The Final Victim (15 page)

    "What about some kind of treatment?" Mimi
asks,
when she can push past the choking grief to find her voice.

    Jed remains frozen beside her, still crushing her hand in his grip. She doesn't dare look at him.

    'There's no cure," Dr. Redmond repeats robotically.

    "I know," she snaps. 'There's no cure for lung cancer, but there are treatments.
More every day.
So what I'm asking
is,
what kind of treatment is available for my husband?"

    Dr. Redmond pauses briefly before saying, 'There is no effective treatment."

    That slight hesitation is enough to spark hope, however futile, in Mimi.

    'There must be something that can be done. Y’all can't just send him home to-"

    
Die.

   
She won't say it
Saying
it would make it real, and it isn't. None of this is actually happening. It can't be.

    But she'll go along with the new nightmare for now, until she opens her eyes and finds herself
s&e
in her own bed. Just like she always wakes up to comforting reality after the recurring nightmare of having a child drown on her watch.

    Except…

    That really happened.

    Dear God, is this really happening, too?

    "I'm sorry, Mrs. Johnston, but there really is no effective^-"

    "But there is
some
kind of treatment?"

    The doctor shakes his head, looking puzzled.

    "You said there was no
effective
treatment. What kind of treatment is there?
An ineffective one?"

    I'm afraid I don't follow your logic. You're seeking an
ineffective
treatment?"

    "It's better than nothing at all!" Her tone is bordering on hysteria. "It's better than sending my husband home to-"

    
Die
.

    "Mrs. Johnston," Dr. Redmond says calmly, "as I said, this is a rare disease. Very little research has been done. There's one physician, in Europe…"

    Europe. That can't be a coincidence. Just minutes ago, she and Jed were longing to run away to Europe, and now…

    "What?" she persists anxiously, realizing the doctor has trailed off and is tapping the stack of lab reports on the desk, lining up the edges in preparation for replacing them in the file and dismissing the patient and his pesky
wife.
"What is he doing in Europe?"

    "She," Dr. Redmond corrects.

    
"She."
Whatever.
'Who is
she
, and what is she doing?"

    The doctor doesn't sigh in resignation, but he clearly would like to as he says, "Her name is Petra Von Cave and she's spent decades conducting what amounts to highly controversial clinical trials."

    Mimi seizes that information like a drowning victim grabbing a buoy. "I need to get in touch with her."

    "Mrs. Johnston…" Dr. Redmond reaches across the desk and rests a hand on her wrist. His fingers are warm; his grasp almost gentle. So he's human after all. "Your husband is uninsured, and even if he had the best policy in the world, Dr. Von Cave's 'treatment,' as it
were
, wouldn't be covered."

    "We'll find a way to pay for it," Mimi says frantically, shaking off his hand.

    "Do you have any idea what kind of money you're talking about?"

    
"So what?
It's a chance to save him. I don't care what it costs. We can-"

    "Mrs. Johnston, please take this." The physician opens a desk drawer and pulls out a stack of business cards. Removing one, he thrusts it into her hand.

    She looks down, expecting to find Dr. Von Cave's contact information.

    What she finds is the address and phone number for
Baywater
Hospice.

    "Make no mistake about it, Mr.
Hawthorne,
this will is going to be contested."

    
Gib
delivers his parting shot from the doorway of the conference room, then turns to follow his sister, whose Oscar-worthy sobs are audible from the reception area.

    As rattled as the plate glass windows in the wake of
Gib's
reverberating slam of the door, Charlotte looks across the table at Tyler Hawthorne. He is rhythmically tapping the bottom edge of his sheath of papers on the polished mahogany surface, but she can see that the movement is more frenetic than productive.

    He, too, is shaken.

    Charlotte leans back in her chair and kneads her forehead with her thumb and fingertips. The migraine she felt coming on in the car after the scene with
Lianna
is full blown now.

    "Tyler," she says, still dumbfounded, as much by what was in the will as by her cousins' reflexive, melodramatic responses, "what on earth just went on here?"

    "Your grandfather left most of his money to you."

    "Most?" she echoes, shaking her head. 'Tyler, he left all of it."

    "Not all."

    "You're right, I forgot… He did include my cousins." The corners of her mouth twist sardonically.

    Yes, he left both
Phyllida
and
Gib
the same token sum he had bequeathed to his maid and his chauffeur.

    Turning the stack of papers horizontally, Tyler continues his fidgety pretense at efficiency. "Face it,
Charlotte,
you were always Gilbert's favorite. You were the only one who ever gave him the time of day. And he knew you much better-You lived down here; they didn't"

    "Come on, you know that never mattered to Gran-daddy. Anyway,
Gib
lived here, too, when he was in high school."

    She was married to Vince by that time, and rarely saw her cousin, who attended Telfair Academy.

    "Your grandfather liked you best, Charlotte."

    She doesn't bother to argue the point with Tyler. He's right. Still…

    "Both my cousins were in the will as equal heirs all these years. Why would he change it now?"

    "Maybe they said or did something he didn't like."

    
"Both of them together?"
She dismisses that notion with little consideration. "They live on opposite ends of the country, and they never visit
Oakgate
. I can't see them teaming up to do or say something drastic enough to get cut out of the will."

