Final Scream

  The high-pitched chanting was more than he could take. He lit up and felt the smoke curl comfortingly in his lungs.

  A knock on the door announced the arrival of food from the deli next door, ham sandwiches and potato chips, but Sunny didn’t appear to notice, just kept chanting. Brig’s name and Buddy’s name kept coming up. Over and over again. But never Chase. Never once Chase.

  “What’s this?” Gonzales asked, staring at her.

  “She’s out of it. Thinks there’s big trouble for her sons, but get this, she’s not worried about Chase. Just Buddy and Brig.”

  “I thought Brig was Baldwin.”

  “He was.” T. John picked up half a sandwich and took a bite, but he barely tasted the ham, mustard or onions because his mind was turning, like stripped gears running faster and faster. For the first time he understood. “Hell!” He felt a shiver, as if an icy finger had slid down his spine. “You don’t think we gave the wrong McKenzie brother a death certificate, do you?”

  “What? Are you crazy?” Gonzales said, but then stared at the old woman.

  T. John was on his feet. “Have Doris come in and stay with her and we’ll go chat with McKenzie.”

  The chanting stopped. “I’m coming with you.” Sunny was instantly as lucid as he was. Hell, was the whole psychic mumbo jumbo chanting thing some kind of an act?

  “No way.”

  “These are my sons we’re talking about, Detective. My sons. Their lives are in danger and I’m coming with you. Now, let’s not waste any more time.” She grabbed her damned cane and stuffed a whole sandwich into her pocket before she headed through the door. In the hallway, she stopped short. “Oh, God,” she whispered, leaning heavily against the wall. “It’s…it’s too late.” She stared blankly ahead and her face was twisted in horror. “Oh no, no, no! Brig! Brig!” She began screaming wildly and T. John called for help. “Get her to the hospital, pronto,” he yelled as Officer Doris Rawlings hurried from her desk.

  “No! Oh, God no! They’re burning. Burning!” She was sobbing and screaming hysterically. T. John felt as if pure evil had oozed into the room.

  “Take care of her!” he ordered Doris as he pointed at Sunny. “We’re going out to Chase McKenzie’s. Might need a backup. I’ll call.”

  “Gotcha.” Doris approached Sunny, who was wailing, scratching at the walls and herself as if she were in physical pain.

  “Death…he’s going to die. My baby is going to die!”

  T. John left her and ran down the hall. His boots rang loudly and he was already breathing hard, his usually tough as old leather insides turning to water. God, she was creepy with all that singsong nonsense, burnt dress, silver hair and eyes as horrified as if she’d seen the very devil himself. T. John Wilson was as scared as he’d ever been in his life. Flinging open the door, he headed for his cruiser with Gonzales on his heels. He caught the first plaintive scream of a siren.

  “Shit, man, the fire engines!” Gonzales said, and T. John heard it then, the low honk of horns, rumble of engines, scream of tires and as he looked to the east, toward the mountains, he saw a glow of orange light in the darkness.

  “Get in!” he barked and started the engine, throwing the car into reverse before Gonzales even shut his door. With a sinking feeling, he wheeled out of the lot, the cruiser’s siren howling, its lights flashing.

  No doubt Sunny was right. He was already too late.

  Creeping between the bushes, aided only by moonlight, I set the timer on the detonator, then slunk back to the lake. Chase Buchanan’s house was about to be history. I looked around the grounds, so perfectly manicured, and that stupid man-made lake that he’d dug shimmered in the moonlight.

  From beneath a fir tree I gazed over the entire compound…the house, stable, farm, garage, tended acres as well as the lake, as if he deserved all of this, as if by marrying Cassidy Buchanan he could become a rightful heir, a pretender to the throne.

  Well, he got his, didn’t he, just as Angie had. I smiled when I thought of that fire and Angie’s terror and Jed’s; the blowhard deserved his fate. As had Chase McKenzie…and now Brig and Cassidy. I’d even taken care of the stupid dog.

  In a few minutes’ time…but it wasn’t enough for me to drive away as the explosion rocked through this fake, sorry little estate. I wanted to see. To watch.

  Why not start now?

