by Lisa Jackson
“No!” Brig cried. He held his half brother’s head, denying the inevitable. “No!” He glared up at the heavens, at the furious inferno devouring Chase’s land, and then his rage turned black and deadly. Fury and vengeance drew an ungodly pact in his mind. “I’ll get him,” he swore to Willie. “If it’s the last thing I ever do, Willie, I’ll get him and I’ll get him good—”
Coughing, blood pouring from his side, Brig struggled to his feet. Derrick hadn’t moved from the porch, seeming unaware or unconcerned about the flames devouring the roof above his head, the ugly smoke surrounding him, the glass spraying as windows shattered. Tinder-dry grass ignited and the fire moved swiftly, demolishing everything in its gruesome path, heading toward the stable and sheds. Somewhere nearby sirens shrieked and deep, bellowing horns honked.
The fire department.
But it was too late. Too damned late.
Deliberately taking his time, Derrick stepped off the porch, the rifle pointed squarely at Brig’s chest.
“I think it’s time you went directly to hell, McKenzie,” Derrick yelled, coughing but fearless and stupidly proud. “And I want you to know that I’m proud to be the one to send you there.”
“You murdering bastard, I’ll take you with me,” Brig growled. He rushed forward. Horses screamed. Tires screeched. Horns blasted and men started running.
“Hey—you!”
“Stop!”
“What the fuck’s going on here? Oh, Christ, he’s got a gun!”
Derrick squeezed the trigger.
An explosion roared in his ears. Brig took one step forward before the blast hit him, throwing him off his feet, causing fire to spew into the sky and rain down from the heavens. Boards and glass, metal and chunks of concrete flew out from the house.
Brig knew that he was going to die. Blood flowed sticky and hot from his side, and he couldn’t get enough air. Smoke clogged his lungs and billowed upward, blotting out the moon. Blackness threatened to take him. He reached up to his neck, his fingers searching for the chain and medal he’d worn so many years and finding nothing.
“Cassidy,” he whispered hoarsely. “Oh, God, Cassidy, I’m so sorry.” He closed his eyes and her beautiful face swam in his vision. “I love you. I’ve always loved you…”
As she pulled the Jeep around a huge fire truck, Cassidy stood on the brakes and gazed in horror at the fire, at the house, at Brig. And Derrick on the porch with a gun…Oh God.
“Stop!” she yelled, flinging open the door as a blast knocked her back. “Brig!” He flew through the air and landed near the base of an old apple tree. Limp as a rag he slammed into the earth. “No!” she yelled. “Brig, no!”
“Hey, lady, stand back!”
Ignoring one of the firemen, she ran to Brig, heard the final words torn from his lungs over the scream of sirens. “Brig! Brig! I love you!” she cried, falling on her knees beneath the tree and cradling his head in her lap. She kissed him, tasting his blood and sweat, willing life into him. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. You can’t die, damn it, you can’t!”
Her voice was drowned by the sirens and engines of a truck that ground to a stop only inches from where she knelt, holding him, praying that he was alive, knowing that she’d loved him all her life. Tears rained from her eyes, despair clutched her soul. “I love you…oh, God, I’ve always loved you.”
Men scrambled around her. Firemen, paramedics, policemen and women. Even Felicity, who had appeared and was raving and screaming about Derrick.
“I didn’t mean to do it!” Felicity yelled, searching for her husband as a fireman restrained her. “I didn’t want to kill him. Not Derrick. Just Brig. He needs to die. Just like Angie! Oh, Christ, please, someone save Derrick!”
“Hold on there. Someone call a policeman over here. Her husband—”
“It doesn’t look good. Probably dead.”
“No! He can’t die! He can’t! Just Brig. Oh, God, what have I done?” Felicity screamed. “What have I done?!”
Cassidy glared at this monster of a woman. “I hope you get everything you deserve, and believe me, if the justice system doesn’t take care of you, I will!”
“Enough,” a policeman intervened. “I think we’d better read this woman her rights.”
“Save him—save Derrick. He’s—oh, God!”
