Forty-four
“I can’t live a lie.” Cassidy stood in the doorway, her suitcase packed, the keys to her Jeep clutched in fingers that didn’t seem to feel. The news conference had been an ordeal, telling her parents had been worse. All the while she knew that she was lying about Brig. And Chase. Upon learning that Marshall Baldwin was really Brig McKenzie and that Brig was dead, Rex had sworn, Dena had made comments about good riddance to bad news and Cassidy had felt the biggest hypocrite on earth. Since first talking to Laszlo two days before, she’d told more lies than she could count to the police, her family, her peers and her friends.
She needed time to think. Time to put her life back together. Time to grieve for Chase and time to accept Brig as…what? He couldn’t pretend to be her husband forever. Someday, and soon, they would have to come clean and then the truth would be out: she’d been living with her brother-in-law, been his lover, while hiding the fact that her husband was dead.
Life with Brig was far beyond complicated. The future seemed murky—her goals confused. He’d lied to her. Over and over again. He’d used her. Pretended he was her husband. Made love to her.
Angry and hurt, she reached for the handle of the door.
“So you’re really leaving.” Brig’s voice stopped her cold. She turned and found him walking toward her, his limp still noticeable, his jaw set and firm. Clean shaven, with only trace lines of his scars, Brig was rugged and handsome, as strong and unapproachable as the mountains in Alaska where he’d lived in his own private hell for seventeen years.
The phone rang, but they ignored it. More reporters. She laughed at the irony of it. How many times had she been on the other end, fingers crossed, praying that her source would pick up so that she could confirm or deny? It seemed so impersonal now.
“Why?” he asked, motioning to the suitcase in her hand.
“I feel like a prisoner here.”
“With me?”
“With the lies.”
“It won’t be much longer,” he said, his eyes as clear as a summer’s day.
“How do you know?”
His gaze shifted from her face to the corner of her mouth. “I know.”
“Brig—” She caught herself. She’d tried hard to keep referring to him as her husband, rarely by the name Chase—that was too deceitful and somehow disrespectful to him—but she was afraid that she would slip. It was so obvious to her that he was Brig, the differences between him and his brother weren’t so much physical as mental, but sooner or later someone would guess the truth.
His jaw worked. His hands opened and closed. His voice, when he spoke, was rough—raw with the internal battle he waged within himself. “I want you to stay.”
The house seemed close and silent. The heat from the day had settled in and his gaze shifted to the pulse at her neck—the same pulse that was pounding through her brain.
No! Living with him, under the same roof, would be impossible. She had to get away. While she still could. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. No one will suspect anything anyway. It was pretty much common knowledge that my marriage to Chase was falling apart. This will look only natural, that I stuck by you until you were healed and then we decided to split up.”
“Except that we’re not married, that part will come out as well.”
“Eventually.”
“Soon.”
She stared into his eyes and wished their lives weren’t so complicated—so wrapped in lies. There was a part of her that still loved him, had always loved him, would probably love him until the day she died, and there was a part of her, a purely female part, that responded to him as a man, in the most primal of ways. That part couldn’t be trusted. Staying with him would be begging for disaster. She had no choice but to leave. “I just need to sort things out.”
“You’ll be back?” He didn’t bother hiding the hope in his voice.
Her heart nearly broke. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
She opened the door, intent on leaving for…where? Her parents’ home? A fleabag of a motel in a big city where she could rethink her life and stare at the ceiling? An old friend’s home in Seattle? Selma’s apartment by the river? One of the houses her father owned on the West Coast? She didn’t know. Because, for the second time in her life, she didn’t belong. Not in Prosperity. Not with Brig. Now without him.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked loudly, and farther away a siren wailed.
“Good-bye, Brig.” She shouldered open the door, but he caught her arm.
“No!” Whirling her to face him, he held her fast. “Don’t go, Cass.” His throat worked. Emotions from long ago filled his eyes. “I lost you once, I don’t want it to happen again.”
“But—”
“Oh Jesus. Don’t you get it? I love you.”
The words ricocheted through the house and reverberated through her mind. Love. How long had she waited to hear him say that he cared? A lifetime. “You don’t even know me,” she whispered.
His fingers clamped down hard. The suitcase tumbled from her hand and thudded against the floor. “I love you as I’ve never loved a woman, as I never could love another. I love you as no man has a right to love a woman.”
