Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  It was still there. The oil drum was glowing silver in the pale moonlight. The lid was on top of it and anchored down by the large rock. He glanced around the yard. Just as on the morning the snake had been mysteriously deliv­ered, everything appeared normal. He glanced toward his kennel. The pit bull bitch looked at him curiously. Her ears had perked up when he came barreling through the door, but she lay quietly letting her litter suck.

  She hadn't barked all evening. His nap had been a deep sleep, but not so deep that a yelping dog wouldn't have roused him. He could swear his snake had been in that drum, making that bloodcurdling sound when he got home at dusk.

  So why not now? What was it doing in there that pre­vented it from making its characteristic sound? Was it di­gesting that field mouse he'd tossed in there? No, that had been days ago. Why had that son of a bitch stopped rat­tling?

  Was it dead? Shit! It seemed like everything he touched here lately turned to shit. He had planned to use the snake to take up the slack while he was training his pit bull pups to fight. He had thought about taking it on a tour, putting it in a carnival sideshow, or working up an act with it and one of his whores. Now if his snake was dead, all his fancy planning wouldn't be worth a damn.

  Or maybe it wasn't in there at all. Maybe some low-down, sneaky bastard had heard of his plans and had come along and swiped his snake while he'd been in there sleep­ing off a pint of cheap whiskey! He would find him, he would. . .

  Cursing, he ran toward the drum and pushed the rock off. It landed with a hard thud on the ground, sending up a little cloud of dust. Jigger grabbed the lid, ready to swing it off. He caught himself just in time. As much as he admired his snake, it was still a helluva rattler. He respected its deadliness. He let go of the lid quickly and snatched his hands back. They had begun to sweat. He wiped them on his pants legs.

  Why wasn't it rattling?

  Was it even in there?

  Muttering, he went to the woodpile and picked up a stick of firewood. For the sake of his paying customers, he'd courageously dispensed with that precaution, but he felt better about having it in his hands now. Again he ap­proached the drum. It looked the same, but damned if it didn't seem spookier now that the sound had stopped.

  He had to relieve himself badly. His breath was choppy. He stood staring at the lid of the drum for a long time before he poked it once, quickly, with the stick of fire­wood. There was not even one little rattle.

  The snake wasn't in there. Was it? Jesus, he was going fuckin' nuts. He had to know.

  Using the stick, he pushed against the rim of the lid. It didn't budge. It was stuck. Swearing, Jigger applied more force. The lid didn't move a fraction. He dug his heels in and put his weight behind it.

  Suddenly the lid slid off and clattered to the ground.

  Inertia propelled Jigger forward. He fell against the silver drum belly first. His head went over the rim. He yelled in startled fright.

  Regaining his balance, he laughed nervously at himself. Goda'mighty, he was edgy tonight! He was relieved to see that his snake was still there, all right, coiled up in the bottom of the drum. But why wasn't it rattling? Was it dead?

  He leaned against the drum and peered over the rim.

  When he did, an iron hand clamped down hard on the back of his neck.

  Jigger squealed like an impaled pig.

  "He's still in there, you cock-sucking son of a bitch." The voice was whispery, laced with hate and rife with ma­levolence. "He's asleep now on gasoline fumes. But when he wakes up, he's gonna be mad as hell and he's gonna take it out on you."

  Jigger screamed. Panicked, he kicked his feet out back­ward and flailed his arms. His struggles did him no good. His head and shoulders were being held over the open drum by a strong arm with a body sufficient to back it up.

  "Before he wakes up, you'll have a while to think about all the mean things you've done. This is Judgment Day for you, Jigger Flynn, and your road to hell is going to be long and scary."

  The chain landed heavily on Jigger's back. He grunted with pain. Terror made him weak. His efforts to escape were ill-timed and ineffectual. An ordinary pair of hand­cuffs had been linked to the end of the chain. Jigger watched in horror as they were clamped to his wrists. His arms were stretched across the drum and down the other side until his head and shoulders were bridging it. He was staring facedown at his splendidly wicked snake. The chain was wound around the drum, securing his feet and legs to it.

