The Final Victim(98)

Something. Anything that might help her to get out of here.

It was only when her fumbling fingertips found the big, old-fashioned dials that she realized what the object was-and that it was useless in terms of a possible means of escape.

She's simply trapped here in the dark, with the radio-and other things.

At first, she thought she had found a child's body. It would explain the fetid odor that hovers in the stagnant air.

Then she realized it was a doll.

There are three of them. Doll furniture, too.

She stopped exploring when her hand grazed what felt like a coiled snake, and waited in terror for it to strike.

But it didn't.

She isn't going to explore anymore. Not in the dark.

There's not even a hint of daylight around the perimeter of the only door; no way of sensing the passing of time… when she's even conscious to think about it.

Most of the time, she's out cold, which is a blessing.

Then she won't have to think about what happened to her… or of what might happen next.

But somebody has to be looking for her out there.

Brian will try to find her.

Once he realizes I'm missing. God only knows how long it's been.

Or even Charlotte… Charlotte might realize…

Please, Charlotte. Please open your eyes. Please take a look at what's going on right under your nose, for God's sake! Please!

But her cousin won't see it. Nobody will.

Not unless they stumble across it, as Phyllida did. And even when she saw the shocking truth, she couldn't quite process it, couldn't bring herself to believe her eyes. She just stood there, slack-jawed- Until something slammed into her, and everything went black.

If only I had fallen asleep that night…

If only I had gone out into the rain to call Brian…

If only I had decided to honor my marriage vows, and pick up the pieces instead of deciding to run away…

None of this would have happened.

She'd be safely at home in California, instead of waiting to be rescued from this living hell…

Or waiting to the at the sadistic hands of the last person she ever would have found menacing.

CHAPTER 16

"So what you're telling me," Charlotte looks from Dorado to Williamson and back again, "is that my cousin Gib is a drug addict?"

"For what it's worth, he says he's not an addict. He's a courier."

"Reliable as Federal Express," Williamson adds with a sardonic shake of his balding head. "Only they use trucks and envelopes, instead of commercial aircraft and fake hair spray containers."

Charlotte shakes her head, unable to believe Gib would actually smuggle drugs into the country from Mexico. "Why would he do something so stupid?"

"Cash," Dorado says. "That's usually the motive for anything, including attempted murder."

"So you don't think my cousin is the one who shot Royce?"

"We didn't say that… only that the alibi he gave us-his real alibi, not the original one he used-checked out. He was networking with some Colombian pals that night."

"Networking? What do you mean?"

"Savannah is a prime port city on the 1-95 corridor between Miami and Boston," Williamson informs her, as if that explains everything.

At her blank look, Dorado jumps in. "I guess he decided that Savannah was convenient for business and decided to try and drum up some while he was here-once he realized he wasn't going to fly home to Boston an instant multimillionaire, anyway."

Charlotte shakes her head, trying to absorb what they're telling her. "I thought he was a lawyer up North."

Williamson is shaking his head.

"So he's…just a drug smuggler? Did he really even go to law school?"

"Yes. But he blew through most of his trust fund when he got it, and he's been in debt for years," Dorado tells her. "He wound up going to a loan shark at some points, figuring that if he could just get the money up front and keep himself afloat, he could eventually bail himself out the old-fashioned way."

"By getting a job?" Charlotte asks, still not following.

"By inheriting millions," Dorado counters. "We think he was banking on your Grandaddy to kick the bucket the whole time he was in law school, and when that didn't happen…"

"He helped him along," Williamson supplies.

Dorado throws him a cautious glance. "Maybe."

"Maybe," the other detective echoes grudgingly.

"And not by his own hand. He really was in Mexico the night your grandfather died. We checked it out." 'Was he dealing drugs?" Met with twin nods, Charlotte asks, "But why?"

"Why not? Fast, easy cash. Plus, he was a fine, upstanding citizen. Who would ever suspect him?"

"Not me," Charlotte murmurs, numb. "How did he do it?"

"It was a nice little gig," Williamson informs her, sounding like every detective on every cop show she's ever watched.

Except this is real. Chillingly, horrifyingly real.

"He'd jet down to Mexico-he even bought a nice timeshare down there-and come back with a pricey souvenir every time." Pausing to looking at her more closely, Dorado slides over the cup of water he poured her from the cooler when she first sat down. "Why don't you drink some of that?"