Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "The tracks look like iron hair ribbons all knotted to­gether." Dejectedly, she sat down on the foot of his bed. "What I can't figure out is why the explosives were set to go off before the train reached the landing. If someone wanted to stop that shipment, why didn't the explosion occur after the train was loaded with Crandall timber and not before?"

  "Somebody wanted to put us out of commission, and they did."

  "Like hell," Schyler said, with a burst of enthusiasm. "I swore to you, I swore to myself, that I was going to meet that deadline and I'm going to."

  "Maybe you should let it go, Schyler." Cotton's face looked heavy and old with defeat. The familiar zest was absent from his blue eyes. There was a hopeless lassitude in his posture that had nothing to do with his repose. He didn't look at rest; he looked resigned.

  "I can't let it go, Daddy," she said huskily. "To let it go is tantamount to letting Belle Terre go. I can't. I won't."

  "But you can't do this alone."

  He struck at the heart of her most basic fears. She was utterly alone. Cotton could coach from the sidelines but, through no fault of his own, he was a weak and unreliable ally. She wished she had someone to act as a backboard for her ideas, her apprehensions.

  She wished she had Cash.

  She desperately needed his counsel on what action to take next. But he might be the very one who had blown up the tracks. She tried to forget his telling her that he'd been an explosives expert in Vietnam. He was clever enough to have disabled Crandall Logging without hurting anybody. But was he capable of such wanton destruction? And why would he destroy all he had built?

  She recalled his face the last time she'd seen it, hard and cold, reeking contempt. There hadn't been a spark of human feeling in the eyes that bore into her. Yes, he was capable of doing anything. Mere pride wouldn't prevent her from going to him on her knees and begging his ad­vice, but consulting him now was out of the question. He was a suspect.

  She thought of calling Gilbreath and humbly appealing to his emotions, but she seriously doubted he had any. If he wouldn't extend the deadline of the loan in light of Cot­ton's heart illness, what would compel him to do it in light of this catastrophe? Besides, for all his unctuous manner­ism, she suspected him of celebrating each mishap that had befallen her and Crandall Logging.

  Most unsettling of all was 5iat only a handful of people knew that she had changed the day of the shipment. They were the people closest to her, people she should have been able to trust.

  Ken. There was hostility there to be sure. Her discovery of his embezzlement had only stoked his resentment. He had hurled vicious insults at her, but Schyler doubted there was a violent bone in Ken's body. He was all talk and no action. An explosion just didn't seem in keeping with his personality. Besides, he would lack the ambition and knowledge to pull it off successfully.

  Tricia. She was certainly vindictive enough. She would rejoice in the company's failure because it would expedite the sale of Belle Terre. But again, she wouldn't have the expertise to do something of that caliber.

  Jigger Flynn. Motive, yes. But no opportunity. He couldn't have known about her secret change in plans.

  Cash wasn't among those who knew either, but Cash could have found out. The loggers must have known some­thing was in the wind by the way she'd been pushing them the last few days. They drank together in the local watering holes in the evenings. Cash could have overheard tongues lubricated by too much liquor.

  Whoever the culprit, he was still around and very close to her.

  "I'm afraid for you," Cotton's raspy voice jostled her out of her brooding.

  She forced a confident smile. Through his socks, she massaged his feet. "I'm more afraid for Belle Terre. If we were forced out, we'd have to change our personal station­ery. Imagine what a hassle that would be."

  He didn't crack a smile at her attempted humor. "Did Cash do this to us?" The disillusionment in his expression made his whole face appear ravaged.

  "I don't know, Daddy."

  "Does he hate me that much?" Cotton turned his head and stared out the window. "I probably haven't been fair to the boy."

  "He's not a boy. He's a man."

  "He could be a better one. Monique was so proud, she wouldn't let me buy him clothes, wouldn't let me pay for anything. When he started school, he was laughed at. Made fan of." He squeezed his eyes shut. "That works on a kid, you know. It either makes him a pansy or a mean son of a bitch. Cash started fighting back. That was good. I knew he'd have to be tough to make it in this world. But Jesus, that boy has turned into a pain in the ass."

