Final Scream (44 page)

She was usually comfortable in the building, or any other piece of property bearing the Buchanan name, but this afternoon something wasn’t right. She glanced at her watch and then her husband again. He was sweating and trying his best to seem casual. Something was up.

The trouble involved Chase. As she’d hurried past the open door of Chase’s office, she’d seen him from the corner of her eye and he’d offered her the hint of a smile—his first since the fire—the kind of chilling grin that made her blood run cold.

“You sure there’s nothing I should know about?” She stared through the reception area and down the short hallway to Chase’s open door.

“What is it, Felicity?” Derrick didn’t bother hiding his irritation. “Look, I’m busy. If you’ve got something you want to talk about—”

Felicity dragged her eyes away from Chase’s door and faced her husband. Derrick had the nerve to check his watch as he snapped a lighter to the end of his cigarette. “I wanted to talk to you about Angela.”

“Here? Now? At work?”

“She’s refusing to go to St. Therese’s. Wants to stay here because of that boy she’s been seeing…”

“What boy?”

“Jeremy Cutler. He’s a nobody, just a horny kid who—what the hell is
she
doing here?” Felicity saw Cassidy, along with that other reporter—the tall guy who’d hit on her a couple of times at the athletic club—Bill Laszlo—saunter into Chase’s office.

Derrick was following her gaze. “Cassidy is Chase’s wife. She’s also a Buchanan. She belongs here. As much as you do.”

She turned sharply, pinning her husband with a glare that could cut through steel. “But Laszlo doesn’t. I’m telling you, something’s up. Something big. It has to do with Chase and Brig. And I’m going to find out what it is. You might want to come along since it probably has something to do with the fire.”

“Why would I care?”

She crossed to the door and shut it, then leaned against the cool panels. “We both know that you weren’t home the night of the fire, and I don’t think we want Detective Wilson getting any ideas that you might have been down at the mill.”

“I wasn’t there.” He slipped his lighter into his pants pocket.

“Then where were you, baby, hmm?” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and drumming the fingers of one hand against her forearm. “And where were you when the fire was set at the gristmill the night Angie died? Everyone thinks you were with me. That’s twice that I covered for you.” Holding up two fingers, she tried to keep her rage under control, but years of lying, nights worrying, days praying she could keep her straying husband under control, erupted. Anger seared through her gut and now these problems with Angela…“I’ve never asked you where you were that night seventeen years ago, just gladly lied for you even though I knew you were in love with your sister.”

“My what—?”

“Don’t act so innocent. Don’t you think I know who the father of Angie’s child was?”

“Jesus, Felicity, listen to you! I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Derrick had the decency to look shocked. God, he was good at lies, at deception. Almost as good as she was. But she knew better than to trust him and there wasn’t any time left for pretending. She’d done enough of that to last her a lifetime.

“I saw you with her, you know,” she said, advancing on her husband and keeping him in her cold glare. “I know you were screwing your sister…your own damned sister!”

His face was the color of chalk. “You’re crazy! I never—”

“Save it for someone who’ll believe it, Derrick,” she hissed, afraid that someone might overhear their conversation. “I figured you were the father of her child and so I covered for you on the night she was killed.”

“Oh, Christ, you think that I did it…that I started the fire and murdered her…burned her?” Now she had his full attention. His throat worked and his color had returned. Oh, God, she thought he might actually cry. Well, tough.

“I know it, baby. What I don’t know is why you started the fire at the sawmill a few months ago. Unless you were jealous of Chase because of Cassidy.”

“That’s sick!”

“Are you trying to tell me you haven’t been balling your half sister—or been attracted to her?”

“Where do you get this?” he said, his eyes incredulous, but she saw it then, that little spark of guilt. He’d always been as perverted as his father. She’d thought once Angie was dead that he’d change, but he hadn’t.

“Pull yourself together,” she said, though inside she was dying a thousand deaths. She’d never called him on it before, never felt so threatened. “We’ll deal with this later, but right now I think we’d better find out what your brother-in-law is saying so that we can adjust our stories accordingly.”

“I didn’t—”

“Just shut up! We don’t have time for any more lies!”

Derrick glowered through a cloud of smoke. “Chase doesn’t know anything.”

