by Lisa Jackson
Twenty-two
The dying man had to be Brig.
There was no other explanation.
Feeling as if she’d been kicked in the gut, Cassidy dropped her earrings onto the dresser and told herself that, no matter what else was true, Brig McKenzie was lying in the Critical Care Unit of Northwest General Hospital, his life seeping out of him. Why else the St. Christopher’s medal? True, they weren’t that uncommon, probably dozens of people in Prosperity wore one, but it seemed too much of a coincidence that the man charred in the fire at the sawmill, meeting Chase, clutching the medal, silently screaming her name, could be anyone but Brig.
Brig. Over the years, she’d forced herself to stop thinking about him, to stop believing that he would return, to stop loving him. It had been difficult at first, but as the years had passed with no word from him, the reality had finally sunken in that whether he was living or dead, he wouldn’t be a part of her life. As she’d grown up and become her own person, she’d slowly let go, dismissing her feelings for him as little more than a schoolgirl crush: puppy love complicated by fate, underage emotions and sex. Sex in a time when her personal morals told her that she couldn’t sleep with a man if she didn’t love him and wasn’t committed to him for the rest of her life.
She’d been such a child. A silly, willful child. Brig was best off without her.
But now he was back. Nearly dead. Meeting with her husband, who had probably known all along how to contact him, who had lied to her when he’d said that neither he nor his mother had received any word about Brig and had assumed that he was dead.
“Even if he is alive,” Chase had told her years ago before they had married, “he’s dead to us. He knows how to reach Ma—she’s never moved, never changed her telephone number always hoping he’d call—and I’m in the phone book. It would be a simple enough matter to pick up the telephone; so he’s dead or decided to let us think that he is—either way, it’s all the same, isn’t it?”
Except that Chase had lied. Why? To save their marriage? She frowned at her reflection. She felt betrayed and dead tired. The past two days had been exhausting. Even before the fire there had been problems. Serious problems. Between her and her husband. She glanced at her wedding ring—a simple gold band with a solitary diamond. It winked at her, as if sharing a private secret, the knowledge that her marriage had never become the loving, caring union that she’d hoped for; nor had it been what Chase had wanted.
They’d married for all the wrong reasons and they’d both known it—even then. With a sigh, she ran her fingers through her hair. The marriage had been for better or worse, and it wasn’t going to get much better for a long, long while. She couldn’t sit around moping and worrying. She had to do something; she’d be faithful to Chase, help him recover, then they could reexamine their marriage. But first she had to talk to Brig. Before he died.
Despite the fact that a part of her wanted to throw herself onto her bed, fall asleep and eventually wake up from this nightmare, she strode to the walk-in closet—lined in cedar, only the best for Chase McKenzie’s wife—and grabbed her jacket again. It was time she pulled herself together—someone had to. With Chase lying injured in the hospital, her father with a bad heart, Dena wringing her hands and Derrick as volatile as ever, it was up to her to get to the bottom of this mess.
After all, she’d been a pretty damned good investigative reporter before she’d given up her pocket recorder for a wedding ring and settled for a comfortable, but dull job at the local paper.
Frowning at the changes in her life, she walked quickly down the tile floors of the glass and redwood house Chase had built for her the year after they’d said their “I do’s.” Complete with brass bath fixtures, marble from an Italian quarry, crystal lamps and furniture handcrafted to Chase’s expectations, the house was a showcase—more museum than home. Persian rugs sprawled over hardwood floors; porcelain sinks from England caught water that didn’t dare drip from gold or brass spigots; designer window coverings added color; railings that had taken a European craftsman nearly a year to fashion and install, curved on three separate staircases from the basement to the second floor.
This ostentatious monstrosity of a house. Chase had wanted it—hungered for it—and Cassidy had agreed that they should build it, thinking the furnishings and new house would make him happy.
Of course they hadn’t. Nothing had made Chase happy. Nothing had satisfied him.
The phone rang and Cassidy paused near the French doors of her den, listening as the recorder picked up. There had been nearly fifteen calls since she’d come home from the hospital: some friends who were concerned, some workmen at the mill, and reporters—her peers, anxious for a story, smelling a scandal. She hadn’t bothered calling anyone back. Not yet.
“Cassidy? Are you there? Would you please answer?” Felicity’s voice, filled with worry and a trace of agitation. A pause. “Look, I know you’re there, so you’d better pick up the phone. Derrick and I are worried sick, for crying out loud. I’ve got calls from two news stations as well as the local paper and the Oregonian. They’re all expecting some kind of statement and…well, Derrick’s not up to it. You…probably know how to handle those people better than any of us.” She hesitated and Cassidy could picture her worrying her lower lip. “Cassidy? Oh, for the love of God, I don’t need this. If you’re there, pick up the goddamned phone!”
Telling herself she was making a big mistake, Cassidy lifted the receiver. “Okay, so I’m here.” She leaned a hip against the corner of the desk. “Don’t worry about the reporters. If any more call, tell them I’ll talk to them within the day—”
“Thank God. I’ve been going out of my mind. These people are vultures! No offense,” she added hurriedly, as if Cassidy was concerned about the sanctity of her chosen career. “But I’ve heard that they’re staked out at the hospital and that Dena and Rex have even been bothered in Palm Springs! Can you imagine?”
