Final Scream

by Lisa Jackson

  “She didn’t—”

  “Oh, Derrick, grow up. Of course she did. She was the last one to see him all those years ago, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And he took off on her horse, her precious Winchester.”

  “Remmington,” Derrick said automatically.

  “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. He’s back. He’s with your sister. And he’s up to no good. That lying piece of white trash is up to no damned good.” She should have still been furious, but she grinned, as if she had a secret.

  For the first time in months, Derrick agreed with his bitch of a wife. He hated Chase McKenzie, true, but Chase was smart enough to know his place. Always scratching and climbing and pursuing the damned American dream, but deep in his heart Chase knew, realized, that there was the inevitable fact of birthright. He could go to the finest schools, become a lawyer, marry a rich man’s daughter, and bullshit his way up the ladder, but there were rungs unavailable to him by virtue of his poor background that included being born to a trampy half-breed mind reader and a flake of a father. But Brig. He was different. The muscles in the back of Derrick’s neck cramped. Brig didn’t know the rules. He didn’t give a shit about the privileges awarded at birth.

  “Do you know what this means?” Felicity said, her eyes gleaming.

  “No—I—”

  “He’s back for only one reason, Derrick. To clear his name.”

  “But he can’t. He killed Angie.” His confidence faltered though he’d said it so often that he almost believed it. Almost. The old jealousy burned through Derrick’s blood. When he thought of Angie and Brig, a hot rage blistered his mind. But Felicity knew something. “Didn’t he?”

  “So all we have to do is turn him in to the police,” she said though he could tell by the way her eyes narrowed she was looking at the problem from all sides. He admired Felicity for her shrewdness. She was a thinker, always considering the big picture and his future—their future. “He is a fugitive, you know.”

  “If he killed Angie.”

  “Not only killed Angie, Derrick, but her baby as well.” The smile fell off her face and her mouth worked.

  “You don’t know—”

  “That the kid could have been yours? Give me some credit, will you? The baby was either Brig McKenzie’s, your father’s, Jed Baker’s or yours.” She frowned because she didn’t have a sure answer. “My guess, because I know you so well, my love, was that the child was yours.”

  “Are you crazy? What the hell are you saying? That Angie slept with Brig—”

  “Yes! She was slumming. For a purpose. I couldn’t figure it out at first, but eventually, I got the picture.”

  “What picture—?” he asked, not really wanting to hear her explanation.

  “She needed a patsy. Someone she could blame. And not someone upstanding and certainly not her own brother or father…” Felicity’s face twisted in an old, painful rage. “She was pregnant and she couldn’t let anyone know, so she had to seduce someone of less than high moral standards, someone whose reputation was already so black no one would believe him if she cried rape.”

  Derrick just stared at her, stunned. “She was setting Brig up, you think.”

  “Oh, she was attracted to Brig, who wouldn’t have been? He was a sexy son of a gun, the sexiest man in this town. He attracted everyone.”

  “Including you?” Derrick asked, not wanting to hear this. For years he’d hated Brig and had thought he was out of his life forever. But he’d always been nearby, teasing the edges of Derrick’s conscience, and when Cassidy had married Brig’s brother, Derrick had seen his old nemesis again. But Chase knew his place and…Shit—Felicity was right. Just recently hadn’t Chase leaped over his desk and tried to beat the living tar out of him when provoked? Derrick had thought it odd at the time. Chase wasn’t known for his temper, at least not in recent years. He always handled things civilly, through words and the courts, his anger honed to do more damage than just the physical. But Brig, he’d always been a hothead, unafraid of jumping in over his head as long as his fists were flying. Cold certainty settled in Derrick’s guts. What the fuck was Brig McKenzie doing back in Prosperity? Felicity was talking again…what was she saying?

  “Attracted to Brig? Me? Only in a purely primal way, and that’s never been enough for me. Remember, darling, I had you. I didn’t mess with Brig McKenzie or Jed Baker or Bobby Alonzo or any of the boys who would have been glad to score with me. Because I was faithful. Always have been, always will be. The daughter of one of the most respected judges in this state!” Her face showed lines of age and despair. “Unlike you, I don’t need to rut like a goddamned animal. You’ve never been true to me.”

