The Final Victim(67)

"Goodness, I'm so smart to have thought of picking up this hand truck at Home Depot the other day, don't you think? Oh, I forgot… you can't say anything. For a change. Well, silence is golden, as Mama used to say. Shoo!"

Another pesky insect is buzzing around the corpse lashed to the hand truck as the tires become bogged down, once again, in mud.

"Shoo… go away."

It takes a good five minutes to free the cart and its grisly cargo. The process entails repeatedly swatting at insects and juggling the flashlight from hand to hand, accidentally dropping it, several times, into the muck.

At last, the cart is on its way again, following the now-familiar path through the marsh, well lit by the flashlight's glare.

The brick cabin isn't all that far from the main house, really-but it remains as much a world away now as it did back in slavery times. God forbid the Remingtons find it necessary to associate with the household help.

"Here we are, home sweet home… what do you think? Oh, I keep forgetting… you can't tell me what you think anymore. Well, that's a darned shame but I have to say it was inevitable."

The handcart drops with a thud beside the old brick doorstep. The flashlight's beam pivots wildly over the darkened landscape, the flashlight itself clenched ear to shoulder, leaving both hands free to work the padlock.

"Yoo-hoo, ladies, I've brought a visitor, just like I promised."

At that, the corpse is cut loose from the hand truck and dragged over the threshold.

Rigor mortis has set in; it takes quite a bit of effort to get it propped just right in the place of honor at the small table, positioned between the redheaded doll and the brunette. The blond doll sits across, seeming to stare at the newcomer, whose wide green eyes are frozen in an expression of eternal horror.

"It's like looking into a mirror, isn't it Pammy Sue? Oh, wait… there are two Pammy Sues now. And isn't it ironic? Neither of you can say a word!"

Laughter fills the old cabin.

But with it drifts the echo of a long ago voice. Mama's voice, scolding.

You naughty, naughty child. What have you done?

But Mama isn't here. She can't be here. Mama is dead.

The flashlight's beam bounces around wildly, revealing one reassuringly empty corner after another.

"See? Nobody here but me. And you, Pammy Sue. One, two, Pammy Sues."

Another wave of hysterical laughter.

Then the flashlight bounces from the redheaded doll to the brunette. "Oh, no, I didn't forget. You're both here, too. Now we can have our little doll tea party. Just like old times."

The tea set, delivered to the cabin on an earlier trip, is retrieved from its shopping bag and lain out on the table. It's the one that was purchased two decades ago at the Pigeon Creek five and dime, an extravagant birthday gift for Pammy Sue.

Those familiar green eyes seem to be following the action with unnerving intensity, almost as though they recognize the childhood relic.

But that's ridiculous, of course. They aren't really watching.

Pammy Sue is dead. She can't see any more than she can speak.

Which is why I get to do all the talking from now on. And that's just fine with me.

"Oh, look… one of the cups is chipped. How on earth can that have happened? Oh, wait, I remember!"

Yes, it happened on Pammy Sue's birthday, when she left the room to get her favorite doll, leaving the tea set spread out on the kitchen table. It was so pretty, the white china sprigged with little pink roses. It must have been expensive.

I never got such an expensive, beautiful birthday gift in my life. Not in that life, anyway.

That was why it was so tempting, that day-Pammy Sue's birthday-to snatch the nearest cup. It was hurtled to the floor in a sudden burst of rage, so hard that it should have smashed into tiny shards.

But it didn't. It hit the edge of the thick braided rag rug and bounced gently onto the linoleum.

Only a sliver of porcelain splintered off the rim, so. slight a break that Pammy Sue didn't even notice it when she came back into the room with her doll.

And when she finally did see the chipped spot, days later, she thought she must have done it herself somehow.

Stupid, stupid girl.

"Here you go." The chipped cup is placed in front of the corpse. "You won't mind. You probably won't even notice."

What fun this is. Just like old times.

"All right, now, we'll have to pretend there's tea in the cups." The little china spout is positioned over each of the four rims and the pot is tilted as if to dispense its steaming beverage. "And we'll pretend there are cookies on the plates, too… what's that, Pammy Sue? You don't like to pretend?"

Silence.

Of course.

Because Pammy Sue can't speak.

And she can't see.

Really, she can't.

But I can't help it. I need to make sure…

Rage sweeps in, the same as it did on Pammy Sue's long ago birthday. This time, it's a little silver teaspoon that is snatched abruptly from the table.

Then the corpse is grabbed roughly by its blond hair, now matted with coagulated blood.

The edge of the spoon is jammed into the socket beneath Pammy Sue's motionless right eye. It gouges mercilessly, in a seemingly futile effort until suddenly, the eyeball is severed.