Twenty-four
Cassidy convinced Detective Wilson that she had to visit the man in CCU. If Brig was still alive, she was determined to see him. T. John was only too happy to pull a few strings, talk to the doctor and escort her through double doors to a nurses’ station that was hub to several rooms with three walls. From a desk that looked like the controls of the starship Enterprise, the nurses could read screens as well as see the patients in their beds, unless a curtain was drawn for privacy.
Stay calm, she warned herself as she glanced at the filled beds. Three men and two women lay in bed, sleeping or drugged, tubes, wires and catheters hooked up to their bodies.
“This way,” T. John said softly and led her to the third cubicle.
The marrow of her bones seemed to turn to ice. This—this broken man was Brig? Little hair, face battered, swollen and discolored beyond recognition, barely breathing. Wires held his jaw together; bandages covered parts of his head and arms and legs. She bit her lip as images of him as a young man—a healthy, vigorous, irreverent man—flitted through her mind. Brig with his head tossed back as he laughed, Brig’s body tense, muscles straining and gleaming in the sun as he fought Remmington, Brig’s eyes flashing dangerously as he lit a cigarette and Brig kissing her in the rain.
She held back a little sound of protest and wanted to turn away, to run as fast and as far as she could go. Forcing herself, she approached him slowly. A sick feeling grew in the pit of her stomach. Tears burned her eyes.
“He regained consciousness?” T. John asked a nurse who was changing IV bags.
“No.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“You’ll have to ask the doctor.”
T. John frowned at the dying man as Cassidy fought to keep her composure. He couldn’t be Brig!
“You know him?”
She shook her head. “It would be impossible to tell…”
“Any educated guesses?”
“No,” she said, deciding that even if this man turned out to be Brig, she would keep his secret, at least for a little while. He’d been running for so long; she’d helped him escape all those years ago, and the truth of the matter was, she couldn’t be certain. Just because he was with Chase and he’d been found with a half-burned St. Christopher’s medal wasn’t enough. If only he would open his eyes and look at her. Maybe then she’d see a little of the man she’d known so long ago.
“I’m sorry, but if you’re going to stay longer, I’ll have to clear it with Dr. Maloy.”
T. John glanced at Cassidy, but she shook her head.
“All right, then,” he said, taking her by the elbow and propelling her past the nurses’ station and through the door to the outer hallway. Her feet were leaden, her insides shaking.
The detective reached into his pocket for a pack of gum. “Want a stick?” he offered, extending a pack of Dentyne, but she mutely refused, barely hearing him over the rush in her ears. “Not a pretty sight, was it?”
“No.”
He unwrapped the gum, formed the stick into a ball, then plopped it into his mouth. “The doctors are surprised he’s lasted this long, you know. His heart was supposed to give out before this, but it seems to still be beatin’. He’s one tough son of a bitch, I’ll grant him that. Still hangin’ in here. He wasn’t so much burned as all busted up inside, you know; lost a helluva lot of blood when one of the beams fell and pinned him. I’d say he was lucky to have made it this far, but—”
“He didn’t look lucky to me.” Finally she could talk, though her voice sounded foreign and strange, as if she were trying to speak through glass.
T. John glanced at her. “Maybe you’d better sit down.”
Rather than argue, she fell into a chair in a small waiting area where some other worried people—presumably friends or relatives of patients in the Critical Care Unit—sat or paced. White-faced, lines of worry etched across their faces, hands wringing shredded bits of tissue, they waited for news of a loved one fighting for his or her life. Like Brig—but that man can’t be Brig!
“I can get you some water—maybe coffee?”
“No.” She waved away any kindness and reminded herself that she couldn’t trust him. Law or not, T. John Wilson was the enemy. At least for a while. “I—I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He waited, leaning on a post, arms folded over his chest, booted ankles crossed, while she struggled to pull herself together, while she tried to keep her wild imagination from galloping away with her. If the man was Brig—what was he doing at the sawmill? Why had he been with Chase? How long had Chase known that Brig was alive—just recently, or had he been lying to her for months, maybe even years? Maybe ever since the first fire, the blaze that felt as if it had occurred a lifetime ago.