  Jigger tried to keep his eyes closed, but he couldn't. He gaped at the oily coil of muscle beneath him. Those mus­cles were beginning to ripple. He screamed and peed in his pants.

  "That's right, scream. Scream real loud. Scream so every devil in hell hears you." Jigger was swacked across his buttocks with the stick of firewood. "I ought to cram this up your ass, but I don't want you to die that way. I want you to die looking eyeball to eyeball with a snake just like yourself. Wonder how many times he'll get you before you die?"

  "Let me up. God, Jesus, please. Let me up. Sweet Jesus. Hail Mary, Mother of God, blessed art thou. . ."

  "That's it, Jigger, pray."

  "Oh, Jesus God. What'd I ever do to you? Who are you, you son of a bitch?"

  "I'm an angel of the Lord. I'm a demon from hell. It doesn't matter to you who I am." He opened his hand wide over Jigger's head and pushed his face down farther into the drum. He whispered with insidious delight, "You're gonna die. You're gonna die in excruciating pain."

  "Oh, Jesus, Jesus," Jigger whispered. "I'll do anything. Please. Please. I'm begging. I'll give you anything. Money. All my money. Every friggin' cent. Oh, Jesus, help me."

  The vindicator got tired of Jigger's screams and his pleas for mercy. He unwound the bandanna around his throat and stuffed it into Jigger's mouth. Jigger tried to spit it out, but all he succeeded in doing was gagging himself on scalding whiskey that his stomach tried to reject. Jigger squirmed frantically, bucking against his restraints.

  "You won't be alone for long, Jigger. You'll have com­pany real soon. You know how swelled up your head is gonna be by morning? Your face'll look like a meat platter, with those twin holes all over it. Bye-bye Jigger. Next time we see each other, we'll be in hell."

  The vindicator stopped at the kennel to hand-feed the pit bull bitch a snack. She'd come to expect that from him. He spoke to the puppies; they licked his hands with affection and trust. Then he slipped into the darkness of the forest, becoming one with all the tall dark shadows.

  Jigger wiggled against the barrel as much as the chain would allow. He screamed, but it only echoed inside his terrified brain. His heart knocked painfully against his ribs. The acrid sweat of stark fear ran into his eyes. He blinked it away only to see the slitted black eyes of his beautiful snake.

  The rattling tail began to twitch.

  Gayla would be glad when this night ended.

  Lordy, what a night. First Schyler had left for the land­ing. Gayla thought she was crazy for going back there after the explosion. It would be a tremendous load off her mind when Schyler got through with her business in East Texas and came home.

  Schyler would have been enough to worry about, but then Tricia had pulled her stunt. She had run out of the house like the devil was after her, only to come storming back inside seconds later. "Where the hell is my car?"

  Gayla had had the misfortune of being the only one available to answer her. "Mrs. Dunne took it to town."

  "What!" Tricia shrieked.

  "Her car broke down. This is her night off. Schyler said she could take your car since you weren't going out."

  "Well I am going out."

  "Then I guess you'll have to drive Mr. Howell's car."

  "I can't," Tricia said through her teeth. "It's a stick shift. I never learned to—" Exasperated, she raked her hand through her hair. "Why in God's name am I standing here explaining it to you?"

  She whirled on her heels and stalked out the front door, letting the screen door bang shut behind her. Gayla watched her run ac
ross the yard and disappear into the barn. A few minutes later, she rode out barebacked on one of the horses. Wherever she was going, it was in a hell of a hurry.

  Then Ken had come downstairs and gone into the parlor. Gayla heard him scraping open drawers and banging them closed, apparently searching for something. She didn't dare cross paths with him. He seemed as upset as Tricia. Gayla watched him leave the house and, looking like a man with a purpose, drive off in his sports car.

  She would have been relieved to see them go, if their stormy departures hadn't left her alone in the house, except for Mr. Crandall, who had been sleeping peacefully the last time she checked on him. Schyler had asked her to keep a close eye on him and to call Dr. Collins if he showed any signs of pain or distress.

