Final Scream

by Lisa Jackson

  “Don’t I know?” Ada, Bobby’s mother, made a swift sign of the cross and bowed her head, giving Cassidy a bird’s-eye view of the gray roots she tried so vainly to conceal with hair dye. If only all the do-gooders would just go away and quit circling like vultures, showing up at any hour day or night, offering condolences and advice, wearing grief-weary faces, patting Cassidy’s shoulder whenever she was near. As far as she was concerned, they were all fakes. Even Earlene Spears, wife of the minister. Though Rex Buchanan had been a devout Catholic all his life, Earlene seemed to consider it her duty to represent her husband’s church and express her condolences. She’d come by, yesterday, stiff as starch, her lips drawn into a permanent frown as she noticed the flickering candles in the foyer.

  “A shame…such a shame,” she’d said, her eyes pitying, her bony hands fingering the cross suspended from a chain around her neck. “Such a lovely girl. I just hope they find that McKenzie boy. He’s nothing but trouble—always has been even from the time he was a baby. I should know, I tried to take care of his older brothers when he was born…oh, my, I’m rattling on and I just wanted to extend my most sincere condolences from myself and the reverend as well as the congregation…”

  Cassidy hadn’t been able to breathe while she was in the house and now, with Ada and Geraldine whispering in the foyer, she retreated from the banister and moved back into the shadows of the hallway toward her room, where she’d taken refuge ever since the fire. A few of her friends had stopped by, but they’d each beaten a hasty retreat once they’d said they were sorry about Angie and discovered that Cassidy was still shell-shocked and wasn’t good company.

  “Dena,” the two women said in unison as Cassidy’s mother approached from the family room. Mary had probably answered the door—she’d taken over the role of butler as well as cook and housekeeper these days.

  “We’ve been sick with worry.” Ada’s voice. Sincere. Nasal.

  “Yes, is there anything I—we can do? The Judge is beside himself and swears that whoever did this, if he comes before him, will get his. Believe me.”

  “I hope he roasts in hell,” her mother said, and Cassidy felt sick inside. “He’s a bad seed. Always was and Angie—well, God rest her soul.”

  “Felicity can barely function,” Geraldine admitted. “She was so close to Angie and now she’s lost her best friend.” She let out a breathy sigh. “Besides her own grief, she’s got to deal with Derrick.”

  “The poor boy.” Ada again.

  “He’s beside himself these days,” Dena said, obviously not afraid to sound uncharitable about her stepson. “He wants us to hire a private detective, hunt Brig McKenzie down like a dog and string him up. I swear this entire family is falling apart.”

  “How’s Cassidy holding up?” Ada asked.

  “Oh, she’ll be fine. Always—bounces back. She’s torn up about Angie, of course, but just between you and me, it’s a good thing that McKenzie boy is out of our lives. He was starting to show Cassidy some attention—you know how his kind is, always looking for a way to be with decent girls.”

  “His brother, too,” Geraldine agreed.

  “Yes, but Chase is different,” Dena hedged. “He knows his place and works hard. Rex lent that boy money to go to school, and he’s working off the loan. Somehow he managed to get some sense. It’s a pity he’s related to Brig. It’ll always stand in his way.”

  “Will Rex be all right?” Geraldine asked kindly.

  “Who knows? He adored Angie. To tell you the truth, she was his favorite, over his son and other daughter. I just hope that now he realizes how lucky he is to have Cassidy.”

  Ada agreed. “A lovely girl. Maybe I should suggest that Bobby ask her out.”

  “She’d love it,” Dena said and Cassidy shuddered at the thought.

  “They could help each other through this.”

  No way!

  “Yes,” Geraldine said. “Just like Felicity and Derrick.”

  Cassidy imagined her mother smiling. “Now, if I could just convince Rex to fire that half-wit, Willie. He was there at the fire, you know. Saw the whole thing. But who knows? He and Brig were friendly. I wouldn’t be surprised if Brig put him up to it.”

  “He should be in an institution,” Geraldine agreed.