“I hope you’re right, Derrick. I hope to God that you’re right, but considering your track record, I think I’ll just go down and check.”

Darkness shrouded the forest. Only the thin light from a handful of stars and a sliver of a moon cast any glow on the trickle of water running through the ravine of Lost Dog Creek. Sunny closed her eyes and felt the night close in on her. A breeze riffled her hair, causing trees to sway, branches to dance and stir up the dust of the rocky shore. An owl hooted his lonely song and soft footsteps crept through the forest. Night creatures. Not humans. Not dogs. She’d been careless before, let those kids see her—and the Sheriff’s Department had called in the hounds. So easy to fool.

Her visions were strong, getting more powerful, and she knew that the time had come for the truth, as ugly as it might be. Her sons’ lives depended upon it. She had no other choice. All deception had to end. She felt a tremor deep within the earth and smelled the scent of a distant thunderstorm approaching as she laid the dead twigs and dry leaves in a circle of rocks. Then she reached into the voluminous folds of her skirt and found her matchbook and the front page of yesterday’s edition of the
Times
: ALASKAN INDUSTRIALIST MARSHALL BALDWIN IDENTIFIED AS BRIG MCKENZIE. Grainy black and white pictures of Brig as a boy and Marshall Baldwin surrounded the article that described the fire years ago in parallel to the most recent blaze that took Brig’s life.

But the article was a lie.

Brig was alive.

Chase was dead.

She ached from the inside out, felt the pain of losing her firstborn as if a knife had been thrust into her heart. She let out a long, keening moan that caught on the wind. Chase had been so good to her for so many years.

She swore in her mother’s native tongue that she would wreak her own savage vengeance upon her son’s murderer He would not go unpunished. “Death to you and those you love,” she whispered, as if she could speak to her son’s killer. She pulled out a match. With a scratch and the smell of phosphorous, flame sizzled to life, shifting in the hot air, casting the ground golden as she dropped the match.

Tinder-dry leaves sparked and the flame was born.

The wind rose in the trees, fanning the small fire. Staring at the hungry flames, Sunny reached into her pocket once more. Pulling out her bone-handled knife, she held it aloft to the heavens, then swiftly sliced her own hand, letting drops of blood drizzle from her palm onto the fire, where they sizzled and spat.

Chase would not be forgotten.

She closed her eyes and drew up the vision.

Her three sons stood at a wall of flames, smoke billowing skyward, their bodies bronzed and sweating. They faced the flames, their arms raised to the heavens.

Rain fell from the dark sky and yet the fire continued to rise in the sky, growing and feeding, casting out its evil heat, consuming everything in its wake, and yet her sons didn’t move.

Run!
She tried to yell.
Get away!
Her voice was still.
Save yourselves!

When they didn’t move, she walked forward.
Take me
, she silently cried to the fire.
Take me and leave my boys!

She felt the heat. The flames touching her legs.

Her sons turned to face her.

She gasped.

Buddy’s face was blue, his hair wet, and he staggered, gasping as the rain drenched him, forcing him to the ground, where he flopped like a fish on the land.

She cried out.

Chase’s features were burned off his face, his eyebrows gone, his skin charred, his hair aflame. His body buckled and he fell, the scent of burning flesh filling her nostrils.

Brig, leaning on a crutch, faced her. Then the crutch changed, morphing into a woman, Cassidy Buchanan, who stood beside her husband’s brother, her shoulders holding him up, as if she belonged with him. Brig leaned hard against her.

“You did this!” he yelled at his mother, his voice booming through the heavens. He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You killed my brother!”

Tears fell from Sunny’s eyes. Fell to the flames at her feet.

Fire and water
.

I loved my boys. I would not hurt them. Nor you, son
, she tried to say, but her tongue wouldn’t move, and to her horror, appearing in the smoke and flames was Chase’s killer, a dark shadow on the prowl, a person she recognized, moving silently, determinedly, ever closer to Brig.

Sunny’s heart froze.

The murderer’s face was horrible, lips pulled into a cruel smile, eyes that glittered like a snake’s, features that were the embodiment of evil.

No!
Sunny tried to scream as terror ripped through her soul, but her lips were mute, her tongue unable to form words, and she shuddered with a fear so cold she didn’t realize the flames from her small campfire had caught on the hem of her dress. She dropped to the ground and rolled, her legs burned, her heart heavy.

