by Lisa Jackson
“Keep the John Doe on ice until someone claims him and check with Alaska—see what the hang-up is.”
“You got it,” Gonzales said.
“And pictures. I want every picture you can find of Brig McKenzie.” He thought for a minute. “I want to talk to every old-timer in town, find out what the gossip around here was seventeen years ago.” His eyes narrowed on the elevator, and he imagined Cassidy as a gawky teenager, a tomboy, pale in comparison to her older half sister. “See what the family dynamics of the Buchanans and the McKenzies were. I want to know why Lucretia Buchanan offed herself, why Frank McKenzie took a hike and how Brig McKenzie fits in with Angie and Cassidy Buchanan. There was friction between him and the Baker boy who got killed. Check that out as well.”
“Anything else?” Gonzales asked.
“Yeah. Find out where Chase McKenzie was during all this time. He was supposed to be the good McKenzie boy, always looking after Mom, toeing the line, going to school and working his butt off. But it just doesn’t wash with me.”
“You think he’s lying?”
“He’s not talking at all, but yeah, he’s lying. The whole damned lot of them are lying. But the trouble with lies is that when one starts to unravel, the entire web starts falling apart. All we have to do is pull one thread and my guess is we should start with Willie Ventura. He’s the one who’ll have the most trouble holding his lies together.”
Cassidy walked on legs made of rubber. There was no proof that Brig was the man in CCU, no reason to believe that he was dead, yet her stomach was sour and an emptiness stole through her heart as she found her way back to Chase’s room.
“Mrs. McKenzie—” The nurse at the station seemed worried. “Mrs. McKenzie, I’ve been trying to locate you.”
Oh God, what now? Cassidy hesitated. “Yes? Is something wrong?” she said, reading the concern in the woman’s dark eyes. “My husband—”
“Is stable. It’s not him. It’s your mother-in-law.”
“Sunny?” Dread was a needle pricking deep into her heart.
“Yes.” The nurse lifted her hands. “She’s not with you?”
“No, I left her here, remember?”
“Oh, dear. I’m afraid she must’ve slipped out of the room while I was making rounds of medication and the other nurse was attending someone else—”
“Wait a minute.” Cassidy’s foggy mind instantly cleared. “You mean to tell me that she’s not here. Not in the hospital?”
“I don’t know about the rest of the hospital.” The sallow-faced nurse started to get defensive. “But she’s not in this wing on this floor.”
“You’re certain?”
The woman’s mouth became a formidable line. “Yes, Mrs. McKenzie, but I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.”
“Has anyone checked the bathrooms?”
“No, but—”
Cassidy’s heart was pumping wildly. Sunny wouldn’t have taken off, would she? She couldn’t get very far. She used a cane, for crying out loud. “Look, my mother-in-law needs to be found. I’ll check my car and the restrooms. If you would have someone look elsewhere, in case she’s confused—” Cassidy was already running down the hallway toward the front doors. She didn’t believe for a minute that Sunny had gone to the Jeep, but she couldn’t be certain.
Outside the sun was blazing. Hot rays burned across the pavement, softening the tar in the asphalt. The Jeep was where Cassidy had left it, and she was just about to turn back to the hospital when she spied a note, tucked beneath the wiper blade of the driver’s side.
She snatched it up and saw the penciled scrawl:
Don’t worry—the spirits are with me in my quest. Love, Sunny.
No!
Cassidy sagged against the fender and stared at the blinding white paper, the back of which was soiled and advertised yard work—a flyer that had apparently just blown across the parking lot.
“God help her,” she said, shading her eyes as she swept her gaze across a sea of vehicles. Where would Sunny have gone? And why? What the devil was her quest? Chase was right, she was getting worse. Now she’d fantasized that she was off on some vision quest, the kind her ancestors followed.
Chase would be furious. He hadn’t wanted Sunny to visit him, and now she was running loose, capable of inflicting pain on herself or others. Cassidy kicked at her tire in frustration, then slowly walked down each and every row of parked cars, making sure Sunny wasn’t crouching behind a station wagon or lying in the bed of a pickup. She wasn’t. Not a sign of her. How had she left? Called a cab from the hospital? Hitchhiked? Stolen a car? Found a bus? Hobbled off with her cane for God’s sake? How?
