Final Scream (46 page)

I drove to the old garage and, after donning surgical gloves, held a flashlight in my mouth and used my key to open the rusted dead bolt. There was a combination lock as well, clipped to old brackets. I dialed the numbers that no one thought I knew, and the old door swung open. The smell of dust, old rubber and oil filled my nostrils as I hurried past the car—once considered a classic—Lucretia’s Thunderbird—the one Rex had never had the heart to sell and had sequestered in this old, unused, hundred-year-old garage, out of Dena’s sight and, apparently, her mind as well. I glanced at the once-gleaming machine in which Lucretia had died and bile climbed up the back of my throat. Lucretia. Just one more beautiful, self-serving bitch.

The car was covered in a thick layer of dust, and as far as I knew, no one had paid it any attention since the police had released it. The odometer reading was the same as when Lucretia had died, and I wondered if the old Elvis tape was still in the player.
Love me tender
, my ass.

I made my way past the old T-Bird and ignored it. I didn’t have time for any ridiculous, maudlin memories, not when everything was falling apart. No, no, not falling apart, I thought desperately. It would be all right. I would make it all right. Didn’t I always?

At the back of the garage, under what had once been a workbench, I bent down and opened a cupboard. I heard the scrape of tiny claws. Beady eyes caught in the flashlight’s glare, then a scrawny rat scurried out of the cabinet and across the floor to hide beneath the car. “Shit,” I swore, nearly dropping the flashlight, then bit my tongue and counted to ten to calm my jittery nerves.

The rat was a good sign. It was obviously not used to being disturbed. No one had been here since the last time I’d visited. I was safe. I took a deep breath and went to work.

Using the thin beam of the flashlight for illumination, I peered past the tools that had been long forgotten in the cupboard. Everything was as I’d left it. Tucked behind a box of ancient wrenches, wrapped in old newspaper, I found the device I’d put together less than a week ago, a simple little bomb with a detonator, timer and short fuse.

Just like me
, I thought. I was self-aware enough to know that I could be mercurial, like the detonator, ready to go off at a second’s notice; I was as patient as the timer, waiting for everything to be set; and I had a short fuse, my temper legendary. But I could control it.

As I could control everything.

As I would take care of things tonight.

I stashed the unassembled bomb in my athletic bag, then walked out of the old garage. Using a broom by the door, I swept away my path, just in case my boots made any impressions in the dust and grit upon the floor.

Flipping off the flashlight and placing it into the bag, I slunk outside, spent a minute making certain no one was nearby and cast one look up the hill, over the tops of the tall fir trees to the Buchanan house, nearly half a mile away. A few lights still glowed in Rex’s castle. The security lamps.

Carefully, I hid my bag under the seat of the pickup and slid behind the steering wheel. My hands were sweaty in the gloves, my hair damp, adrenaline firing my blood.

Everything I’d worked for had come to this.

I imagined the coming explosion. The deadly flames. The intense, hellish flames. And the screams. The final screams that came with imminent, painful death.

Yes!

My skin tingled and I glanced in the rearview mirror to see the glint of excitement in my reflection.
At last
, I thought, conjuring up images of burned, seared flesh, faces twisted in agony, secrets dying with those who had burned.

I licked my lips in anticipation and jammed the truck into gear.

I couldn’t wait.

The woman looked like hell. Leaves and dirt stuck in her hair and skirt, and she looked like she’d been wandering around the woods for weeks. “So, let me get this straight,” T. John said as Sunny sat in his office cradling a cup of herbal-friggin’ tea and waiting for the meal the detective had ordered for her. “You started the fire to contact me. And that’s why you lit the other little campfires we’ve found in the woods.”

“Yes.” She sipped from her cup and looked as if she might pass out. She’d refused medical treatment despite the burns on her legs.

“Next time use a phone. AT&T is a lot safer than a forest fire.”

She wasn’t going to listen to a lecture, he could see it in her eyes. She was babbling again, half in some kind of Native American tongue, the rest in English. What he could make from it was that she was afraid.

“He’ll be hurt, maybe even killed,” she said, her voice shaking, her dark eyes scored with pain.

