White Hot

by Sandra Brown

  “Why should I believe you?” she asked.

  “I give you my word.”

  “Your word don’t count for shit,” said a voice from the crowd.

  Gaining courage, another shouted, “You’re Huff Hoyle’s whore!”

  “Yeah, he says bend over, you ask how far.”

  Others joined in until the epithets overlapped, but the pervading message was clear: Beck was more despicable than the enemy he represented.

  He turned away from Luce to address the crowd, but before he could say anything, a rock struck him in the face. Then a man jumped him from behind and pinned his arms behind his back. Another punched him in the stomach.

  Sayre, knowing that help could come from only one source, looked toward the Dumpster and saw that Chris and the men with him had stepped out from behind their cover.

  “Chris!” Trying to make herself heard above the noise was futile, but she shouted to him again and again, waving her arms overhead.

  Then she saw Fred Decluette step forward, prepared to rush to Beck’s defense.

  But her brother’s arm shot out and caught Fred in the chest, halting him. She saw Chris shake his head and say something. Fred looked anxiously toward the spot where angry men had encircled Beck, then reluctantly he returned to his place at Chris’s side.

  Cursing her brother to hell, Sayre barged forward, shoving aside anyone in her path. A ring of cheering onlookers had formed around the men who now had Beck on the ground, taking turns kicking him.

  “Leave him alone!” She grabbed the shirt of the man nearest her and hauled him back. He came around, hands balled into threatening fists, but when he saw her, he froze.

  She fought her way forward until there were only two men standing over Beck. “Stop it!” she screamed as one pulled back his foot to deliver a vicious kick. The man halted and turned. Taking advantage of his stupefaction, she shoved him aside and knelt beside Beck.

  His face was streaked with sweat and blood, but he was conscious. She looked up at Luce Daly. “Call them off. This isn’t accomplishing anything.”

  “It’s making me feel better.”

  Sayre sprang to her feet, bringing herself face-to-face with the other woman. “Will it make Clark feel better?” Seeing a flicker of uncertainty in Luce’s eyes, she said, “Beck carried him to the hospital last night.”

  “He’s still one of them.”

  “I’m not.”

  Scornfully Luce said, “The hell you’re not.”

  “Only by birth, Luce, and there’s nothing I can do about that. But I’m not one of them, and I don’t think you really believe that I am.” When the other woman didn’t dispute it, Sayre continued. “I know why you don’t like me. I even understand it. But I swear to you that I am not your rival. Clark is your husband. He loves you, and I know you love him.

  “Make the attack on him count for something, Luce. Something bigger than retribution for what happened last night. Something bigger than retribution for what happened a long time ago, before Clark even knew you.”

  She and Luce held each other’s gaze, and Sayre detected a gradual relenting in the other woman’s eyes. Finally Luce said, “Those men who beat up Clark, am I supposed to take Merchant’s word that they’ll be punished?”

  “You don’t have to take his word for it. I give you mine.”

  Luce stared at her for a moment longer, then turned to the man who had given her the microphone. She nodded brusquely. With a motion from him, the men surrounding Beck withdrew.

  Sayre knelt again and slipped her hands under his arms. “Can you stand up?”

  “Yeah. Just not too fast.”

  • • •

  She lost the argument about taking him to the hospital. “Lately I’ve been to the emergency room more times than I care to count.” He grimaced with the effort of talking.

  “You’ve probably got broken ribs.”

  “No, I know what that feels like. Had two. Football. This isn’t that bad. Just take me home.”

  He was gritting his teeth and holding his side as she pulled off the main road onto the lane leading to his house. “When you leave, lock the gate behind you,” he said. “Media.”

  She hadn’t thought about the media in relation to the events of the morning, but of course they would make news. Someone from Hoyle Enterprises would be sought for a sound bite. And no doubt Nielson, too.

  She didn’t stop in front of the house but drove around to the rear.

  “What are you doing?”

  “No one will see my car back here.”

  “Just drop me at the door, Sayre. You don’t have to walk me in.”

  “No, but I may have to carry you,” she said under her breath as she got out and rushed around to the passenger side.

  She helped him out, and together they limped up the back steps. “As long as you’re here, would you feed Frito before you leave?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  The dog greeted them with such exuberance that Sayre had to admonish him. “Be nice,” she said sternly, remembering the command Beck had used to settle him down at the diner. The dog obeyed, but he was crestfallen.

  “Sorry, boy, I’ll play with you later.”

  “I’ll explain everything to him as soon as I’ve tended to you,” she said as she guided Beck toward the bedroom.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes I do. It’s my fault.”

  “You didn’t throw that rock at me.” Turning his head to look at her, he said, “Did you?”

  “No, but I was on the side of the individual who did. You warned me that the picket would turn violent and that people would get hurt. I didn’t listen.”

  “I’ve noticed that about you. Bad habit.”

  “Beck, those ribs of yours that aren’t broken?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I could change that.”

  He grunted in pain. “Please, don’t make me laugh.”

