The Final Victim(42)

"Do you need me to help you, Phyll?"

She looks up in surprise at her husband's unexpected offer, then realizes Brian is talking about the suitcase, not the unfortunate state of her life in general.

"Go ahead." She steps aside and allows him to deftly rearrange the clothes inside. He quickly manages to get it closed.

As he does, she can't help wishing he was this efficient when it comes to other things. Household help-the nanny and maid and gardener-can do only so much. They don't provide emotional, intellectual, or financial support-and neither does her husband.

You 're on your own, she tells herself, not for the first time.

A few minutes later, on the circular drive before the white-pillared portico, she presses her child in a tearful embrace, then offers her husband a perfunctory kiss good-bye.

"Come home soon," he tells her. "Wills isn't the only one who's going to miss you."

Watching Brian climb behind the wheel of the rental car, she wishes she was still in love with him. Life would be so much simpler if she was.

He starts the engine and glances at the gas gauge. "Hey, it's full."

"I know. I took it down to the Mobil station by the causeway last night."

"Fom pumped gas?" he asks incredulously.

"No! A very nice young man did. It's full serve."

"But why even bother?"

"Because it was almost on E."

"So? I can just bring it back to the rental place empty and they'll add the gas charge to the bill."

Right. At some ridiculous price per gallon.

Does Brian not grasp that they can't afford to squander money now?

She, who has never pumped gas in her life, was almost tempted to pull up to the self-serve pump. But she isn't that desperate-yet. Anyway, it was kind of flattering to flirt with Kevin, the obviously smitten surfer-boy attendant, as he pumped her gas.

"Okay, then," Brian says, shifting into drive. "I guess we're off." '"Bye," Phyllida calls, blowing kisses at Wills and jogging after the car a little ways as it heads slowly down the dappled drive beneath the verdant arch of towering oaks cloaked in silvery Spanish moss.

Then it disappears through the gates, leaving her alone.

It's a beautiful day. They should have a nice flight-at least, the takeoff portion of it, she thinks, looking up at the clear blue sky beyond Oakgate's familiar brick silhouette.

Her eye follows a white trail to a distant plane buzzing along, until a shadow passing directly overhead captures her attention.

She trains her eye on it and realizes that it's a circling vulture. Within moments, it's been joined by several others, swooping gradually lower, toward the gabled roof.

Phyllida knows that the ill-fated prey must be somewhere in the tibicket behind Oakgate, but from this vantage, it almost seems as though the prey lies in the house itself.

It's some kind of omen, she thinks, as goose bumps rise on her bare arms.

I'm never going to see my baby again.

The thought darts into her mind with all the premeditation of the stray orange butterfly flitting among the hibiscus blooms along the drive.

Of course she's going to see Wills again.

But…

What if Brian turns his back in the airport and a stranger snatches him?

What if his plane crashes?

What if hers does?

Oh, God.

Chilled despite the ninety-degree heat, Phyllida wraps her arms around herself in an effort to keep a sudden, inexplicable panic at bay.

It's normal to worry, she assures herself. And those vultures don't mean anything. They're just looking for a meal in the marsh.

Probably every single person who ever sends off a loved one on an airplane wonders, at least just in passing, about the possibility of a crash.

And of course she's uncomfortable with the prospect of her irresponsible husband transporting their child across the continent, not to mention the lengthy separation to follow. Who wouldn't be?

Calm down, Phyllida. Everything's going to be just fine.

Gradually, the chill subsides. The winged black predators have disappeared from sight, no doubt to feed on some hapless swamp creature.

Walking on toward the portico, she once again feels the warm sunlight on her bare shoulders; becomes aware of the pleasant, rhythmic hum of insects in the tall grass that lines the drive, punctuated by occasionally chirping birds.

Then Phyllida hears another sound, spilling from a window somewhere overhead, on the side of the house.

Female voices.

And they're arguing.

Her own anxiety conveniently forgotten, she smiles thoughtfully.

Sounds like Charlotte and her daughter are at it again.

"So how's the house coming along?" asks John Hirsch, the architect who designed the Maitlands’s renovation, as he and Royce walk off the tennis court at the sprawling Achoco Island Club overlooking the shimmering blue Atlantic.

"Slow and steady." Royce mops his forehead with a towel, then gulps the rest of the lukewarm water left in his bottle before saying, "Charlotte and I are heading over there today to take care of some finishing details."

John's mouth quirks. "Fun stuff."

"She thinks so." Royce shakes his head. "I have a feeling I'm going to spend the rest of the day comparing shades of paint." 'Trust me, you are."