  Ada added, “With others who are mentally handicapped.”

  “Rex won’t hear of it. Thinks he owes that boy something. Won’t admit that the retardation is as bad as it is. I tell you, there’s no reasoning with that man sometimes. Well, come in and have some iced tea. We don’t have to stand out here in the hall.”

  Insides churning, Cassidy closed the door behind her. A date with Bobby Alonzo? Prearranged by his mother? Fat chance. She kicked off her shoes and flipped on the radio. An old Rolling Stones song warbled through the speakers. Cassidy closed her eyes and listened to Mick Jagger complain about painting something black. She knew how he felt.

  There wasn’t a knock at the door, but she felt the change in atmosphere, the movement of air as the door opened and the curtains billowed at the windows. Turning, she found Derrick in the doorway. “Can I come in?” he whispered. He looked gaunt and strained, as if he’d lost twenty pounds as well as part of his soul.

  Lifting a shoulder, she watched him close the door behind him. “God, I feel awful,” he said, and tears shimmered in his near-dead eyes. “Angie didn’t deserve this.”

  She didn’t answer, afraid her voice would fail her.

  “I loved her, y’know. She was a pain in the butt, but I loved her.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Derrick blinked rapidly. “I—I’m sorry about the other night, with the shotgun. I wouldn’t have hurt you.”

  “I wasn’t worried about myself.”

  He wandered over to the dresser, where he saw a photograph of Cassidy astride Remmington. Picking the snapshot up, he frowned, then glanced at the mirror and met Cassidy’s gaze. “Dad should never have hired McKenzie.” Derrick’s mouth flattened at the mention of Brig. “If he hadn’t, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  His hands clenched suddenly, crushing the photograph. “I can’t believe she’s gone!” He looked up at the ceiling as if searching for answers.

  “Neither can I.”

  He drew in a ragged breath and pinned Cassidy with his watery eyes. “I’ll kill him, you know. If that bastard ever sets foot near Prosperity, I swear I’ll kill him with my bare hands.”

  “Even if he’s innocent?”

  “He’s not, Cassidy,” Derrick said, sniffing loudly. “The bastard’s guilty as hell and someday he’s gonna pay.”

  Twenty

  She felt like a criminal, tying the old mare to a tree in the woods surrounding the sawmill, waiting in the shadows during the shift change. Men, covered in sawdust and dust, were taking off hard hats, lighting cigarettes, laughing and joking as they walked through the chain-linked gates and into the parking lot.

  On the other side of the fence stood a huge sign. It indicated that AUTHORIZED EMPLOYEES ONLY were allowed inside and suggested that A SAFE WORKPLACE IS A HAPPY WORKPLACE. Rigs of every shape and size were scattered across the pockmarked asphalt—Jeeps and trucks and station wagons and sedans. Saws screeched and forklifts with heavy loads of lumber rolled through the huge stacks of raw lumber, milled and planed, ready to be shipped.

  Cassidy watched as the men left, younger ones tearing out of the parking lot in flashy cars, older men with families in dusty, dented trucks.

  The new shift was arriving, and Cassidy spied the pickup she was looking for, an old Dodge that had once been turquoise but now had splotches of gray primer on the fenders and tailgate. Chase McKenzie’s truck.

  He unfolded himself from the cab and stretched the kinks from his back. Her heart began to pound triple-time at the sight of him, so much like Brig and yet so different. Telling herself it was now or never, she waited until most of the men had passed through the gate before she called to him.


  “Chase!”

  Squinting against the lowering sun, he turned. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me—”

  A smile grew against his square jaw. “Cassidy. What’re you doin’ down here—no, don’t tell me, your father wants everyone in your family to know firsthand how to work the green chain.”

  She shook her head and he must’ve noticed the worry in her eyes because his grin slowly faded. “This is about Angie, isn’t it? And Brig.”

  “I—I wondered if you’d heard from him.”

  His eyes darkened to a dusky shade of blue. “Not me, and if Ma has, she’s kept it to herself.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t hide the defeat in her voice and kicked at the gravel with the toe of her boot.

