Final Scream (32 page)

“Need a ride?” His smile was genuine, a slash of white against skin tanned from days in the sun, his hands callused from hours of labor.

“Looks as such.”

“Well, hop in.” He came around to help her and tucked her cane under her legs.

The old Ford—a ’66, Dave had boasted—wheezed and clanked over potholes in the road. Dave muttered something about replacing the drive line someday. He’d gladly taken her all the way to Rex Buchanan’s house, and now she stood here with the sun lowering over the horizon, the last rays gilding the gray stones of the house that looked like it belonged in the English countryside rather than nestled in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains.

She hadn’t been here in years, not since the week of Angie Buchanan’s funeral.

Rex Buchanan was alone in the house. He finished one drink and carried a second upstairs, where he paused at the door of Angie’s room. Biting his lip, he hesitated.

Go on. You’re alone. Who’s going to find out? It’s your house, damn it. All of it
.

Slowly he opened the door and stepped over the threshold. A guilty thought pierced his brain, but he ignored it. Dena had driven into town to visit Chase and run a few errands; she wouldn’t be back for hours. His wife would never know.

The room hadn’t changed in seventeen years—he wouldn’t allow it. Though Dena had insisted it would make a wonderful guest room, Rex had refused. Forever it would belong to Angie. He stared longingly at the picture of Lucretia and their little girl, then set his drink on the nightstand and stretched out on Angie’s bed. The room still smelled of her; he paid the maid a little extra in cash to sprinkle her favorite perfume, which he also bought on the sly, over the bed.

Tears filled his eyes. God, he missed them both. His fingers curled in the bedclothes, and his mind was filled with images of his daughter and his wife. Sometimes the images blurred, their blue eyes, shimmering dark hair, full lips were nearly identical, and even now thinking of Lucretia—he felt an erection begin and he touched himself, imagining her hands, light and feathery, her mouth moist, her breasts—he fought the image for a second, then gave in to it. In his mind’s eye she was always playful and sexy—more like their daughter. He rewrote his own history and gave it a delicious, sensual spin where Lucretia was eager for him, anxious to make love to him, wet and warm and ready, writhing and bucking beneath him.

His hips moved reflexively. Sweat made his skin clammy.

“Rex?” A voice, a soft feminine voice that was good and kind. Lucretia’s voice…

“Rex?”

Again she called. His eyes flew open and he realized where he was. Alone. On Angie’s bed. Half-drunk and humping an imaginary wife—a woman who had been dead for decades. He scrambled off the mattress, hitting the nightstand with his knee.
Crash!
Glass shattered against the floor. Aged Kentucky whiskey splashed onto the wall, the bed, the nightstand.

He was on his knees, trying to right himself, wondering how he could explain himself, when he saw her. “Oh, God,” he whispered, lifting his head. Somehow Sunny had broken into his house, into his private life, and was standing in the doorway. She was plumper than he remembered, her face beginning to sag, her hair gray, but she still had the uncanny ability to see into the darkest reaches of his soul. “What’re you doing here?” he whispered, still kneeling.

“I came to see you.”

“Why?”

She stood proudly in the doorway. “I told Cassidy all about Buddy—who he is and how he’s related to her.”

“Oh, my God, Sunny, why?” he nearly yelled, startled, his hand scraping across the floor. Glass sliced into his palm. “Are you crazy?”

Dark, bold eyes held his. “You, of all people, know how sane I am.”

“But you promised—”

“Cassidy guessed the truth anyway, from what you’d already told her.” She let out a slow breath. “She’s searching, Rex, searching for answers to her life, to her marriage, to the fires. It was time.”

“And Dena,” he said, his lies falling apart one by one. Blood dripped to the floor, mingling with the whiskey and dust motes that collected near the skirt of the bed.

“Dena knew about us.”

“But she doesn’t know that Willie is Buddy.”

“It will be all right, Rex,” Sunny assured him. Leaving her cane at the door, she walked stiffly into the room and gathered tissues from a box on the night table. Taking his hand in hers, she cleaned the jagged wound, deftly plucking shards of glass from the heel of his palm. “I think we’ve lived with lies long enough.” Slowly she lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss into his palm, tasting his blood. A kiss of old passion, of new trust, of reassurance. “Don’t be afraid, Rex,” she said in her soothing voice. She glanced at the rumpled bedcovers, and pain shadowed her eyes before she looked at him again. “It’s going to be all right. But you have to help me…”

“All I’m saying is that it looks bad.” Felicity clasped her gold bracelet over her wrist and surveyed herself in the mirror. The first hint of wrinkles showed near her eyes, and she had to touch up her hair every other week. If the tiny webbing of crow’s-feet got much worse, she’d call a plastic surgeon. She worked hard to keep her body in shape, her face perfect, though she thought it might be a futile battle. Her husband, smelling of brandy and leaning insolently against the doorjamb, barely noticed her anymore.

