Final Scream (29 page)

Bill picked up a pencil from her desk and rolled it between his fingers. “You know, Mrs. McKenzie, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you might be hiding something.”

“Like what?”

His grin was wicked. “I’m still working on it.”

“Don’t work too hard. It’s a waste of time.”

“Just give me some background on Chase, okay?” he insisted.

“I think the paper already has a file on him.”

“I know, but I’m not talking about his résumé, for Christ’s sake. Him being a lawyer and coming to work for Buchanan Industries after you were married—that’s just boring junk that everybody knows. I need something a little deeper.”

“There is nothing more.”

His lips twitched and he worked the pencil a little more feverishly. “No? What about the John Doe?”

The knife-edged tone of his voice caught her by surprise. “What about him?”

“Looks like the police are gonna ID him soon.”

Her heart nearly stopped. “How?”

“Seems as if they’re finally getting a break. They found a wallet this morning, though they’re not saying much about it. But my source—”

“Just who is your source?”

“Can’t say,” he said, shaking his head. “You know better than to ask.” He gave her a wink that set her already frayed nerves on edge. “But the word is that the man in CCU is going to have a name soon. It’s going to be interesting as hell to find out who he is, don’t you think?” He dropped the pencil on her desk and stood. “Hell, it’ll probably break this case wide open.”

Why the hell didn’t they die?

I drove through the dark streets of the town and cursed myself for underestimating them.

Both men, languishing in the hospital,
recovering
for Christ’s sake. Rumor had it that Chase was about to be released to his wife and the other guy just kept hanging on, by the proverbial thread.

I hated it.

This was
not
how things were supposed to go.

But then, I realized, taking a corner and spying a police cruiser hidden behind a laurel hedge, nothing was going as I’d planned.

They should both be dead by now.

Buried and forgotten.

My jaw clenched so hard it ached, and I glanced in the rearview mirror. The police car had pulled up behind me. Crap! My hands tightened over the wheel. If I was pulled over, how would I explain the hospital garb? The surgical gloves on my hands?

In a panic, I pulled the gloves off with my teeth, first my left hand, then the right, one eye on the speedometer to make certain I didn’t crawl over the speed limit, the other on the cop behind me.

Should I pull off, pretend that I needed an early cup of coffee at the local coffee shop? But then I’d have to get out of my car and I’d have the scrubs on…no, that wouldn’t work. I could drive to the hospital as planned, but then, if there were any questions later, the cop might remember my truck, maybe even run the plates…

I began to sweat and I drove toward the county road, hoping this city bastard would get off my ass. Slow…it’s only twenty-five.

My heart was hammering. He was following me. Laying back, but always there, his overhead lights visible as he passed under the streetlights, his silhouette black and foreboding in the wash of headlights from the car behind him.

At the sign post near the outskirts of town that upped the speed to forty, I pushed on the gas and the truck accelerated, seeming to leap forward. I checked the mirror. The cop turned off.

Hallelujah.

I couldn’t risk another mess-up.

After a few minutes, I turned onto the county road and pulled a quick U-turn. I’d planned another visit to the hospital and, knowing that Cassidy was busy, figured I wouldn’t be disturbed. I knew the hospital routine and when the shift change occurred.

I had just enough time.

Willie didn’t like jail. He’d been in one before—a long time ago—and he hated it. A little afraid of the man in the cell next to him—a big, hulking prisoner with tattoos and whiskers and mean pig-eyes—Willie lay on his bunk, away from the guy and away from the urinal that smelled like pee. He wished Rex would come for him like he always did, and he listened for the tread of shoes on the cement floor, the jangle of keys in a lock, the sound of men’s voices. Why weren’t the officers returning, their expressions regretful as they explained that they were sorry they’d made a mistake in picking up a poor unfortunate like the half-wit. He didn’t even mind the bad names—if he could just get out. Scratching his arm, he tried to fill his mind with images of good things so that he wouldn’t go crazy. He was afraid of going crazy. Crazy people were put in institutions, and institutions were like jail. Like this.