Oh, she could imagine all right. Hadn’t she once been part of the throng anxious for a story, spending days on courthouse steps, all-night vigils at prisons, sleepless hours driving in the worst of conditions for that all-important interview? That part of her life seemed so distant now.
“Bad news travels fast, I guess,” Cassidy said dryly. Even to Palm Springs.
“Well, you know how we feel about Chase,” Felicity barreled on. “Derrick and I are so sorry about everything…”
Lies. Felicity and Derrick had eloped to Lake Tahoe not long after the ashes from the fire that killed Angie had cooled. Felicity’s concern right now rang false. She was a parrot for her husband, and Derrick had always hated everyone associated with the McKenzies. He and Felicity had been stupefied when Cassidy had married Chase; the whole family had been in shock and her half brother and sister-in-law had never hidden how disgusted they were in her choice of a husband. Maybe that was one of the reasons Cassidy had decided to tie the knot. In the first few months, when they’d been happy, Chase had jokingly referred to himself as the new outlaw rather than in-law. But that was all so long ago now. “Don’t worry,” Cassidy heard herself saying. “He’ll be better soon.”
“Will he? I mean, I know he’s in bad shape—”
Cassidy snapped back to the present. “Dr. Okano thinks he’ll be fine.”
“You talked with the doctor? I thought you were with that detective.”
Cassidy didn’t have time for the third-degree from Felicity. “I was but I went to the hospital with Detective Wilson, then later, once he was done interrogating me, I drove back, stayed with Chase awhile until I could speak with the doctor.” She wound the telephone cord around her fingers. “Dr. Okano’s very encouraged. He’ll be released by the end of the week.”
“Is he coming home?”
The question was one she’d asked herself a dozen times. “Where else would he go?”
Felicity sighed loudly. “Don’t get defensive. It’s just that we all know that you were having some problems.”
The muscles in the back of Cassidy’s neck grew rigid. No matter how bad her marriage was, she never confided in anyone, not her mother, her brother or his wife. Her relationship with her husband was private. “Look, Felicity, Chase is getting better and he’s coming home. Period.”
Felicity didn’t press the issue. “What about the other man?”
Cassidy’s throat caught. Brig. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, the cord twining over her fingers. “No one’s allowed to see him, but I don’t think it looks good.”
“Who the devil is he?”
Was that her heart pounding so loudly? “I don’t know. The police are still trying to figure it out.”
“I hope they find out, and soon,” Felicity said vehemently. “I won’t feel safe until we know who he is and why he tried to burn down the sawmill.”
“You think he was behind it?” Brig? Why would he come back here to burn the sawmill?
“Who else?”
“Anyone.”
“Oh, come on, Cassidy. Your husband’s fighting for his life—near dead from the fire—and you’re defending some drifter that the police can’t identify? Of course he’s behind it!”
“We don’t know that. We don’t know anything right now.” She tried not to sound defensive; it was better if Felicity didn’t guess that Brig was back. “Besides, if you believe he’s behind the fire at the mill, you won’t have to worry.” Beads of sweat dotted her brow, and nausea rolled up the back of her throat again. “It…it looks like he won’t make it.”
“Good. It’ll save the criminal justice system and the state thousands of dollars.” Felicity seemed relieved. “I know you’re a bleeding-heart liberal, Cassidy, but you would change your mind if you had children and worried day in and day out about their safety.”
Cassidy felt that old empty place in her heart again, the one she’d reserved for children of her own. The one that would never be filled. “Look, I’ve got to go—”
“I won’t keep you. But remember, we’re not safe. Who knows what that guy was trying to do? He could have an accomplice, couldn’t he? Some nutcase still out running around? That’s what worries me. It could be some idiot who holds a grudge against the family. And if you ask me, I’ll bet Willie Ventura’s involved. He’s been missing, hasn’t he?”
“Willie wouldn’t—”
“He’s not right, Cassidy. I know you’ve stood up for him all your life, but he’s a half-wit; a boy in a man’s body. Who knows what goes on in his mind? I won’t let my girls around him, believe you me, and I don’t trust him. He’s a pervert—always hanging around, staring.”
Cassidy remembered the day by the pool years ago when Felicity had dared to pull off her T-shirt and flaunt her breasts just to see Willie’s reaction.
“I just hope they solve this soon. It’s got to be hard on your dad. He called here, talked to Derrick. He and Dena will be flying in tomorrow.”
“Good.” Cassidy wasn’t ready to face her parents, but she couldn’t put off the inevitable. Rex Buchanan had aged so much in the years since the original fire; it was almost as if the life had been stripped from him. Dena had become a fussbudget, flitting around her husband, seeing to his every need, enjoying semiretirement, complaining that she didn’t have any grandchildren of her own—not that Angela and Linnie, Felicity and Derrick’s girls, weren’t charming, gorgeous little things, but not really her blood. Dena was content to let Derrick, Chase and Cassidy run the family business.
