Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  She stopped, turned in the direction of the familiar voice, and stood still while the crowd eddied around her, Cash, and Ken Howell. Her brother-in-law was looking at her through eyes that were red and glazed by alcohol. Slack-jawed, he gaped at her incredulously, then at Cash, then back at her. "Answer me! What the hell are you doing here?"

  "I could ask you the same question," she replied.

  "Help me get her out of here, huh, Howell? We're blocking traffic."

  Ken gave Cash a withering glance, then clumsily grabbed Schyler's hand and began shoving people aside as they wiggled their way through the exit. Outside, men were milling around, drinking, laughing and joking, and discussing the fights that had already taken place and those yet to come. Ken propelled Schyler toward the corner of the building and away from the crowd before he drew her around and'repeated his original question.

  "What are you doing here? Especially with him." He hitched his chin toward Cash contemptuously.

  "Stop shouting at me, Ken. You're not my keeper. I'm a grown woman, and I don't have to answer to you or to anybody else."

  He wasn't hearing too clearly. Either that or he wasn't paying attention. "Did you ask him to bring you here?"

  She faltered. "Well no, not exactly, but—"

  He whirled toward Cash. Spittle showered from his mouth as he sneered, "You stay away from her, you hear me, boy? You goddamn Cajun bastard, I'll—"

  Ken never had the satisfaction of stating his threat. In one fluid motion, Cash came up with a knife that had been concealed in a scabbard at the small of his back and, at the same time, slammed Ken into the wall with enough im­petus to knock the breath out of him and to rattle the tin. The gleaming blade of the knife was placed so strategically that reflexive swallowing would give Ken's Adam's apple a close shave.

  Schyler fell back a step, astonished and afraid. Cash's nostrils flared with each breath he drew. Ken's glassy, bloodshot eyes were bugging. Sweat ran down his face as copiously as a baby's tears.

  "Before I cut you real bad, you son of a bitch, you'd better get out of here." The voice, tinged with the musical rhythm of his first language, sounded as sinister as the razor-sharp knife looked. Cash eased the blade away from Ken's throat and stepped back. Ken clutched his neck as though to reassure himself that it hadn't been dissected. He cowardly slumped against the tin wall.

  "Get out of here," Cash repeated. His eyes sliced to Schyler. The cold glint in them made her blood run cold. "And take her with you."

  Cash turned his back on them, not the least bit con­cerned that either would launch a counterattack. Schyler watched him thread his way through the parked cars until he disappeared.

  "Where's your car, Ken?"

  He raised an unsteady hand to indicate the general direc­tion. She took his arm and pulled him away from the sup­port of the wall. Together they made their way toward his sports car. When they reached it, she asked for the keys.

  "I'll drive," he mumbled.

  "You're drunk. I'll drive." His prideful resistance snapped her patience in two. "Give me die damn car keys."

  He belligerently dropped them into her extended palm. She slid behind the wheel. Once he had closed the passen­ger door, she peeled out. She didn't even take the insub­stantial bridge slowly but roared across it.

  She was angry—angry at Ken for behaving like such a fool, angry at Cash Boudreaux for putting her through this ordeal, and angiy at herself for letting him lead her to slaughter like a naive lamb.

  "What were you doing with him?"

  "For godsake, Ken, we just came away from a place where one animal wantonly killed another for the amuse­ment of cheering men. There was illegal gambling going on, and God only knows what else. And you want to talk about what I was doing with Boudreaux?"

  Her voice had risen a note on each word until she real­ized she was virtually screeching. She took a composing breath. "Boudreaux wanted to make a point. I tried to hire him to kill the dog that attacked me. I guess he wanted to show me how important those dogs are to Jigger Flynn."

  "Jesus," Ken swore, running a hand through his hair. "I told you to drop that. Kill one of Jigger's pit bulls? You might just as well challenge him to a duel on Main Street."

  "Don't wony. Cash declined my offer."

  "Thank God. He's right. Leave it alone, Schyler."

  She switched topics. "What were you doing there, Ken?"

  He squirmed in the expensive leather car seat and turned his head away from her. "It's Saturday night. Don't I de­serve a chance to unwind every now and then?"