“Who? Your son.”

“Both of them! Buddy and Brig.”

“Now, wait a minute, I thought you understood that Brig was already dead,” he said and knew he was going to have to call the doctors over at her hospital and have her committed again. She was completely out of touch with reality and though she didn’t seem in pain, her legs looked like hell. She dropped her cup, the hot tea spilled on her lap and she didn’t seem to notice, just closed her eyes and rocked back and forth as if in some kind of trance. It gave T. John the willies. He reached for his smokes. He’d seen a lot of charlatans in his time. Fakes who bilked people out of their money by saying they were psychics, but only a few had been clairvoyant and those guys were scary—damned scary. He didn’t like the thought of anyone seeing into his damned future. Sunny might just be one of those. Or she was nuts—certifiably crazy.

The high-pitched chanting was more than he could take. He lit up and felt the smoke curl comfortingly in his lungs.

A knock on the door announced the arrival of food from the deli next door, ham sandwiches and potato chips, but Sunny didn’t appear to notice, just kept chanting. Brig’s name and Buddy’s name kept coming up. Over and over again. But never Chase. Never once Chase.

“What’s this?” Gonzales asked, staring at her.

“She’s out of it. Thinks there’s big trouble for her sons, but get this, she’s not worried about Chase. Just Buddy and Brig.”

“I thought Brig was Baldwin.”

“He was.” T. John picked up half a sandwich and took a bite, but he barely tasted the ham, mustard or onions because his mind was turning, like stripped gears running faster and faster. For the first time he understood. “Hell!” He felt a shiver, as if an icy finger had slid down his spine. “You don’t think we gave the wrong McKenzie brother a death certificate, do you?”

“What? Are you crazy?” Gonzales said, but then stared at the old woman.

T. John was on his feet. “Have Doris come in and stay with her and we’ll go chat with McKenzie.”

The chanting stopped. “I’m coming with you.” Sunny was instantly as lucid as he was. Hell, was the whole psychic mumbo jumbo chanting thing some kind of an act?

“No way.”

“These are my sons we’re talking about, Detective.
My
sons. Their lives are in danger and I’m coming with you. Now, let’s not waste any more time.” She grabbed her damned cane and stuffed a whole sandwich into her pocket before she headed through the door. In the hallway, she stopped short. “Oh, God,” she whispered, leaning heavily against the wall. “It’s…it’s too late.” She stared blankly ahead and her face was twisted in horror. “Oh no, no, no! Brig! Brig!” She began screaming wildly and T. John called for help. “Get her to the hospital, pronto,” he yelled as Officer Doris Rawlings hurried from her desk.

“No! Oh, God no! They’re burning.
Burning!
” She was sobbing and screaming hysterically. T. John felt as if pure evil had oozed into the room.

“Take care of her!” he ordered Doris as he pointed at Sunny. “We’re going out to Chase McKenzie’s. Might need a backup. I’ll call.”

“Gotcha.” Doris approached Sunny, who was wailing, scratching at the walls and herself as if she were in physical pain.

“Death…he’s going to die. My baby is going to die!”

T. John left her and ran down the hall. His boots rang loudly and he was already breathing hard, his usually tough as old leather insides turning to water. God, she was creepy with all that singsong nonsense, burnt dress, silver hair and eyes as horrified as if she’d seen the very devil himself. T. John Wilson was as scared as he’d ever been in his life. Flinging open the door, he headed for his cruiser with Gonzales on his heels. He caught the first plaintive scream of a siren.

“Shit, man, the fire engines!” Gonzales said, and T. John heard it then, the low honk of horns, rumble of engines, scream of tires and as he looked to the east, toward the mountains, he saw a glow of orange light in the darkness.

“Get in!” he barked and started the engine, throwing the car into reverse before Gonzales even shut his door. With a sinking feeling, he wheeled out of the lot, the cruiser’s siren howling, its lights flashing.

No doubt Sunny was right. He was already too late.

Creeping between the bushes, aided only by moonlight, I set the timer on the detonator, then slunk back to the lake. Chase Buchanan’s house was about to be history. I looked around the grounds, so perfectly manicured, and that stupid man-made lake that he’d dug shimmered in the moonlight.