The world seemed to crumble beneath her feet. Had Chase known his brother was alive when he’d first started dating her and then just neglected to mention the fact? Nausea washed over her and she thought she might be sick. She swallowed twice and finally stood on unsteady legs.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
No! I’ll never be the same again! Oh, God…
“Yes,” she lied with more conviction than she felt. “I—I think I’ll visit my husband.”
T. John stared at her so hard she wanted to shrink away. “I thought you two were separated. Didn’t you have some kind of big fight that night?”
“I already explained—”
He held up a hand. “I’m just pointing out that on the night he was nearly killed, you argued, told him you wanted a divorce—isn’t that right?”
With a sigh, Cassidy nodded. She’d tried to be as truthful with the detective as possible.
“And then he left all angry and in a huff. And you—what did you do—stayed at home and worked on some story?”
“That’s right,” she said.
He obviously didn’t believe her. “I hope you’re not lying to me, Mrs. McKenzie, ’cause I don’t take kindly to bein’ lied to.”
“Neither do I, Detective. Nor do I like being treated as if I’m obstructing your investigation. I didn’t follow my husband to the mill that night, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“He’s insured for a lot of money.”
Cassidy glared at him. “I don’t care about money.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re one of the few women in the world who have enough. And even though you wanted a divorce—”
“I didn’t want it. I felt that…that there was no choice.”
“But now you feel duty-bound to sit at his bedside and hold his hand?” Wilson didn’t bother hiding his disbelief.
“I want to.”
Lower lip protruding slightly, the detective’s eyes narrowed as he chewed thoughtfully on his wad of Dentyne. Nothing seemed to escape him, and despite his laid-back, I-don’t-really-give-a-damn manner, he seemed restless. No, she couldn’t trust him.
“I’m still married to Chase.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“He needs me right now.”
“The way I heard it, your husband never needed anyone.”
The barb stung, but she didn’t let her temper get the better of her. “You don’t know him.”
“But I will, darlin’,” he assured her as she turned toward the elevator. “Before this is all over, I’m planning to know your husband backward, forward and inside out.”
Don’t bet on it. No one really knows Chase McKenzie. Believe me, I’ve tried.
There were more flowers in the room. Huge baskets of roses, carnations, bachelor buttons and seemingly every other bloom known to man had found their way inside to crowd around the IV drip, plastic furniture, sink and bed. Balloons, tethered by ribbons, floated near the ceiling. But despite the splashes of bright colors and good wishes from friends and employees of Buchanan Enterprises, Chase looked just the same—unmoving on the bed. Cassidy took her seat beside him, reached for his hand through the metal slats of the bed and tried to get his attention.
“They say you’re not cooperating,” she said softly.
No response.
“They think you’re awake, but you won’t say anything.”
The single eye continued to fixate on the ceiling.
He was shutting her out. Again. Just as he had for years.
“I was hoping that you’d be getting well enough to come home.”
Nothing.
Cassidy wouldn’t give up. She tried another tack. “Mom and Dad are supposed to be here this afternoon. They’re anxious to see you and tomorrow your mother is coming over. I—I arranged it with her nurse—”
The eye blinked then refocused.
“Brenda, you remember her, she’s your mother’s new private nurse. She was hired by the hospital a couple of months ago. Anyway, Brenda says that your mother’s been very upset since your accident…”
More than upset; Brenda had admitted that Sunny, upon hearing the news of the fire at the mill and her son’s injuries, had been hysterical. She’d ranted and raved, thrown things and insisted on being set free, then wept openly for her boy. Worse yet, she’d predicted the fire. Her psychiatrist, Dr. Kemp, a balding man who still wore his thinning hair in a ponytail and kept three days’ growth of gray beard forever on his chin, was concerned, and had been forced to sedate Sunny. He’d been studying her for years, trying to separate her psychosis from her supposed E.S.P., and appeared to be getting nowhere.
“Sunny’s visions are becoming more frequent, I guess, and she keeps saying that this was bound to happen.” Cassidy removed her hands from the bedsheets and twisted the handle of her purse, uncomfortable when speaking about her mother-in-law, a woman she respected, yet didn’t completely trust. “I’ll bring her over tomorrow afternoon and—”
“No!” His voice was raw, barely audible, but vehement in its passion.