Sweat beaded on Cassidy’s scalp as she made her way back to the hospital. She didn’t know how to break the news to Chase. Any of the news. Not only was it likely that his one brother was dead, but his half brother was very much alive, though Chase didn’t know they were related. On top of that, his mother was missing. All Cassidy’s fault. One more reason for their already crumbling marriage to fall more quickly apart.
“I knew she should never have come here,” Chase growled, once Cassidy had told him the news about Sunny.
“I thought she needed to see her son.”
“Well, she didn’t stay here long.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“No.”
“Oh, Chase—” She walked to the bed and stared down at him. His angry eye followed her. “She’ll be all right.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
She grabbed the rails of his bed and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t respond.
Calming herself, she slowly let out her breath. “There’s something else you should know.”
“More good news?” he mocked, his words barely distinguishable through the wires in his jaw.
“No. It’s bad.” She took in a shuddering breath. “The man in CCU died today. That’s where I was; I saw the detectives come in and I had this feeling and…”
The eye closed and the room grew incredibly still. If possible, he seemed to stop breathing, his lips tense, the bruises on his face green and garish. Noises through the door were muted—phones ringing and carts rattling and voices speaking—all seemed so far away and unimportant.
She plunged on. “They still don’t know who he is, Chase, but they’ll be here, asking questions again as soon as Dr. Okano says it’s okay. You…you should think about what you’re going to tell them.”
“I’ll tell them the truth.”
“Which is?”
He stared at her so hard, she nearly cried out. Though he didn’t say a word, she understood that the dead man was Brig. “This will be hard, Cass,” he said with the first trace of tenderness she’d heard from him in a long, long while. “On you. On me. On everyone.”
Sunny thanked the farmer and climbed out of the dusty pickup. The floor was littered with tools. Dust covered every interior space, and the glove box was tied together with bailing twine, but the man was good and wholesome and had offered her a ride and she’d accepted. She’d turned down two before him, one was a bunch of kids in a beat-up Chrysler. They’d rolled to a stop, offered easy smiles with devilment in their teenaged eyes. A cloud of marijuana smoke had billowed out when one of the boys had said, “Hey, Grandma? How about a trip to heaven?” The other kids, packed in like sardines, had snickered.
“Already there,” Sunny had replied with a smile.
“You don’t need a ride? Come on, old lady, you’ve got a cane.”
“Thank you, but I’d rather walk.”
“Ain’t that a pisser?” The boy’s sunny disposition had disappeared, and Sunny realized that her first instinct, that the kids were only picking her up to make sport of her, was correct. She saw their auras, knew that the ringleader, the one talking to her, was a bad seed. No conscience. Out for a good time, and if it meant frightening little old ladies, all the better. The other kids were just along for the ride. Two girls—they were nervous�
��and another boy, the driver, who seemed worried and kept checking the rearview mirror.
“I’m meeting my son,” she said.
“And who’s he?” the ringleader snarled. “Jesus Christ?”
“His name is T—that stands for Thomas—John Wilson,” she lied. “You may have heard of him.”
“Shit, man, let’s get out of here,” the driver said. “T. John Wilson’s with the Sheriff’s Department. He’s thrown my old man in jail a couple of times.”
“I know.” The ringleader’s eyes glittered like hard, cold stones. “You’re making a mistake, lady.”
“I don’t think so.” Suddenly, she reached forward, grabbed his arm and her fingers wrapped around the small bones. Closing her eyes, she began chanting in her mother’s native tongue, over and over again, her voice high and reedy.
“What the fuck?” the boy screamed, startled.
“I don’t like this,” one of the girls exclaimed.
“She’s crazy, man.” The driver stomped on the throttle, Sunny let go of the boy’s arm and the car sped away, swerving over the center line before straightening.
The next people that pulled over were a young couple with a baby strapped into a car seat. Sunny didn’t take the ride because she recognized the woman—Mary Beth Spears, recently married and now a mother. Mary Beth was angry, her lips drawn into a tight little pout, and though she didn’t seem to recall Sunny, she was in a bad mood.