From beneath a fir tree I gazed over the entire compound…the house, stable, farm, garage, tended acres as well as the lake, as if he deserved all of this, as if by marrying Cassidy Buchanan he could become a rightful heir, a pretender to the throne.

Well, he got his, didn’t he, just as Angie had. I smiled when I thought of that fire and Angie’s terror and Jed’s; the blowhard deserved his fate. As had Chase McKenzie…and now Brig and Cassidy. I’d even taken care of the stupid dog.

In a few minutes’ time…but it wasn’t enough for me to drive away as the explosion rocked through this fake, sorry little estate. I wanted to see. To watch.

Why not start now?

The grass was summer dry…

Smiling to myself, I took out my lighter and, as the wind picked up, flicked it. A tiny flame shot upward and I bent down, touching it to the white blades of grass near the lake, seeing that the flames, blocked by the water, would creep, crackle and grow toward the house.

Pushed by a west-blowing breeze, they spread hungrily over the ground, heading toward the house.

Toward Brig.

Toward Cassidy.

Cassidy’s heart was heavy. She’d left Brig in bed. Asleep. With only a quick note of explanation. She’d kissed his temple, then tried to say good-bye to Ruskin, but the dog had wandered off. Strange—he’d always stuck around before, lying on the porch near the front door. It bothered her a little, but she really didn’t know what his nocturnal habits were yet.

She drove by instinct, not really knowing where she was going, just that she had to get away. The ring on her finger seemed to wink in the darkness, mocking her. “Oh, Chase,” she whispered, feeling every bit the betrayer. She’d cared for him, yes, and been faithful to him but she’d never loved him, not like she loved Brig. “Fool.” Her fingers tightened over the wheel and she turned toward town. Toward Prosperity.

Why are you leaving? Brig’s the man you always wanted and now he’s yours. He loves you. He said he loves you. Why are you leaving?

“Because I have to. I’m Chase’s wife.”

Not anymore. Chase is dead. You didn’t kill him. Brig didn’t kill him. It just happened. You love Brig! Why the hell are you leaving?

“I have to.” She looked in the rearview mirror, saw her own eyes and eased up on the gas pedal.

You’re leaving because you’re scared, Cassidy Buchanan. Scared of loving too much, scared of admitting that Brig has always owned your heart, scared of a future that you’ve never dared dream about. Face it, Cass, you’re a chicken-shit!

“Oh, God!” She stood on the brakes and the Jeep swerved, tires skidding and screeching sideways over the center line. With a shudder the rig stopped and she looked into the rearview mirror again, staring into her own eyes.
You’ve never run away from a fight in your life, Cassidy McKenzie, and you’re not going to start now.

She loved Brig. He loved her. Nothing should come between them. Whatever fate threw their way, however they felt about Chase’s death, they could deal with it. Resolve the past. Face the future. Together! Joy touched her heart, then held on tight. She’d get back before he opened an eye, and when he did, when dawn shone on their faces, she’d tell him how much she loved him. And then she’d show him.

Cranking on the wheel, she rammed her foot hard on the accelerator. With a lurch, the Jeep turned back toward her house, and that’s when she noticed it, the orange glimmer on the horizon, the sickening golden light that shouldn’t exist at this time of night.

Her heart froze and her breathing stopped for a second. No! It couldn’t be! “Please God no.”

She knew in her heart that something was horribly wrong, but she wouldn’t believe that another fire was burning, raging at her house…oh, God, please not Brig!

“Get out of bed, you bastard.” The click of a rifle being cocked filled the stillness of the room.

Cassidy? Where was Cassidy?

Brig lifted his head, and fear curled like a fist in his gut. He was staring down the barrel of a high-powered rifle, and Derrick Buchanan was at the other end, his finger curled over the trigger. “I should’ve done this a long time ago.”

“What are you talking about?” All of Brig’s senses snapped to life. The room was warm but cold fear slid down his spine, and all he could see was the rifle pointed at his head. But Cassidy wasn’t with him. Thank God. Unless…unless Derrick had already found her.

