Final Scream

by Lisa Jackson

  “Chief Lents—what do you think started the fire?” a reporter yelled above the noise of the firemen and crowd.

  “Too early to tell.” His face was smudged and dirty, his yellow rubber coat slick from the rain.

  “Arson?” another reporter asked.

  “I just told you it’s too early to tell. Now back off.” He turned, yelling at one of his men. “Garrison, move that pickup out of the way. Get the number four truck closer—”

  “Anyone in the building?” A female reporter asked.

  “Not that we know. We couldn’t get in before. Hell, that old tinderbox went up like a book of matches. But we’re checking now.”

  “What caused the explosion?”

  The chief’s attention wasn’t on the reporter. “I said move that damned pickup!” he barked. “Holy Christ, this ain’t a picnic!”

  Another fireman talked to the owner of the truck blocking an alley, and slowly the pickup backed up through the crowd.

  “Does Rex Buchanan know that his building went up in flames?”

  “We’ve gotten word to him.”

  Someone near Cassidy snorted an envious little laugh. “I bet they found him three sheets to the wind at Judge Caldwell’s place.”

  Cassidy took a step backward, so that the two men couldn’t see her face.

  “One building more or less isn’t going to matter to him,” a shorter man said.

  “What does he care anyway? He owns half the town already, and this old building is probably worth more in insurance money.”

  Someone near the first man, a woman in a faded chenille bathrobe with curlers lodged in her hair, nodded sagely. “If there’s a way to turn a buck on this, Rex Buchanan will find it.”

  Cassidy inched her way from the gossips, shouldering her way between people, but she continued to stare at the building, now reduced to smoldering rubble that steamed angrily in the rain.

  Three monstrous hoses still sprayed the black remains and ashes.

  One reporter pushed forward, nearly tripping over Cassidy. “Say, Chief, you mind if we get a little closer—”

  “Listen, if you’d just back up, I’ll have a full statement for you in a couple of hours. But now, just let us get our job done here, okay?”

  Two firefighters kicked in the charred door and stepped into what was left of the blackened interior.

  “God, what a mess,” the chief said, tossing his cigarette into a puddle. “We’re lucky it started raining and the wind turned.”

  A reporter scribbled and said something into his tape recorder. Onlookers shifted, but didn’t leave, still talking to neighbors and fascinated by the now-dead inferno.

  “Hey!” One of the firemen was yelling from inside the blackened building. His voice was harsh. Studded with disbelief. “Hey—we’re gonna need some help in here!”

  “Oh, hell—” The chief headed toward the door. “Blackman and Peters, you two go find out what’s going on—”

  “Christ, did I ask for some help? Pronto! Get the EMTs and an ambulance!”

  No!

  All eyes turned to him, and Cassidy nearly screamed as the fireman appeared carrying a blackened body. Her stomach turned over and she had to fight the bile that rose in her throat.

  “Holy shit—” someone whispered. “Get the paramedics. Now!”

  Cassidy trembled all over. An ambulance and all the paramedics in the world wouldn’t help. “No!” she cried, a cacophony of noise roaring in her ears. “God, no!” The woman was dead, unrecognizable, her skin burned to the color of coal, and yet Cassidy knew, without a second’s doubt, that she was staring into the sightless, dead eyes of her half sister. Angie! Oh, no!

  “Hey, we got another one!”

  Cassidy’s knees buckled and she turned away, refusing to look.

  “It’s a man!”

  Her throat swollen, tears burning her eyes, she ran, faster and faster, her feet slipping on the wet pavement, her vision blurred. Choking sobs burned her throat and people stopped to stare at her, but she didn’t care, couldn’t think, wouldn’t believe that she’d not only lost her sister, but Brig as well.

  “Please, God, no! Don’t let him be dead, too. And Angie…Oh, Angie!” She wanted to fling herself down on the wet street and pound her fist on the ground and rail at God for this horror. She wanted to roll into a ball and cry and cry until she had no more tears. She wanted to scream and rant, to hit anything and everything, and still she ran, rounding the corner to spy Remmington, still tied to the post, his eyes wide with fear as he tossed his head and snorted, pawing at the street and pulling back against his tether. “Shhh…it’s okay,” she said, then heard her own lies. “Oh…no…no…” she whispered, untying the reins, her fingers fumbling, her mind whirling in painful circles—memories of growing up with Angie, how she’d looked up to her sister and been jealous of her.