“Need a ride?” Her husband, a sandy-haired fellow with trusting eyes, craned his neck to look past the stiff profile of his wife.
“I’m enjoying my walk.”
“Mighty hot.”
“There’s a breeze.”
“We’ll be glad to take you back to Prosperity or wherever you want to go.”
Mary Beth shot her husband a hate-filled glance, and whispered something out of the corner of her mouth—something about heathens and the devil.
“No reason, I’m fine.”
“She’s fine, Larry,” Mary Beth said just as the baby in the backseat started to fuss. “Now let’s just get going. Mama and Daddy are waiting.”
“Just trying to be a Good Samaritan,” he said, then looked at Sunny again. “You’re sure, lady?”
“I’m sure.”
“Come on, Larry.” Mary Beth’s fingers drummed on the worn copy of the Bible spread open on her lap.
“Well, good day to ya,” Larry said, as the baby started crying in earnest.
“Same to you.”
“May Jesus be with you,” Mary Beth said, evoking a perfect and pious smile.
“And you.”
The car roared away and Sunny was grateful that Chase had never gotten involved with Mary Beth. They’d only dated once at the Caldwell party, the night Angie Buchanan had died, but that one date had struck fear into Sunny’s heart.
Several motorists passed, sending clouds of dust toward the ditch before the farmer, a muscular man named Dave Dickey stopped. She sensed immediately that he was a good man as he’d leaned over and opened the door to the cab. He was an honest man, his eyes clear brown behind photogray glasses that had darkened in the sun.
“Need a ride?” His smile was genuine, a slash of white against skin tanned from days in the sun, his hands callused from hours of labor.
“Looks as such.”
“Well, hop in.” He came around to help her and tucked her cane under her legs.
The old Ford—a ’66, Dave had boasted—wheezed and clanked over potholes in the road. Dave muttered something about replacing the drive line someday. He’d gladly taken her all the way to Rex Buchanan’s house, and now she stood here with the sun lowering over the horizon, the last rays gilding the gray stones of the house that looked like it belonged in the English countryside rather than nestled in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains.
She hadn’t been here in years, not since the week of Angie Buchanan’s funeral.
Thirty-one
Rex Buchanan was alone in the house. He finished one drink and carried a second upstairs, where he paused at the door of Angie’s room. Biting his lip, he hesitated.
Go on. You’re alone. Who’s going to find out? It’s your house, damn it. All of it.
Slowly he opened the door and stepped over the threshold. A guilty thought pierced his brain, but he ignored it. Dena had driven into town to visit Chase and run a few errands; she wouldn’t be back for hours. His wife would never know.
The room hadn’t changed in seventeen years—he wouldn’t allow it. Though Dena had insisted it would make a wonderful guest room, Rex had refused. Forever it would belong to Angie. He stared longingly at the picture of Lucretia and their little girl, then set his drink on the nightstand and stretched out on Angie’s bed. The room still smelled of her; he paid the maid a little extra in cash to sprinkle her favorite perfume, which he also bought on the sly, over the bed.
Tears filled his eyes. God, he missed them both. His fingers curled in the bedclothes, and his mind was filled with images of his daughter and his wife. Sometimes the images blurred, their blue eyes, shimmering dark hair, full lips were nearly identical, and even now thinking of Lucretia—he felt an erection begin and he touched himself, imagining her hands, light and feathery, her mouth moist, her breasts—he fought the image for a second, then gave in to it. In his mind’s eye she was always playful and sexy—more like their daughter. He rewrote his own history and gave it a delicious, sensual spin where Lucretia was eager for him, anxious to make love to him, wet and warm and ready, writhing and bucking beneath him.
His hips moved reflexively. Sweat made his skin clammy.
“Rex?” A voice, a soft feminine voice that was good and kind. Lucretia’s voice…
“Rex?”
Again she called. His eyes flew open and he realized where he was. Alone. On Angie’s bed. Half-drunk and humping an imaginary wife—a woman who had been dead for decades. He scrambled off the mattress, hitting the nightstand with his knee. Crash! Glass shattered against the floor. Aged Kentucky whiskey splashed onto the wall, the bed, the nightstand.