“Oh, Brig, you don’t mean—”
The look in his eyes was dark and serious. Determined. “I do, Cass. I mean it. I’ve loved you forever and I’ll never stop.” Pride angled his chin. “Oh, hell—” Yanking her close, he kissed her roughly. Refusing to be denied. His arms surrounded her and dragged her close, and any protest she felt died on her tongue. Firm, sensual lips, filled with purpose, molded over hers. His hard body felt so right, rigid angles and planes pressed unyielding to hers as he backed her against the wall. Their hips fit snugly. Through the denim of his jeans his erection pressed anxiously against her mound. Her breasts were crushed, the air lost in her lungs as his fingers yanked out the band holding her hair away from her face.
Her keys clattered against hardwood, and she wrapped her arms around him. His kiss deepened and the sensual beast deep in the most feminine part of her stirred and awakened, sending out pulses of heat, creating a moist, hot whirlpool between her legs.
It had always been like this between them. Hot. Needful. Lusty.
With a groan, he lifted his head and stared deep into her eyes. His smoky gaze burned to her very soul. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered roughly, his thumb tracing her jaw. “Cass, please, don’t ever leave me.”
“Brig—” She couldn’t think as he kissed her again, over and over again. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, all she could do was feel. Dear God, she was weak where he was concerned. So damned weak.
With a groan, he lifted his head. “Damn it, Cass,” he whispered, “I can’t, I won’t lose you again. Ever.” His fingers curled in her hair, drawing her head back and he brushed his lips against her throat and lower still. She shivered with want as he kissed her between her breasts, on the front of her blouse, leaving a wet impression. She arched closer to him, her body so willing, her mind losing hold fast.
“Stay with me forever.” He lifted her from her feet. Damning herself for her weakness, she clung to him, kissing and touching, exploring and knowing that this time, she was making love to Brig.
With trembling fingers, he stripped her quickly, laid her on the bed she’d shared with Chase and came to her. He kissed her breasts, her navel, her thighs, and she writhed for more, crying out his name, wanting more…so much more. All doubts fled as his fingers played magic upon her skin and she welcomed him—into her bed and into her heart. This is right, her body screamed. Giving in to the feel of him, she knew that this night was theirs, but as soon as this one ultimate act of lovemaking was complete, she’d walk out of the door, closing it on this man pretending to be her husband.
“I’ll be back late,” Derrick said. Felicity and the girls were in the family room, watching television—though, from the looks of it, they weren’t too interested in the program. Felicity was studying the newspaper in her lap so intently that a deep furrow marred the space between her perfectly plucked brows. Linnie was on the phone, yakking with a friend as always, and Angela, her black thick-soled boots tucked beneath her long legs, was curled in the corner of the couch and wearing a pouty look that he’d seen too many times before. Alternately glancing at a rerun of Roseanne or sending a hate-filled look at her mother, Angela sent out vibes that she’d rather be anywhere other than trapped in the house. She and Felicity weren’t getting along these days, but then no one was. Felicity had been in one bitch of a mood ever since the interview between Bill Laszlo and Chase.
“Where ya goin’?” Angela asked, arching a dark brow that reminded him of her namesake
“To meet with a client.” He shrugged into a jacket and Felicity didn’t bother looking up, just gnawed at her lower lip thoughtfully.
Angela leaned forward, suddenly interested. “How old is this client?”
What kind of a question was that? “Hell, I don’t know,” Derrick replied, patting his pocket to make sure he had his cigarettes.
“What sex?”
“Excuse me?” Derrick said, then caught the mean little glimmer in his daughter’s eyes. So much like Angie.
“Is your client male or female?”
“Last I heard, Oscar Leonetti was decidedly male. I don’t think he’s had an operation to change that.”
“So where’s the meeting?” she asked innocently.
Felicity looked up from the paper she’d been reading and stared at her husband.
Derrick wanted to squirm under his daughter’s calculating stare. “In Portland. At the Heritage Club.”
“I can reach you there?” Felicity asked, and Derrick nodded. The members and staff of the Heritage Club always covered for him—as they did for everyone. If anyone in the family was bold enough to phone him, the staff would call him on his mobile and he’d get back to his wife within fifteen minutes. She’d never suspect a thing.
“Does Lorna work for the Heritage Club?” Angela asked.
Felicity’s face was suddenly pale.
Derrick’s heart jolted. Don’t panic. “Don’t know. She could be a waitress or a hostess. They come and go.” How the hell did Angela know about Lorna? Coincidence? He didn’t think so—not if the nasty little gleam in his daughter’s eye could be believed.
“Oh. Well, you might want to look her up, ‘cause she called earlier today. Said she had a package for you.”
“A delivery?” Derrick said, thinking fast. Lorna was getting desperate. And bolder. Calling the house was dangerous, stupidly so.
“Photographic equipment, I think she said.” Angela smiled at her father then tossed her hair from her eyes. She knew what she was doing and it made him sick inside. Somehow his daughter had found out about him.