“Put your pants on, McKenzie,” Derrick spat, his face twisted in a hatred so intense that Brig recoiled. His mouth was dry as sand and he could barely breathe and the room, though dark with the curtains drawn, seemed brighter than it should be. Hotter. Smelling of fear. Where was the dog? Slowly, so as not to disturb Cassidy’s brother, Brig stepped into his jeans, but stayed on the balls of his feet, ready to move if he had to.

“Where’s Cassidy?” he demanded.

Derrick lifted a shoulder. “Never could keep track of your women, could you?”

“She was here.” She had to be safe. She had to. The burning fear increased.

“Well, she isn’t anymore. Her Jeep’s gone. Shit, loverboy, you ain’t got no one to call for help.”

Relief flooded through him. If Cassidy was safe, he didn’t care. Nothing else mattered and he didn’t think Derrick was lying, not now. He was too focused on his hatred of Brig and would have loved to make Brig think he’d already harmed her.

“And as for that dog of yours, he must’ve found himself some rat poison or taken off with Cassidy, ’cause he’s not around. Lucky for me. I hate mongrels. Especially half-breeds.”

His eyes turned dark, and Brig felt his muscles tense. He wanted to grab the gun and ram the barrel against Derrick’s throat and strangle the bastard, but it was a no-win situation; Derrick would blow him away first, so he held back, thinking, trying to buy himself some time.

Cocking his head toward the door, Derrick, sweating, snarled, “How’s it feel, screwing both my sisters?” His eyes were slits, and a black, deadly fury radiated from him.

“What?”

Derrick waved the gun toward the doorway, and Brig got the message. He understood that he was supposed to lead Derrick out of the bedroom. Heart pumping, adrenaline spurting through his veins, he entered the hall.

“Why don’t you tell me who’s better—Angie or Cassidy? I always wondered. Never had a piece of Cassidy myself.”

“Shut up!”

“You’re not giving orders, McKenzie.” The end of the rifle, cold steel against warm skin, pressed into his bare torso, reminding him who was in charge.

Brig’s mind was whirling. There wasn’t a sign of Cassidy except for the note that was propped on the nightstand. The note Derrick hadn’t seen. So maybe Derrick was telling the truth and she was safe. Sending up a prayer to a God he hadn’t believed in for years, Brig hoped that Cassidy had decided to take off and was far away.

“Move it!”

Hands over his head, he walked barefoot along the corridor. The floor, usually cool, was warm. He heard horses neighing as if in fear. Something was wrong, out of sync. More than Derrick’s rifle…“What’s this all about?”

“I know who you are, Brig. Well, Felicity figured it out, really.”

Brig’s bones turned to ice, but still he was sweating, and he saw the first flickering shadows of orange light beyond the drawn curtains.

“She thinks that we should wait for the police, let them arrest you for Angie and Jed’s murder, but I’m not sure that would be such a good idea.”

“Because you set the fire that killed Angie?”
Fire!
That was it! Oh, Christ, another fire! Derrick had already lit another blaze—outside the house. So what was he doing inside?

“Hell, no. I didn’t kill her. Believe it or not, McKenzie, you’ll be my first, and I gotta tell you, I’m lookin’ forward to it.” The barrel of the gun slammed into his bare back and Brig stumbled slightly before catching his balance. “I’d never do anything to hurt Angie. Even if she was ballin’ every boy in town.”

“Including you?”

“She was mine, damn it!” Derrick’s voice was rough. “Mine. We lost our mother, got shut away from our father when he married that bitch Dena. Angie and me. We were a couple.”

Smoke curled through an open window, but Derrick didn’t seem to notice. Brig coughed.

“What about you and Felicity?”

Again the gun prodded into his back. Brig was sweating now. It was so damned hot. Heat seared in through the windows, and as they rounded a corner and faced the back of the house, he saw it—in all its crackling, satanic fury. Angry flames whipped by the wind, racing through the grass near the lake, charring the bark of the old walnut tree, creeping steadily forward toward the house and the stable. “What the devil are you trying to pull, Buchanan?” he said, trying to sound calm, when inside he was panicking. “Call the fire department.”