  “I, um, I know that you were…well, interested in him.”

  She glanced up sharply, wondering if he was teasing, but he was serious.

  He hesitated, looked off in the distance, then as if weighing all the options, added, “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “And your mother?”

  “You’ll have to ask her yourself.” He shook his head and looked suddenly world-weary. “But no tellin’ what she’ll say; she’s, uh, she’s not taking this well.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” he said softly. “So am I.”

  She started to turn away, but he grabbed her and strong, work-roughed hands circled her good wrist. The tips of his fingers seemed to press against her pulse.

  “Look, I know this is hard and…and it’s probably not my place to say this, but I’ll do what I can for you and…well, if you ever need anything—I know that sounds silly considering your station and mine, but I’m serious—if you ever need anything, you can count on me.”

  She swallowed hard and gazed into his troubled eyes. “Thanks…I—I won’t. I just want to know about Brig.”

  A shadow passed over his face, and his jaw tightened just a bit. “You got it,” he said, before he released her and jogged across the parking lot, forcing his hardhat onto his head as he passed through the open gate.

  The trailer, having seen better days, was beginning to rust. Cassidy felt an overriding sense of guilt for having grown up in the mansion her father had built for Lucretia while Brig and Chase had lived here, in this run-down old single-wide for all of their lives.

  Heart in her throat, she drove her mother’s sedan along the gravel lane and stopped behind Sunny’s car. The fake cat eyed her with glassy disinterest, and Cassidy tucked the keys in her purse. She’d taken the car without permission, while Dena and Rex were in Portland, because she couldn’t stand the not-knowing any longer. She’d prayed all the way that she wouldn’t be stopped by the police, as she still didn’t have a driver’s license. She’d gotten lucky. So far.

  Nervous sweat collected at the base of her neck, and she waited for a second, until the dust had settled on the windshield. She felt a breath of wind against her back, though the windows were rolled up. Nerves. Just nerves. Gritting her teeth, she knew she couldn’t put off her mission forever and she didn’t have much time; even now her folks might be returning. She forced herself from the car.

  The front step of the McKenzie home was a dusty crate and the rusting metal sign swinging over the door was faded and pockmarked from bullet holes.

  “It’s now or never,” she told herself, raising her fist to pound on the door.

  Before she could knock, Sunny opened the door, her eyes dark and haunted, deep lines of worry guarding her mouth. Her hair seemed to have grayed in the past few weeks.

  “You’re the Buchanan girl.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes, and I wanted to talk to you, to apologize for the way you were treated at my house. I—I’m sorry.”

  The door opened wide. “Your father blames Brig for the fire. For your sister’s death.”

  “No, it’s the sheriff and my brother—” What was the point? She leveled clear eyes at the older woman. “I don’t.”

  A smile flickered on Sunny’s lips. “But your father, he favored your sister and he feels as if a part of him has been ripped from his soul. He needs to blame someone.”

  “I—suppose.” Cassidy felt a chill of premonition as she stared into Sunny’s intense brown eyes. Sunny McKenzie was interesting but a little scary.

  “Come in. Please.”

  Inside, the trailer was as faded as the outside—the linoleum had a path worn through it; the shag carpeting was dull and thin. Cassidy had trouble seeing Brig—so wild and free, a rebellious soul—living here in such cramped quarters. A radio near the sink was playing gospel music. Sunny snapped it off.

  “You want to know about him,” Sunny said, motioning to a plastic chair near the table. “About Brig.”

  “Yes.”

  Sunny’s eyes glistened. “Don’t we all? He hasn’t called, he hasn’t written, and he’s far away. Perhaps dead already. I can’t tell.” Sadness stooped her shoulders.

  “He’s not dead.” Cassidy would never believe that Brig wasn’t alive.

  “I hope you’re right.” Again the sad smile. “But I see great pain for him and”—she shook her head—“and death. Fire and water.”

  “Look, I don’t know about your visions or whatever they are. I just came here because I want to talk to Brig to find out if he’s okay, so if you hear from him—hey!”