  The grass was summer dry…

  Smiling to myself, I took out my lighter and, as the wind picked up, flicked it. A tiny flame shot upward and I bent down, touching it to the white blades of grass near the lake, seeing that the flames, blocked by the water, would creep, crackle and grow toward the house.

  Pushed by a west-blowing breeze, they spread hungrily over the ground, heading toward the house.

  Toward Brig.

  Toward Cassidy.

  Cassidy’s heart was heavy. She’d left Brig in bed. Asleep. With only a quick note of explanation. She’d kissed his temple, then tried to say good-bye to Ruskin, but the dog had wandered off. Strange—he’d always stuck around before, lying on the porch near the front door. It bothered her a little, but she really didn’t know what his nocturnal habits were yet.

  She drove by instinct, not really knowing where she was going, just that she had to get away. The ring on her finger seemed to wink in the darkness, mocking her. “Oh, Chase,” she whispered, feeling every bit the betrayer. She’d cared for him, yes, and been faithful to him but she’d never loved him, not like she loved Brig. “Fool.” Her fingers tightened over the wheel and she turned toward town. Toward Prosperity.

  Why are you leaving? Brig’s the man you always wanted and now he’s yours. He loves you. He said he loves you. Why are you leaving?

  “Because I have to. I’m Chase’s wife.”

  Not anymore. Chase is dead. You didn’t kill him. Brig didn’t kill him. It just happened. You love Brig! Why the hell are you leaving?

  “I have to.” She looked in the rearview mirror, saw her own eyes and eased up on the gas pedal.

  You’re leaving because you’re scared, Cassidy Buchanan. Scared of loving too much, scared of admitting that Brig has always owned your heart, scared of a future that you’ve never dared dream about. Face it, Cass, you’re a chicken-shit!

  “Oh, God!” She stood on the brakes and the Jeep swerved, tires skidding and screeching sideways over the center line. With a shudder the rig stopped and she looked into the rearview mirror again, staring into her own eyes. You’ve never run away from a fight in your life, Cassidy McKenzie, and you’re not going to start now.

  She loved Brig. He loved her. Nothing should come between them. Whatever fate threw their way, however they felt about Chase’s death, they could deal with it. Resolve the past. Face the future. Together! Joy touched her heart, then held on tight. She’d get back before he opened an eye, and when he did, when dawn shone on their faces, she’d tell him how much she loved him. And then she’d show him.

  Cranking on the wheel, she rammed her foot hard on the accelerator. With a lurch, the Jeep turned back toward her house, and that’s when she noticed it, the orange glimmer on the horizon, the sickening golden light that shouldn’t exist at this time of night.

  Her heart froze and her breathing stopped for a second. No! It couldn’t be! “Please God no.”

  She knew in her heart that something was horribly wrong, but she wouldn’t believe that another fire was burning, raging at her house…oh, God, please not Brig!

  “Get out of bed, you bastard.” The click of a rifle being cocked filled the stillness of the room.

  Cassidy? Where was Cassidy?

  Brig lifted his head, and fear curled like a fist in his gut. He was staring down the barrel of a high-powered rifle, and Derrick Buchanan was at the other end, his finger curled over the trigger. “I should’ve done this a long time ago.”

  “What are you talking about?” All of Brig’s senses snapped to life. The room was warm but cold fear slid down his spine, and all he could see was the rifle pointed
at his head. But Cassidy wasn’t with him. Thank God. Unless…unless Derrick had already found her.

  “Put your pants on, McKenzie,” Derrick spat, his face twisted in a hatred so intense that Brig recoiled. His mouth was dry as sand and he could barely breathe and the room, though dark with the curtains drawn, seemed brighter than it should be. Hotter. Smelling of fear. Where was the dog? Slowly, so as not to disturb Cassidy’s brother, Brig stepped into his jeans, but stayed on the balls of his feet, ready to move if he had to.

  “Where’s Cassidy?” he demanded.

  Derrick lifted a shoulder. “Never could keep track of your women, could you?”

  “She was here.” She had to be safe. She had to. The burning fear increased.

  “Well, she isn’t anymore. Her Jeep’s gone. Shit, loverboy, you ain’t got no one to call for help.”