He was on his knees, trying to right himself, wondering how he could explain himself, when he saw her. “Oh, God,” he whispered, lifting his head. Somehow Sunny had broken into his house, into his private life, and was standing in the doorway. She was plumper than he remembered, her face beginning to sag, her hair gray, but she still had the uncanny ability to see into the darkest reaches of his soul. “What’re you doing here?” he whispered, still kneeling.
“I came to see you.”
“Why?”
She stood proudly in the doorway. “I told Cassidy all about Buddy—who he is and how he’s related to her.”
“Oh, my God, Sunny, why?” he nearly yelled, startled, his hand scraping across the floor. Glass sliced into his palm. “Are you crazy?”
Dark, bold eyes held his. “You, of all people, know how sane I am.”
“But you promised—”
“Cassidy guessed the truth anyway, from what you’d already told her.” She let out a slow breath. “She’s searching, Rex, searching for answers to her life, to her marriage, to the fires. It was time.”
“And Dena,” he said, his lies falling apart one by one. Blood dripped to the floor, mingling with the whiskey and dust motes that collected near the skirt of the bed.
“Dena knew about us.”
“But she doesn’t know that Willie is Buddy.”
“It will be all right, Rex,” Sunny assured him. Leaving her cane at the door, she walked stiffly into the room and gathered tissues from a box on the night table. Taking his hand in hers, she cleaned the jagged wound, deftly plucking shards of glass from the heel of his palm. “I think we’ve lived with lies long enough.” Slowly she lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss into his palm, tasting his blood. A kiss of old passion, of new trust, of reassurance. “Don’t be afraid, Rex,” she said in her soothing voice. She glanced at the rumpled bedcovers, and pain shadowed her eyes before she look
ed at him again. “It’s going to be all right. But you have to help me…”
“All I’m saying is that it looks bad.” Felicity clasped her gold bracelet over her wrist and surveyed herself in the mirror. The first hint of wrinkles showed near her eyes, and she had to touch up her hair every other week. If the tiny webbing of crow’s-feet got much worse, she’d call a plastic surgeon. She worked hard to keep her body in shape, her face perfect, though she thought it might be a futile battle. Her husband, smelling of brandy and leaning insolently against the doorjamb, barely noticed her anymore.
“I don’t care how it looks,” Derrick grumbled. “I’ve never given a rat’s ass about Chase McKenzie so why should I start pretending now?” He fished into his pocket for his pack of Marlboros and lit up. Smoke curled lazily over his eyes.
“He’s your brother-in-law.”
“My half-brother-in-law or some such crap. The family’s so fucked up I can’t keep it straight.”
“Watch your mouth. Linnie’s just down the hall.”
“You used to like it when I talked dirty.”
“In bed. Whispered, not shouted like a drunken sailor.”
“You knew how I was when you married me. No, I take that back”—he lifted his drink and cigarette in one hand—“when you tricked me into marrying you.”
“I didn’t—”
“Sure you did, Felicity. You didn’t have to get pregnant. Remember? You had before and we took care of it. But not this time, no way, you went running to Daddy.”
“I wanted a baby,” she said, her back stiffening with pride.
“You wanted to be Mrs. Derrick Buchanan.”
“And it worked out, didn’t it? We both love the girls.”
He didn’t respond, and Felicity experienced the dull ache she always felt when it came to her daughters. She loved them both desperately, wildly. They were beautiful, clever, witty and smart enough to know that their father didn’t love them. She tamped down the old pain. Angela had turned bitter toward Derrick, her sarcasm as cutting as his own. With no respect for her father, she had begun disobeying and become outwardly defiant. Just like her aunt and namesake at sixteen. But Belinda—sweet Linnie—still adored Derrick and believed that he loved her. She’d created her own fantasy family, enhanced by Felicity’s lies—and couldn’t understand Angela’s sarcasm. Linnie had a good but fragile heart. One that Derrick was certain to break. “You…you need to show the girls some attention.”