  "Whatever tiffs you've had with him, nothing warrants what happened today," Schyler remarked. "If it's ever proved that he was involved, I'll see to it that he's pun­ished to the full extent of the law."

  Cotton's chest rose and fell heavily. "Monique would hate to see him locked in some goddamn jail. Cash belongs in the forest, on the bayous. That dark water flows in his veins instead of blood, she used to say." He gnashed his teeth. "Christ."

  Schyler stroked his thick white hair out of compassion for his suffering. "Don't worry about Cash. Tell me what I should do. I need your guidance."

  "What can you do?"

  She thought a moment. "Well, the timber is still intact at the landing. They were hauling the last—"

  Suddenly she broke off. Her mind halted and then back­tracked as she recalled the last half hour before the explo­sion when the landing had been a beehive of activity. "Daddy, when you first took over the company, how did you transport the timber?"

  "That was before I built the landing and weasled the railroad into laying the spur."

  "Exactly. How did you haul the timber to the various markets?"

  His blue eyes flickered. "Like most of the independents do now. Rigs."

  "That's it!" Schyler bent down and planted a smacking kiss on his lips. "We'll drive that shipment to Endicott's. Right up to Joe Jr.'s front door."

  * * *

  "Why wasn't it done right?" the caller hissed into the telephone receiver.

  Gilbreath had been sitting hunched over his desk, asking himself the same question. "Jigger must have been drunk. He misunderstood our instructions. Something. I don't know. For some reason he didn't realize that he was sup­posed to blow the tracks after the shipment was loaded, not before."

  "We were fools to depend on him."

  "We had to."

  "I think I'm a fool to depend on you, too. I can do this by myself and cut you out entirely."

  "Don't threaten me," Dale said coldly. "We haven't lost anything yet. It didn't go as we expected, but there's no way in hell she can get that shipment off in time."

  "Want to bet? Tomorrow night."

  "What?"

  "Yes. Tomorrow night. By truck."

  "Crandall's doesn't have that many rigs."

  "Schyler's been mustering them all day. Everybody in the parish who owns or has access to a rig, she's enlisting. Paying top dollar. She'll make it, I tell you, unless she's stopped."

  Gilbreath's palms began to sweat. "We'll have to use Jigger again."

  "I guess so. I'll let you handle that, but you make damn certain he knows what he's doing this time."

  "I'll see to it. Don't worry."

  "Funny. I do."

  Gilbreath, choosing to disregard the dig, asked, "What time tomorrow?"

  "I don't know yet. I'll have to call you when I find out."

  "That means Jigger will have to use a timer."

  "Probably."

  "The stakes are higher this time. There will be men driving those rigs."

  "I can live with a guilty conscience if you can."

  "Oh, I can," Gilbreath said with a chuckle. "I just wanted to be sure you could."

  "Don't doubt it."

  "After your call tomorrow, I don't think we should speak to each other again. And for a long time after this is over."

  "I agree. Too bad we won't be able to have a celebration drink."

  "When R
hoda and I are ensconced in Belle Terre, we'll invite you out for cocktails."

  There was a laugh. "You do that."

  Chapter Fifty-four

  "I'll get back some time tomorrow." Schyler squeezed Cotton's hand affectionately. "I can tell you're worried. Don't be. Endicott is expecting us. I explained why the convoy would be arriving in the wee hours. He thinks I'm crazy, but I think he's a jerk, so we're even," she said with a laugh.

  Cotton didn't laugh. His expression was grave. "I'll feel much better when you're back safe and sound."

  "So will I. I've got a lot of hard work ahead of me before then."

  "Why do you have to go yourself?"

  "I don't have to. I want to. This will be the culmination of everything I've worked for. I want to accept that nice, fat check in person. I promise to ride with the best driver. Whom do you recommend?"

  "Cash."

  "Cash?" she asked in surprise. "He won't be going."

  "I know. But he's who I would recommend you ride with if I had first choice."

  Cash would be her first choice as well. He should be there beside her when Joe Jr. handed over that check. To­night would be the culmination of all Cash's hard work, too. Or had his hard work been a screen just like his love-making?