  He didn’t argue; there was no point.

  “Anyway,” she went on, fighting tears, “for some reason, Angie was hell-bent on getting laid by Brig. I could never figure out why she was so anxious. Any boy in the county would have gladly humped—”

  “Don’t!” Derrick grabbed her roughly and threw her up against the wall, her head slamming against the plaster. “Don’t talk like that about her!”

  “And don’t you hit me!”

  “You’re belittling Angie and—”

  “For the love of God, Derrick, can’t you face the truth?” Her breath was shaking and she sniffed loudly. “I’m just explaining that Angie needed a man she could name as the father of her baby.” Felicity’s face was red, her eyes bright. “Unless it really was Brig’s.”

  Derrick closed his eyes. He nearly passed out, but he shook his head. “No.”

  “Your father’s?”

  “I—I don’t think so. Much as he wanted her, I think Rex never…I really don’t think he touched her. Ever. Even though he wanted to. He, uh, he…he found other women.” He dropped his arm, and Felicity slumped against the wall.

  “But not you, huh, baby? Tell me the truth, Angie was pregnant with your child, wasn’t she?” she asked in a little voice, a voice hoping that he would deny the truth, even though she seemed certain of it.

  He blinked hard. “Maybe.” His voice was rough. “She was scared. So scared. The baby—well, it might not be right and she didn’t believe in abortion and…”

  Felicity’s jaw trembled and scorn curled her lip. “I thought so!” Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes. “You bastard,” she whispered. “You fucking bastard! You were two-timing me, cheating on me, so that you could ball your own sister!” She recoiled from him as if he were suddenly vile. “The least you could have done was deny it. Blame it on your father! Or blame it on Brig! Blame it on anyone!”

  “I have. For seventeen years,” he said, and then he knew what he had to do. He turned, heard her cry out, but ignored her. With renewed determination he retraced his steps—taking the same path as he had seventeen years before. True, he was in a different house, but the gun closet stood near the back door and he only stopped for shells before unlocking the cabinet and pulling out his favorite rifle—the one that had felled so many bucks and does and fawns.

  “No!” Felicity, following him, saw the Winchester and shook her head. “You can’t—”

  “I’ve got no choice.”

  “Don’t do this, Derrick. I’ve handled it—it’s already taken care of—” She threw herself at him, but he flung her off easily. She was sly but small and he liked that about her, that he could push her around. She hit the wall, but was back on her feet. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  He slid the shells into the chamber, slammed the rifle closed with a loud click.

  “Derrick, please, don’t do anything rash.” She was panicking now and he liked the frantic look that came to her green eyes whenever she was scared—for in those moments he had absolute power over her, over everyone who cringed before him.

  “I’ve had it in for that bastard for years.”

  “But you can’t—think of the girls.” She scrabbled for the gun, but he yanked it away and heard her yelp as one of her acrylic nails rip
ped off.

  “Mommy?” Linnie was suddenly in the hall. Derrick froze. “What’s—Daddy, oh no—”

  “Honey, it’s all right,” Felicity said as Derrick saw his older daughter, the spitting image of his dead sister, round the corner.

  “Oh, my God, what’s going on?” Angela stared at the rifle and her throat worked.

  “Nothing—Daddy’s just a little upset,” Felicity said, sniffing and smoothing her hair. “Come on, Derrick, you’re scaring the girls, put the gun away and—”

  “You mean he beat you. Again.” Angela’s face showed her contempt. “You’re disgusting,” she said to her father, echoing the same words he’d told himself after the first time he’d been with his sister, down by the creek, so intent on feeling her heat surround him that he hadn’t noticed the figure on the other side of the willow fronds—Cassidy? Willie? At the time he hadn’t cared, all he’d wanted to do was lose himself in the seductive moist warmth of Angie. Her big breasts, her tiny waist, her triangular thatch of dark curling hairs at the apex of gorgeously formed legs and eyes so blue and round that when he thrust into her they widened in ecstasy and horror at the forbidden passion of the act. He’d taken her virginity roughly and she’d given it, oh, so sweetly. Even now, thinking about that, when they’d both crossed over the line together, he got hard.

