The Final Victim(31)

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.

"What about some kind of treatment?" Mimi asks, when she can push past the choking grief to find her voice.

Jed remains frozen beside her, still crushing her hand in his grip. She doesn't dare look at him.

'There's no cure," Dr. Redmond repeats robotically.

"I know," she snaps. 'There's no cure for lung cancer, but there are treatments. More every day. So what I'm asking is, what kind of treatment is available for my husband?"

Dr. Redmond pauses briefly before saying, 'There is no effective treatment."

That slight hesitation is enough to spark hope, however futile, in Mimi.

'There must be something that can be done. Y’all can't just send him home to-"

Die.

She won't say it Saying it would make it real, and it isn't. None of this is actually happening. It can't be.

But she'll go along with the new nightmare for now, until she opens her eyes and finds herself s&e in her own bed. Just like she always wakes up to comforting reality after the recurring nightmare of having a child drown on her watch.

Except…

That really happened.

Dear God, is this really happening, too?

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Johnston, but there really is no effective^-"

"But there is some kind of treatment?"

The doctor shakes his head, looking puzzled.

"You said there was no effective treatment. What kind of treatment is there? An ineffective one?"

I'm afraid I don't follow your logic. You're seeking an ineffective treatment?"

"It's better than nothing at all!" Her tone is bordering on hysteria. "It's better than sending my husband home to-"

Die.

"Mrs. Johnston," Dr. Redmond says calmly, "as I said, this is a rare disease. Very little research has been done. There's one physician, in Europe…"

Europe. That can't be a coincidence. Just minutes ago, she and Jed were longing to run away to Europe, and now…

"What?" she persists anxiously, realizing the doctor has trailed off and is tapping the stack of lab reports on the desk, lining up the edges in preparation for replacing them in the file and dismissing the patient and his pesky wife. "What is he doing in Europe?"

"She," Dr. Redmond corrects.

"She." Whatever. 'Who is she, and what is she doing?"

The doctor doesn't sigh in resignation, but he clearly would like to as he says, "Her name is Petra Von Cave and she's spent decades conducting what amounts to highly controversial clinical trials."