The Final Victim(47)

"How's it going?" Jed asks Cam in an effort to be cheerful. "Are you reading books with Mommy?"

"One book."

"It's his favorite," Mimi says softly, going to kneel beside Cam, hoping to ease the stilted conversation between father and son.

"I thought Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel was his favorite."

"That was last month," Mimi says, and belatedly realizes she shouldn't have.

Jed was the one who got that book for Cam from the library; the one who read it to him nonstop, pausing to answer Cam's questions about construction machinery he uses in his own job.

Now Jed hasn't worked in days and the book sits, untouched and overdue, collecting fines and dust on a shelf in Cam's room.

"Do you want me to go get Mike Mulligan so you can read it to him, Jed?"

The question hangs in the air.

Jed's face is contorted in pain once again-physical pain, but the emotional pain lurks, too, just beneath the surface. She can sense it.

Mimi turns fervently to Cam. "Honey? Do you want Daddy to read Mike Mulligan to you?"

Cam's only response is a blank stare.

He's forgotten, she realizes in despair. He's forgotten all about the book.

But how could he? It was his favorite. He spent every day carrying it around…

He's so young. They forget so quickly at this age.

Cam has forgotten the book his father shared with him, and one day, he might forget…

No, Mimi thinks fiercely, he won't. I won't let him. He'll never forget his father any more than I've forgotten mine. Not even if Jed…

Once again, she refuses to allow the unthinkable into her head.

Today, difficult as it was, she set things into motion with Gib.

His reaction wasn't quite what she had hoped for… but there's still time. Not a lot, but time enough.

If all goes according to plan, Jed will be reading Mike Mulligan to his son for years to come.

"How are we all doing today, guys? Or should I say ladies?"

One by one, the flashlight's beam illuminates three faces framed by nylon hair. One blonde, one brunette, one redhead, all of them grinning.

"No wonder you look so happy. You must know that you're going to be getting some compan-"

An ominous rattling in the shadows over by the fireplace cuts the word short.

A swing of the flashlight reveals the source: a large diamondback rattlesnake is clearly visible on the mud floor.

"Did you know, ladies, that some of the largest rattlesnakes in the country live out here on Achoco Island? That's right. They're a protected species out here."

The reptilian intruder slithers its way closer.

"Protected means you aren't allowed to kill them."

The snake weaves its way through the maze of tiny chair and table legs, its menacing rattle reverberating in the small cabin…

Until its head is neatly sliced off with a blade it never sensed coming.

"But sometimes, you have to kill them anyway."

The snake's body ceases to writhe as its head is kicked aside, to rot in a far corner.

"And sometimes, it's sad to say, it's exactly the same way with people."

Hmmm…

Charlotte steps back to examine the parallel stripes of paint she rolled on the bedroom wall, careful not to spill any on her pale-yellow linen sleeveless shift and white sandals. Had she realized she'd be doing more than just shopping for paint, she would have left the shorts and T-shirt on.

It was Royce's idea to haul the samples over to the house when she couldn't make up her mind, after stops at the hardware and tile stores. Once they got here, of course, they got caught up in countless details.

Royce wanted to remeasure the master bathroom to make sure they'd have enough tile for the backsplash.

Then he decided to install the new switch plates they'd just picked up, not trusting the workers to figure out which styles went in which rooms.

While she was waiting for him to do that, Charlotte started lining the cupboard shelves withi the cute contact paper they'd just bought. Naturally, he would end up helping her, insisting on measuring each shelf precisely and cutting each piece himself with a razor blade he had to keep changing because it kept getting gummy with the paper's backing.

She should probably respect his perfection-and she usually does-but she never expected them to be here into the night. She's tired and hungry and rapidly losing interest in anything related to home decor.

Just when they were ready to leave an hour ago, the sky opened up in a late-day thunderstorm. They came up here to kill time, and the next thing Charlotte knew, Royce was caught up in something all over again.

Still, she tries to keep her irritability at bay, remembering that Royce was exceedingly patient with her in the hardware store. He was even more patient at the tile place, where he allowed her to spend an hour going back and forth among three kinds of marble for the backsplash around the new clawfoot tub.

When she finally made her decision, he decided to buy it and haul it back here himself, rather than wait for the contractor to do it.

'The fewer steps we leave to him, the less chance for further delays," he pointed out. "This way, they can get the installer here with a wet saw first thing Monday morning."

"What do you think?" she asks her husband now, as she tilts her head to look at the shades of paint.