Cassidy made some excuse to hang up. She and Felicity had never gotten along and were just civil to each other, but usually it didn’t matter. Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she headed through the door. She had to stop at the newspaper office where she worked, then she’d head to the hospital.
Outside the wind was hot, late August refusing to give up its sweltering grip on the weather. Cassidy climbed into her Jeep and headed toward Portland.
Her head was throbbing, pain building behind her eyes as she thought of Brig. How many years had she prayed that she could see him again? But he’s going to die. Before you can ask him one question, before you can touch him, before you can even be certain it’s really Brig, he’s going to die.
Twenty-three
“So how does it feel to be the focus of a story for a change?” Selma Rickert asked as she leaned against the partition that separated her work space from Cassidy’s. Gold bracelets jangled around her wrists, and her eyes were tinted a vibrant green, courtesy of new contact lenses. She appeared nervous, as she usually did since the paper had been declared a smoke-free workplace and she and a few others were forced to go outside for a cigarette every now and again rather than leaving one forever burning in the ashtray that still sat buried somewhere on her desk.
“To tell you the truth, I’d rather be the one asking the questions.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Scratching a bare forearm with the painted nails of her opposite hand, Selma added, “You’d better watch out for Mike. He’s on the warpath—arguing with the powers-that-be again over the ‘direction and attitude’ of the Times or some such crap.” The powers-that-be were Elmira Milbert, owner of the Valley Times after inheriting it from her husband just this past year. “Besides, he’s hell-bent to get the inside scoop on the fire from you-know-who.”
“Me? Like I have it?” Cassidy rubbed her temples and prayed for an aspirin.
Selma nodded and glanced at the door to the editor-in-chief’s glassed-in office. “You’re the wife of one of the injured parties.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“More than we do, honey. That’s all that matters.”
A weight settled in Cassidy’s stomach. “What’s he want?”
“What do you mean, what’s he want? A story, natch. From someone close to the fire.” Selma shrugged. “You know Mike. He’s always looking for a different angle—after all, that’s what this paper is all about: the alternative viewpoint.”
“But he wouldn’t mind a little sensationalism.”
Selma grinned, showing off her slight overbite. “Not if it sold a few papers.” She winked and settled back at her desk while Cassidy stared at the chaos that was hers. She’d only missed a few days of work, and yet it seemed that the whole world had collapsed since then.
She sorted through her mail and messages, finished a story she’d started a few days before about a new theater troupe, then put a call into the hospital to check on Chase. Ignoring another assignment that wasn’t due until next week, she scanned all the news stories on the fire as well as a copy of the police report that someone had managed to pry out of the Sheriff’s Department’s hands.
An hour passed before Mike Gillespie stopped at her desk and glanced at her copy of the report. “Sorry to hear about Chase,” he said, his eyes, behind thick glasses, looked concerned. A big man with the start of a sagging stomach, he smelled of cigar smoke and coffee.
“It looks like he’ll be okay. It’ll just take time.”
“Helluva thing, though.”
She’d never felt nervous around Mike before, but that’s because they were always playing on the same team. This time, because of the fire, they were on opposite sides—or at least that’s the way it felt.
“If you need more time off…” He let the sentence trail, giving her the opportunity to reply before he’d even finished his thought.
“I might want to work more at home, once Chase is released from the hospital. I’ll fax things to the office.”
He lifted a shoulder and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Just let me know. We’ve got other people willing to fill in for you.”
“I appreciate it,” she said, though she felt her stomach clench and knew she was bracing herself for something. Here it comes, her mind warned, don’t let him blindside you.
“Bill has been working on the story about the fire.”
Bill Laszlo was one of the best reporters on the paper. She didn’t respond, just waited until Mike got to the point.
“He might want to ask you a few questions, you know, since your father owns the mill and your husband and brother run it…”
“And my husband was nearly killed.”
His face was suddenly world-weary. “It’s news, Cassidy. Big news around here. That’s what we report. You wouldn’t expect us to ignore it, would you?”
“’Course not. I just don’t like being a primary source, okay? This has been rough on my family as it is; I’m not going to be the one spilling her guts to the media.”
“The shoe pinches a little when it’s on the other foot, doesn’t it?”
“Just tell Bill that I don’t know anything more than he does. The police aren’t confiding in me.”
He hesitated a little and pulled on his lower lip. “The way I hear it, they might suspect you.”
She stared at him as if he’d sprouted horns and a tail. “They told you that?”
“No, but you were called in for questioning.”
“Because my husband was hurt. That’s all!” she nearly shouted, instantly indignant. What was Mike pulling? “They talked to lots of people.”
“All the talk in Prosperity is that the mill was losing money and insured to the hilt.”
She wouldn’t rise to that one. “So that’s the talk, is it? Sounds like pure speculation to me. I thought this paper only printed facts.”
“We were hoping to get them from you.”
“I don’t have any.”
“What about the John Doe?”
Her heart nearly stopped, and she tried to keep from snapping. “All I know is that he’s in CCU and it doesn’t look good.”
“You think he’s the arsonist?”
She shook her head vehemently. I think he might be my husband’s brother—the boy with whom I lost my heart and my virginity. “I don’t know anything about him.”