Where was Rex? He bit his lip and tasted salt. His skin felt dirty and sweaty and he’d do anything to get out of here. Anything. He’d even tell lies. Just to be free. But Rex had told him not to lie or make up stories or say anything to the police. He was supposed to wait and keep his mouth shut. Above all else, he wasn’t supposed to say a word.

With a clang, a door was unlocked at the far end of the hall. Voices drifted over the sound of footsteps. Willie was on his feet in an instant, standing at the gate, hoping that Rex had come for him. He knew what was expected of him. Rex would scold him like a little boy and Willie would promise that he’d be good again. Then they’d leave. He thought Rex had to pay some money to someone but he didn’t really understand why, and he didn’t care. He just wanted out.

His fingers curled over the metal bars, and he pressed his face against the grate, feeling the steel press into his cheeks as two men came into view.

“Well, well, well, looks like someone’s anxious to be let go.” The voice belonged to a man in a leather jacket and jeans—no uniform—but Willie didn’t trust him. He was the same man who had been at the big house asking questions about the fire. Though Willie had been hiding in the shadows of the barn, he’d seen the man as he’d climbed out of his car with the flashing lights. The officer gave him a smile and popped his gum at the same time. No, he couldn’t be trusted.

The other guy with him was the same skinny man with the hot black eyes and long hair. He’d already been in to see Willie, already tried to pretend that he was Willie’s friend.

“Heard you took a swing at Marty Fiskus,” the first guy said.

Willie didn’t answer, was confused.
Don’t lie. Don’t lie. They’ll keep you in here if you lie!

“Marty Fiskus is an asshole.” This, from the prisoner with the tattoos and stringy hair in the next cell.

“Stay out of this, Ben,” the skinny officer warned.

Ben rolled off his grimy mattress, and instinctively Willie shrunk away. He didn’t like fighting, but sometimes when he’d been at Burley’s too long, he got into fights. Ben swaggered to the bars separating his cell from Willie’s. “I want to see my lawyer.”

“Yeah, well, I want to see the pope and it ain’t happening.”

“I got rights, Wilson.”

“Not many, Ben.”

“When I get out of here—”

“If, Ben.
If
.”

“Call my fuckin’ lawyer.” Ben’s face was suddenly red, his lips curled into a snarl.

“Pipe down. He’s been called. Isn’t anxious to come and visit with you again. Somethin’ about an unpaid bill. Don’t say as I blame him.” The officer turned his attention back to Willie. “Sorry about that. I’m Detective Wilson, remember me? And this is my partner, Detective Gonzales. We visited you at the Buchanan place, just the day after the fire down at the mill.”

“I said I want to make a phone call.” Ben wasn’t through. “You pigs have no right to hold me here. When I get hold of my lawyer, you’ll be sorry you fucked with me.”

“Believe me,” Wilson said, “we’re already sorry.”

“Bastard!”

Wilson sighed. “Now, Ben, is that any way to talk to an officer of the law?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. Slowly unwrapping a stick, he added, “You’d better be careful or someone around here might take offense.”

“Fuck off, Wilson.”

“Come on, Willie, let’s go somewhere where we don’t have to listen to this filth.” Keys rattled in the lock and the gate swung open. Willie felt as if the metal belts that had been binding his chest were finally loosened. He could almost breathe. But he was still careful. Rex had warned him.
Don’t lie. Don’t lie
.

He followed the man who had introduced himself as Detective Wilson to a windowless room with a table and chairs. On the dark wooden table was a file folder filled with papers. Willie began to sweat and fidget. This wasn’t good. He was supposed to be let go. Where was Rex?

“Have a seat,” the detective said, motioning to one of the metal chairs. “And tell me everything you know about this.” He dropped the wallet on the table, and Willie averted his eyes. He didn’t want to look at the burned leather. It reminded him of the fires. Both of them. He licked his lips.

“Were you at the mill the night of the fire?”