  And Brig…she could still feel his skin against hers, the taste of his mouth on her lips, the way he’d felt as he’d come to her.

  And then he’d been with Angie. She was sobbing now, throwing herself upon Remmington’s powerful back, letting the rain wash the tears down her face. She had to get away. From the town. From the fire. From the truth.

  In furious agony, tears running from her eyes, she dug her heels into the colt’s sweaty sides, held on for all she was worth and sent the horse racing blindly through the night.

  Eighteen

  “Where’ve you been?” Dena’s voice was filled with accusations when Cassidy, filthy and wet, made her way into the house.

  “Out riding,” she said, then noticed the pasty pallor of her mother’s face. Instead of the lecture she’d been expecting, Dena grabbed her daughter and began to sob. Mindless of the fact that she was ruining her silk dress, she held Cassidy’s grimy body close.

  “Thank God you’re safe. There was a fire—”

  “I know.”

  Dena clung to her. “Two bodies were discovered.”

  Cassidy closed her eyes, refused to think of the charred remains that the fireman had carried from the gristmill. Angie and Brig. Please, don’t let it be.

  “They haven’t identified them yet—a man and a woman, but Angie’s missing and Derrick, and oh, my God, Cassidy, if they’re dead, I don’t know what we’ll do, what Rex will do.”

  “Angie?” she repeated, her heart icy with dread though she knew the truth. How she’d gotten back to the house she didn’t remember. She’d given the horse his head and he’d turned homeward, but the ride passed without her knowing where she was, what she was doing. All at once she’d ended up in the lane…She didn’t even remember dismounting…Oh, God, please, please, no…

  “Angie’s car was parked just two blocks away,” Dena said brokenly.

  “No.” Cassidy shook her head and started stepping backward, trying to shake the horrid image from her mind, denying what her own eyes had seen. “It’s not Angie. It’s not.” She was shaking, her teeth chattering, fear clutching her heart in its terrifying grip. If she said it over and over again, if she could convince herself that Angie was alive, then maybe she’d wake up from this agonizing nightmare and—

  “I hope you’re right.” Dena shoved trembling fingers through her hair. “Your father, he’s with the police right now and…Derrick—” Dena’s voice cracked and she blinked against tears. Mascara ran down her face, trailing black lines across the hills of her cheeks.

  Cassidy remembered her brother’s face, twisted in rage, hatred gleaming in his eyes, a deadly weapon in his hands. Out for blood. “I can’t…” Cassidy’s voice barely worked. “I won’t believe it. Derrick and Angie. They’ll come home. They have to.” And Brig. He has to be alive. They all have to be alive.

  Dena let out a pitiful little moan. “Oh, baby, I wish.”

  “They’re all right!” Cassidy nearly screamed, refusing to believe the horror she’d witnessed with her very own eyes. But Brig’s words haunted her. He’d been looking for Angie tonight; she’d wanted to meet with him even
though they’d been together at the Caldwells’ barbecue.

  “Just pray it isn’t true.” Dena sniffed, her shattered composure slowly disappearing. “I’m just thankful you’re alive. So thankful. Now, come on in and…clean up. I’ll make some tea and coffee and cocoa, or maybe you should just go to bed…Oh, God, where’s Rex? He’s been gone for over an hour, and it really shouldn’t take that long with the police.” She began crying again, muttering something about this being her fault. Cassidy, fear congealing her insides, led her mother to the stairs. “I need a cigarette.” Dena searched the hallway for her purse.

  At that moment beams from headlights splashed through the windows and Cassidy saw cars, three of them, rolling down the lane—looking for all the world like a funeral procession. This was it. Cassidy’s throat burned, the stench of smoke still clung to her and she began to shake violently. A police car was first, followed by Rex Buchanan’s Lincoln and Judge Caldwell’s Mercedes.

  Stomach churning, Cassidy opened the door and walked on numb legs to the front porch. Dena clutched her arm. “Oh, God, no. Please, no,” Dena whispered.

