Final Scream (13 page)

Chase had never seen Buddy again after the ambulance took him away. His mother had explained that Buddy was in the hospital, that he would come home someday, but he never had. Nor had he died, at least not that Chase knew of. He’d never gone to a funeral; never had his mother taken him to a cemetery. When he’d asked about Buddy, Sunny had always seemed distant and only replied that his brother was fine—being taken care of.

When he’d gotten older, Chase had gleaned that Buddy was probably alive, but paralyzed or severely retarded or unable to take care of himself, a ward of the state in some institution somewhere.

And the guilt had never left him. Maybe that’s why at twenty-four, Chase hadn’t moved away. He felt as if he owed his mother something. Buddy’s accident had changed the climate of the little family, and Frank McKenzie, unable to deal with the loss of his son and his wife’s depression after another hospital stay for a hysterectomy, had gone off to work one day and never come home.

He’d left his family the small scrap of land he’d inherited from his father, and a beat-up old Chevy and a pile of hospital debts that Sunny couldn’t possibly pay. For years there had been talk in town of taking Brig and Chase away from a mother who couldn’t afford them. The welfare people and social workers had made monthly visits.

Chase and Brig had grown up with the knowledge that at any minute they might be stripped away from their mother. They’d heard the talk in town. Not only had Sunny proved herself unfit and already lost a healthy son by her own neglect, but her husband had left her because of rumors of infidelity. Worse yet, she couldn’t support herself and the boys properly. Chase had taken a paper route at age seven and his mother had started reading palms.

He and Brig had gone to school in hand-me-downs and torn jackets—shoes with holes in them and bare heads. “It’s no shame to be poor,” his mother had always said. “But there’s no excuse for being dirty.” So his ragged jackets were always clean and pressed, his patched jeans crisp, his too-small shoes polished.

Sunny had done her best, and Chase, probably because of the guilt he still felt about Buddy, had stuck around. As much to protect Sunny from the sting of sharp tongues as anything else.

But he couldn’t protect her from herself and the craziness that seemed to grow with each passing day.

Now, yanking off his gloves, Chase swiped at the sweat on his forehead and swatted at a wasp hovering nearby. He hated thinking back. All it did was depress him.

He heard the rattling clunk of her old Cadillac’s engine and shoved his wheelbarrow aside to allow his mother to drive down the freshly graveled lane. As he waved, she smiled and braked under the lean-to he and Brig had built for her car. The Cadillac was long and silver, with a furry fake cat lying on the ledge near the back window. Its eyes blinked in tandem to the turn signals and Sunny adored it. Chase cringed a little as he glanced at the cat. His mother—the town nutcase.

And Brig wondered why he envied the Buchanans.

Rex Buchanan believed in God. He believed in heaven and hell and that a man would be punished if he didn’t try to do good while here on earth. He’d been raised a Catholic, and even though in this community, Catholics were a minority among the Methodists, Lutherans, Baptists and every other sect of the Protestant religion, he’d held fast to the faith that had been with him since he was a boy boarding at an elite Jesuit school back East.

In his lifetime, he’d tried to do what was right for the most part. Though he was as guilty of being tempted as the next man, he’d atoned whenever possible, confessed his sins to the priests, given a lot of money to the Church and felt more guilt than most men.

He never questioned the word of God. Never doubted his faith. Never wondered why he was being tested. It was just the way it was. Rex Buchanan tried to do everything humanly possible here on earth to pass by Saint Peter and make it through the glorious gates of heaven when his time came.

But he was, after all, only a man and sometimes not a very strong one. This was his curse.

He poured himself a stiff shot of brandy and tossed back the drink. His philanthropy was important, not only in the eyes of God but for the community. It was good for the local people who worked for him to see that he cared for those less fortunate, but sometimes his interest in the poor was a damned pain in the butt.

As was the case with Brig McKenzie. The kid wasn’t much good, but in Rex’s estimation the boy had never been given two cents’ worth of a chance. The week he was born his brother got himself caught in the swift waters of Lost Dog Creek and then Brig’s father, Frank, the coward, had taken off. Sunny McKenzie had nearly collapsed. Beautiful, nonbelieving Sunny. Rex wondered how she had survived. She seemed to have no faith in God, no fear of the Almighty’s wrath, no concern for the devil as she laid her tarot cards on the table or traced the lines of a man’s palm with her sensual fingers.

For years people in town had tried to get her to leave Prosperity. There had been shots fired at the old trailer, and the palm-reading sign that hung over the front door had been peppered with buckshot more than once. Someone had even left a dead cat draped over her mailbox. The boys had been ridiculed at school, but Sunny was a proud woman and wouldn’t pull up stakes.

Not even when Reverend Spears had personally gone to her home and tried to show her the evil of her ways. Then again, Spears knew all about evil. He, too, was just a man, though the way his congregation flocked around him, Rex thought the preacher considered himself some sort of deity. Spears even claimed to talk to God.

And people believed him.

Rex snorted. Pouring another shot of brandy, he considered the reasons that Sunny stayed in Prosperity. He alone knew the answer. It weighed on his mind as heavily as a load of bricks, but he was used to the burden; he’d carried it for years.