“I’ll be damned.” Felicity’s eyes closed for a second and she shook her head.
Derrick was in a panic. She knew, too.
“I can’t believe no one else has figured it out.” Felicity’s face was taut, white lines of rage rimming her lips.
“What?” Angela asked, delight etched in her pretty young features. “Figured out what?”
“Nothing.” But Felicity, newspaper in hand, was on her feet and she headed for the den. “I think you should see this,” she said out of the corner of her mouth and Derrick had no choice but to follow. That was the problem with his marriage. Felicity insisted on running the show and she was forever leading him around, nagging and telling him what to do. Calling him spineless. Forcing him to go to boring parties. Inviting friends of her father’s and his over for dinner and a rousing political discussion which he hated. It was as if he had a damned ring in his nose attached to a chain that Felicity could yank at her whim. He thought of Lorna with her big, soft tits. Right now they were a turn-off, and he realized she’d been setting him up for months, offering up her daughter as bait, planning his seduction and videotaping it. And he’d fallen for it.
Felicity closed the door to the den behind her and Derrick waited, knowing the bomb was about to be dropped. Maybe that was for the best. It was time to quit hiding and lying.
“Chase isn’t Chase,” she whispered, her eyes bright.
“What?” Now what was she talking about? Again his heart threatened to give out on him. He rubbed his thumb nervously against his index finger.
“I knew something was wrong,” she said, almost to herself, as if she were plotting again. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I picked up on it right away during that damned interview. Cassidy looked like she’d seen a ghost and Chase…well, he wasn’t himself. Chase is dead. He’s got to be.”
“Hey—wait a minute,” Derrick said, not following her reasoning, but relieved, that for now, she didn’t appear to know his dirty little secret. “You’re talking in circles. What do you mean Chase isn’t Chase?”
“I can’t believe you’re so blind. Everyone’s so damned blind!” Shoving the newspaper under his nose, she said, “See for yourself. Marshall Baldwin might have been an alias for Brig McKenzie, but now he’s got a new one. That bastard is impersonating his brother.”
He was starting to understand. “You think Chase is really Brig?” God, she’d really flipped.
“Yes! Yes! Just look!” She wagged the paper under his nose. “I knew it!” A smug smile crossed her lips. “Damn but it’s good to be vindicated.”
Derrick snatched the newspaper from her outstretched fingers and stared at the pictures in disbelief. Of course there was a resemblance, but it seemed she was making one helluva leap. “How would you know? They looked so much alike.”
“But they weren’t twins, for God’s sake. Sure they looked the same, and their speech patterns and voices were similar, but their attitude was different. The way they walked or looked at you or the rest of the world for that matter. At first I thought it was because of the fire—that Chase was talking a little differently because of all the surgery to his face or seeing things in a new perspective because he had a near-death experience that really shook him up, but that didn’t explain the attitude. That cocksure son-of-a-bitching attitude that I’ve noticed lately.
“And Cassidy. She’d done a one-eighty. Remember, right before the fire, she was going to walk, divorce Chase and never look back? Remember how Chase never gave her the time of day in the last couple of years? At first I thought that your dear little sister had a change of heart or felt some guilty feelings of obligation because her husband nearly bought it—or it was possible that she was just trying to save face so the whole town wouldn’t think she was just a cold-hearted rich bitch who would divorce a cripple. That explained why she was sticking around. But it’s more than that. She’s not filing for divorce because she’s with Brig and I told you she always had a thing for him. I’m surprised I didn’t see it right away,” she added angrily, obviously furious with herself.
Derrick stared at the pictures in the paper. Deep in his bones, he felt it—that tiny drop of dread that told him Felicity was right.
“I just wish I’d figured it out earlier,” she rambled on, “but I didn’t really understand what was going on until I saw him talking with Laszlo. He was too cool. Too relaxed. Not even bothering with a tie. That wasn’t Chase—not pinstripe and button-down Chase McKenzie. I knew it, damn it!” She seemed pleased with herself for her cleverness, and Derrick had to hand it to her, she’d always been sly and perceptive. Hadn’t she managed to trap him? “Why do you think Baldwin is always pictured with a full beard, hmm? It was a damned disguise—just in case!”
“I’m not sure—” Derrick lied, sick to his stomach. If what Felicity was saying were true, all hell was about to break loose.
“Look, for Christ’s sake!” she said, ripping the newspaper from his hands and placing it on the desk. She pointed a brightly tipped nail at the picture of Baldwin. “It’s Brig, goddamn it! And Cassidy’s protecting him. Just like before.”
“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 ripped 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!
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.