  She didn't mind the duty. In fact, she enjoyed taking care of him. She seemed to have an instinct for knowing when he needed something but was too proud to ask for it. He rarely thanked her out loud for her unasked for atten­tion, but he looked at her kindly.

  When darkness fell, Gayla's nervousness increased. She patrolled the house, checking to see that all the doors and windows were locked. She didn't take her nightly stroll around the veranda. She couldn't bring herself to step out­side.

  She tried to watch television, but the programming didn't hold her interest. She tried to read, but couldn't sit still for any length of time. She was glad when the clock in the hall chimed the hour, indicating that it had been an hour since she'd last checked on Mr. Crandall.

  She went to his bedroom and opened the door. Craning her neck around it, she peered through the darkness. His form was clearly delineated beneath the covers. His medication had worked well; he was sleeping soundly. She lis­tened closely until she was certain she heard his breathing, then backed out of the room, pulling the door closed.

  The attack was so sudden, she didn't have time to scream before a hand was clamped over her mouth. The arm that curled around her waist was as supple as a tentacle and as strong as a vise.

  She was dragged backward down the hallway. When she scraped her heels along the floor trying to get traction, she was lifted up and carried. She clawed at the hand over her mouth and kicked her feet, doing some damage to her at­tacker's shins, but not enough to be released.

  She was pulled into the parlor, spun around, and slammed back against the wall.

  Reeling and dizzy with fear, gulping for breath, she raised her head. Her eyes went round with disbelief and apprehension. Her mouth formed the name, but no sound came out.

  "Jimmy Don!" she finally whispered.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  He was probably drunk. Some drunks imagined seeing pink elephants. He was imagining he saw a woman on horseback, a blond woman on horseback. She reminded him of Schyler. His gut curled with desire and his loins got thick and tight and he wished to hell he would stop having these physical reactions every time he thought about her.

  He took a deep swallow of his drink. It was the third or fourth bourbon he'd had since he'd returned to his house only a short while ago. It was a hot, humid night and he had had a lot of ground to cover. He had slogged through swamps and tramped through dense forests for hours, but he had a niggling suspicion that he had left one stone un­turned. It was the important stone, the one that counted. It pestered him like a gnat. He couldn't brush it away.

  What had he overlooked?

  Pacing restlessly, drinking steadily, he had tried to push his worries aside. Hell, it wasn't even his problem any­more. Why was he letting it bother him? Yet he couldn't relax. The steady intake of booze wasn't helping. It was only making him see things. A blond woman riding bare­backed. Jesus!

  Once again, he paused at the window. This time, he slowly lowered the glass from his lips. Damned if there wasn't a woman sliding off the back of a horse and running up to his door. He set his glass down and went to answer her knock.

  "Hi, Cash," she said breathlessly, splaying her hand over her bosoms.

  "Are you lost?" He would have had to be blind not to notice that she was braless beneath her snug T-shirt.

  She appeared to be out of breath, as though she'd been jogging instead of riding horseback. Spreading her hands wide, she shrugged, a movement that did great things for the nice set of tits. "In fact I am," she said around a giggle. "Can you tell me how to get back to Belle Terre?"

  Cash stepped through the screen door. "I don't know," he drawled. "Can I?"

  Tricia simpered as Cash backed her up against the cy­press post. "From what I hear about you, Cash Boudreaux, you can lead a woman just about anywhere. Even some places she doesn't want to go."

  "Is that a fact?"

  Her glance lowered to his impressive chest, seen through his unbuttoned shirt. "Um-huh. That's what I hear." She looked up at him through her eyelashes. "'Course I don't know that for sure."

  "You could ask your sister."

  Tricia's smile faltered. "Schyler? Are you referring to her? She's not my real sister, you know."

  Cash propped his shoulder against the post and leaned in close. He ran the knuckle of his index finger across her collarbone. "You could still ask her."

  Tricia invitingly leaned into his caress and gazed up at his provocatively. "There are some things I'd rather find out for myself."

  Cash, giving her a cool, steady stare and a sly grin, eased himself away. "Want a drink?"