Swallowing the musky liquor, Rex felt the warm familiar burn of the brandy against his throat. Soon it would seep into his bloodstream. He liked the feeling, the little buzz that caused a flush to color his skin. He refused to think of liquor as another one of the devil’s temptations. No, as he sipped his second drink—slowly, not to rush things—he didn’t want to get drunk, because when he’d had too many he lost his power to think rationally—weigh all the consequences—and then his demons, that devil that was constantly sitting on his shoulder, took control. Evil things happened when he drank too much, so he was careful, regulating his intake of alcohol, dancing warily with Satan, inviting him to come close, only to slam the door on his hideous face when he capped the bottle.

Dena had driven into town, the ranch hands were busy and Rex thought he was alone. Topping off his glass, he walked to the main hallway and took the stairs to Angie’s room, one of his favorites in this huge monstrosity of a house—the house he’d built for Lucretia. His old heart ached as he paused at the door, then pushed it open.

Feeling guilty—like a peeping Tom—he stood in the hallway and looked inside. A thick cloud of perfume drew him closer. The clutter of bottles on her vanity reminded him of her mother. Almost everything Angie did reminded him of Lucretia—beautiful, spoiled, weak Lucretia. He stepped into the bedroom and eyed the portrait—his portrait—of Lucretia and Angie. His throat closed in on itself as he studied the lines, the gorgeous lines, of his wife’s face. He’d fallen in love with her the first time he’d seen her, a shy debutante at a Christmas party at Waverley Country Club. She’d been sixteen, and he’d been pushing thirty. He’d pursued her with a relentless and hot passion that bordered on the unholy and married her two days after she turned eighteen. Her parents had been pleased—he’d offered a considerable marriage settlement, though they didn’t call it such these days—and Lucretia, the virgin, had lain in his bed.

Closing his eyes, his lips trembling slightly, he remembered their honeymoon at the Hotel Danvers in Portland, where they planned to spend one night before flying out to Hawaii the next morning. Rex hadn’t wanted her to change into a nightgown that she’d bought for her wedding night, but had insisted instead that she wear her wedding dress. They’d drunk nearly a bottle of champagne at the wedding and another in the hotel, and then when he could stand it no longer, he’d slowly taken the pins from her hair, allowing her black curls to fall free to rest on the snowy gown. He knew that he was as close to heaven as he would ever come in this life.

Drunker than he should have been, he carried her to the bed. The beads on her dress caught the light of the fire crackling in the marble fireplace. Her eyes, wide with fascination and innocence, watched him as he pulled the dress down to her waist, and he, still in his tux, played with her gorgeous breasts, kissing them, nipping at huge dark nipples that beckoned him, feeling as if he would explode at any second. She tried to respond, but was clumsy—he’d never touched her this way before. Desire pounded through his blood, making him crazy and blind to her fear. After nearly two years of celibacy and jacking off at night while fantasizing about the sweetness of entering her, he couldn’t wait a second longer.

“Rex,” she cried, as he got a little rougher than he’d intended. “Rex, no. W—what’re you doing—”

Dizzy from the champagne, he bunched up the huge lacy skirts of her gown and quickly unzipped his fly. His member, swollen and anxious, was hard as stone. “Making you my wife,” he’d said.

She took one look at his erection and drew back in revulsion. “Oh, no. Rex, please, wait—”

“I’ve waited too long already, Lucretia.” The champagne talking. With a grunt of pure pleasure, he forced himself into her. She was tight and dry, but then she was a virgin and he couldn’t stop. He’d held off so long and his blood was on fire, pounding in his brain.

“Rex, oh, God, don’t—” She was panicked now, trying to scoot away from him, but he had her pinned with his body weight. He placed a sloppy kiss on her lips and forced his tongue past her teeth and down her throat.

He pushed harder, felt her give way, heard her scream somewhere in the back of his alcohol-soaked consciousness and ruptured her maidenhead. She’d get over it. Virgins were always dry and tight at first.

“Nooo—” she cried, but he was out of control as he started moving, penetrating, fusing her wriggling body to his. He’d been with virgins before and knew that she would soon loosen up, her juices would flow and she would be panting, begging for it, arching up to meet him, her pink-tipped nails digging into his buttocks. She’d throw herself at him, kissing and tasting and even taking him into her mouth, letting him come. Oh, this was heaven! A hundred wild horses galloped through his brain, and though he tried to stop his glorious release, he plunged deep into her dry, tight well and spilled himself into her.

Sweating, breathing with difficulty, he fell against her, nearly unconscious from the ecstasy, smashing her breasts with his weight, believing that he would do this over and over again like a stallion trying to impregnate a mare in heat. He’d take her from the front, the back, in the shower, on the floor, every way and everywhere he could imagine. She’d drive all other women from his mind—sexy, hot, wanting to make love to him every hour of the day.