There was little she could do.

She was considered crazy. A lunatic. A witch.

The police wouldn’t believe her.

Rex would dismiss her notions.

Even Brig would doubt her if she told him the truth.

It seemed that all of her sons were doomed.

“I can’t live a lie.” Cassidy stood in the doorway, her suitcase packed, the keys to her Jeep clutched in fingers that didn’t seem to feel. The news conference had been an ordeal, telling her parents had been worse. All the while she knew that she was lying about Brig. And Chase. Upon learning that Marshall Baldwin was really Brig McKenzie and that Brig was dead, Rex had sworn, Dena had made comments about good riddance to bad news and Cassidy had felt the biggest hypocrite on earth. Since first talking to Laszlo two days before, she’d told more lies than she could count to the police, her family, her peers and her friends.

She needed time to think. Time to put her life back together. Time to grieve for Chase and time to accept Brig as…what? He couldn’t pretend to be her husband forever. Someday, and soon, they would have to come clean and then the truth would be out: she’d been living with her brother-in-law, been his lover, while hiding the fact that her husband was dead.

Life with Brig was far beyond complicated. The future seemed murky—her goals confused. He’d lied to her. Over and over again. He’d used her. Pretended he was her husband. Made love to her.

Angry and hurt, she reached for the handle of the door.

“So you’re really leaving.” Brig’s voice stopped her cold. She turned and found him walking toward her, his limp still noticeable, his jaw set and firm. Clean shaven, with only trace lines of his scars, Brig was rugged and handsome, as strong and unapproachable as the mountains in Alaska where he’d lived in his own private hell for seventeen years.

The phone rang, but they ignored it. More reporters. She laughed at the irony of it. How many times had she been on the other end, fingers crossed, praying that her source would pick up so that she could confirm or deny? It seemed so impersonal now.

“Why?” he asked, motioning to the suitcase in her hand.

“I feel like a prisoner here.”

“With me?”

“With the lies.”

“It won’t be much longer,” he said, his eyes as clear as a summer’s day.

“How do you know?”

His gaze shifted from her face to the corner of her mouth. “I know.”

“Brig—” She caught herself. She’d tried hard to keep referring to him as her husband, rarely by the name
Chase
—that was too deceitful and somehow disrespectful to him—but she was afraid that she would slip. It was so obvious to her that he was Brig, the differences between him and his brother weren’t so much physical as mental, but sooner or later someone would guess the truth.

His jaw worked. His hands opened and closed. His voice, when he spoke, was rough—raw with the internal battle he waged within himself. “I want you to stay.”

The house seemed close and silent. The heat from the day had settled in and his gaze shifted to the pulse at her neck—the same pulse that was pounding through her brain.

No! Living with him, under the same roof, would be impossible. She had to get away. While she still could. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. No one will suspect anything anyway. It was pretty much common knowledge that my marriage to Chase was falling apart. This will look only natural, that I stuck by you until you were healed and then we decided to split up.”

“Except that we’re not married, that part will come out as well.”

“Eventually.”

“Soon.”

She stared into his eyes and wished their lives weren’t so complicated—so wrapped in lies. There was a part of her that still loved him, had always loved him, would probably love him until the day she died, and there was a part of her, a purely female part, that responded to him as a man, in the most primal of ways. That part couldn’t be trusted. Staying with him would be begging for disaster. She had no choice but to leave. “I just need to sort things out.”

“You’ll be back?” He didn’t bother hiding the hope in his voice.

Her heart nearly broke. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

She opened the door, intent on leaving for…where? Her parents’ home? A fleabag of a motel in a big city where she could rethink her life and stare at the ceiling? An old friend’s home in Seattle? Selma’s apartment by the river? One of the houses her father owned on the West Coast? She didn’t know. Because, for the second time in her life, she didn’t belong. Not in Prosperity. Not with Brig. Now without him.

Somewhere in the distance a dog barked loudly, and farther away a siren wailed.

“Good-bye, Brig.” She shouldered open the door, but he caught her arm.