  Cassidy watched in despair as her father climbed unsteadily from the passenger side of his car. His face was ashen, his hair matted by the rain, and the stoop of his broad shoulders foretold the pain in his heart.

  Dena let out a mewl of protest.

  Bile rose in Cassidy’s throat, and she barely felt pain when her mother gripped her injured wrist fiercely.

  With The Judge and Sheriff Dodds as support, Rex walked slowly to the front door. Before he could say a word, Derrick’s truck screamed down the lane, squealing to a stop in the yard. Derrick hurled himself from the cab. Nostrils flared in outrage, wet hair plastered to his head, he strode toward the house.

  “I’ll break his fuckin’ neck!” He was still carrying his shotgun and his shirt was ripped, his hands and arms black with soot, his eyes slitted in pure hatred. “I swear to God I’ll kill him!”

  “What—?” Dena asked her husband. “Not Angie—”

  Rex’s eyes squeezed together so tightly that he swayed and Cassidy was certain he would pass out.

  “No, Dad, it can’t be,” she said, not wanting to hear, refusing to believe the death she saw in her father’s eyes, unable to accept what she, herself had witnessed. “No—”

  “Go upstairs, Cassidy,” he said.

  “But Angie—”

  Tears pooled in her father’s eyes. “She’s with her mother now.”

  Derrick let out an agonized howl of disbelief. In his pain, he aimed his shotgun at the cloud-blotted moon. Crack! The gun went off. Buckshot sprayed the yard.

  “Drop it, son,” The Judge insisted, crossing the lawn swiftly, his hand extended toward the weapon.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Derrick,” his father reprimanded, his voice barely audible over the wind. “Come inside.”

  “Like hell! She’s dead, Dad, dead and that McKenzie bastard killed her!”

  “Stop it, son. Do as your father says,” The Judge insisted.

  Again the shotgun blasted, firing buckshot to the heavens. Derrick dropped to his knees and began to sob brokenly.

  Cassidy couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

  Dena wrapped her arms around her husband, holding him close, as if afraid he might disintegrate. “It’s all right,” she whispered aimlessly. “Somehow it’ll be all right and we’ll get through this.”

  Rex Buchanan staggered and his wife helped him up. The Judge managed to convince Derrick to come into the house, and the sheriff, a big man with red hair and a bulbous nose, looked stern.

  “Can’t you come back later?” The Judge asked as they all settled into the den.

  “Sorry. This has got to be taken care of.”

  “But Doc Williams is coming by and he’ll probably give Rex a sedative…”

  “Then we’d best get this over with. Look, Judge, I know you’re just trying to be kind, but I got a job to do. Three people are dead, if you count the baby and—”

  “Baby?” Dena’s head snapped up.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Buchanan. The coroner’s report is preliminary, of course, but it looks like your stepdaughter was a couple of months pregnant.”

  “No—”

  Rex fell into his favorite recliner and buried his face in his hands. “Angie,” he whispered, over and over again. “Angie, Angie. My baby.”

  Cassidy leaned heavily against the doorjamb. Her knees felt like water, and she had the urge to throw up at the thought of Angie being dead, never laughing again, never flirting outrageously, never commenting on Cassidy’s sorry taste in clothing, never pleading with her to braid her hair…Tears tracked silently down her cheeks. Angie had been pregnant; no wonder she’d seemed so depressed at times. Nausea roiled up from Cassidy’s stomach. No one needed to tell her who the baby’s father was. It had to be Brig, just as he had to be the man with her at the time of the fire.

  No! her mind screamed, and she bit her tongue not to let out the sound.

  “We’re not certain who the man with her was, but we’ve got a couple of leads. Bobby Alonzo and Jed Baker are missing, as is Brig McKenzie.”

  Cassidy’s heart jolted.

  “McKenzie?” Dena repeated.

  “Yeah, his bike’s down there, parked near to Angie’s car.”

  “No!” Cassidy shouted, and every eye in the room turned on her.

  “Why not?” the sheriff asked.

  “Because…because…he was here earlier and he couldn’t have had time to get to the mill and…”

  “What the fuck was he doing here?” Derrick yelled. He stormed across the room to tower over Cassidy. “What?”