    Tyler shrugs. "I'm sure Gilbert had his reasons. In fact, I assumed the three of you must know what they were."

    "I'm clueless."

    "I'll bet your cousins aren't."

    Charlotte isn't so sure about that.
Gib
and
Phyllida
seemed as stunned as she was to learn that they had been relegated to the inheritance level of mere household help.

    
Gib
did come out slightly ahead of his sister:
Grandaddy
bequeathed to him a pair of heirloom platinum monogrammed cufflinks that had belonged to the first Gilbert Xavier Remington.

    But the gesture was probably more practical than sentimental on
Grandaddy's
part: who but a man who shares his unusual initials-and is similarly inclined to wear French-cuffed shirts-would have any use for the cufflinks?

    "Now what?" she asks Tyler, pressing her thumb and middle fingertip into her temples to somewhat ease the throbbing.

    "Now your cousins hire a lawyer and contest the will."

    "Are they going to be successful?"

    
"If they can prove that Gilbert was under duress when he made the change, yes.
Or that he was senile. Or that the will is invalid due to some legal technicality-trust me, it isn't. My nephew oversaw the change, but I went over everything."

    "Well,
Grandaddy
wasn't senile, either."

    "No," Tyler agrees, offering a half-smile at the notion, "he wasn't."

    "So chances are
,
Gib
and
Phyllida
aren't going to overturn the will."

    "People rarely manage to do that. But it doesn't stop them from embarking on drawn-out, expensive legal battles. It happens every day."

    "I'm sure that when things settle down a bit, they'll come to their senses."

    "Don't be so sure. Greed is a powerful driving force."

    "You've seen my cousins.
Phyllida
has a beautiful home and a nanny and a career in California.
Gib
went Ivy League all the way and now he's a lawyer in Boston. They-"

    "He hasn't joined a firm yet."

    "He isn't hurting. Those clothes he was wearing today cost more than a year's tuition at
Lianna's
school."

    Tyler shrugs. "Maybe there's more to them than meets the eye."

    "Maybe… But I've known them my whole life. They're family. I don't think they'll want an ugly, endless battle over this."

    
"Do you know what physiognomy is, Charlotte?"

    She shakes her aching head.

    "It's the ancient art of face-reading: studying physical features to determine temperament, character, personality… I've done some reading on the subject. Some trial
lawyers-not
me-consult
physiognomists
about their clients, witnesses, prospective jurors…"

    Unsure what he's getting at, she murmurs, "It sounds fascinating."

    "It is-not that I'm inclined to put much stock in such a subjective 'science.' Anyway, a Swiss essayist named Johann Kasper
Lavater
was the father of modern physiognomy. There are a number of well-known quotes that are attributed to him, but my favorite is:
'Say not that you know another entirely, until you have divided an inheritance with him
. 'You'd be wise to keep that in mind, Charlotte."

    She nods, pushing back her chair. "I will. I just wish I knew why
Grandaddy
did what he did."

    "I'm afraid his reasoning was buried with him," Tyler says with a shrug. "All we can do now is
see
that his final wishes are carried out."

    Mimi hurls the white rectangle toward Dr. Redmond, only to have it flutter benignly onto his desk. She wishes it had been something jagged, and heavy… something that would injure him the way he had just ripped into her.

    "Mrs. Johnston, please take the card. You're going to need it"

    "I know where that office is." It's located on the mainland, between the
Achoco
Island causeway and the interstate, housed in a renovated ranch house painted in deceptively cheerful tulip shades: yellow clapboard with red shutters and trim. "I've been there."

    She squeezes her eyes closed, remembering that awful August day three summers ago. It was she who had to go make the arrangements for her father. Neither of her parents was able to accept the inevitability of his death. Maybe that lingering hope is what helped him to survive for as long as he did-much longer than the specialists and even the hospice workers anticipated.

    Well, this time, with Jed, it's Mimi who will refuse to give up hope.

    "Mrs. Johnston, I understand how difficult this is-"

    "Difficult?" she shrieks. "You sit there handing out death sentences and call it 'difficult'?"

    "Mimi, for God's sake,
stop
it!"

    Startled, she closes her mouth and looks at Jed at last.

    She immediately wishes she hadn't. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. £ "We don't have money for any kind of treatment, and the treatment doesn't work anyway, and I don't have a chance. Okay?"

    "No, Jed. Not okay." She's crying, too. "We're not going to walk out of here and give up."

    "What choice do I have? I'm going to die."

    "We're not going to let that happen. We have to fight" She chooses the pronoun deliberately, refusing to let him shoulder his fate alone.

    
We
.
Not I.

    
We're in it together, Jed, until death do us part.

    And death, as far as Mimi is concerned, isn't an option.

    
Money.

    It all comes down to money.

    
A vast sum.

    A sum that, unbeknownst to Jed, may not be out of reach at all.

    
"You've reached Royce Maitland Network Consulting. Please leave a detailed message at the tone and we will return your call."

    There's a long pause before the tone-too long. Why hasn't Charlotte ever noticed that before?

    Maybe it just seems endless today, because she's so anxious-desperate, really-to speak with her husband.

    "Royce, it's me. I already tried your cell but it went right into voice mail. Are you still in your meeting? Or are you there working? Pick up if you are… Royce?"

    She waits for a click and her husband's reassuring voice.