  Suddenly Sunny reached forward, grabbing Cassidy’s good hand, clasping it between her callused fingers and closing her eyes. Cassidy wanted to draw away, to pull her arm away, but she didn’t dare move as the dark-eyed woman stared past her shoulder to the middle distance, seeing her own vision.

  Skin crawling, Cassidy bit her lip. This woman was so unlike her sons—so creepy. Outside, the wind began to pick up and the palm-reading sign groaned loudly.

  Cassidy’s heart nearly stopped.

  Sunny sighed.

  “I—I will always believe that Brig is alive,” Cassidy said, finally wrenching her arm away. “He’s alive and fine and will come back to Prosperity and prove that he’s innocent.”

  Tired brown eyes stared up at her. “There is only pain in the future,” Sunny said, seeming suddenly weary. “Pain and death and you, Cassidy Buchanan, you will cause it.”

  “No—” Cassidy said, already reaching for the door. It had been a mistake to come here. For once the sheriff was right; Sunny should be locked up, put away in a mental institution to blabber about her visions to other patients. “Just tell Brig I care about him, that I’d like to know he’s all right, that—”

  “It’s already written. You’ll marry my son.”

  “Marry him?” she repeated, sweating anxiously, her heart pounding. “But he’s gone—you even said you thought he might be dead.” She found the doorknob and yanked hard. A gust of wind shoved the door from her hand and it banged against the wall with a thud.

  “Not Brig.”

  “Wh—what? Not Brig?” The woman was certifiable. Cassidy stumbled down the sorry step and sprinted to her mother’s car, but Sunny’s voice followed after her, like a shadow she couldn’t outrun.

  “Cassidy Buchanan,” it warned above the rising wind, “the man you will marry will be my other son.”

  Oh, God, no! Get me out of here! She fumbled for her keys.

  “Someday, daughter, you will become Chase’s wife.”

  Part II

  1994

  Twenty-one

  The woman was lying. And she was good at it. Damn good.

  Detective T. John Wilson had put in too many years with the Sheriff’s Department not to smell a liar. He’d seen the best the county had to offer—two-bit con men, thugs, snitches and killers—and he recognized a rat when he was facing one.

  This beautiful woman—this beautiful rich woman—was hiding something. Something important. Lying through her gorgeous, white teeth.

  The smell of stale smoke hung heavy in the interrogation room. Pale green walls had turned a grimy shade of gray since the last
paint job before all the budget cuts, but T. John felt comfortable here. At home in the beat-up old chair. He reached into his breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes, remembered he’d quit smoking two months before and reluctantly settled for a piece of Dentyne that he unwrapped slowly, wadded and shoved onto his tongue. The gum wasn’t the same as a good drag on a Camel straight, but it would have to do. For now. Until he gave up his continual battle with his addiction to nicotine and took up the habit again.

  “Let’s go over it one more time,” he suggested as he leaned backward in his chair and crossed a booted leg over his knee. His partner, Steve Gonzales, was propped up against the door frame by one shoulder, his arms folded over his skinny chest, his dark eyes glued to the woman who was at the center of this mess—murder, arson and probably much, much more. Casually, T. John picked up the file and began leafing through it until he came to her statement, the one she’d made without an attorney present just a few hours before. “Your name is—?”

  Her amber eyes blazed in outrage, but he didn’t feel one iota of guilt for putting her through it all again. After all, she’d do it to him if the situation was reversed, and she wouldn’t give an inch—just set her teeth in and hang on. Reporters never let up. Always on the case of the law or the D.A.; it felt good to get a little of his own back.

  “My name is Cassidy McKenzie. But you already know who I am.”

  “Cassidy Buchanan McKenzie.”

  She didn’t bother responding. He shook his head, dropped the file and sighed. Tapping the tips of his fingers together, he glanced at the soundproof tiles in the ceiling, as if wishing God Himself was lurking in the joists and would intervene. “You know, I was hoping you were going to be straight with me.”