The Final Victim(52)

Next year? It won't be that long.

If all goes according to plan, it won't be long at all.

Last night brought an important challenge that was met without complication.

It was tempting to stick around for the aftermath, but nobody in their right mind would take that risk.

Anyway, it isn't hard to figure out what came on the heels of an expert aim that easily found its target, and the resonant crack of gunfire.

Here is what happened: Charlotte Maitland watched her husband drop at her feet like an arcade pin.

She had to be utterly shocked and terrified.

Indeed, her screams echoed faintly, and yes, quite satisfyingly, for quite some distance across the dark expanse of Colonial Park Cemetery.

Ah, sweet Charlotte, it's only just begun.

"But first, I have places to go… people to see. Right, ladies? You're finally going to get that company we've been talking about. Won't that be fun?… What's that, Pammy Sue?"

The blond doll gazes mutely from its little wooden chair.

"Why don't you like visitors? Are you afraid they might be prettier than you are? Are you afraid that Joe will find somebody he likes better than he does you? Well, don't worry. Because Mama always says it isn't nice to play favorites. Don't you, Mama?"

The redheaded doll is wrenched from its seat.

"Why, Mama, it isn't nice to say that. You're supposed to like everybody just the same, just the way Daddy did. You're going to hurt poor Odette's feelings. And so is Joe."

Birds nesting in the makeshift roof overhead chirp their early-morning song.

"Don't worry, Odette." A gentle hand strokes the dark nylon hair of the third doll. "Joe loves you best, and so does Mama. Yes, she does. Don't you, Mama?"

A rustling sound disturbs the thicket outdoors. Probably a deer. Or maybe a wild hog.

"Shut up, Mama. That isn't kind. You shouldn't talk like that… Stop it, Mama!"

With a brutal, satisfying twist, the red head snaps off the doll's body.

"Oh, Mama, look what you made me do. Just like the snake."

With a sigh, the head is tossed into the corner to join that of its reptilian counterpart.

"It's okay, girls. I'll go get your visitor. But you'll have to wait until I have a chance to get her down here. You're going to be so surprised when you see who it is…"

"So that's all we have to go on, Ms. Remington? The person who shot your husband was wearing dark clothes?"

"That's all I saw-and it's Mrs. Maitland," she wearily corrects him for at least the third time since she sat down to face two uniformed officers from the Savannah-Chatham Police Department They're conducting the witness interview, which feels more like a suspect interrogation, in a private employee breakroom not for from the operating room where the doctors are working on Royce.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Maitland. I'll make a note of the name." Detective Williamson-who is, in Charlotte's opinion, a fat, balding, gruff cliché - scribbles something on his report. Considering his less-than-apologetic tone, it could just as easily be a reminder to bring home milk.

"Thank you," she says stiffly.

He doesn't reply. No, he's not the most pleasant guy in the world, but these are far from pleasant circumstances.

Being called by her proper name and title should be the least of Charlotte's concerns at a time like this, but she can't help it. She's been the object of blatant curiosity ever since somebody on the hospital staff recognized the Oakgate address on the paperwork and asked-with the other ER waiting room occupants in earshot-whether she's one of ^Remingtons.

As in, one of the Remingtons for whom the entire ambulatory wing of the hospital is named.

Like his father and grandfather before him, Grandaddy never was much of a philanthropist-not, that is, until fairly recently. But in Charlotte's opinion, the state-of-the-art addition to the hospital could hardly be considered too little, too late.

She just wishes Royce had been brought to some other hospital, or that she hadn't been recognized.

As word spread, some of the nurses seemed more curious about her pedigree-and the potential scandal of her husband being gunned down on a city street-than they were concerned about her husband's well-being.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen, she can imagine people thinking as they stare at her: unkempt, her rumpled linen shift covered in dried blood, her cheeks mascara-stained.

She was a crying, quivering mess, perpetually on the verge of hysteria before she found out Royce is going to pull through.

But even now…

Somebody shot my husband. Dear God, this can't be happening…

"What about the perp's build?" The question comes from the other officer, Detective Phillip Dorado, who's about twenty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter than his hulking partner. With his Latino good looks, he could be playing the role of a cop on one of those television dramas Royce likes to watch. And there's a shimmer of kindness in his rich mocha-colored eyes when he speaks, as though he, unlike his partner, realizes Charlotte is a victim, not a perpetrator.

"His build? I don't know…" Charlotte closes her eyes, trying to remember. "He was so far away from where I was in the window…" 'Was he tall? Short?" Williamson prods impatiently.