  "Thank you, I'd love one. I'm fairly parched."

  He held open the screen door. "After you."

  She went past him, dragging her body against the front of his and giving him a knowing, sidelong glance. "Why, this is just charmin'. Absolutely charmin'. Look at that cute little chair. Handmade?"

  "Oui. Bourbon okay?"

  "And just a splash of water. Ice, too, please." She pi­voted slowly, taking in the quaintness of his house, with its pronounced Cajun flavor. "So this is where my daddy spent so many passionate hours with your mama."

  "Now the way I see it," Cash said, deliberately thunking two ice cubes into a glass and covering them with liquor and water, "is that if Schyler isn't your sister, then Cotton isn't your daddy." He turned in time to catch Tricia's hos­tile glare, which hastily righted itself into a smile.

  She took the glass from him, deliberately brushing his fingers with hers. "I guess you're right." She immediately took a sip of her drink, as though she desperately needed it. Her eyes darted around furtively. She kept trying to steal glances through the windows. "Fact is, I don't feel like I have any attachments here anymore."

  "Oh?"

  "I'm leaving Heaven."

  "Alone?"

  "Yes. Ken and I are finished."

  "Too bad."

  "I don't think so."

  "When are you going?"

  "Tomorrow probably."

  "Where?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "You picked a funny time to go horseback riding."

  "Well, I. . ." she stammered, "I got tired of packing. Besides, I guess I wanted to say a formal good-bye to Belle Terre."

  "Hmm, and you got lost."

  She took another drink, looking at him over the rim of her glass while she drained it. Her voice was husky when she said, "You know why I came here, Cash."

  "You want to get laid."

  His ability to see through her was disconcerting. His candor was unkind and offensive. She pretended it was flattering. Pressing a hand over her heart again, she said, "My goodness, you're so blunt. Shame on you, Cash Bou­dreaux. You know I'm nervous. You plumb take my breath."

  Cash started unbuckling his belt as he moved toward her. "I've known you since Cotton and Macy adopted you. You never gave me the time of day, Miss Tricia. Each time we passed on the street, you made it a point to turn up your nose and look the other way. If you've got such a powerful crotch throb for me, what took you so long?"

  Tricia followed the slow, deliberate movements of his hands as he unsnapped his jeans. She moistened her lips. "I've heard other women talk about you."

  "And just what do t
hey say?"

  "That you're the best. I wanted to find out."

  "You could have found out sooner. Why'd you wait?"

  "I guess I was working up my courage."

  Cash was standing directly in front of her now. His eyes were half-closed as he looked down at her. He reached for the hem of her T-shirt and began working it up. "What I can't figure out is why you came here tonight, since you were so busy getting packed and all." He peeled the shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor.

  Tricia draped her arms over his shoulders and arched her lush body against his. "We're wasting time with all these silly questions."

  Cash sank the fingers of one hand into her hair and pulled her head back. His breath was hot and flavored with fine bourbon as he lowered his mouth close to hers. "One thing you ought to know about me, Miss Tricia. I never waste my time."

  She should have known things were going too smoothly. Something disastrous was bound to happen. Schyler had wondered what form the first sign of trouble would take. A half hour before they were scheduled to leave, she found out. It didn't come from outside the ranks of the trusted, but from within.

  The loggers stubbornly refused to drive the timber to East Texas unless Cash was in the lead rig.

  "Mr. Boudreaux no longer works for us," she told the disgruntled group. That didn't faze them. There were nearly a dozen of them facing her, unresponsive to her reasoning. "He doesn't want to work for us."

  "Boudreaux don't quit on a job 'ntil it's did," one said from the back of the crowd. Others murmured in agree­ment.

  Before she had a bona fide strike on her hands, Schyler reminded them of the bonuses. "You won't get them. None of the loggers, the saw hands, the loaders, the drivers, nobody will get a cent if this deal with Endicott falls through. You all know the terms of the contract."

  "Everybody's behind us. We're authorized to speak for everybody. We ain't budgin' if Cash don't go." The ulti­matum was punctuated by a stream of tobacco juice. They all chorused their agreement.