Final Scream

by Lisa Jackson

  Probably someone getting to work early, she thought, but there was something furtive in the way the person had moved from the lamplight. As if he’d been looking up at Cassidy and quickly scurried away.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she warned herself. Lately her nerves were stretched thin, her anxiety level at a fever pitch, that was all. No one was sneaking around peering at her, for God’s sake!

  With a snort of disgust, she turned and headed downstairs to her desk. She flipped on the entire main bank of lights, illuminating the shared office space and telling herself to get a grip.

  Back at her desk, she started checking through old files and printing out everything that was available on disk about the fire in the gristmill that had killed Angie and Jed years ago. She closed her mind to the terror her sister and Jed must have felt, to the fact that Brig had said he’d been there, to the mystery of Angie’s pregnancy—Cassidy couldn’t go there if she was to be objective and professional. She had to push her emotions aside and think clearly, use all of her training and reporter instincts.

  She, like the police, couldn’t help thinking that the fire seventeen years earlier and the recent blaze at Buchanan Sawmill were related. The police said the incendiary devices were similar and both properties had been owned by her father…in one fire three lives, counting the baby’s, had been taken; in the other, two men had barely escaped with their lives and one might not make it.

  So if the fires had been intentionally set—for what purpose? She clicked her pen as she thought.

  Chase had refused to give her any information. Why? Was he guilty of something? Covering for someone? Or just didn’t know?

  Having been married to her for so long, he had to realize she wouldn’t just let the matter die. And she hadn’t. She’d decided to do some investigating on her own. She already had detailed records of the first fire; she’d assembled her own personal file shortly after moving back to Prosperity, and now she’d keep a personal record of every shred of evidence, every suspicion, every rumor, every theory that was posed about the blaze at the sawmill.

  She unlocked her file cabinet and pulled out her file on the original fire. It was a thick sheaf of papers, a collection of articles and references to television news stories and her own set of notes…but as she flipped through the yellowed pages, she had the sensation that they weren’t as she’d left them…the pages were out of place. She glanced at the notes she’d clipped to the front flap of the file—the list of all her information—then checked them against the articles in the file. Several were missing.

  “Damn it!” she muttered under her breath. No one else had a key to the cabinet. So why were articles, three of them, missing? Who had taken them? No one, Cassidy. You just misplaced them. Who would want them?

  Was that it? Had she been careless?

  She drummed her fingers on the desk and told herself it didn’t matter. She’d catalogued the stories, could get copies.

  But why were they missing?

  She felt a change in the atmosphere in the office, as if someone had opened a window and let in a rush of cold air. But she was alone. She looked around, saw no one and told herself she was being paranoid, when she heard footsteps in the hallway.

  “Someone there?” she yelled, looking at her watch. It wasn’t even 6 A.M. “Hello?”

  Her pulse was pounding as she pushed back her chair and walked to the hallway, flipping on lights as she did. “Hey? Who’s there?” she said, but heard no response. No more footsteps. No heavy breathing. No fiendish laughter. “Oh, for God’s sake!” she muttered. She was tired and nervous, seeing figures lurking on the street, hearing footsteps, thinking someone had stolen from her files.

  “Get a grip,” she told herself, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched somehow—the same uneasy sensation she’d experienced at the hospital. Sitting down at her desk again, she told herself that her case of nerves was because of Chase. She knew that he was worried and since whoever had intentionally set the fire was still at large…

  Her skin crawled at the thought. She checked over her shoulder and wished some other reporter would come in early, so that she could have some company and chase away this ludicrous case of the creeps.

  Forcing herself, she turned her attention to the most recent fire. What did she know about it?

  Only that Chase had been working late; which wasn’t unusual, especially lately. He was known for his long hours; Derrick had always chided him for not paying enough attention to Cassidy, for “kissing up” to the old man, for being a workaholic.

  Cassidy had always assumed Chase had been alone when he’d been at the office. The mill wasn’t currently running a graveyard shift, and there wasn’t even a night watchman or guard dog on duty. Chase had often told her that he did his best work late at night, alone, when everyone, including his secretary, had left for the day, when the phones didn’t ring and people didn’t stop by his office and interrupt him.

  But this time he’d lied.

  Just as he may have lied in the past.

  She felt betrayed, but tried to keep her objectivity.

  Obviously the other man had been with him. She doodled on a new page of a legal pad she always kept handy and made a big question mark on the lined paper.

  Brig?

  She’d convinced herself that Chase was with his brother, but she had to consider the fire with less emotion and tunnel vision. He could have met with someone else. But who?

  Was the injured man the culprit, or had Chase decided to set fire to the mill? Or was it another, as yet unidentified, person—an employee who had been fired and held a grudge against Buchanan Sawmill, or someone with a personal vendetta? Someone who hated Chase? Or Rex? Or anyone with the last name of Buchanan?

  Tapping the eraser end of her pencil against her notepad, she tried to imagine what had gone on that night. Was the fire arson, or was it attempted murder? That ugly thought ran like an electric current through her mind. Was someone deliberately trying to kill Chase?

  Goose bumps crawled up her arm.