  Correction. Cash didn't make love. He'd said so with brutal explicitness: I don't make love.

  Schyler cleared her throat of a tight constriction and put on a phony, bright smile. "Who would be your second choice?" Cotton named an independent logger. "I'll ride with him then. Now," she said, placing her hands on Cot­ton's shoulders and easing him back against the pillows of his bed, "you get a good night's sleep. Not long after you wake up in the morning, I'll be home." She kissed him good-bye. "Good night, Daddy. I love you."

  At the door she turned to give him a thumbs-up sign, but his eyes were closed.

  "What a marvelous idea," Rhoda cooed as she lan­guished in the bubble bath her husband had drawn for her. She reached for her stem of chilled champagne and sipped, then rolled her tongue over her Sips, intentionally making the movement seductive. "There's room for two in here, if we get real chummy."

  "No. I'd rather watch."

  "And take pictures?"

  "Yes. Later."

  "Are we celebrating?"

  Dale knelt beside the tub and parted the mountain of bubbles so that Rhoda's surgically edified breasts were vis­ible. The nipples bobbed upon the surface of the water. He stuck his finger in her glass of champagne and dribbled the cold wine over them until they tightened.

  "We are."

  "What are we celebrating?"

  Dale removed the champagne from her hand and re­placed it with a bar of scented soap. "Wash yourself."

  Eyes lowered to half-mast, Rhoda took the soap between her wet hands and began rubbing them back and forth until they were dripping foamy lather. She laid them on her breasts and squeezed the stiff, red nipples between her slippery, soapy fingers.

  Dale's eyes glazed over. His breathing accelerated. "We're celebrating our success."

  "Hmm. Does our success have anything to do with the explosion at the Crandall landing the other day?"

  "No, that didn't go quite as planned."

  "Oh?"

  "Wash down there, too," he instructed raspily as he un­fastened his trousers to accommodate his erection.

  Rhoda smiled indulgently as she parted her thighs and rested her feet on opposite rims of the tub. She slid the bar of soap between her thighs. Dale groaned.

  "What went wrong at the landing?"

  In panting bursts of dialogue, he explained the snafu. "It slowed her down, but it didn't stop her. We're stopping her tonight. Nothing's going to go wrong this time. We've got the timing right, everything."

  "Good," She blew aside a clump of bubbles so Dale would have an unrestricted view. She would have enjoyed his bedazzled expression more if she hadn't been puzzling through her own thoughts. "That doesn't sound like Cash. To make a drastic error like that."

  "Move your hand faster, darling. Yes, that's it," he panted. "Boudreaux? What has he got to do with it?"

  "Everything, I thought. Wasn't he the one who set the explosives?"

  "Hell no. Jigger Flynn did."

  Water sloshed over the rim of the tub as Rhoda suddenly sat up. "But Cash planned it, showed him how, right?"

  "No."

  "I thought you were using Cash. You said you had plans for him."

  "Initially I did. But I changed my mind. He's too closely tied to Belle Terre. I couldn't be sure how loyal he is to Schyler."

  "He's sleeping with her."

  "He sleeps with everybody," Dale yelled defensively, not liking Rhoda's tone. It suggested he was stupid. He added silkily, "So far Cash Boudreaux hasn't shown much dis­crimination."

  "You bastard." Rhoda stepped out of the tub, splattering Dale with water and reaching for a towel. "So you hired that Flynn character."

  "He can be trusted because he wants to see Schyler Crandall ruined."

  "But does Cash?" Rhoda demanded of her husband. "Where is he tonight?"

  "Out of the picture. She fired him."

  "You fool!" Rhoda cried. "He might be pissed off at her, but he's not going to stand by and idly watch as Belie Terre falls into our hands. He wants the place himself. He told me so. Who's keeping an eye on him tonight?"

  Dale, realizing what a serious blunder he'd made, left the bathroom at a run. He knocked the bedroom telephone to the floor in his haste to dial.

  "What's all this?"