“No!” Whirling her to face him, he held her fast. “Don’t go, Cass.” His throat worked. Emotions from long ago filled his eyes. “I lost you once, I don’t want it to happen again.”

“But—”

“Oh Jesus. Don’t you get it? I love you.”

The words ricocheted through the house and reverberated through her mind.
Love
. How long had she waited to hear him say that he cared? A lifetime. “You don’t even know me,” she whispered.

His fingers clamped down hard. The suitcase tumbled from her hand and thudded against the floor. “I love you as I’ve never loved a woman, as I never could love another. I love you as no man has a right to love a woman.”

“Oh, Brig, you don’t mean—”

The look in his eyes was dark and serious. Determined. “I do, Cass. I mean it. I’ve loved you forever and I’ll never stop.” Pride angled his chin. “Oh, hell—” Yanking her close, he kissed her roughly. Refusing to be denied. His arms surrounded her and dragged her close, and any protest she felt died on her tongue. Firm, sensual lips, filled with purpose, molded over hers. His hard body felt so right, rigid angles and planes pressed unyielding to hers as he backed her against the wall. Their hips fit snugly. Through the denim of his jeans his erection pressed anxiously against her mound. Her breasts were crushed, the air lost in her lungs as his fingers yanked out the band holding her hair away from her face.

Her keys clattered against hardwood, and she wrapped her arms around him. His kiss deepened and the sensual beast deep in the most feminine part of her stirred and awakened, sending out pulses of heat, creating a moist, hot whirlpool between her legs.

It had always been like this between them. Hot. Needful. Lusty.

With a groan, he lifted his head and stared deep into her eyes. His smoky gaze burned to her very soul. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered roughly, his thumb tracing her jaw. “Cass, please, don’t ever leave me.”

“Brig—” She couldn’t think as he kissed her again, over and over again. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, all she could do was feel. Dear God, she was weak where he was concerned. So damned weak.

With a groan, he lifted his head. “Damn it, Cass,” he whispered, “I can’t, I won’t lose you again. Ever.” His fingers curled in her hair, drawing her head back and he brushed his lips against her throat and lower still. She shivered with want as he kissed her between her breasts, on the front of her blouse, leaving a wet impression. She arched closer to him, her body so willing, her mind losing hold fast.

“Stay with me forever.” He lifted her from her feet. Damning herself for her weakness, she clung to him, kissing and touching, exploring and knowing that this time, she was making love to Brig.

With trembling fingers, he stripped her quickly, laid her on the bed she’d shared with Chase and came to her. He kissed her breasts, her navel, her thighs, and she writhed for more, crying out his name, wanting more…so much more. All doubts fled as his fingers played magic upon her skin and she welcomed him—into her bed and into her heart.
This is right
, her body screamed. Giving in to the feel of him, she knew that this night was theirs, but as soon as this one ultimate act of lovemaking was complete, she’d walk out of the door, closing it on this man pretending to be her husband.

“I’ll be back late,” Derrick said. Felicity and the girls were in the family room, watching television—though, from the looks of it, they weren’t too interested in the program. Felicity was studying the newspaper in her lap so intently that a deep furrow marred the space between her perfectly plucked brows. Linnie was on the phone, yakking with a friend as always, and Angela, her black thick-soled boots tucked beneath her long legs, was curled in the corner of the couch and wearing a pouty look that he’d seen too many times before. Alternately glancing at a rerun of
Roseanne
or sending a hate-filled look at her mother, Angela sent out vibes that she’d rather be anywhere other than trapped in the house. She and Felicity weren’t getting along these days, but then no one was. Felicity had been in one bitch of a mood ever since the interview between Bill Laszlo and Chase.

“Where ya goin’?” Angela asked, arching a dark brow that reminded him of her namesake

“To meet with a client.” He shrugged into a jacket and Felicity didn’t bother looking up, just gnawed at her lower lip thoughtfully.

Angela leaned forward, suddenly interested. “How old is this client?”

What kind of a question was that? “Hell, I don’t know,” Derrick replied, patting his pocket to make sure he had his cigarettes.

“What sex?”

“Excuse me?” Derrick said, then caught the mean little glimmer in his daughter’s eyes. So much like Angie.

“Is your client male or female?”

“Last I heard, Oscar Leonetti was decidedly male. I don’t think he’s had an operation to change that.”