  The door opened and she nearly shot out of her chair before realizing that, for the reporters and secretaries who liked to get to the job a few minutes early, it was time to arrive. She waved to the photographer as he and the receptionist entered together.

  “Come on,” she muttered to herself. This was no time to freak out. She searched through the files, found the newspaper’s copy of the police report, then made a copy for her personal file.

  By the time she returned to her desk, Bill Laszlo was waiting for her. Tall and lean, he looked like he ran the forty miles a week he was so proud of. Lately he’d become an exercise and fat-intake expert, and the twenty-five pounds he’d lost in the last two years were testament to his philosophy.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” he accused.

  “No way. I’ve just been busy.”

  “If you say so.” He didn’t look convinced in his stiff white shirt, black slacks, suspenders and matching tie. “I’ve been assigned to report on the fire and its aftermath.”

  “I know. Saw your byline on the last piece.”

  “I’d like to talk to you,” he said, resting a hip against her desk.

  “I don’t know anything about the fire.”

  He grinned, showing off teeth that were stained by tobacco, though he’d given up smoking at the beginning of his health kick several years ago. “Is that the same as ‘no comment’?”

  “Really, you probably know more than I do.”

  He glanced to the top of her desk, where her notes were visible. “But you’ve been thinking about it.”

  “My husband was nearly killed.”

  “I know. Bummer.” He scratched his jaw, still studying her doodles, and she followed his gaze, noting the question mark as well as Brig’s name. Without an excuse, she shoved the legal pad into a file folder. “You know, I’d like to talk to Chase.”

  “You and every other reporter in this state.”

>   “How about I stop by the hospital this afternoon—”

  “No.” He gave her a wounded look that she wasn’t buying for a second. “Look, Bill, I appreciate that you have a job to do—I probably understand it better than most people—but Chase is still recovering. He can only see members of the immediate family.”

  “And the police?”

  “That goes without saying.” She looked up at him. “So…what do you know about someone getting into my file cabinet.”

  “What do you mean?” Was it her imagination or did a guilty look pass behind his eyes?

  “I mean someone’s been snooping in my files, taking some articles and notes.”

  “You’re the only one who has a key, right?”

  “In theory,” she said, glaring up at him.

  “What?” His hands flew to his chest. “You think I would stoop so low as to break into another reporter’s desk?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “Cassidy…” he cajoled. “Are you sure?”

  “Dead certain.”

  His wounded look disappeared. “Seriously? Then we’ve got a problem.”

  “At least one.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you with that. I have no idea who could have gotten into your things.”

  “Humph.”

  “But I’d still like a word with your husband.”

  She managed an icy smile. “And the answer is still ‘no.’”

  Bill picked up a pencil from her desk and rolled it between his fingers. “You know, Mrs. McKenzie, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you might be hiding something.”

  “Like what?”

  His grin was wicked. “I’m still working on it.”

  “Don’t work too hard. It’s a waste of time.”

  “Just give me some background on Chase, okay?” he insisted.

  “I think the paper already has a file on him.”

  “I know, but I’m not talking about his résumé, for Christ’s sake. Him being a lawyer and coming to work for Buchanan Industries after you were married—that’s just boring junk that everybody knows. I need something a little deeper.”

  “There is nothing more.”

  His lips twitched and he worked the pencil a little more feverishly. “No? What about the John Doe?”

  The knife-edged tone of his voice caught her by surprise. “What about him?”

  “Looks like the police are gonna ID him soon.”

  Her heart nearly stopped. “How?”

  “Seems as if they’re finally getting a break. They found a wallet this morning, though they’re not saying much about it. But my source—”

  “Just who is your source?”

  “Can’t say,” he said, shaking his head. “You know better than to ask.” He gave her a wink that set her already frayed nerves on edge. “But the word is that the man in CCU is going to have a name soon. It’s going to be interesting as hell to find out who he is, don’t you think?” He dropped the pencil on her desk and stood. “Hell, it’ll probably break this case wide open.”

  Why the hell didn’t they die?

  I drove through the dark streets of the town and cursed myself for underestimating them.

  Both men, languishing in the hospital, recovering for Christ’s sake. Rumor had it that Chase was about to be released to his wife and the other guy just kept hanging on, by the proverbial thread.

  I hated it.

  This was not how things were supposed to go.

  But then, I realized, taking a corner and spying a police cruiser hidden behind a laurel hedge, nothing was going as I’d planned.

  They should both be dead by now.

  Buried and forgotten.

  My jaw clenched so hard it ached, and I glanced in the rearview mirror. The police car had pulled up behind me. Crap! My hands tightened over the wheel. If I was pulled over, how would I explain the hospital garb? The surgical gloves on my hands?

  In a panic, I pulled the gloves off with my teeth, first my left hand, then the right, one eye on the speedometer to make certain I didn’t crawl over the speed limit, the other on the cop behind me.