The fire chief paid her no mind. “Get the number two truck hooked up and spray the stable, three can start on the house—what the hell? Where’d this dog come from?”
“Found him locked up in the stable—looks like he’s been drugged or something—”
“You have the right to remain silent—”
The words were dull and fuzzy, other sounds—horses and a dog barking and men shouting—all muted against the dull roar of the fire and the fear that took hold of her heart as she held Brig to her. Brig, the only man she’d ever loved. The man she’d left…
Cassidy didn’t move, couldn’t. Just held him tight.
“Hey, there—” Detective T. John Wilson’s hand was heavy on her shoulder. “Let’s take a look at him.”
Lifting her head, she stared up at the man she’d considered her enemy so long and blinked through her tears. “Save him,” she begged. “Please, you’ve got to save him—”
“The boys in the ambulance, they’ll do their best.”
“I love him.”
“I know you do, darlin’.”
“He’s—”
“I know that, too. Come on now. We have to work fast. Get him to a doctor.” She climbed to her feet though she couldn’t feel her legs, or anything else for that matter, and watched as he was placed on a stretcher and carried into the ambulance.
“She’s in shock,” someone said. “Better get her to the hospital.” But she threw off the gentle arm over her shoulders and ignored the stench of smoke and yelling, stepping over hoses and around men as they pumped gallons of water onto the house that Chase had built for her. Instead she insisted on being with Brig, knowing that she might never see him alive again. The ambulance, siren howling, took off. She held his hands in hers, lacing her fingers through his. She couldn’t stop her tears, just stared at him, wishing she could relive the last twenty-four hours. “Please, Brig. Wake up and love me.” But he was motionless, blood soaking through the bandage they’d wrapped over his side, dirt and sweat covering his face that was again scraped raw of skin from the asphalt where he’d landed.
Tears slid down her face, and the ambulance roared through the night. Couldn’t they go any faster? Brig was so pale, looked so near death.
“I love you. Don’t you dare die on me, Brig McKenzie,” she added, her voice catching. “Swear to God, if you do, I’ll never forgive you!”
He moved. Just slightly, but he moved. His eyes blinked open for a minute and he looked at her—straight in the face. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Cass,” he whispered, his tongue thick.
“Brig!” Her heart leaped.
His hand tightened over hers, giving her strength.
Hot tears spilled from her eyes all over again, and she leaned forward to kiss his scratched cheek. “Don’t ever leave me.”
“Never,” he vowed. “From here on in, it’s you and me, kid.”
“Promise?”
His gaze held hers before his lids lowered again. “Promise.”
Derrick…oh, God, not Derrick! I felt tears run down my face and my heart squeezed painfully. This was wrong. So wrong! I was sobbing, unaware of the men shouting, the hoses streaming water, the smell of charred wood. All I could think about was Derrick. “No, no, no!” I railed to the heavens and fell to my knees.
Someone, I didn’t know who, pulled me to my feet. Roughly. I blinked and stared into the face of a dark-eyed man with a sharp nose. “Felicity Buchanan, you’re under arrest.”
“What?” Dazed, the words didn’t really sink in.
“For the murder of Angie Buchanan, her unborn child, Jed Baker and Chase McKenzie.”
“What?” I finally screamed, try
ing to pull away. “Are you out of your mind?” The oaf of an officer yanked my arms behind my back and snapped on the cuffs. “Do you know who I am? Who my father is?” I forced some starch into my spine as I felt my world crumbling, the world I’d been born to, the world I’d only tried to improve.
“Yep.” He stared at me. “I’m Detective Steven Gonzales with the Sheriff’s Department.”
I stared him down. “You have no proof.”
“What were you doing here?”
Think, Felicity, I told myself, trying to regain some composure. “I…I followed my husband. I saw him take the gun and I followed him here.” Yes, that was the story I’d use.
“I just happened to hear your confession,” he said, a smile sliding across his steely jaw. “And I found your truck…it’s got some interesting things inside. Disguises and electrical equipment. I’m having it impounded.”
“Why? No!” I thought of everything in the truck and felt sick inside. “It’s registered to my husband!”