“I don’t care how it looks,” Derrick grumbled. “I’ve never given a rat’s ass about Chase McKenzie so why should I start pretending now?” He fished into his pocket for his pack of Marlboros and lit up. Smoke curled lazily over his eyes.

“He’s your brother-in-law.”

“My half-brother-in-law or some such crap. The family’s so fucked up I can’t keep it straight.”

“Watch your mouth. Linnie’s just down the hall.”

“You used to like it when I talked dirty.”

“In bed. Whispered, not shouted like a drunken sailor.”

“You knew how I was when you married me. No, I take that back”—he lifted his drink and cigarette in one hand—“when you tricked me into marrying you.”

“I didn’t—”

“Sure you did, Felicity. You didn’t have to get pregnant. Remember? You had before and we took care of it. But not this time, no way, you went running to Daddy.”

“I wanted a baby,” she said, her back stiffening with pride.

“You wanted to be Mrs. Derrick Buchanan.”

“And it worked out, didn’t it? We both love the girls.”

He didn’t respond, and Felicity experienced the dull ache she always felt when it came to her daughters. She loved them both desperately, wildly. They were beautiful, clever, witty and smart enough to know that their father didn’t love them. She tamped down the old pain. Angela had turned bitter toward Derrick, her sarcasm as cutting as his own. With no respect for her father, she had begun disobeying and become outwardly defiant. Just like her aunt and namesake at sixteen. But Belinda—sweet Linnie—still adored Derrick and believed that he loved her. She’d created her own fantasy family, enhanced by Felicity’s lies—and couldn’t understand Angela’s sarcasm. Linnie had a good but fragile heart. One that Derrick was certain to break. “You…you need to show the girls some attention.”

Derrick snorted. “Attention?”

“You know, take them to a movie, or to a play, or just sit down and talk with them, act interested.”

His nostrils flared. “I’m not, okay? And I never will be. I saw the kind of ‘attention’ my father gave to my sister and it made me sick.” He shot a stream of smoke into the direction of the master bath.

“Just because your father was a…”

“Is
, Felicity, he
is
a sicko. A pervert. He’s never gotten over Angie’s death and you know why.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Shit.” He drew on his cigarette hard, then shook his head in a cloud of smoke. “I need a drink.”

“You’ve had enough.”

“So who appointed you my mother—” As soon as he’d said the words, he paled. He rarely mentioned his mother, didn’t allow Felicity to bring up Lucretia’s name.

Felicity grabbed her sweater, a cardigan woven in strands of cream and gold, off the foot of the bed. Her bed. Derrick rarely slept with her anymore. “You’re too drunk to drive and we have to be at the Alonzos’ in ten minutes.”

“I don’t give a shit. Isn’t it enough we live together and work together, do we have to go out to see a bunch of fuckin’ bores? I can’t figure out why you drag me to these stupid little get-togethers.”

“Because they’re necessary,” she snapped back, tired of her husband’s lack of ambition. Both she and Derrick had been born privileged, but she was also fired with a competitive streak that wouldn’t quit. When she saw something she wanted, she put it squarely in her sights and went after it. She’d grown up as the only child of The Judge, and as such, she’d been given anything she wanted. Except for Derrick; she’d had to work to nail him. She’d gotten pregnant once and he’d insisted she have an abortion. Agreeing in order to appease him, thinking that he’d love her more, she’d had the procedure, then regretted it as he’d lost his respect for her. So she’d kept up their affair, gotten pregnant again, and this time insisted he marry her. He still hadn’t respected her, but she’d married him, which had been, at the time, her primary objective.

Now, she still did whatever was necessary, including working a couple of days a week at the office, just to check up on her husband and Chase. God, he was slippery. She also made sure that she and Derrick were included in all the right social circles in Prosperity and Portland. Her father’s connections didn’t hurt.

“Bobby Alonzo’s an asshole.” Derrick dropped his cigarette into his empty drink glass. It sizzled before dying.

“But a banker; his father owns one of the few independent banks in the region.”

“He was also Jed Baker’s best friend.” Derrick left his glass on the bureau.

“Jed’s dead.”

“Yeah, well, tell it to Bobby. He still brings him up. Like he’s some kind of god because he died screwing Angie. Christ I need a drink.”

