Final Scream

by Lisa Jackson

  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.

  Thirty-two

  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.