  "Were you gambling?"

  "Anything wrong with that?"

  "No. But there are more wholesome environments for it. The racetrack in Lafayette, a private poker game."

  "Don't get on my back." He hunched lower in the seat, looking like a petulant child. "Tricia bitched at me tonight because I wouldn't take her to a goddamn country club dance. I don't need bitching from you, too."

  Schyler let it go. It wasn't any of her business what Ken did in his leisure time. She needed to ask him why he had suspended operation of Crandall Logging, but now wasn't the time or place to bring up that delicate subject. He was sullen, no doubt feeling demoralized and emasculated after being so badly shown up by Cash.

  "Did he hurt you?" she asked quietly.

  He swung his head around. "Hell no! But you stay away from him. See what kind of man he is? He's poison, as low and vicious as those fighting dogs. You can't trust him. I don't know what he's after, or why he's sniffing around you all of a sudden, but he has his reasons. Whatever they are, they're self-serving." He jabbed an index finger at her for emphasis. "I can guarantee you that."

  "I'll see who I want to see, Ken," she said icily. "I told you why Cash took me to that fight."

  He tilted his head cockily. "Did he also tell you how much money he had riding on the outcome?"

  Schyler brought the car to an abrupt halt in the center of the road and turned to her brother-in-law. "What?"

  Ken smiled smugly. "I can see that he failed to mention his sizable wager."

  "How do you know?"

  "Boudreaux always bets on Jigger's dogs, so he won big tonight. I don't know what he told you, but he had a vested interest in that pit bull fight."

  "No wonder he turned down my offer," she muttered.

  "Right. You think he's gonna kill a dog that earns him winnings like that?" Seeing Schyler's disillusionment, he touched her shoulder sympathetically. "Listen, Schyler, Boudreaux always covers his ass first. Count on that. He has the survival instincts of a jungle animal. You can't trust the conniving Cajun bastard."

  She shrugged off Ken's consoling hand and put the car into motion again. Ken reached across the seat and laid his hand on her thigh, giving it an affectionate squeeze that wasn't entirely brotherly.

  "You've only been home a short while. There are rea­sons for the wide gaps in the social structure around here, Schyler. They're not meant to be crossed." He patted her thigh. "Just be sure you remember where you belong, and you'll be back in the swing of things in no time. Stay away from the white trash. And don't provoke the likes of Jigger Flynn. That's only asking for trouble."

  Heaped onto what he'd told her about Cash, his conde­scending, patronizing, chauvinistic tone enraged her. She didn't waste energy on that, however. She let his humoring attitude work to make her more resolute.

  Since she hadn't succeeded in enlisting anyone else for her cause, she would take action into her own hands.

  Chapter Twelve

  She knew that once the dogs started barking, she wouldn't have much time. Flynn would come charging out to see what had caused the ruckus in his yard. It was going to be tricky. She had to get close enough to be effective with the shotgun, but keep enough distance between her and the house so the dogs wouldn't pick up her scent. Once she had accomplished what she had come to do, she would gladly own up to it, but she didn't want to alert Flynn beforehand.

  Undertaking this alone probably wasn'
t very smart. Schyler realized the risks involved and was willing to face them. On the other hand, every time she thought of the evil that Jigger Flynn embodied, she shivered involuntarily.

  Last night she had retrieved her car from the landing. Tonight she had left it parked in front of Belle Terre and walked to Flynn's house through the woods. She had dressed for her mission, in old jeans and a dark T-shirt. She had thought about covering her light hair with a cap, but thought that might be a trifle melodramatic.

  Earlier in the day, when both Ken and Tricia were away from the house and Mrs. Graves was outside sweeping the veranda, Schyler had gone into Cotton's den and taken a shotgun from the gun rack. She had given the twelve gauge a cursory inspection, certain that it was cleaned and oiled and in prime condition. Cotton had always kept his hunting guns in working order, ready to load and fire. Schyler hated guns, hated touching their cold, impersonal surfaces of wood and metal. But she had put her aversion aside and concentrated on what she felt compelled to do.

