Final Scream

by Jackson, Lisa

  “For Christ’s sake, Mom—”

  “Don’t you ever swear at me.”

  Angela pushed herself into a sitting position and tossed her dark hair out of her eyes. “Then don’t call Jeremy ‘that Cutler boy,’ like he’s not good enough or somethin’.”

  “He isn’t good enough. Not for you. You’re a Buchanan.”

  “Big fuckin’ deal.”

  “That’s it! You use that kind of filthy language one more time and you’ll be so grounded you’ll never see the light of day, much less any more of that Cutler—Jeremy.”

  Beneath the fringe of her bangs, Angela glowered at her mother. “You can’t stop me!”

  “No?” Felicity wasn’t going to let a sixteen-year-old girl push her around. “I’ll have you followed by a private investigator if I have to and I’ll make sure he takes pictures, and if that boy lays one finger on you, I’ll go straight to the police and cry rape so loud that it will echo all the way to New York.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Oh, yes I would, Angela. I’d do anything to protect you and keep you from making a mistake.”

  “Jeremy isn’t a mistake.”

  Felicity understood her daughter’s naïve rationale. Hadn’t she felt the same way about Derrick when she was Angela’s age? The difference was that Derrick was a Buchanan and socially correct. She’d at least made the right choices.

  “What if I decide to go to the police?”

  Felicity’s heart nearly stopped. “Why would you do that?”

  Her daughter’s smile was a catty little grin, flashing white in the gloom of the dark room. “Because I know about Daddy,” she said in that superior way that bugged the hell out of Felicity.

  “What about him?” Dread leaked into her blood.

  “Uh-uh.” Angela shook her head. “I’m not trading secrets, Mom. Just understand this. If you say one word against Jeremy to anyone, I’ll pay you back in kind.”

  “You little—”

  “Ah, ah, ah, Mom. Careful, now,” she mocked, enjoying the fact that she had Felicity over a barrel.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do, Mom. Think about it. Now, why don’t you just run along? Pretend I’m in here sleeping and getting a good night’s rest for school tomorrow.”

  “You’re not meeting that boy.”

  “Sure,” Angie said. “Whatever you want to think. But if you don’t leave me alone right now, Daddy takes the fall. The big one. Think what that would do to your precious reputation?”

  “I won’t be blackmailed, Angela.”

  “Sure you will. You have been for years.”

  Felicity stood swiftly and crossed the room. She grabbed her daughter by the shoulders, then slapped her soundly across the cheek. Angela’s head snapped backward, hitting the headboard.

  “You bitch!” Angela cried. “You fucking bitch!”

  Another well-aimed slap. Felicity’s hand hurt and she cringed as Angela’s head slammed hard against the headboard. Angela burst into tears. Felicity pretended she didn’t see the horror in her daughter’s eyes or witness her sixteen-year-old bravado drain away.

  “Don’t push me, Angela,” she said through lips that barely moved. “You have no idea what you’re up against. You’re not to see that boy again, and that’s final. And come September, you’re going to St. Therese’s in Portland. They still have a few nuns teaching there; maybe they’ll be able to show you how to behave.” Back stiff, she left the room and felt as if she might throw up. She’d never struck her daughter before and she hated the thought of it now.

  She’d grown up in a home where her father adored her, but he’d thought nothing of spanking her with the flat side of a hairbrush. It hadn’t stopped until she’d married Derrick, because The Judge intended that his headstrong daughter learn respect and learn it early.

  But those blows with the brush had backfired and Felicity had sworn nothing her children ever did would force her to use violence against them. Not her children. But sometimes a woman had to take charge. Sometimes the rules had to be bent. Like tonight. And if Angela ever tried sneaking out with that horrid little lump of pimply flesh again, then Jeremy Cutler would find himself in a fight he couldn’t hope to win.

  Felicity knew all too well to what lengths a woman would go for a man. She’d done them all. She’d been humiliated, felt abject terror, pain, jealousy and a rage so deep it burned. But she’d survived. She could handle a nerdy little twit like Jeremy Cutler. It would be child’s play.