“But you were driving it. He came in another vehicle.”
“No…you’ve got it all wrong. I…I drive a Mercedes.”
“Which isn’t here.”
“But…” With me standing, shivering in rage, he slowly pulled out his wallet and began reading from a card.
“You have the right to remain silent…”
“You’re serious about this?” I screamed, my face flushing. Why hadn’t I driven away? Why had I been so fascinated with the fire I’d set…because of Derrick. Everything I’d done was for him and now…now, he was dead…oh, God…I think I let out a long, horrid wail of grief. For a brief, painful second I thought of my girls…precious babies. I squeezed my eyes closed and shut out the images of my children, of my husband. “Look, you’re making a huge mistake here,” I said, fighting a rising tide of panic that crept up my spine. “My father is Judge Caldwell. I assume you’ve heard of him. He’ll have your job, your badge and your gun. You’ll be railroaded out of Prosperity…”
The stupid detective just kept reading, and when he was finished, he looked up at me with dark eyes that glittered in victory.
Fear squeezed my heart and then I saw another man hurry up. Him, I recognized. Detective T. John Wilson.
“You got her,” he said to Gonzales.
“Standin’ here, watching the whole thing. Screamin’ that she didn’t mean to kill her husband. Already got her truck, parked on the federal land.” He nodded in the direction where I’d hidden the pickup. A sick, horrible sensation swept over me and I thought I might puke.
“We got her,” Gonzales said and he grinned.
“What? No,” I said, panic taking hold of me. What had I said? I had to backtrack to fix things. “I didn’t know what I was saying. I’d just seen my husband die and…and…I was telling the officer here—”
“He’s a detective,” T. John said.
“Yes, well, he’s making a huge, career-ending mistake.” I was blinking back tears, trying to keep my mind on the conversation while grief was ripping me apart. How could Derrick have been so stupid? How could he have died?
“Gonzales doesn’t make mistakes,” T. John said and his eyes were even colder than his partner’s. “It took us a long time to catch you, Mrs. Buchanan, but we’ve got you, dead to rights. You can tell us all about how you arranged the murders of your best friend, Angie Buchanan, and her baby.”
I cringed at the thought of that little unborn bastard. Derrick’s bastard.
“And Jed Baker, Chase McKenzie, just to begin with. We were already piecing it together, but your confession a few minutes ago helped a lot.”
“My confession? No…I was out of my mind with grief. I…I didn’t know what I was saying…”
“Tell it to The Judge,” T. John said and I thought for a second it was his pitiful attempt at humor but his face was hard and cold as granite.
“You can’t do this!” I yelled as they herded me to a police cruiser and T. John opened the door.
“We’re doing it.”
“No, you can’t.” I saw the future then, not the bright, beautiful life I’d planned with Derrick, but years ahead of living in a small cell, alone, or with dozens of women who were criminals…oh, no…no…“You can’t,” I said, my voice betraying my fear.
Finally T. John smiled. “No?” he mocked as Gonzales protected my head and pushed me inside the car. “Just watch.”
Epilogue
Squinting against a lowering sun, Brig pounded a nail into place and listened as a car approached, but the engine wasn’t the familiar rumble of Cassidy’s Jeep. He waited and a cruiser from the Sheriff’s Department slid to a stop in the old lane that his mother had used for years. Sliding the hammer into his tool belt, he cracked his back and walked stifffly to what would eventually be the door of his new house. It was just an open space now, a wider opening between the walls framed with fresh two-by-fours.
T. John stretched out of his car, and Brig steeled himself. He hadn’t been able to shake off his distrust of the authorities. After a lifetime of running, his instincts were still on alert every time he saw a uniform. T. John scaled the board that bridged the chasm around the foundation of the new house—his house for Cassidy.
“I thought you might want to see a couple of things.” T. John smiled as he surveyed the newly framed walls of a permanent dwelling at the site of Sunny’s old trailer. He handed Brig an envelope and black cassette case. Sawdust and nails littered the plywood floors and the roof was half completed, while the joists smelled of freshly cut wood.