Cassidy jumped, dropping her purse. Her keys and wallet slid through the open zipper compartment and onto the tile floor. So he could hear her after all. He’d been pretending. Relief and a tinge of anger surged through her as she scooped up the contents of her handbag, then reached through the rail of the hospital bed again to touch the fingers protruding from one bandaged hand. “You can hear me!”
Silence. Stubborn, stony silence.
“Sunny’s anxious to see you, to touch you, and rest her mind that you’re all right—”
“I said no!” The voice was a rough croak, slurred as he fought to speak through his wired jaw.
“For God’s sake, Chase, she’s your mother! She’s worried sick, and even though she can’t sometimes distinguish between what’s real and what’s not, she needs to see you with her own eyes, to see for herself that you’re going to make it.”
“Not like this!”
So this was about pride. His damned pride. But Cassidy suspected there was more to it. Chase had never been comfortable around his mother ever since he’d had to force her from the old trailer by the creek, the home she’d loved. For her own good. Or so he’d said.
He’d found her one night, not long after he and Cassidy had married, unconscious in her small bathtub. Blood had seeped from the wounds in her wrists, clouding the already rust-stained water in thin red streaks. Chase had dialed 911. Sunny, unconscious, had barely been alive when the paramedics had arrived.
Now Sunny McKenzie resided in a private hospital that had once been a rambling brick mansion. The hospital was run by an efficient medical staff who reported weekly that Sunny’s condition, not particularly stable to begin with, would probably never improve. Though she’d stopped inflicting pain upon herself, there would always be a chance that she could become violent again. To herself. To others. Chase had reluctantly agreed to have her committed. His eyes had glistened as he’d signed the papers, then hurried down the wide steps of the hospital. He’d grabbed hold of Cassidy’s hand and stalked blindly past landscaped gardens and serene pools, never saying another word until they reached the parking lot. “She’ll hate it here,” he’d predicted in frustration. Swiftly, he slid behind the steering wheel of his Porsche and jabbed his key into the ignition.
“Why not let her go home?” Cassidy suggested. She’d been scared to death the night she’d first visited Sunny after Angie had died and she’d run from Sunny’s prophesy, but over time she had learned to respect Sunny McKenzie.
“And have her slit her wrists all over again? Or hang herself? Or turn on the gas? God, Cassidy, is that what you want?” He pumped the accelerator, twisted the ignition, and the powerful engine roared to life.
“Of course not, but she needs her freedom.”
“Maybe later.” A determined edge had developed around his features, and the bone in his jawline showed white. “She’ll be safe here. She’ll hate it, but she’ll be safe.”
And that was that. Cassidy had offered other ideas over the years, even suggested that Sunny come to live with them. Chase hadn’t heard a word of it. Sometimes Cassidy thought he was embarrassed because of his mother the palm reader; other times she thought that he believed Sunny finally resided in the best place for her, that he really was concerned about his mother’s safety and mental health. Hadn’t he lived with her long after most sons would have moved out, even after Brig had taken off? Hadn’t Chase been the ever-dutiful son?
Her husband, she thought sadly, was a complex man; difficult to understand. Sometimes impossible to love.
“Chase,” she whispered softly, willing him to respond. But he seemed to have tuned her out again. “Detective Wilson from the Sheriff’s Department is going to ask you questions. Lots of them. About the fire and about the man you were with.”
He didn’t so much as flinch, and she wanted to shake some sense into him. Didn’t he hear her? Didn’t he care?
She tried again. “I suppose you’ve overheard us talking and know that he probably won’t survive. He’s lost too much blood, I think, and he’s got internal injuries.” She didn’t really know the extent of the other man’s wounds, just understood that most likely he wouldn’t pull through. Her mouth seemed to turn to dust. “Who was he?”
The eye closed.
“Chase, please. I think I should know.” She reached for his hand and he flinched. “Chase—”
His eye flew open. “Don’t!” he nearly yelled in his harsh, unrecognizable voice. “Don’t touch me.” Finally he turned his horrid gaze at her—startling blue against angry red. “Don’t ever touch me again.”