  Should I pull off, pretend that I needed an early cup of coffee at the local coffee shop? But then I’d have to get out of my car and I’d have the scrubs on…no, that wouldn’t work. I could drive to the hospital as planned, but then, if there were any questions later, the cop might remember my truck, maybe even run the plates…

  I began to sweat and I drove toward the county road, hoping this city bastard would get off my ass. Slow…it’s only twenty-five.

  My heart was hammering. He was following me. Laying back, but always there, his overhead lights visible as he passed under the streetlights, his silhouette black and foreboding in the wash of headlights from the car behind him.

  At the sign post near the outskirts of town that upped the speed to forty, I pushed on the gas and the truck accelerated, seeming to leap forward. I checked the mirror. The cop turned off.

  Hallelujah.

  I couldn’t risk another mess-up.

  After a few minutes, I turned onto the county road and pulled a quick U-turn. I’d planned another visit to the hospital and, knowing that Cassidy was busy, figured I wouldn’t be disturbed. I knew the hospital routine and when the shift change occurred.

  I had just enough time.

  Twenty-eight

  Willie didn’t like jail. He’d been in one before—a long time ago—and he hated it. A little afraid of the man in the cell next to him—a big, hulking prisoner with tattoos and whiskers and mean pig-eyes—Willie lay on his bunk, away from the guy and away from the urinal that smelled like pee. He wished Rex would come for him like he always did, and he listened for the tread of shoes on the cement floor, the jangle of keys in a lock, the sound of men’s voices. Why weren’t the officers returning, their expressions regretful as they explained that they were sorry they’d made a mistake in picking up a poor unfortunate like the half-wit. He didn’t even mind the bad names—if he could just get out. Scratching his arm, he tried to fill his mind with images of good things so that he wouldn’t go crazy. He was afraid of going crazy. Crazy people were put in institutions, and institutions were like jail. Like this.

  Where was Rex? He bit his lip and tasted salt. His skin felt dirty and sweaty and he’d do anything to get out of here. Anything. He’d even tell lies. Just to be free. But Rex had told him not to lie or make up stories or say anything to the police. He was supposed to wait and keep his mouth shut. Above all else, he wasn’t supposed to say a word.

  With a clang, a door was unlocked at the far end of the hall. Voices drifted over the sound of footsteps. Willie was on his feet in an instant, standing at the gate, hoping that Rex had come for him. He knew what was expected of him. Rex would scold him like a little boy and Willie would promise that he’d be good again. Then they’d leave. He thought Rex had to pay some money to someone but he didn’t really understand why, and he didn’t care. He just wanted out.

  His fingers curled over the metal bars, and he pressed his face against the grate, feeling the steel press into his cheeks as two men came into view.

  “Well, well, well, looks like someone’s anxious to be let go.” The voice belonged to a man in a leather jacket and jeans—no uniform—but Willie didn’t trust him. He was the same man who had been at the big house asking questions about the fire. Though Willie had been hiding in the shadows of the barn, he’d seen the man as he’d climbed out of his car with the flashing lights. The officer gave him a smile and popped his gum at the same time. No, he couldn’t be trusted.

  The other guy with him was the same skinny man with the hot black eyes and long hair. He’d already been in to see Willie, already tried to pretend that he was Willie’s friend.

  “Heard you took a swing at Marty Fiskus,” the first guy said.

  Willie didn’t answer, was confused. Don’t lie. Don’t lie. They’ll keep you in here if you lie!

  “Marty Fiskus is an asshole.” Thi
s, from the prisoner with the tattoos and stringy hair in the next cell.

  “Stay out of this, Ben,” the skinny officer warned.

  Ben rolled off his grimy mattress, and instinctively Willie shrunk away. He didn’t like fighting, but sometimes when he’d been at Burley’s too long, he got into fights. Ben swaggered to the bars separating his cell from Willie’s. “I want to see my lawyer.”

  “Yeah, well, I want to see the pope and it ain’t happening.”

  “I got rights, Wilson.”

  “Not many, Ben.”

  “When I get out of here—”

  “If, Ben. If.”

  “Call my fuckin’ lawyer.” Ben’s face was suddenly red, his lips curled into a snarl.

  “Pipe down. He’s been called. Isn’t anxious to come and visit with you again. Somethin’ about an unpaid bill. Don’t say as I blame him.” The officer turned his attention back to Willie. “Sorry about that. I’m Detective Wilson, remember me? And this is my partner, Detective Gonzales. We visited you at the Buchanan place, just the day after the fire down at the mill.”

  “I said I want to make a phone call.” Ben wasn’t through. “You pigs have no right to hold me here. When I get hold of my lawyer, you’ll be sorry you fucked with me.”

  “Believe me,” Wilson said, “we’re already sorry.”

  “Bastard!”

  Wilson sighed. “Now, Ben, is that any way to talk to an officer of the law?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. Slowly unwrapping a stick, he added, “You’d better be careful or someone around here might take offense.”

  “Fuck off, Wilson.”

  “Come on, Willie, let’s go somewhere where we don’t have to listen to this filth.” Keys rattled in the lock and the gate swung open. Willie felt as if the metal belts that had been binding his chest were finally loosened. He could almost breathe. But he was still careful. Rex had warned him. Don’t lie. Don’t lie.