“Why—what’re they?”
“You might want to return ’em to their rightful owners.”
Inside the envelope were two checks, each for a hundred thousand dollars made out to T. J. Wilson. One from Rex Buchanan. One from The Judge.
“Bribes?”
T. John lifted a shoulder. “Could be construed as such.”
Cassidy drove up just then and climbed out of the Jeep. Brig couldn’t help but smile each time he saw her. She was slim and tanned, no visible evidence yet of the child she was carrying. Their child. His smile widened as she joined them and set a paper bag and small cooler in what would someday be the front hall.
Brig fanned the checks out for her to see.
“I was told to use them for my election campaign or my retirement. Whatever I wanted. But the county takes care of one, and I’m not too worried about the other. Since I solved the two fires and murders, looks like I’ve become the local hero. Imagine that.” T. John smiled as Cassidy glanced at the checks, then handed him a beer.
“I’m on duty.”
“It’s lunchtime,” she said. “And you may as well celebrate, hero.”
“Fair enough.”
“What’s this?” Brig asked, fingering the plastic case.
“Pornography. With Derrick as the star.”
“Great.” Cassidy sighed. “What’re you going to do with it?”
“Give it to The Judge. He wants it, you know. Since Felicity’s already serving time, and Derrick’s not around anymore, he’d like to destroy all copies. We already nailed the woman who owns it with attempted blackmail, but The Judge, he’s afraid there might be more copies around and he doesn’t think it would be good for his granddaughters to see it.”
“They’re doing remarkably well,” Cassidy said. “Angela’s spending as much time as possible with that boyfriend of hers and Linnie—well, Linnie reads a lot. I told her she could come and live with us, but she seems okay with the Caldwells.” Sighing, she said, “She keeps talking about Felicity coming home.”
“I don’t think so. She’s got a crackerjack of an attorney, but it’ll be a long time, probably never,” T. John said, and Cassidy understood. The evidence against Felicity was overwhelming. She’d learned about incendiary devices from books in the library and years ago, afraid of losing Derrick to his sister, had decided to kill Angie and Brig while they were together to prove to Derrick that his sister was unfaithful, but she’
d ended up killing Jed instead.
Cassidy hated to think about it, but she assumed that after Brig wouldn’t fall for Angie’s attempts at seduction, she needed another man to name as her baby’s father. Jed was the choice and happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Years later, the prosecution was presuming, Felicity not only tried to kill Chase, but the company records as well, hoping to hide the fact that Derrick had been embezzling. She hadn’t known of Brig then, hadn’t realized that Chase was going to meet someone. So she wanted both McKenzie boys killed and had nearly succeeded. She had to set the third fire to finish the job, hoping to kill Chase, but then, realizing he was Brig, thankful that she could get rid of him as well. If the McKenzie boys died, so would all of Derrick’s sordid secrets.
“I’m afraid Felicity will never get out, which is fine by me,” T. John said. “And she’s not the only one. We got Lorna and her ex-husband on some drug charges, so I think they’ll willingly cough up the copies of the tape and cop a plea. The Judge won’t have to worry. Then he can raise his granddaughters the way he wants.”
Brig opened his beer and took a swallow. Cold against the hot of early October. Some of the leaves had already fallen and he worried a little about building the house in the winter, but the roof would be on soon and he didn’t really give a damn if the rain and winds tore the whole place apart.
He wondered about Felicity. Though he’d never trusted her, he hadn’t considered her as a suspect, not really. Probably because she was so outwardly submissive to Derrick. Brig had been fooled; hadn’t expected her to go to such lengths to protect what was hers. How could a woman who was slapped around by her husband commit murder to save her relationship with him? Crazy, that’s what it was. Crazy.
“How’s your mother?” T. John asked Brig as Cassidy unscrewed the cap of a bottle of iced tea.
“She’s gonna live here.”
“With you?” T. John’s eyebrows shot over the rims of his aviator shades.
“In the guest house. We’re building it, too—see over there—” He pointed to a bridge and an excavation site on the other side of the creek.