“So where’s the meeting?” she asked innocently.

Felicity looked up from the paper she’d been reading and stared at her husband.

Derrick wanted to squirm under his daughter’s calculating stare. “In Portland. At the Heritage Club.”

“I can reach you there?” Felicity asked, and Derrick nodded. The members and staff of the Heritage Club always covered for him—as they did for everyone. If anyone in the family was bold enough to phone him, the staff would call him on his mobile and he’d get back to his wife within fifteen minutes. She’d never suspect a thing.

“Does Lorna work for the Heritage Club?” Angela asked.

Felicity’s face was suddenly pale.

Derrick’s heart jolted.
Don’t panic
. “Don’t know. She could be a waitress or a hostess. They come and go.” How the hell did Angela know about Lorna? Coincidence? He didn’t think so—not if the nasty little gleam in his daughter’s eye could be believed.

“Oh. Well, you might want to look her up, ‘cause she called earlier today. Said she had a package for you.”

“A delivery?” Derrick said, thinking fast. Lorna was getting desperate. And bolder. Calling the house was dangerous, stupidly so.

“Photographic equipment, I think she said.” Angela smiled at her father then tossed her hair from her eyes. She knew what she was doing and it made him sick inside. Somehow his daughter had found out about him.

“I’ll be damned.” Felicity’s eyes closed for a second and she shook her head.

Derrick was in a panic. She knew, too.

“I can’t believe no one else has figured it out.” Felicity’s face was taut, white lines of rage rimming her lips.

“What?” Angela asked, delight etched in her pretty young features. “Figured out what?”

“Nothing.” But Felicity, newspaper in hand, was on her feet and she headed for the den. “I think you should see this,” she said out of the corner of her mouth and Derrick had no choice but to follow. That was the problem with his marriage. Felicity insisted on running the show and she was forever leading him around, nagging and telling him what to do. Calling him spineless. Forcing him to go to boring parties. Inviting friends of her father’s and his over for dinner and a rousing political discussion which he hated. It was as if he had a damned ring in his nose attached to a chain that Felicity could yank at her whim. He thought of Lorna with her big, soft tits. Right now they were a turn-off, and he realized she’d been setting him up for months, offering up her daughter as bait, planning his seduction and videotaping it. And he’d fallen for it.

Felicity closed the door to the den behind her and Derrick waited, knowing the bomb was about to be dropped. Maybe that was for the best. It was time to quit hiding and lying.

“Chase isn’t Chase,” she whispered, her eyes bright.

“What?” Now what was she talking about? Again his heart threatened to give out on him. He rubbed his thumb nervously against his index finger.

“I knew something was wrong,” she said, almost to herself, as if she were plotting again. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I picked up on it right away during that damned interview. Cassidy looked like she’d seen a ghost and Chase…well, he wasn’t himself. Chase is dead. He’s got to be.”

“Hey—wait a minute,” Derrick said, not following her reasoning, but relieved, that for now, she didn’t appear to know his dirty little secret. “You’re talking in circles. What do you mean Chase isn’t Chase?”

“I can’t believe you’re so blind. Everyone’s so damned blind!” Shoving the newspaper under his nose, she said, “See for yourself. Marshall Baldwin might have been an alias for Brig McKenzie, but now he’s got a new one. That bastard is impersonating his brother.”

He was starting to understand. “You think Chase is really Brig?” God, she’d really flipped.

“Yes! Yes! Just look!” She wagged the paper under his nose. “I knew it!” A smug smile crossed her lips. “Damn but it’s good to be vindicated.”

Derrick snatched the newspaper from her outstretched fingers and stared at the pictures in disbelief. Of course there was a resemblance, but it seemed she was making one helluva leap. “How would you know? They looked so much alike.”

“But they weren’t twins, for God’s sake. Sure they looked the same, and their speech patterns and voices were similar, but their
attitude
was different. The way they walked or looked at you or the rest of the world for that matter. At first I thought it was because of the fire—that Chase was talking a little differently because of all the surgery to his face or seeing things in a new perspective because he had a near-death experience that really shook him up, but that didn’t explain the attitude. That cocksure son-of-a-bitching attitude that I’ve noticed lately.