The Final Victim(97)

Already weary, having woken up drowsy once again today, it takes Charlotte nearly two exhausting hours to plod through the store filling her cart, and another twenty minutes to make it through the line. The job would have been much easier had Lianna agreed to come along, but she simply glowered when Charlotte poked her head in tins morning to ask her.

Oh, well. Between the solo drive over and the prolonged trip through the aisles she has plenty of time to ponder her cousin's inexplicable disappearance. But it doesn't appear that Phyllida met with foul play-at least, not as far as Charlotte can tell.

The guestroom her cousin was using, when Charlotte looked into it yesterday, bore no trace that she had ever been there. Her clothing, toiletries, and luggage were gone; the bed made up neatly with Nydia's unmistakable perfectly creased hospital corners.

So it doesn't seem as if Phyllida vanished from the house under extraordinary circumstances. When she left, it was apparently under her own steam, with her personal belongings in tow. It really looks as though she must have gone to the airport, but maybe she took another flight to California. Or maybe she went to Rhode Island, to visit her mother.

Charlotte decides to call Brian when she gets back home, even if it is still early on the West Coast. If Phyllida turned up last night, Charlotte will be relieved. If she didn't, Charlotte will ask if he has checked with Aunt Susan.

At last, she makes it through the long line and wheels her cart out to the parking lot. The sky over the water is ominously dark, and a warm, indisputably tropical wind is blowing in from the southeast.

After the pleasantly air-conditioned store, the air feels terribly oppressive. Charlotte's white sleeveless T-shirt and gray cotton-knit shorts stick uncomfortably to her skin as she works to hurriedly load the groceries into her SUV.

Her cell phone rings as she's loading the last bag, the one that holds the frozen items. Hoping the rapidly softening ice cream-mint chocolate chip, Lianna's favorite-won't melt entirely before she gets it home, she slams the hatch and checks her caller ID.

Private name, private number.

Okay, good, at least it isn't from Oakgate. Despite her growing uneasiness, undoubtedly augmented by the fact that her cousin seems to have vanished into thin air, nothing terrible has happened to Royce or Lianna…

Or has it?

What if the call is coming from the hospital ER, or- "Hello?" she blurts into the phone.

"Charlotte Maitland?"

"Yes?" She holds her breath.

"This is Detective Dorado. I tried to reach you at home, but the number-"

"I'm sorry, I had to change it and I forgot to let you know." That's becoming her mantra. "Is something wrong?"

There's a pause.

Her heart quickens.

"Actually, there's been a new development in the case. Would it be possible for us to come right out to the house to speak to you?"

"How about if I come there?" she suggests, dunking quickly. The last thing she wants now is for poor Royce to have to deal with the police showing up again.

She's anxious to get back to him. But Aimee is there. She told Charlotte to take her time shopping and not worry about anything. He's in capable hands.

'That would be fine," Detective Dorado informs her, after conferring with somebody else in the room, probably Williamson. 'Just as long as you can get right over here. We don't want to delay this."

"I'm headed straight to the causeway," she promises, sliding into the driver's seat, the ice cream in back forgotten.

"Looks like the storm really is coming, Jeanne," Melanie comments from the window, which she just lowered to a crack to keep the rain from blowing in. "Tropical Storm Douglas. The sky is getting dark out over the water."

Jeanne nods.

"I don't think it'll be upgraded to a full-blown hurricane, though. At least, I hope not."

"So do I," Jeanne lies.

A hurricane would be wonderful, really. A hurricane that would flatten the whole darned place. Then it would no longer be in her hands.

Hers…

And Melanie's.

I can't do it without her help.

But she'll be happy to oblige, as she always is.

You know I'd do anything for you, hon…

Anything?

There's only one way to find out.

"Melanie," she says heavily, "I hate to send you out in this, but I need you to do something for me before the storm gets any worse."

With another high-pitched, desperate grunt, Phyllida slams her bare feet against the door.

It refuses to budge.

She sinks back in exhaustion, her legs raw and bleeding where they're bound at the ankles and knees with unforgiving nylon rope. It's the same with her wrists, bound behind her. And her shoulders and upper back throb unbearably after hours-days… weeks?-in this excruciating position.

She has no* idea how long it's been, or even where she's imprisoned. She only knows that she's in some kind of brick, windowless room, maybe a cellar or an underground bunker.

There's no food or water in the room, but it's far from empty.

The first tiling she found was her Grandaddy's antique radio, of all things. At least, she thinks that's what it is. She accidentally struck the object when she was rolling around the mud floor, in a futile search for…