Felicity’s patience snapped. “You don’t know what they were doing together. We’ve gone over this a dozen times, so what’s gotten into you tonight?”

“Everything. Hell, Chase is going home tomorrow, probably planning to start in with the company again.”

“You could stop him.”

“He’s like a damned freight train once he gets rolling.”

“Buy him out.” She was tired of the argument. Tired of Derrick’s incompetence. Tired of being the one who held things together.

“He won’t sell, at least not to me.” He scratched his jaw and swayed a little as he reached for his jacket. “You know they’ve never found his mother. She just walked out of the hospital on the day the John Doe died, and no one’s seen her since. Weird, isn’t it?”

“That’s nothing new. Sunny McKenzie’s always been weird. Now, come on, we’re late.”

Derrick snorted in disgust, but followed her out of the bedroom they barely shared. Hers had been a hollow victory, Felicity thought as Derrick reached into his pocket and had trouble retrieving his keys. His drinking was worse than ever, and she suspected he was cheating on her again. Oh, if she could only turn back the clock…

But she couldn’t. And she had the girls to think about. And damn it, she loved Derrick Buchanan, loved being his wife. But it would be a helluva lot better if he’d return the favor someday.

Cassidy had forgotten how stubborn Chase could be, how downright bullheaded when his pride was in the way. She parked near the front door of the house, and before the Jeep had completely stopped, Chase threw open the door, propped the rubber tips of his crutches on the asphalt and hauled himself to his feet. He was sweating, his still-discolored face twisted with the effort, but he wouldn’t take her hand, just as he hadn’t let her push him out of the hospital in a wheelchair and just as he hadn’t spoken a word to her in the car.

She made excuses for him. He didn’t like the feeling of not being in power. He was still angry that she’d gone against his wishes and brought his mother to see him and that Sunny had taken off. He was adjusting to the fact that he might limp for the rest of his life. He’d been through incredible trauma, nearly losing his life. And he had a secret, the only one who knew for certain that his brother was dead.

However, she was tired of his attitude. It rankled her. No two ways about it. She tried to be considerate and empathetic, but right now her empathy was running thin. Real thin.

“Let me get the door,” she said as he balanced on his good leg and started for the house.

He didn’t reply and she marched by him, reminding herself that he couldn’t speak well. His jaw would still be wired together for another week, his leg still casted.

She unlocked the front door, threw it open and waited just inside. He passed by her on the way to his den. “I’ll get your bag.”

Again, no response.

Counting silently to ten, she walked back to the Jeep and reminded herself once again that speaking was difficult for him. His face was still swollen and discolored, and a patch covered his bad eye. Fortunately his cornea was nearly healed and soon he’d be able to use both eyes again.

She grabbed the small nylon bag from the backseat, carried it into the house and left it in his room near the back hall. She returned to the den and found him trying to manipulate the phone.

“What’re you doing?”

He didn’t reply.

“Chase—”

“Leave me the hell alone,” he finally said in his raspy, mumbled voice. His single-eyed gaze swung to her and bore into her with such hatred she nearly took a step back. At the sound on the other end of the line he turned his back to her. “Yeah I’d like to order a cab,” he said.

“For the love of God, Chase, don’t—” She walked quickly across the room.

“I live outside of the city—about four miles—” Without thinking she pressed the button on the phone and cut him off.

“What the hell? For Christ’s sake, Cassidy—”

“You’re not going anywhere. Not tonight.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“Why not—I thought you couldn’t wait to get out of the hospital.”

He dropped the receiver and hobbled to the bar. “You know why not.”

“Because we’re supposed to be separated?”

“Amen.” He reached for a bottle of Scotch and fumbled in the cupboard for a tumbler.

“You shouldn’t drink. The pain medication—”

“You’re not my mother now, are you?” he said, ignoring her. “My mother’s missing, remember?” She stiffened. “And you’re certainly not my boss—”

“Chase, please—”

“And the last time I looked, you weren’t Jesus Christ, so I guess you can’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Then leave me alone,” he bit out. “If I remember right, that’s what you wanted.”

“You’re hurt—”

“And you’re making me sick with this charade of concern. Everyone knows it’s a joke, so why don’t you give it up?” Balancing against the wall, he splashed liquor into his tumbler, spilling some onto the glass counter. Picking up his drink, he caught her gaze in the mirror mounted above the sink. “Cheers,” he mocked and tossed back the Scotch.

“What’re you planning to do? Drink yourself to death?”

“Haven’t got a clue.”

She took a step closer to him. “Why are you treating me like this?”