  When they got to the master bedroom, she propped him against the footboard of the sleigh bed and quickly folded down the covers. Then she came back to help him sit on the edge of the mattress.

  “Can you sit up long enough for me to get some antiseptic on your cheek?”

  He was clearly in pain. He’d broken out in a sweat, and his lips were rimmed with white. “First-aid stuff is in the bathroom.”

  She searched the various drawers and cabinets until she located Band-Aids, cotton balls, peroxide, and ibuprofen tablets. When she returned to the bedroom, Frito was sitting at Beck’s feet, whining pitifully. Beck was stroking his head. “He’s worried about me.”

  “He’s smarter than you. Besides the rock, did you receive any blows to the head?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever lose consciousness? Are you dizzy? What did you have for breakfast?”

  “I didn’t have breakfast.”

  “Okay, dinner last night.”

  “Sayre, I don’t have a concussion.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve also had that before.”

  “Football?”

  “Baseball. Caught one in the head.”

  “Is that what made it so hard?”

  “Look, I’m not dizzy. I’m not nauseous. I never lost consciousness . . .” He sucked in his breath as she dabbed peroxide on his cheek.

  “This may need to be stitched.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  She wiped the blood away and saw that it was a long gash but not too deep. “I still recommend stitches.”

  “I’ll live. I just need to lie down for a while.”

  He unbuttoned his shirt, but when he started to take it off, he caught his breath.

  “Let me help.” She eased the shirt off his shoulders. Moving slowly and gently, she helped him pull his arms from the sleeves, then stepped back to evaluate the damage. His torso was already discoloring where he’d been kicked and pummeled. His back looked equally bad.

  “Oh, Beck,” she whisper
ed. “You really should be X-rayed.”

  “For this?” Groaning with the effort of moving, he lay down and settled his head into the pillow. “This is nothing.”

  “Please let me call paramedics. You could be at the hospital in fifteen minutes.”

  “I could be asleep in fifteen seconds if you’d shut up and get out of here. But first, could I have a few of those pills?”

  She uncapped the bottle and shook three tablets into her hand. He asked for a fourth and she shook out another. Then she held his head while he swallowed them with a glass of water she brought from the bathroom.

  He returned his head to the pillow and closed his eyes. “Before you leave, take the phone off the hook, please.”

  “All right.”

  “Pour some dry food into Frito’s bowl and make sure he has water. Let him out to do his business.”

  “Don’t worry about anything.”

  “The gate . . .”

  “I’ll remember.”

  She closed the shutters to dim the room and turned on the ceiling fan. Then she waited until the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest indicated that he’d fallen asleep. Moving toward the door, she motioned for Frito to follow.

  Instead, the retriever lay down on the floor at the end of Beck’s bed, rested his head on his paws, and looked up at her with soulful eyes.

  Quietly, she backed out of the room alone.

  • • •

  Midafternoon, Beck emerged from a sleep that had been restless for the last half hour. Disoriented, he focused on her. “Sayre?”

  “You’ve been groaning. I think your ibuprofen has worn off.”

  He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. “Why are you still here?”

  “Take three more tablets.” She pushed them into his mouth and held the water glass for him.

  He swallowed the pills, then asked, “Any media?”

  “About one o’clock a news van from a New Orleans station pulled up to the gate and two men got out. They stared at the house for a while, then got back in the van and drove away.”

  His eyes had closed again; he only nodded.

  “There was a brief mention of the fracas on the noon news, with promises of more to come on the evening newscasts. Nielson’s office issued a statement. He regrets the violence, claims it wasn’t his people but Hoyle employees who jumped you.”

  “He’s right. I recognized them.”

  “Your cell phone has rung several times. I didn’t retrieve messages, but I checked the caller ID and recognized Nielson’s office number on two of the calls.”

  “Call back. See what that’s about. If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I knew Huff would be worried about you, so I called him. I told him that you were all right, that you were resting at home, and that if anybody, including him, tried to come up the driveway, I’d shoot them.”

  He smiled at that. “I believe you would. Heard anything from Chris?”

  “I’ll tell you about Chris. He isn’t your friend, Beck.”

  He opened his eyes.

  Slowly she shook her head, saying softly, “He’s not.”

  He continued looking at her for several seconds, then his eyes closed and he fell asleep again.

  • • •

  She placed another call to Huff at six-fifteen. After his snarled hello, she said, “It’s Sayre. I just saw it on the six o’clock news.”

  His breathing was audible. She could imagine him gripping the telephone receiver so hard his knuckles were white. He would be furiously smoking a cigarette, his eyes black pinpoints of fury. “Did you call to gloat?”

  “I called for Beck. When he wakes up, he’ll want to know your reaction.”

  At first she hadn’t believed what the TV anchorman reported, and would never have believed it if there hadn’t been video to prove it. The Occupational Safety and Health Administration had moved in on Hoyle Enterprises that afternoon and shut down the plant, from the smelting of scrap iron to the shipping of new pipe.

  “It’s a sad day when a man can have his business taken over by a bunch of bureaucrats who push pencils for a living and have probably never broken a sweat in their whole lives,” Huff ranted. “Were you behind this?”