  “You’ll call?” a soft female voice asked Derrick as he hurried to his truck. Glancing over his shoulder, he spied her standing in the doorway of a cheap motel overlooking the Willamette River. Barefoot. A black silk teddy her only clothing. She was barely sixteen, with thick dark hair and blue eyes and a smile that reminded him of Angie, his sister. Her name was Dawn.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Come on, Derrick, you said you’d call.”

  “You got paid, didn’t you?” He climbed into the cab of his truck, and the air inside was stale.

  “I don’t do it for money,” she pouted as he rolled down the window.

  “Sure.”

  “I do it ’cause I love you.”

  Christ! Every insomniac in this fleabag of a motel could hear her. Windows were open, and it was after one in the morning. He jabbed his keys in the ignition, and the engine started. “That’s good. You’ve got a ride, right?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just call me.” Dawn tossed her hair in a way that was damned sexy. An open invitation. The teddy fell off her shoulder and showed off one firm little tit.

  “I will,” he promised, knowing that Felicity would kill him if she ever found out he was banging a girl who was about the same age as their daughter, a girl who reminded him of his sister, a girl who could run to the police and get him in big, big trouble. But she wouldn’t. She liked jewelry and nice clothes and her new little convertible too much to spoil a good thing.

  Her mother was in on the deal, and once in a while, when Dawn wasn’t available, Lorna came on to him. He never actually initiated the action, but he didn’t stop it either. She wasn’t as young and nubile as her daughter, but she was quick with her tongue and a dirty phrase. If he didn’t show much interest, Lorna became real inventive, dressing up in all kinds of getups—bras with holes for her nipples, crotch-less panties and a leather garter belt decorated with metal studs. She’d tease him and whip him with some kind of feather and rawhide thing that tickled and cut, teased and gave pain.

  But still, Lorna’s skin wasn’t supple, she was running to fat, her waist thick, and though her breasts were much bigger than her daughter’s—huge mountains decorated with a tattoo of a hummingbird—he preferred the firm solid flesh of a young butt and thighs that could wrap around his waist for hours. Even Dawn’s small breasts were a turn-on as long as she rouged them up and danced in front of him, letting her nipples hover near his mouth only to drag them away. He could play rough with Dawn and he loved it when she called him “Daddy,” begging him to spank her until she cried, then making him kiss her welts.

  One night when Dawn had said she wanted to stay home rather than go to a motel, Derrick had agreed. Though the apartment was seedy and he thought she enjoyed going to an upscale hotel where they could order room service, he reluctantly agreed. The rooms smelled of stale cigarette smoke and some kind of grease that hadn’t been cleaned from the kitchen stove, but Dawn was such a turn-on that night, dressed in a little girl outfit, her hair in pigtails, that he didn’t argue. She led him into her mother’s room and he threw her on the bed. Then, while he was fucking the hell out of her, Lorna came in and watched. Right in the middle of the action, she leaned over him, holding her breasts, offering those huge pillows with nipples the size of half dollars. “Lick these, sweetie,” she’d said and he’d rubbed his tongue over them only to taste something different. “It’s coke, honey, and I’m not talking soda pop, here.
You’ll love it.”

  He suckled hard, humping upward while Dawn, naked except for ribbons around her pigtails and ankles, rode him. “Come on, baby,” she cried, beginning to scream in a higher pitch than he’d ever remembered. He thought his back might give out or he might suffocate as Lorna forced more tit into his mouth. With a cry, he finally bucked upward, sucking huge nipples as he came into a fresh young body. He hadn’t been so turned on in years. He’d done it again then, with both mother and daughter—the coke heightening his senses. So much pussy, coke and tits his bourbon-soaked brain could barely function and his erection had given out.

  Afterward, Lorna had offered him more blow. For years he’d avoided drugs, but he was on such a rush already. He snorted just a little, but from that night on they’d gotten high together and oftentimes they’d done a three-way. Always in Lorna’s king-sized four-poster bed. Jesus, he was getting hard just thinking about it even though he’d driven away from Oregon City and was heading toward Prosperity.