Every muscle stiffened in his body, and he slammed his empty glass down so hard she thought the counter might shatter. “Why do you think?”

“This is about the divorce.”

He glared at her so hard her breath stopped. “Bingo.”

“Chase, if we could just talk this out—”

“We talked. You want out. So go. Walk out the door. I really don’t give a good goddamn.” He turned and poured another drink. The cords in the back of his neck stood out and his hand shook as he held the glass.

“I think it would be best if I stuck around, helped you get back on your feet, made sure that you’re okay.”

“So you could do your duty and salve your conscience? Forget it.” With a flourish, he held his drink up as if he were a king holding a sword in the act of knighting his finest soldier. “I release you. You owe me nothing.”

“You want me to leave?”

“No, Cassidy. The truth of the matter is that I don’t care what you do.” He swayed a little and she took a step toward him, reaching out, before he drew away from her so quickly he stumbled and fell against the wall. “Don’t touch me, Cassidy,” he warned. his voice lowering an octave. “Don’t do me any favors, don’t try to fawn all over me like the loving, dutiful wife, and for God’s sake, don’t touch me.”

With a crash, his crutches hit the floor. Cassidy jumped. Chase grabbed the back of the couch. Half-bent, the muscles of his good arm supporting him, he slowly inched so close to her that she could smell the liquor on his breath. His gaze focused on her with such intensity her throat caught. Was there a fleeting glimmer of passion in his eye, the old fire that had drawn them together, or was it just her imagination? “Let’s get one thing straight, wife,” he said in a harsh, low whisper. “The fire didn’t change anything. You don’t love me and I sure as hell don’t love you, so we’re only going to live through this sham of a marriage until I’m on my feet, my part of the company is sold for the price I want, and you and I can split the sheets forever. Got it?”

Reeling away from her, he seized his crutches, threw them under his arms and jabbed them angrily against the floor. Cassidy’s fingers coiled into fists. Anger and despair filled her heart and yet she knew he was right. They’d already decided to divorce. The fire was only a complication that would slow the process. But she was surprised that he wanted to sell part of the company. For years, work had been his mistress, the buildings, properties and assets of Buchanan Industries his only interest.

Her throat dry, she said, “Listen, Chase. There’s something you should know…something I probably should have told you in the hospital, but I didn’t want to upset you.”

She saw his shoulder muscles flex beneath his shirt but he didn’t turn around to face her. “You’ve found a lover,” he said, defeat edging his words.

“A lover?” If the situation weren’t so tragic, she would have laughed. She forced her fingers to straighten, then pressed her palms together. “I’ve never been with anyone but you.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Not since we married,” she insisted. They’d been over this territory a hundred times. “But whether you believe me or not, it really doesn’t matter at this point. What I think you should know is that your mother told me about Buddy.”

“Buddy?”

“Yes, your brother—well, half brother. Half yours, half mine.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Whirling on his crutches, the veins in his neck standing out, he glared at her with such venom she recoiled.

“Buddy—Willie—is my father’s son. Dad and Sunny had an affair for years.”

“Lies!”

“Sunny said you knew, that you caught them together once.”

“I—I don’t remember,” he said, his throat working. “I can’t believe—”

“Buddy’s alive, Chase! He’s the reason your father left town. It wasn’t because he thought Brig wasn’t his son.” He stiffened, and she added quickly, “I know the rumors, I heard the town gossip for years.”

“Ancient history,” he growled, his fingers grabbing the handles of the crutches in a death grip. “Jesus, I don’t believe we’re having this conversation. What the hell kind of incest are you peddling?”

“Ask Sunny. Ask Rex. It’s true, Chase. Why would I lie?”

“God only knows,” he said, and there was a trace of regret in his words.

“You’re impossible!”

“Try hard to be.”

“Buddy’s your brother!”

“And yours.”

“Yes!”

Beneath the wires, his jaw seemed to clench, and his furious eye bored straight to her soul. A whistle of air passed through his teeth. “Why should I believe you?”

She lifted her hands skyward. “Why would I make it up?”

“I don’t know.” Emotions played across his face. Emotions she couldn’t name. His eye shut for a second, and suddenly he seemed dangerous and volatile and utterly unreachable.

“It’s the truth, Chase, and really, doesn’t it make sense? Didn’t you admit to me that you thought Buddy was probably alive and in some institution? Haven’t you always wondered about him? And Dad’s been so adamant about him keeping a job—”

“Where is he?” he demanded, his voice low, his eye narrowing suspiciously. “Where?”

“He was in jail, but he’s out now.”

“Jail? Why?”