  The Howells and she had eaten a large Sunday dinner at midday, so supper consisted of cold fried chicken and fruit salad. Ken and Tricia, who was still peeved because Ken hadn't accompanied her to the dance the night before, had bickered throughout the light meal.

  "I got to watch the Saturday night movie on TV all by myself," Tricia complained sarcastically, "while you went out to God knows where."

  Schyler's eyes met Ken's across the table. Tacitly they agreed not to mention to Tricia where he had been. "I told you I was with friends," Ken said.

  Since they had returned to Belle Terre in separate cars, Tricia didn't know that Ken and her sister had been to­gether. Keeping that a secret smacked of an illicitness that made Schyler uneasy, but she still thought it best for Tricia to remain unenlightened of last night's activities. In this case what she didn't know couldn't hurt her, or anyone else.

  The secret that they shared hadn't drawn Ken and her closer. On the contrary, he had been querulous and stand­offish all day. That suited her fine. She thought it best that they give each other breathing room after what had hap­pened last night, when neither had been seen in the most favorable light.

  As soon as she had eaten supper, Schyler excused herself and went upstairs. In her room, she changed clothes, then sneaked out of the house by way of the back stairs. She wanted to avoid having to explain where she was going toting a shotgun. Besides, if she thought about it much longer, she might chicken out.

  Now, standing hidden behind a clump of blackberry bushes several hundred yards and across the road from Flynn's house, her hands were slick with perspiration and her heart was racing. She didn't take lightly what she was about to do. The thought of killing anything made her sick to her stomach. Even the idea of maiming an animal turned her stomach.

  Only the memory of how viciously the unprovoked dog had attacked her, and the possibility that another defense­less child might suffer such an attack, propelled her closer to Flynn's house. His pit bulls weren't ordinary household pets. They were life-threatening animals, bred to attack and kill. If Flynn demanded it afterward, she would com­pensate him for his loss, within reason. Apart from that she would offer no apology. She would personally see to it that action was taken to prohibit pit bull fights in the area, even if it meant appealing directly to her congressman.

  Flynn's pickup was parked in the yard. A mangy cat was curled on the hood of it. There were no lights on outside the house, but enough light was coming through the win­dows to illuminate the yard and cast long, eerie shadows. As she crept closer, she could hear a TV or radio playing inside. Every now and then a shadow moved past a win­dow. The tacky lace curtains rose and fell reluctantly when­ever the desultory breeze touched them. Schyler could smell pork cooking. She counted on that pervasive smell to keep the dogs from picking up her scent.

  From the opposite side of the road, she gave the house wide berth, having planned to approach it from the back side. She hadn't selected the shotgun at random. A pistol was out of the question. She would have to get too close. A rifle would have meant firing with precision accuracy, and since it had been years since she'd fired one, her skill was questionable. Using the double-barreled shotgun to blast the kennel where the dogs were penned would guarantee hits. If the shots didn't kill the dogs, they would at least inflict serious damage.

  Crouching low, Schyler watched the house for another five minutes. She could see movement inside. The dogs were prowling their pens restlessly, but not a single bark had been uttered. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped from behind the bushes and onto the gravel road. She was fully exposed for the length of time it took her to run across it. Making it to the back of a dilapidated shed, she flung her­self flat against the wall of it, drinking in oxygen through her wide, gasping mouth.

  One of the dogs growled. Their movements became more restless. One whined a sound that had a question mark at the end of it. Schyler sensed their mounting skittishness. They couldn't smell her, but they seemed to know she was there. They sensed impending danger, danger she tried not to think about as she checked the shotgun one final time. Two shells were loaded, two riding in her waistband waiting to be. Holding her breath, she pulled back both hammers. The soft metallic clicks elicited an­other growl from the dog pens.

  It had to be now.

  She stepped from behind the shed and aimed the shotgun at the fenced enclosure. It was about seventy-five feet away from her. Her finger was so wet with perspiration, it slipped off the trigger the first time she tried to pull it; however, she finally squeezed off the shot.

  She had forgotten how deafening a sound it made. The gunshot exploded in the stillness and reverberated like a cannon. She had also forgotten to anticipate the kickback and was painfully reminded of it when the stock rammed into her shoulder with bruising force, nearly knocking the breath out of her.