  Relief flooded through him. If Cassidy was safe, he didn’t care. Nothing else mattered and he didn’t think Derrick was lying, not now. He was too focused on his hatred of Brig and would have loved to make Brig think he’d already harmed her.

  “And as for that dog of yours, he must’ve found himself some rat poison or taken off with Cassidy, ’cause he’s not around. Lucky for me. I hate mongrels. Especially half-breeds.”

  His eyes turned dark, and Brig felt his muscles tense. He wanted to grab the gun and ram the barrel against Derrick’s throat and strangle the bastard, but it was a no-win situation; Derrick would blow him away first, so he held back, thinking, trying to buy himself some time.

  Cocking his head toward the door, Derrick, sweating, snarled, “How’s it feel, screwing both my sisters?” His eyes were slits, and a black, deadly fury radiated from him.

  “What?”

  Derrick waved the gun toward the doorway, and Brig got the message. He understood that he was supposed to lead Derrick out of the bedroom. Heart pumping, adrenaline spurting through his veins, he entered the hall.

  “Why don’t you tell me who’s better—Angie or Cassidy? I always wondered. Never had a piece of Cassidy myself.”

  “Shut up!”

  “You’re not giving orders, McKenzie.” The end of the rifle, cold steel against warm skin, pressed into his bare torso, reminding him who was in charge.

  Brig’s mind was whirling. There wasn’t a sign of Cassidy except for the note that was propped on the nightstand. The note Derrick hadn’t seen. So maybe Derrick was telling the truth and she was safe. Sending up a prayer to a God he hadn’t believed in for years, Brig hoped that Cassidy had decided to take off and was far away.

  “Move it!”

  Hands over his head, he walked barefoot along the corridor. The floor, usually cool, was warm. He heard horses neighing as if in fear. Something was wrong, out of sync. More than Derrick’s rifle…“What’s this all about?”

  “I know who you are, Brig. Well, Felicity figured it out, really.”

  Brig’s bones turned to ice, but still he was sweating, and he saw the first flickering shadows of orange light beyond the drawn curtains.

  “She thinks that we should wait for the police, let them arrest you for Angie and Jed’s murder, but I’m not sure that would be such a good idea.”

  “Because you set the fire that killed Angie?” Fire! That was it! Oh, Christ, another fire! Derrick had already lit another blaze—outside the house. So what was he doing inside?

  “Hell, no. I didn’t kill her. Believe it or not, McKenzie, you’ll be my first, and I gotta tell you, I’m lookin’ forward to it.” The barrel of the gun slammed into his bare back and Brig stumbled slightly before catching his balance. “I’d never do anything to hurt Angie. Even if she was ballin’ every boy in town.”

  “Including you?”

  “She was mine, damn it!” Derrick’s voice was rough. “Mine. We lost our mother, got shut away from our father when he married that bitch Dena. Angie and me. We were a couple.”

  Smoke curled through an open window, but Derrick didn’t seem to notice. Brig coughed.

  “What about you and Felicity?”

  Again the gun prodded into his back. Brig was sweating now. It was so damned hot. Heat seared in through the windows, and as they rounded a corner and faced the back of the house, he saw it—in all its crackling, satanic fury. Angry flames whipped by the wind, racing through the grass near the lake, charring the bark of the old walnut tree, creeping steadily forward toward the house and the stable. “What the devil are you trying to pull, Buchanan?” he said, trying to sound calm, when inside he was panicking. “Call the fire department.”

  “The what?” Derrick must have finally seen the blaze, smelled the scent of smoke. The high squeal of terrified horses, thudding hooves and the distant cry of a siren swept into the room finally and pierced his brain. “Holy shit. What the hell’s going on?” he said, as if mesmerized by the flames. “I didn’t see—”

  Brig, feeling the barrel move slightly, a slackening between cold metal and his sweat-soaked back, dived to the side. He scrambled on the floor, moving through the darkness, running as fast as his feet would carry him.

  “Hey! Stop!” Derrick yelled, stumbling slightly. “You fucking bastard, I’m gonna kill you—”

  Crouching, Brig sprinted through the house, toward the front door, but he was slow. His bad leg was like a dead weight and pain screamed up his thigh.