  He’d told himself that it would only happen once, that the vodka he’d stolen from his father’s liquor cabinet had confused him, that he was messed up because he’d seen his mother as she’d died and Angie looked so much like her and was sexy as hell to boot. But he hadn’t been able to stay away and she’d wanted it—hell, she’d practically begged for it, holding him, kissing away his tears, loving him as no other woman had…

  He sniffed and realized that he was crying, deep tears of shame trickling from his eyes. Angie had made a fool of him in the end, flirting with every boy, trying like hell to seduce Brig McKenzie—oh, she threw that in his face often enough. She’d grown tired of Derrick and was looking for new blood and there was this problem with the baby…as soon as she could name someone else as the father, she was going to walk away from him. Leave him. When he loved her, with all of his heart. He couldn’t let her go…couldn’t. She was his.

  “Don’t,” Felicity begged, bringing him sharply back to the here and now. Felicity’s face was already starting to bruise where he’d slammed her up against the wall. “Derrick, it’s all taken care of.” She lifted a hand and glanced at her daughters. “Just don’t.”

  He didn’t hear another word, just curled his fist over the stock of his Winchester. He slammed out of the house, his mind on Brig and how Angie had suddenly fixated on the boy from the wrong side of the tracks, how she’d flirted with him, pranced around in nothing, hoping to seduce the bastard. Hoping to find an escape from her possessive brother.

  Throwing his rifle onto the seat, he climbed into his truck.

  Felicity ran from the house, yelling at him, hanging on by her fingers to his door. “Don’t, Derrick. Please. You don’t have to do anything. He won’t bother you anymore; no one will—”

  He flicked on the ignition, slammed his rig into reverse and tromped on the accelerator. She was flung from the truck, stumbling against the asphalt.

  “Derrick!” she screamed.

  The gears clicked again, tires squealed as he found first and roared past her, so close that she jumped back. Her face was white as the moon overhead, her eyes frantic. But he didn’t give a good goddamn. Not now. Not when McKenzie was finally in his sights. Scowling darkly, intent on doing serious, permanent damage, he reached for his cigarettes and shook one out. He slapped at the lighter and flicked on the radio.

  “…and now, in our continuing tribute to Elvis, one of his chart busters…” the announcer said before the first notes of “Love Me Tender” sifted through the speakers. It was fitting somehow, Derrick thought, as the lighter clicked and he took a long, lung-burning drag from his Marlboro. As Elvis crooned the very song that had been playing when his mother had taken her last breaths, the barrel of his rifle gleamed in the green reflection of the lights from the dash.

  Derrick smoked and thought about the night ahead of him. He’d teach that white-trash prick a thing or two and he’d deal with Lorna the same way. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d run into his half brother, the retard, and scare the shit out of him again.

  Derrick chuckled deep in his throat while tears stood in his eyes. It was time they all learned that no one, no one, fucked with Derrick Buchanan.

  I had to work fast. Things were spinning out of control and that would never do, not after everything I’d worked for, everything I’d planned.

  I drove to the old garage and, after donning surgical gloves, held a flashlight in my mouth and used my key to open the rusted dead bolt. There was a combination lock as well, clipped to old brackets. I dialed the numbers that no one thought I knew, and the old door swung open. The smell of dust, old rubber and oil filled my nostrils as I hurried past the car—once considered a classic—Lucretia’s Thunderbird—the one Rex had never had the heart to sell and had sequestered in this old, unused, hundred-year-old garage, out of Dena’s sight and, apparently, her mind as well. I glanced at the once-gleaming machine in which Lucretia had died and bile climbed up the back of my throat. Lucretia. Just one more beautiful, self-serving bitch.

  The car was covered in a thick layer of dust, and as far as I knew, no one had paid it any attention since the police had released it. The odometer reading was the same as when Lucretia had died, and I wondered if the old Elvis tape was still in the player. Love me tender, my ass.