  “No, you were. You brought this on yourself, Huff. You’d been warned time and again. If you had complied with previous mandates—”

  “If I’d tucked tail, you mean.”

  Arguing with him was an exercise in futility. He would never concede his own culpability. Hoyle Enterprises would not be allowed to resume operation until a thorough inspection had been conducted on every aspect of the plant. The agency was demanding total compliance with recommendations made as a result of that inspection as well as full payment of any fines assessed for cited violations. It was expected there would be many.

  “What do you plan to do?” she asked.

  “I plan to stay on those bastards like flies on stink. They’ve got another think coming if they think I’m going to turn my plant over to them to be redesigned.”

  According to an OSHA spokesperson, their “redesign,” as Huff called it, included mandatory installation of kill switches on each piece of machinery, guardrails, adequate fall protection, and a ventilation system to improve the air quality.

  “When Beck wakes up, what do you want me to tell him?”

  He gave her the message he wanted delivered, then launched into another diatribe against the federal agency. “These Yankee D.C. bastards don’t realize who they’re fucking with.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they do, Huff. That’s why they’re giving you no quarter.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You’re getting your revenge.”

  “It wasn’t revenge I wanted, Huff.”

  “You carried a picket sign against your own father. If that’s not revenge, what would you call it?”

  “I wouldn’t call you a father.”

  She hung up before he could respond.

  • • •

  “Hello?”

  Chris smiled into the telephone receiver. “Well, at least I’ve gotten you to speak to me,” he said to Lila Robson.

  “Hi, Chris.” Her tone was as frosty as it had been when she drove away from their less than idyllic picnic.

  “Miss me?” She waited too long for the answer to be no. He laughed softly. “I thought so. Have you run down the batteries in your vibrator? Why don’t I come over and let’s test them?”

  “I don’t want to see you again until that business about your brother is cleared up. Understand? I won’t get involved in that. I mean it, Chris. If you tell my uncle Red that you were with me that afternoon—”

  “George will be fired.”

  He could hear her quick intake of breath through the phone line. He thought he even heard her swallow. “What?”

  “These OSHA inspectors are looking for liability. The plant’s safety director is the first person to come to mind, don’t you agree? If George had done his job properly, he would have known that conveyor needed attention. He would have put a lockout on it until the drive belt was repaired by a qualified maintenance man. Billy Paulik wouldn’t have lost his arm, we wouldn’t have Nielson picketing in our backyard, and we would still be in operation instead of shut down.”

  “You can’t blame George,” she exclaimed. “You never want him to lock out a machine. He only does what he knows you and Huff want him to do.”

  “Then what you’re saying is that he’s superfluous. We won’t miss him once he’s gone.”

  “Chris, please.”

  Hearing the tremor in her voice, he smiled and mentally gave himself a thumbs-up for thinking to use this tactic. “Firing George would be my last resort, Lila. My first choice would be to back him when those inspectors start grilling him. I want to keep him in his present position. And you can guarantee that.”

  “How?”

  “Come Monday morning, I want you to trot yourself down to the sheriff’s office and tell your uncle Red that I wa
s with you on the Sunday afternoon that Danny was killed. That’ll serve a dual purpose, Lila. You’ll be doing your duty as a law-abiding citizen by telling the truth to an officer of the law and saving an innocent man from further hassle. And you’ll be saving your husband’s job.

  “See, I was thinking about this new attorney I’ve retained and how expensive it’s going to be just to avoid an indictment. I asked myself why I was going to the time and expense, when all I have to do to put a stop to this mess here and now is produce my alibi.”

  He paused, then said, “I won’t even ask if you’ll do it because I know you will. Oh, and by the way, until I’m tired of you, whenever I call for you, you’ll show up, looking gorgeous and hot to get laid. Understand?” he said, repeating the word with the same inflection she had used earlier. “I’m the one who’ll end this affair, Lila, not you.”

  • • •

  George watched Lila disconnect the cordless phone. She dropped it on the kitchen counter and covered her mouth with her hand, visibly upset.

  “Lila?”

  She spun around, her eyes wide and fearful. She splayed a hand over her chest. “I didn’t hear you come in. I thought you’d be at the plant for hours yet. Are there any new developments?”

  “You tell me.”

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the phone. “You were talking to Chris, weren’t you?”

  She opened her mouth to speak but closed it before saying anything. Then she lowered her head, and her face crumpled as she began to cry. “Oh, George, I’ve made such a mess.”

  George crossed the room as quickly as his short legs would allow and took her in his arms. “There, there, baby. Tell me about it.”

  She told him everything, starting with the first time she’d been with Chris. “It was in a shower stall in the women’s locker room at the country club. I guess part of the turn-on was the danger of getting caught. I just sorta lost my head, you know?”

  He could understand that. He lost his head every time he looked at her.

  Lila held nothing back. Some of it was so painful for George to hear that he actually groaned, but he encouraged her to continue, right up through the phone call he’d partially overheard.