“Because of the fire. He’s the one who found the wallet in the ashes at the sawmill.” He still seemed skeptical. “It’s Willie, Chase. Willie Ventura is Buddy. He’s your brother and he’s my brother and—”

“Enough!” he thundered. “What wallet?”

“The wallet everyone, including the police, is presuming belonged to the John Doe—the man you were meeting that night. How Willie got it, no one knows. He’s staying up at the house with Mom and Dad. Mom called. She’s pretty shaken up about it. About everything.”

“Jesus.”

“But Detective Wilson wants to talk to you. I imagine he’ll be here soon. He’s interrogated Willie already and I don’t know what he found out. I don’t even know if Willie was at the mill that night. But Wilson will. He’ll piece it all together and he’ll expect you to tell him the truth.”

Chase stared at her long and hard, and even though his face had changed—was nearly grotesque—the look was pure male arrogance and reached a feminine part of her she’d hoped no longer existed. She could barely breathe for a second.

“Of course he expects the truth. Why in God’s name would I tell him anything else?”

Dena watched as her husband and Willie climbed out of Rex’s car. Something was wrong; she could tell it in the nervous glances Rex shot at the house as he guided Willie past the planters overflowing with red and white petunias and held open the screen door.

Dena reached for her cigarettes and tried not to grimace as Willie, head hanging like a wounded puppy, hay and dust and God-only-knew what else clinging to his shirt and jeans and shoes, followed Rex inside.

Her gaze fell to the grimy duffel bag in one of Willie’s big hands.

“I’ve decided that it’s time for Willie to move up to the main house,” Rex announced.

Good manners kept her from saying what she thought. She clicked her lighter and lit up.

“We’ve got plenty of room and…well, Dena, I finally told Willie the truth, that his name is really Buddy McKenzie and that I’m his father.”

“His
what?
” She choked on a lungful of smoke and her eyes filled with tears. Certainly she hadn’t heard correctly.

“Willie’s my son.”

“Oh my God.” She glared at the half-wit boy. “But how—why?” She must be dreaming. Surely there was some mistake…

“You remember the accident where Buddy McKenzie nearly drowned. You were working for me then. Lucretia was still alive and—”

“You…and Sunny had a child?” she cut in, trying to make sense of his ramblings. “Buddy is—” Her voice failed her and she thought she might pass out for a second before she leaned heavily against the counter. “Look, Rex, I know this is rough, but I don’t think, I mean, to have him live here, as if…as if…well, it’s just not done. People will talk…my God, what’re you thinking?”

Rex’s expression was stern. “Let me get Willie settled, then we’ll discuss this.”

Willie was blushing, staring at the floor and shifting from one foot to the other. “I don’t want to cause no trouble, Mrs. Buchanan. Really I don’t. Maybe I should just stay down at the stable—”

“Nonsense.” Rex clapped him on the back. “Derrick’s old room has been empty for years.”

Willie cringed and shook his head. “Derrick. He won’t like it none.”

“He’ll get over it,” Rex offered his son a smile as they headed for the back stairs.

Dena smoked anxiously, her mind spinning ahead. She could hear the gossip in town now—starting out as a few lone whispers and growing into a curious rumble. Eyes would be cast in her direction, smiles covered with polite hands, evil eyes twinkling that the Buchanans were finally getting theirs. More scandal. More pain.

Dena had known of Rex’s affair with Sunny McKenzie, realized that it had begun long before Lucretia died and had continued after Rex’s first wife’s death. But she had never understood his fascination with the palm-reading supposed psychic and had hoped once they were married he would give up his mistress. She’d convinced herself that Rex had strayed only because his first wife was a cold-hearted bitch who couldn’t satisfy him, but even after she and Rex had married, he hadn’t stopped seeing Sunny—not for a long, long time, until just before Chase had the good sense to have her committed. The crazy woman had some kind of hold on Rex—some kind of voodoo or black magic. It was spooky.

But she hadn’t suspected that he’d fathered a son—even though rumors had abounded when Brig had been born and Frank had left. Dena hadn’t listened. It was so obvious that Brig had been a McKenzie; he looked so much like his father and older brother…but now…Finally she understood. For years she’d begged Rex to get rid of Willie and had just assumed that his philanthropic nature had made him want to keep the boy. But it had gone deeper than that. Much deeper. Sick inside, she heard footsteps in the rooms overhead. Willie moving in. Willie living with them, eating at the dining-room table, sleeping right down the hall, creeping through the house. She shivered at the thought. The boy wasn’t right. Everyone knew it.

Everyone but Rex
.