  Ken entered his bedroom to find it in a state of utter chaos. Two suitcases were lying opened on the bed. The clothes from Tricia's closet were draped across chairs and every other conceivable surface. Bureau drawers had been disemboweled, their lacy entrails spilling over their sides. Tricia was busily picking and sorting.

  "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm packing."

  "For where?"

  "New Orleans. Dallas. Atlanta." Tricia shrugged and smiled prettily. "I haven't really decided. I think I'll drive to Lafayette, then head out on the interstate and see what strikes my fancy."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" As she sailed past him, Ken caught her arm. She jerked it free.

  "Freedom. I'm talking about getting out of Heaven and never looking back."

  "You can't just leave."

  "Watch me." For emphasis, she tossed a pair of shoes into one of the suitcases. They landed with a plop that sounded final.

  "You haven't got any money."

  "I'll use plastic money until I get some cash."

  "And where will that come from?"

  "Don't worry about it, honey. I'm not asking you for any." She ran her palm down his clammy cheek.

  When she stepped away, however, he caught her against him again. "I'm your husband. Where do I fit into all your plans?"

  "You don't. Our marriage is over."

  "What do you mean over?"

  Tricia sighed with vexation. She didn't want to waste time explaining to him what should be obvious. "Look, Ken, we started out this marriage on a lie. Let's at least end it on a truth. We don't love each other. We never have. I tricked you into marrying me. The only reason I wanted you was because you and Schyler wanted each other. Well she doesn't want you anymore, so neither do I."

  "You bitch!"

  "Oh, please. Spare me a theatrical scene and don't look so wounded. You've lived the life of Riley these last six years. Personally I don't like it, but Belie Terre is consid­ered to be a fine mansion by most people's standards. You've had the privilege of residing here without paying a dime in rent. You haven't had to pursue a career. You've bled the family coffers of God knows how much money and got off scot-free.

  "We each knew what we were getting when we got mar­ried. You know I am manipulative and selfish. I know you are weak and unambitious. Our sex life has been adequate. To my recollection I never said no and when you visited the bawdy houses, I looked the other way.

  "The arrangement worked well
for us while it lasted, but it's time to call it quits." She went up on tiptoe and kissed his lips softly. "You'll do just fine without me. Lay off the bourbon for a month or two and firm up your belly. You're still good looking. You'll find a wealthy woman just dying to take care of you."

  "I don't want a woman to take care of me."

  "Why of course you do, sugar. That's what you've always wanted, somebody to make all your tough decisions for you."

  The telephone on the nightstand rang. Smiling her re­hearsed Mardi Gras Queen smile, Tricia dismissively pat­ted Ken's cheek and went to answer it. But her smile collapsed; she barely got out a hello before she fell silent and listened intently.

  Jigger woke up with a roaring headache and a hairy tongue. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. It smelled sourly of him and hair oil and sweat. The ringing in his head wouldn't stop. When, after several minutes it became apparent that he couldn't go back to sleep, he sat up on the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress for bal­ance.

  His head was muzzy. He tried to shake off the grogginess. He tried to yawn away the ringing in his ears. It persisted. He shouldn't have drunk that pint of whiskey so fast. He chastised himself for it as he stumbled through the dark house.

  He had returned home from his nefarious errand at dusk. It was full-fledged nighttime now, but he didn't turn on any lights in deference to his headache. He bumped into several pieces of furniture before he made it to the kitchen sink and turned on the faucet. He had to get that foul, furry taste out of his mouth.

  He didn't begrudge guzzling a whole pint. He'd been due a drink. He had risked getting caught by placing those explosives when all that activity was going on at the land­ing. Several times he'd spied that Crandall bitch herself sashaying in and out and about, issuing orders like a god­damn drill sergeant. It wouldn't be long before she'd get hers.

  Smiling evilly, he filled a glass with tap water and raised it to his mouth. It was only halfway there when he realized what had awakened him. It wasn't the noise in his head. It was the lack of it.

  His rattlesnake had stopped rattling.

  The glass shattered when Jigger dropped it. Water splashed over his muddy shoes, but he didn't notice as he lunged through the back door. In his haste, he almost fell down the concrete steps. At the bottom of them he drew up short, chest heaving.