  Tonight had been different. Dawn had agreed to leave with him and she’d given him what he’d wanted and more, but he’d sensed a restlessness about her, as if she were keeping a secret.

  You’re sick, Buchanan. Sick. The things you’re into are perverted. She’s just a kid.

  Angry with himself, he flipped on the radio hoping to hear some news or country music that would drown away the silent scoldings he inflicted upon himself. But someone, probably Felicity, had changed the station to old rock and roll.

  His bones turned to ice as the words of the song wafted through the speakers and filtered into his mind, a song from a night a long time ago, an old Elvis tune he’d tried to forget.

  Love me tender, love me true

  All my dreams fulfill…

  He’d been seven at the time and woken up from a nightmare. When he’d called out for his mother, Lucretia hadn’t responded. Sniffing and trying to hide his tears, he walked to her room in the dark, but when he knocked on her door, she didn’t answer.

  “Mommy, Mommy,” he wailed, trying the door and finding it unlocked. The bed was still made, and though it was late at night, she wasn’t in the bedroom or bathroom or dressing room. He started for his father’s room down the hall when he heard it, her favorite song by Elvis, and he followed the music, not to the living room where it was usually played but down a hallway leading to the garage. An extension cord ran the length of the hallway, a brown snake that wasn’t supposed to be there.

  For my darling I love you…

  Taking several deep breaths, he inched forward slowly, the sound of Elvis’s deep, comforting voice luring him.

  “Mommy?” he called, beginning to worry, walking with his back pressed against the wall, knowing that the snake was evil. The song was suddenly over and the house was silent, except for the sound of a car’s engine rumbling evenly. “Mommy.”

  Elvis began again, the same song, and Derrick saw that there was a hole in the bottom of the door leading to the garage. Just big enough for the extension cord to slide through.

  “Mommy? Daddy?” His mouth was dry and tasted like vomit. He pushed hard on the door and it swung open, letting a cloud of blue smoke through the house. His heart was pounding and the smell was horrible. Through the veil of exhaust he saw their new stereo, sitting on its roll-away cart, the speakers on the bottom shelf as if Mommy had wanted the entire system in the garage. Heart thudding, he walked to the car and saw her inside, her head resting on the steering wheel of the shiny new car she’d gotten for her birthday, a hose hooked up from the exhaust pipe to the cracked window of the passenger side of the car. He tried to open the driver’s door, but it was locked. Crying out to her, he pounded on the windows and began to choke.

  The music was so loud he could barely scream above it, and when he did, foul-tasting smoke rushed down his windpipe. “Mommy!” Why was she sleeping in her car? “Wake up! Wake up, Mommy!” She didn’t move and his eyes began to water from the exhaust fumes that leaked from the car into the garage and the fact that he was suddenly more scared than he’d ever been in his life. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong. His fists banged on the windows just as one of the garage doors opened and he looked up to find his father, tie askew, usually smooth hair rumpled, face ashen, staring in disbelief. “What’s going on?” he said. “Derrick, what’re you doing—? Lucretia?”

  Rex’s face slackened in horror. “Oh, for the love of God, no!” He ran to the car, tried to open the door, fiddled with his keys, and when he couldn’t find one that fit, grabbed a hammer from the rack on the wall and began pounding at the passenger-side window, smashing the glass, sending shards into the car, onto the cement floor, flying through the air.

  And I always will.

  “Lucretia! Oh, baby, what have you done? What have I done?” He managed to smash enough glass to force his hand inside and lift the latch. Flinging open the door, he cut the engine and dragged his wife from the birthday gift that had become her hearse. “No! No! No!” he cried, as Elvis crooned in the background. Yanking her outside and laying her gently on the grass near the garage, he leaned over her, trying to force air through her parted lips, pressing on her chest.

  “Call the police!”

  Derrick stood rooted to the spot.