Willie bit his lip.
Don’t lie
.

“Do you know who owns this?” Wilson pushed the wallet closer and Willie recoiled. He heard his heart pounding in his head.

“It’s not yours, is it?”

Don’t lie.

“Where’d you get it? Did you find it somewhere? Or take it off some guy or—”

“I didn’t steal it! I don’t steal!” he suddenly blurted and the hard lines of Detective Wilson’s face softened into a smile.

“I believe you, Willie. So how did you get it?”

“All the money’s in there! I didn’t take it.” Willie sniffed and wiped the back of his hand under his nose. His whole hand was shaking.

“No one’s saying that you did, boy. But the wallet’s not yours, is it?”

Frowning, so scared he wanted to cry, Willie shook his head. “No.”

“Well, then, I’m just asking if you know the man who it belongs to.”

Willie’s voice worked, but he didn’t say anything. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. It was so hot. So close. And Detective Wilson didn’t believe him. He’d put him back in jail. For a long time. Willie’s heart was pumping so hard he breathed in short little gasps.

“He’s hyperventilating,” Gonzales warned.

“Just calm down, Willie.” Wilson picked up the file and opened it.

Willie didn’t know why, but he felt an overwhelming sense of dread, the same way he felt whenever he was alone with Derrick. Nervously, he rubbed his arm, the one Derrick had burned with a cigarette years ago.

“Now, Willie, this here’s your file,” Wilson said. “Notice how thick it is. You got yourself quite a few little misdemeanors in here, son. Good thing Rex Buchanan and his team of lawyers always found a way to bail you out. Let’s see what have we got? Drunk and disorderly. Driving without a license. Uh-oh, now I don’t like the looks of this—some little girl complained that you were following her and looking into her windows, but the charges were dropped. You remember that? Her name was Tammi Nichols? You remember her?” The smile again. “What were you doin’, Willie? Tryin’ to get a free peek up her skirt?”

“No.” Willie shook his head frantically.

“You like to see girls naked?”

A dull roar filled his head. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. This was no good.
Don’t lie. Don’t lie.

“Well, hell, Willie, we all do. It ain’t a crime. Unless you’re peekin’ where you’re not s’posed to be.” He settled back in his chair, rocking it back on its hind legs as he popped his gum. “I think you like to see naked girls. Don’t really blame you but…” He flipped the page and Willie’s stomach twisted in fear. “Uh-oh again. Lookie here. Another girl. Mary Beth Spears. She thought you were starin’ through her window while she was just dressed in her bra and panties.” He clucked his tongue. “That bothered her a lot, you see, her bein’ the reverend’s daughter and all.” Wilson’s eyebrows arched. “You look at her tits, Willie?”

The edges of Willie’s vision grew dark, and he had to hold onto the table to keep from sliding down in his chair.

“That ain’t nice. The reverend, I bet he wanted to skin you alive.”

The room spun.

“Now these charges, all dropped or taken care of one way or another, don’t really mean much.” The detective closed the file and shoved it aside. “But if there were more charges filed, say something more serious like withholding evidence in a crime, or obstructing justice, or maybe even participating in the crime itself, well, all of Rex Buchanan’s money won’t buy you out of it. No siree. His entire team of lawyers won’t be able to keep you out of jail.”

Sweat slid down Willie’s nose and dripped onto the table. He was so scared his insides felt all jumbled together, like he might pee his pants. He didn’t move, just clung to the table so he wouldn’t pass out.

“But on the other hand, if you were to cooperate with us, you know, fill us in on what you know, well, I’d say the chances of you going free were pretty high. Wouldn’t you say so, Gonzales?”

“Real high,” the skinny man agreed.

“Do you understand?”

Willie didn’t move.

“Okay, here’s the deal.” The front legs of his chair hit the floor, and Wilson leaned forward on his elbows. “You tell us the truth, and you get to walk out of here. You bullshit me or keep your mouth shut, and we’ll have to put you back in your cell next to Ben. I hate bullshit, Willie. Don’t you hate bullshit, Gonzales?”