  I made my way past the old T-Bird and ignored it. I didn’t have time for any ridiculous, maudlin memories, not when everything was falling apart. No, no, not falling apart, I thought desperately. It would be all right. I would make it all right. Didn’t I always?

  At the back of the garage, under what had once been a workbench, I bent down and opened a cupboard. I heard the scrape of tiny claws. Beady eyes caught in the flashlight’s glare, then a scrawny rat scurried out of the cabinet and across the floor to hide beneath the car. “Shit,” I swore, nearly dropping the flashlight, then bit my tongue and counted to ten to calm my jittery nerves.

  The rat was a good sign. It was obviously not used to being disturbed. No one had been here since the last time I’d visited. I was safe. I took a deep breath and went to work.

  Using the thin beam of the flashlight for illumination, I peered past the tools that had been long forgotten in the cupboard. Everything was as I’d left it. Tucked behind a box of ancient wrenches, wrapped in old newspaper, I found the device I’d put together less than a week ago, a simple little bomb with a detonator, timer and short fuse.

  Just like me, I thought. I was self-aware enough to know that I could be mercurial, like the detonator, ready to go off at a second’s notice; I was as patient as the timer, waiting for everything to be set; and I had a short fuse, my temper legendary. But I could control it.

  As I could control everything.

  As I would take care of things tonight.

  I stashed the unassembled bomb in my athletic bag, then walked out of the old garage. Using a broom by the door, I swept away my path, just in case my boots made any impressions in the dust and grit upon the floor.

  Flipping off the flashlight and placing it into the bag, I slunk outside, spent a minute making certain no one was nearby and cast one look up the hill, over the tops of the tall fir trees to the Buchanan house, nearly half a mile away. A few lights still glowed in Rex’s castle. The security lamps.

  Carefully, I hid my bag under the seat of the pickup and slid behind the steering wheel. My hands were sweaty in the gloves, my hair damp, adrenaline firing my blood.

  Everything I’d worked for had come to this.

  I imagined the coming explosion. The deadly flames. The intense, hellish flames. And the screams. The final screams that came with imminent, painful death.

  Yes!

&nb
sp; My skin tingled and I glanced in the rearview mirror to see the glint of excitement in my reflection. At last, I thought, conjuring up images of burned, seared flesh, faces twisted in agony, secrets dying with those who had burned.

  I licked my lips in anticipation and jammed the truck into gear.

  I couldn’t wait.

  Forty-five

  The woman looked like hell. Leaves and dirt stuck in her hair and skirt, and she looked like she’d been wandering around the woods for weeks. “So, let me get this straight,” T. John said as Sunny sat in his office cradling a cup of herbal-friggin’ tea and waiting for the meal the detective had ordered for her. “You started the fire to contact me. And that’s why you lit the other little campfires we’ve found in the woods.”

  “Yes.” She sipped from her cup and looked as if she might pass out. She’d refused medical treatment despite the burns on her legs.

  “Next time use a phone. AT&T is a lot safer than a forest fire.”

  She wasn’t going to listen to a lecture, he could see it in her eyes. She was babbling again, half in some kind of Native American tongue, the rest in English. What he could make from it was that she was afraid.

  “He’ll be hurt, maybe even killed,” she said, her voice shaking, her dark eyes scored with pain.

  “Who? Your son.”

  “Both of them! Buddy and Brig.”

  “Now, wait a minute, I thought you understood that Brig was already dead,” he said and knew he was going to have to call the doctors over at her hospital and have her committed again. She was completely out of touch with reality and though she didn’t seem in pain, her legs looked like hell. She dropped her cup, the hot tea spilled on her lap and she didn’t seem to notice, just closed her eyes and rocked back and forth as if in some kind of trance. It gave T. John the willies. He reached for his smokes. He’d seen a lot of charlatans in his time. Fakes who bilked people out of their money by saying they were psychics, but only a few had been clairvoyant and those guys were scary—damned scary. He didn’t like the thought of anyone seeing into his damned future. Sunny might just be one of those. Or she was nuts—certifiably crazy.