

    
So.

    There it is.

    
Malignancy.

    Not just any malignancy, but a rare one.

    
In other words, a fluke.

    
A cruel twist of fate, like being struck by lightning, or attacked by a great white shark-either of which would be preferable to the excruciating pain of slowly rotting away from the inside out.

    
Which is what is going to happen to Jed.

    There's no cure for the disease, known as
Kepton
-Manning Syndrome. Dr. Redmond delivers that information with all the emotion of a meteorologist predicting rain.