“Hate it.”

“So we can’t have none. You got to be straight with us, Willie. Honest as hell and you can probably get yourself out of this mess.”

Willie swallowed hard. Spit collected in his mouth.
Where was Rex? Why was he letting these men shoot ugly questions at him?

The detective picked up the wallet and wagged it under Willie’s nose. “Come on, boy. It’ll be all right. All you got to do is just tell me how you ended up with this tucked in your back pocket.”

“Cassidy Buchanan’s here to see you.”

T. John Wilson let the words echo through his little office, savoring each and every one. He knew she’d be back; in fact, he’d expected her a couple of hours ago. She was with the press, and already word on the street was that the John Doe was about to be identified. Wilson wished he knew how the hell the damned reporters knew things before he did, but so far, he hadn’t been able to find or plug the leak in his department.

The door opened and Cassidy marched in. She’d pulled herself together since he’d last talked with her and now, with her auburn hair framing her flushed face, her brandy-colored eyes snapping with fury, she was downright gorgeous. Everyone in town had called her the plain sister—a girl who couldn’t hold a candle to Angie Buchanan. T. John couldn’t imagine it. He climbed to his feet—a polite habit he’d learned from his Virginia-bred mother.

“You know who the man in the hospital is?” she demanded.

“And ‘good afternoon’ to you, too.” Waving her into a chair on the opposite side of the desk, he took a seat again. “Not yet, but we will soon.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“Why would I?”

“Because I’m—I’m involved; Chase’s wife.”

“But you’re not related to the John Doe. You didn’t recognize him.”

“My father’s mill burned down!”

“So?” He set the heel of his boot on the edge of his desk and leaned back in his chair. “Look, Mrs. Mckenzie. I brought you in for questioning. I went to the hospital with you. I hoped you would help our investigation—that you would cooperate—but I don’t see that I have any reason to tell you anything else. Besides, you’re a reporter. I make statements to the press every day—”

“I’m not interested in a press release, Detective. This isn’t about a story. I just want to find out who burned down the sawmill and nearly killed my husband.”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”

“Who is he?”

“We’re not sure,” he said. “Just calm down, sit in that chair over there and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

“Don’t bother; just tell me the ID of the John Doe.” She looked desperate, more desperate than she should, given the circumstances.

“As I said, we don’t know yet, but I’ll tell you this, we found key information and it looks like ol’ John will be identified. It might take a while, but we’ll find out.” He smiled, content with himself. Things were going better than he’d hoped. Whereas a few days ago he was faced with dead ends, today he had the wallet, information about the dying man and a whole new perspective on the case. Yep, things were looking up, and if Floyd Dodds didn’t watch out, T. John was going to steal the election from him and become the next sheriff.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” Cassidy said, calming a little and settling back in her chair. She crossed one leg over the other, and T. John tried not to notice the length of calf.

“Once we ID the guy, check him out and contact his relatives, I’ll release his name. Until then, he’s just John Doe.”

Cassidy tented her hands thoughtfully, her gaze centering squarely on T. John’s face. “Have you spoken to my husband?”

“Last I heard, he’s not talking.”

“He talked to me.”

The muscles in the back of T. John’s neck tightened. “When?”

“The other day.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m telling you now. He only spoke to me once.”

His eyes narrowed. “What’d he have to say?”

“Not much except that he wants out of the hospital.”

“In his condition?” T. John nearly laughed. Chase McKenzie had a reputation for being bullheaded. “Did you ask him about the identity of the man?”

“He denies knowing of or talking with him.”

“You think he’s telling the truth?”

“I don’t know, but I trust Chase. Since I stopped by, he hasn’t spoken a word, not to my parents who visited him, not to the doctors or nurses who have been caring for him. I’m not sure they believe he can talk.”

He was ahead of her—way ahead. “So you think that if we gave you information and you took it to him, he might respond; but that he won’t speak to us.”