The words were harsh and thick with his inability to use his jaw, but they cut as deeply as the slice of a bullwhip. “Just tell me about the man you were with,” she insisted, refusing to back down though her heart was drumming so fast she could barely breathe. His gaze bored into hers, and she couldn’t help blurting what she knew had to be true. “It’s Brig, isn’t it? I know you told me a long time ago to forget him, that he was dead, at least to you and me, but…but I never really believed it and now…” Her voice cracked with emotion. “…and now I think, oh, God, I don’t know what to think, but you met with Brig for some reason and—”
“Brig’s dead.”
“Not yet! He’s in a hospital bed in CCU fighting and losing his life—”
“I thought we already talked about this. I thought you understood.” His voice was low and gravelly, his hands, despite his cast, curled into fists.
“I, um, I think you deliberately let me think that Brig was dead and that he was really alive somewhere.”
“For the love of God, Cassidy, give it up! He’s gone. Been gone for seventeen years. Accept it.”
She stood on trembling legs and grabbed the top rail of the bed so hard her knuckles bleached white. Glaring down at him, she tried to remember why she’d wanted to marry him, why she’d given up her fantasies, her dreams, her career, for him. “Then who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Like hell, Chase. You’re stonewalling me again. And if the guy isn’t Brig, then I’d like to know who he is—why you’re covering for him. You know the insurance company is already making noise that you might have wanted the sawmill burned. They can already prove that it was arson. Now all they need is a culprit.”
“Why would I want to burn the mill?”
“So that you could collect and not have to look like the bad guy for throwing people out of work—people you actually worked with a long time ago, people in town who look up to you, people who depend on their jobs to support their families. There’s only so much timber left on Buchanan property, and with all the restrictions on federal land, the investigators have begun to think that it might have been more profitable to torch the mill.”
“And nearly kill myself?” he asked, sweat beading his black and blue brow as he tried to speak.
“Maybe that was a mistake; or you took a chance to throw suspicion away from yourself.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And it seems to have worked. Detective Wilson suggested that maybe I set the fire.”
“Wilson’s an idiot.”
“I just want answers,” she said.
“I know. Always the reporter.”
Her fingers uncurled and she fought a sudden thickness in her throat. What was she doing? Chase was still recovering. His flesh was still discolored and swollen, one eye patched, his legs and a wrist in casts, and she was badgering, hammering at him for the truth. She’d have to be patient. It was only fair.
God help me. Help both of us.
On unsteady legs, she walked to the window and stared outside to the parking lot, where the sun glinted brightly on the hoods and roofs of cars parked in even rows. “I’m sorry, Chase,” she said after silently counting to ten. “I didn’t mean to come apart…I’ve just been worried. About you. About everything. Wilson is relentless. Determined.” She motioned uselessly with her fingers. “He’ll want to ask you questions. You should be prepared.”
“You really think I started that fire?” he asked thickly.
Cassidy rubbed her arms. “No—I’m sorry, I was just angry and frustrated. It seems like there’s a lot you know—some things that you hide from me.” Her chin wobbled a little. “I don’t think you’d torch the sawmill and risk killing yourself, but the police won’t be so charitable and the insurance investigators will probably be ruthless. So be careful, Chase.” Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she paused at his bed again, forcing herself to stare at his immobile form. A pang of loneliness cut through her heart. They had once been happy—if only briefly. “If you need an attorney, I’ll call—”
“I didn’t do it,” he repeated. “As my wife, I expect you to believe me.”
“And as my husband, I expect you to be honest with me.” She paused near the door. “The authorities think this fire might have some connection to the one that killed Angie and Jed. I just thought you should know. Good-bye, Chase. I’ll—I’ll be back later.”
“Cass—”
At the sound of her name, her steps faltered. “Yes.”
“Call the doctor. Tell him I want out of here.”
“But you can’t come home yet.” She almost laughed except the situation was so tragic. “You’re—”
“I know what I am, Cassidy, but I’ve got to be released.”
“In time—”
“Now!”
“For God’s sake, Chase, relax. They’ll let you out when you’re well enough.”
“That may not be soon enough.”
“For what?”
He stared at her so hard she nearly flinched. His throat worked, and for a breathless second she remembered that she’d cared for him once. “I need to be out of here,” he stated. “The sooner the better.”