  “He—he was looking for Angie.”

  “That goddamned prick.”

  “Stop it!” the sheriff commanded. “Then he couldn’t have got to the mill in time.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, hardly daring to breathe, hoping beyond hope that she was right, that he wasn’t dead, that he and Angie hadn’t been in that horrid inferno.

  “It’s all crap—a pile of smelly, disgusting crap!” Derrick said, striding to the bar and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Grime and soot covered him from head to foot. “I shoulda killed him when I had the chance.”

  “Derrick!” Rex’s raspy voice commanded everyone’s attention. “I don’t want to hear any nonsense.”

  “Chances are he’s dead already,” Sheriff Dodds said. “His mother was down there chanting and crying and carrying on, claiming that she saw this fire in some sort of vision. You know how it is with her—half the time I’m not certain that she shouldn’t be locked up. Anyways, I had someone take her to see Doc Ramsby. He opened the clinic and will probably give her a tranquilizer or something. Her other boy—Chase—he’s with her. The Alonzos and the Bakers are out of their minds with worry.”

  Derrick swore loudly at the sheriff, “Listen, you stupid bastard! You don’t understand. He killed her! He had to have! I saw Jed earlier and he was out for blood. McKenzie had already beat him senseless with a baseball bat. He’s your man, Sheriff, and if you let him slip through your fingers, everyone in town will know it.”

  “Sunny’s boy wouldn’t hurt Angie—” Rex’s voice was broken and lacked any ounce of conviction.

  “He won’t slip through,” the sheriff said, but he didn’t look pleased as Derrick’s words settled into his mind. “I’ve already sent a car to the McKenzie place and I’ve got men posted on all the roads leading out of town.”

  “So you do suspect him?”

  “I don’t know what to think, that’s all. Until this is all straightened out, everyone’s a suspect. Even you.” His eyes narrowed on Derrick.

  “Fine. ’Cause the truth will come out, and when it does, I hope McKenzie hangs by his fuckin’ balls.”

  Dena cringed at the foul language.

  Cassidy couldn’t stand it anymore. The house seemed to close in on her. She eased away from the hallway, where
no one was paying any attention to her anyway, and staggered out the back door. At the bottom of the steps, she couldn’t help herself. She leaned over, retching over and over again, pain throbbing at her temples, denial screaming through her mind.

  She wiped her arm over her mouth and ran to the stable, where she always sought refuge. She’d climb on Remmington’s back and ride and ride and ride until she could go no farther, until all the pain in her heart would somehow drain away.

  Inside the barn, she stumbled, tears blurring her vision, her legs too weak to support her. Her arm had begun to ache, but she didn’t care, the pain in her heart far greater than her wrist. Yanking down the bridle, she reached for the gate.

  “Cassidy?”

  “Brig?” Had she imagined his voice, conjured it up from her disbelieving subconscious. Was she going crazy? “Brig?”

  “Shh. I’m here.” Suddenly he was beside her, his strong arms drawing her close, his face, smelling of ashes and smoke, pressed against hers.

  “You’re alive,” she said, the words barely audible. Tears fell from her eyes. He was safe. Safe! “But how—” It didn’t matter. She clung to him, her fingers digging deep into his flesh, her lips moving urgently over his rain-soaked face. “I thought. Oh, God, I thought…” Then she was sobbing. Deep soul-jarring sobs tore through her.

  Folding her into his arms, he buried his face against her neck. His sinewy muscles surrounded her, and for a second she thought that everything would be all right. Then the weight, the horrible weight of the truth, fell down on her again. “You…you have to leave,” she said. “Angie’s dead.”

  He stiffened. “I know.”

  “And someone died with her.”

  “Baker.”

  “How—?” She swallowed hard and drew away from him. Soot smudged his bruised face, smoke clung to him. “How do you know?”

  “I was there. I saw their cars. But I was too late to save them.”

  She gave a strangled sound of protest.

  “It was like being in hell,” he said, his voice distant.

  “They’ll try to say you did it—” She touched the scrape above his eye, tried to ignore the doubts swirling through her mind.