  “Damn it, Derrick, call the police.”

  “I—I don’t know how,” he said, his chin trembling, fear making him shake and cry. “Daddy, I don’t—”

  “Call the operator, for God’s sake! Tell her to call an ambulance and send it to the Buchanan place on Buchanan Lane.”

  Derrick swallowed hard. “I—I—Daddy, is Mommy gonna die?”

  Rex’s face was suddenly slack. “Not if you call the ambulance right now! Do it!”

  Somehow he’d managed to run into the house and stand on a chair to reach the wall phone in the kitchen. He dialed zero and felt pee trickle down his leg. “You’ve got to have the ambulance come and save Mommy,” he cried, sobbing so loudly the woman on the other end of the line could barely hear what he was saying. “She’s dying! She’s dying!”

  Even now, decades later, the memory of that night brought an anxiety in him like no other. Everyone had told him it wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t be blamed for not remembering their address, he was, after all, just a little kid, but he’d never forgiven himself. Nor had his father forgiven him. From that day forward, Derrick had sensed a change in Rex Buchanan, and his son was no longer the best and brightest. All of his fatherly attentions were shifted to his tiny daughter—the spitting image of her mother.

  Derrick, misunderstanding, had done anything to get Rex’s attention—good deeds and bad. The bad seemed to work better and they were a helluva lot more fun. Even though he’d been groomed to be Rex Buchanan’s heir, he’d never been loved again—not the way he had been before. Not with the adoration of both Lucretia and Rex. The night God had taken his mother, Derrick Buchanan had lost his father as well.

  Forty-one

  Oswald Sweeny confirmed what Cassidy already knew. Marshall Baldwin didn’t have a past. No childhood, no adolescence, no first love, no damned history whatsoever. No kindly grandmother responded to any inquiries, no forgotten sister who called for more information, no grade school teacher who remembered him.

  “Yep,” Sweeny said, his voice clear though he was still in Alaska, “looks as if our boy just appeared at age nineteen or so. I checked California records and guess what? There was a Marshall Baldwin born in Glendale in 1958, but when I checked further, I found out he’d died six months later. Sudden infant death syndrome. Talked to his mother myself; she lives in Fresno now.”

  Cassidy’s stomach tightened. This wasn’t surprising news—she’d heard basically the same thing from Michael Foster, but it meant that Bill Laszlo and his sources would have the same information soon.

  “There weren’t any other boys by that name?”

  “Quite a few—but I checked ’em all out and they’re living or dead, but can be accounted for. But the baby from Glendal
e—now there’s an identity that could be easily assumed.”

  Oh, God!

  “Can’t help but wonder if Baldwin was Brig McKenzie,” Sweeny said, as if divining her thoughts.

  “Seems possible,” she said, her mouth as dry as dust.

  “He wouldn’t have looked all that much the same, considering the accident.”

  “Accident?” she repeated.

  “Yeah, Baldwin was in kind of a freak milling accident. Something backfired in one of the chippers, a piece of wood flew out and hit him on the left side of his face. Had to have surgery. Anyway, doesn’t mean the guy isn’t McKenzie. Want me to look into it?” He sounded anxious, as if he had finally found something to set his teeth into.

  “No, thanks…” She could barely concentrate on the conversation. “You’ve done more than enough. If you could just send me a bill…here, to the office.”

  “No problem.”

  She hung up the phone and glanced up from her desk to find Bill Laszlo leaning against the partition, his eyes centered on her. “Bad news?” he asked, his cocksure grin in place.

  “Just you.” Selma rolled her desk chair around the corner of the partition. Bill had to move quickly to avoid being hit. Finger-combing her springy curls, she said, “You know if you don’t quit bugging her, she really will have to take up smoking.”

  Laszlo ignored her and picked up a paperweight from Cassidy’s desk. “Looks like you just saw a ghost.”

  “What is it you want, Bill?” Cassidy asked.

  “Confirmation.”

  “Of?”

  “That Marshall Baldwin was really Brig McKenzie.”