When his breathing finally slowed and his heart stopped pounding with love for her, he felt his tux sticking to him where his sweat had congealed. Lifting his head to kiss her, she turned away and tears shimmered in her eyes. “You bastard,” she hissed. “You clumsy, ugly oaf!” She kicked him off her and rolled from the bed. Her huge, beautiful breasts rose and fell in her fury, and she tried to hold the bodice of the dress over them, covering up, ashamed of her nakedness. Blood stained the wedding gown and a look of sheer hatred twisted her young features. “Don’t you ever touch me again,” she said, lifting her chin high. Eyes bright with condemnation, she fought tears. “Don’t you
dare
act like a filthy, disgusting animal with me!”

He couldn’t believe his ears and reached for her. “Lucretia, no. I love you.”

Stepping backward, toward the fire crackling in the grate, she trembled in revulsion. “Leave me alone, Rex. I won’t be your whore.”

He was confused and more than a little drunk. “No, of course not, I’m your husband. You’re my wife—”

“Then treat me with some respect. What just happened was”—her beautiful lips were curled in disgust—“was vulgar and cheap. Sick! Like two animals grunting and rutting. Mother said this would happen, she told me that I’d have to put up with you heaving and panting on top of me, that it was my duty, but I thought you…that you respected me, that you wouldn’t treat me like some filthy little slut!”

“No, oh, Lucretia, no. God, I’m sorry—” What was happening? Why was she acting this way? Didn’t she feel the joy in making love with him?

“You
used
me! Used my body as some kind of dirty jar!” Great sobs racked her body, and she glared at him with a malice so deep it cut into his soul.

“You knew this would happen,” he said, confused. What was going on here? Was she frigid? If only she’d give him the chance, he’d be more gentle—making sure that she came, too.

“I thought we would make love—like two people who cared for each other…not just…screw—” She said the word as if it tasted as ugly as it sounded. Her eyes were round, her voice high with near rage. “There’s a difference.”

“Oh, honey—” He climbed off the bed, his tuxedo askew, his fly gaping open, his mind cloudy with champagne. Zipping up, he nearly stumbled. “I’m sorry, I should have been more careful. Come back to bed, I promise, I’ll make you feel good.”

“Don’t ever touch me again, Rex Buchanan!” She was in full-blown hysteria now and reached behind her for the poker, her fingers desperate until she found a weapon and held him at bay. “You try to rape me again, and I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, Jesus, Lucretia, I didn’t—”

She waved the poker in front of his nose. “And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, or even say it in this horrid place! I’ll be your wife, Rex, I just promised I would. I took my vows and I’ll honor them. But I don’t remember anything in the wedding vows about being a cheap whore for your sick perversions.”

“Sick? No. Lucretia, you don’t understand—”

“Oh yes I do. You married me just so you could throw me on my back and shove open my legs and grunt on top of me like…one of your expensive stallions mounting a mare that’s held in place for him. Well, it won’t happen again!”

This was crazy. He had to talk some sense into her and tell her he’d made a mistake; that he wouldn’t be such an oafish boor again; that he’d pleasure her. But as he closed the distance between them, she seemed to shrink into herself, stepping backward until her shoulders hit the mantel and the hem of her long bridal gown brushed against red coals. With a sickening hiss, the fire ignited, crawling up the back of her gown like a rapid thief, flames racing eagerly up the fabric.

In an instant, as if she were truly an angel with an aura, her body was silhouetted by the flames. She seemed like a vision from heaven in her burning white dress, though Lucretia shrieked as if she were in hell.

Rex flung himself at her, throwing her onto the floor, rolling with her, over and over as he slapped at the flames and quickly extinguished the fire. Terrorized, she clung to him, wailing in sheer panic. He worked quickly, carrying her into the bathroom, stripping her of the smoldering gown and setting her into a tub that he filled with cold water. The burns on her legs and his hands were minimal, but as she shivered naked in the heart-shaped tub and stared up at him with dark, hate-filled eyes, he realized his touch of heaven had been brief and was over. Forever. Her gaze, still panic-stricken, dropped to the charred, bloodstained gown.

“I’ll call the doctor,” Rex said.

“No.” She covered her breasts and her crotch with her hands. God, she was beautiful. So perfect. He wanted her again. Despite what they’d just gone through.

“But you’re injured—” Not only burned, but probably psychologically seared as well.

“No one is to ever know of this, Rex. Promise me this, for as long as I live, we will pretend that we are the happiest couple ever to walk this earth.”

Pounding erupted on the door to their suite.

“Hey—are you all right in there?” a hefty male voice yelled.

He swallowed hard. “I don’t know—”

“Promise me!” She grabbed at his arm, her breasts left naked for a second, rosy-hued nipples seeming to float in the water.

He could deny her nothing, and he felt an incredible guilt weigh heavy on his shoulders. It was his fault she was wounded, his fault for thinking only of himself, his fault that she would probably never sleep with him again. “Lucretia, please, I think—”

“Promise me, you bastard, that as long as I’m alive, no one will ever know what you did to me!”

“Hey—are you okay?” the man yelled through the door again. His voice was mufffled. “Maybe we should break it down or call the manager—”

Rex swallowed hard. “Everything’s okay!” he yelled, lying through his teeth. “Leave us alone!”

“You sure?” The voice wasn’t convinced. “I heard screaming.”