  In the periphery of her mind, she was aware of the racket that erupted around her, the frantic yapping coming from the kennel, the livid cursing and shouting from inside the house. She disregarded both and concentrated only on aiming the shotgun a second time.

  As soon as she fired, she flipped the release and the barrels dropped forward. Reaching inside, she pinched out the two empty shells and replaced them with the two she had easily accessible in the waistband of her jeans. She locked the barrel into place again. Her practice that after­noon had paid off. She'd completed reloading in under eight seconds. She fired the third shot and had just gotten off the fourth when Jigger Flynn came tearing out the back door of the house.

  He was almost farcically outraged. His face was a florid mask, his sparse hair was standing on end. He was bare­footed and was wearing a ratty, ribbed knit tank T-shirt over his drooping trousers. Far from funny, however, was the pistol he was brandishing. Due threats issued from a mouth that sprayed spittle with each blue word.

  Schyler froze in terror. She hadn't counted on him hav­ing a gun. She had expected him to be upset, angry, even furious, but she had planned to reason with him once the initial shock had worn off and he had calmed down. One couldn't reason with a madman waving a pistol. The man cursing and damning the whole world to hell looked like he would never be reasonable again.

  He hadn't spotted her yet. His first concern was for the dogs. Because none had charged out to attack her through the holes the shotgun had made in the fencing, Schyler assumed that she had inflicted serious damage. Some of the animals were still alive. Their pitiable whimpering would ring in her ears for years to come.

  "My dogs. . . What motherfuckin' bastard. . . I'll kill you." Flynn spun around and fired aimlessly into the dark­ness, intent on killing the culprit who had suspended his lucrative sideline. "I'll kill you, goddamn you to hell. You shithead, you'll wish you were dead when I get through with your miserable, goddamned hide. I'll kill you."

  Schyler saw movement beyond Flynn's shoulder. "What's happened?" the woman asked from the window.

  Schyler, recognizing her, gasped.

  "Shut up, you bl
ack bitch! Call the sheriff. Some cock-sucker's shot my dogs!" The curtain fell back into place. Flynn, sputtering in his rage, fired the pistol again. This time the bullet slammed into the wall of the shed. Schyler heard the brittle wood splinter near her head. Giving thought to nothing except running for cover, she dashed toward the road, putting the shed between her and Flynn.

  Seconds later, she could hear his choppy breathing and knew that he had seen movement. He ran across the yard after her, cursing the obstacles in his path.

  All thought of diplomatic negotiating vanished. Schyler ran for her life. Her only chance to escape unharmed was to get across the road and take cover in the dense woods. She slid down the shallow ditch and scrambled up the other side. When she reached the road, the pounding heels of her tennis shoes crunched in the gravel. She prayed she wouldn't twist an ankle, which was a ridiculous prayer. Why worry about a sprain when at any second she could be shot? Jigger Flynn was in hot pursuit and firing the pistol as he hurled vile curses at her.

  She had reached the center of the road when a pickup truck careened around the bend, almost running over her. It swerved away just in time and came to a partial stop with a theatrical shower of gravel and a cloud of dust. The pas­senger door was flung open.

  "Get in, you idiot!" Cash shouted at her. Schyler tossed the shotgun into the bed of the truck, grabbed hold of the open door, and hauled herself inside. A bullet struck the door. "Keep your head down!"

  "Come back, you goddamned murderer," Flynn yelled. He fired the pistol repeatedly but was too angry to be accu­rate. By the time he had calmed down enough to take care­ful aim, the truck had been obscured by a curtain of dust.

  Inside the cab of the pickup, Schyler was bent double, her head between her knees, arms crossed over her head. She couldn't stop shaking, even when she knew that they were out of range and Flynn's hysterical cursing could no longer be heard.

  Cash was piloting the old truck as though it were a Porsche on a smooth racetrack, taking the twisting turns in the washboard road at a daredevil speed and without the aid of headlights, making it impossible for anyone to fol­low them. The roads crisscrossed the bayous as intricately as the weaving pattern of the cotton yarn in a Cajun blan­ket. He knew each one and had no difficulty navigating them.