  He reached the knob and pulled, but Derrick caught up with him. Yanked him back inside. Brig was ready. His fist doubled and he smashed Derrick in the face, hitting him square in the nose. Blood spurted. “Son of a bitch—” Derrick clamped a hand over the squash that had been his nose.

  Brig nailed him again. A left cross that crunched bones and snapped Derrick’s head back. Blood sprayed on the walls and splattered Brig’s chest.

  The rifle clattered to the floor. A window in the back of the house burst from the heat. Glass shattered and sprayed, and all around the house hot flames crackled and roared.

  Brig hurtled through the open door and started running, his bare feet hitting the asphalt that was already warm.

  “You can’t run away this time, you dumb fuck!” Derrick’s voice was hysterical.

  Brig dived. The rifle cracked. His body jolted. Pain seared through his side. He slammed hard against the pavement, the skin of his face scraping, blood pouring from his abdomen. The air was hot, unbreathable, and his side burned.

  “Ha! Nailed you, you bastard.”

  Stunned, fighting to stay conscious, Brig started crawling, moving forward, away from the inferno and his brother-in-law.

  “Help Brig.” Willie’s voice was close by. Suddenly, he was lifted to his feet and dragged toward the woods on the far side of the property. Only fifty yards, but it seemed like a million.

  Flames and smoke were everywhere. Heat so intense it waved, seared the breath from his lungs.

  “Got to run. Brig. You run.” Willie was insistent, propelling him forward, big hands dragging him away from his attacker, away from the fire toward trees not yet devoured by the flames.

  “Derrick’s mad and it’s gonna burn. Gonna burn.”

  “Two for the price of one,” Derrick yelled.

  Agilely, Willie dropped to the ground, taking Brig with him. Pain scorched up Brig’s leg. The Winchester cracked again and a bullet whizzed above their heads.

  “Come on! Hurry!” Willie, his eyes wide with fear, was desperate, yanking on Brig. The woods were closer now, only thirty yards. They could make it. Brig forced his feet to move. A rifle report split the night. With a squeal, Willie fell. His body smacked against the pavement, his head cracking.

  “No!” Brig cried.

  Air whistled through Willie’s lungs.

  “Nooooo!” Brig screamed, turning to see Derrick standing on the front porch, the house a burning backdrop of living flames. “It’s okay,” he said to the dying man. “It’s okay, you just hang in there.” But blood gurgled from Willie’s mouth and nose and drained from the wound in his chest. Brig tried to help him, stanching the flow,
but there was just so much blood everywhere. “Willie, hang on!”

  Willie’s eyes were wide. He stared upward as Brig held him. “Brig,” he whispered, blood and spittle spraying.

  “Don’t talk—”

  “Brother. Good.”

  “Yes, good, Willie.”

  “She burned.”

  Cassidy? Oh, God no! “Willie—”

  “Felicity—she burned Angie. She burned Chase. She burned you—”

  “No, Willie, you don’t know what you’re saying,” Brig whispered. “Don’t say anything, okay? Now, hold on. Help will be here—oh, shit no!”

  A horrid rattling breath wheezed through Willie’s lungs and his blue eyes glazed.

  I couldn’t tear myself away. God, it was beautiful, the flames crackling through the house, the windows breaking…and then I saw Derrick with his rifle. God, no! Not after all I’d been through. He was going to mess things up. Again. He was there with Brig and Willie and…and…no, this wasn’t right. Not after all my planning. All the time I’d put in to see that he inherited everything, that he and I and our girls were the rightful heirs to all the Buchanan holdings…Rage tore through me and I started toward the blaze that was roaring wildly, white-hot flames licking the heavens.

  “Don’t!” I yelled. “Get away…Derrick, don’t!”

  A rifle cracked and everything I’d worked for, all the plans I’d made, died in that horrifying instant.

  “No, no, no, you damned fool. Don’t!”

  But it was too late. Willie Ventura was spitting up blood and Brig McKenzie looked like he would kill Derrick with his bare hands, and Derrick, the fool, stood beneath a burning roof that was about to collapse. “Oh, God, no,” I whispered. This couldn’t be happening. Not to Derrick. “Run!” I screamed but he just stood there, as if rooted to the porch. If I didn’t do something and fast, he too would die a grisly horrid death!