Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "Hey, Kenny."

  Ken straightened slowly. Glancing swiftly over his shoulder, he confirmed what he already suspected. The first man, the one with the expensive shoe, wasn't alone. These types always traveled in pairs, like nuns; except this duo was unholy.

  "Hi." Ken gave a nervous little laugh. He shrugged in­nocently and raised his hands in surrender. "Now before you get pissed, I'll tell you right off that I don't have the cash toni—"

  A rock-hard fist landed a solid blow to Ken's guts. He bent over double, clutching his middle. The thug who'd been standing in the background grabbed a handful of Ken's hair and pulled him upright. He yelped with pain. There was no one to hear him. The parking lot, bathed in the ruby light of the neon sign, was deserted. But even if someone had heard his cry for help, he wouldn't have in­terfered. These guys were deadly.

  The first man, obviously the spokesperson, moved for­ward to stand nose to nose with Howell. "I'm already pissed off. You're three days late paying me what you owe me, Kenny." His voice was silky, but contemptuous. "It does something to me when you lie." The hand he used to cover his heart glittered with diamond rings. "In here, deep inside, it hurts me when you lie to me."

  "I can't help it," Ken gasped. "Money's tight. I've had to pay the old man's hospital bills. Doctors."

  "Kenny, Kenny, you're breaking my heart." The sullen face turned ugly. "Know what you are? Besides being a liar, you're a loser. You lost bad on that pit bull fight last week. And that nag you bet on in the daily double at La­fayette belongs in the glue factory." He spat in Ken's face. "You're a goddamn loser. I hate losers. They make me want to puke."

  Ken was sweating bullets. "Look, man. Give me more time. I—"

  He rammed his knee into Ken's groin. Ken screamed in agony. "I don't want any more of your lame excuses. I can't cover my expenses with excuses. I want cash. When do I get my money?"

  "S . . . soon," Ken stuttered. "Something big is about to break."

  "Something big? Like what? You gonna win at bingo?" The man holding Ken's hair chuckled.

  "No," Ken gasped, still in excruciating pain. "Some­thing really big."

  "This sounds like more of your bullshit."

  "No, swear to God, but I can't give you the details. I haven't worked them all out yet. The logging company—"

  "Is reopening. Yeah, yeah, I know. Old news. Bou­dreaux is back doing his thing." He flashed an oily smile. "Is he bangin' that sexy sister-in-law of yours?"

  "No!" Ken angrily put up a struggle against the man who restrained him. The thug only knotted his fingers tighter in Ken's hair and pulled his head back further. "If that's what you've heard, it's a goddamn lie."

  His tormentor laughed nastily. "She kicked you outta her bed and outta your position in the family business. Now ain't that a shame?"

  "That's not true. None of it. I'm still in control of the books. I'm still vice-president of the company."

  "But she's running the show. With Boudreaux coaching her in soft whispers while he's screwing her. Ain't that the way it is?"

  Ken tried to shake his head in denial, but the motion only pulled his hair tight enough to bring tears to his eyes. "No. I'm in charge."

  "You?" The thug barked a laugh, which he silenced as abruptly as he flicked open the switchblade and slid it be­tween Ken's thighs, directly beneath his manhood.

  Ken squealed and rose up on tiptoes. The man behind him, who had been threatening to tear his hair out, now relaxed his grip at a time when Ken wanted to be held up. "I'll get your money," Ken whimpered in panic. "But you gotta give me more time."

  "Time's run out on you, Kenny." He pressed the knife's blade against Ken's zipper.

  "No, no, please, for the love of God, no. I'll get you your money."

  "All of it?"

  "Every blessed cent."

  "When?"

  "A. . . a month." The man behind him opened his fist and let go of his hair. Ken barely kept himself from fal­ling onto the blade. "Two weeks," he amended breath­lessly.

  Gradually, with a motion that sickeningly resembled a slow, slicing movement, the loan shark withdrew the knife. "Okay, I'm easy. Two weeks." He grinned broad­ly, then drew his face into a scowl. "Don't bother cal­ling us. We're gonna be on top of you like flies on a pile of dogshit, Kenny." He flashed Ken a hungry croc­odile smile. Even his teeth looked like they'd been filed to points. Then he and his comrade stepped out of the pool of neon light and disappeared into the dark­ness.

  With no more spine than a blob of ectoplasm, Ken dropped to his knees. He vomited in the gravel. When the spasms subsided to dry heaves, he crawled around on hands and knees until he located his keys.

  * * *

  The headlights roused Schyler. Sitting on the porch swing, occasionally giving it a desultory push with her bare toes, she'd almost been lulled to sleep. She hadn't known what fatigue was until she had started working at the land­ing every day. She rarely left until well after dusk and was always die first one to arrive in the morning.

  She smiled at Ken as he trudged up the steps. "Hi. You look as ragged out as I feel."

  "I, uh, my stomach's upset."

  "Nothing serious, I hope." When he shook his head, she asked, "Is that why you weren't here for supper?"

  "No. I just got sidetracked." Crossing the veranda, he reached for the handle of the screen door.

  "If you've got a minute, there's something I want to ask you about."

  Ken's hand fell to his side and he turned to face her. "There's something I want to ask you about, too," he said heavily.

  "Shoot."

  "Are you sleeping with Cash Boudreaux?"

  Schyler's smile collapsed. She was affronted, not only by his assumption that her bed partners were his business, but also by the insult his question implied. "Certainly not."

  His tread was slow and deliberate and angry as he moved toward the swing. "Well you might as well be. That's the gossip going around town."

  Darkness concealed the sudden flush of heat in her cheeks. With admirable skill she kept him from seeing how much his comment upset her. She made a dismissive ges­ture. "You know as well as anybody how people around here love to talk."

  "There's usually some basis for gossip."

  "Not this time."

  "You spend all day with him."

  "But not all night!" The instant her temper erupted, she squelched it. She was too tired for an argument tonight, especially since she had nothing to defend. "I work with Cash. I'm required to spend time with him. I've worked with a lot of men, but that doesn't mean I sleep with them."

  "Mark Houghton is one exception that springs to mind."

  Schyler got out of the swing so fast that it rocked crazily behind her. "I'm not about to discuss my private life with you, Ken. As I've said before, it's none of your damned business. Good night."

  He caught her arm as she stalked past him. "Schyler, Schyler," he pleaded, "don't go. Stay and talk to me."

  "Talk? Okay. Refute allegations that I'm sleeping with Boudreaux or with anybody, no."

  "Hell, what do you expect people to think?"

  "I expect people to think exactly what they please. But I expect better from you."

  "I can't stand having your name connected to his."

  "What would you have me do about that? We're working together."

  "Fire him."

  "I can't," Schyler cried incredulously. "I don't want to. I need him too much."

  "You didn't think so at first."

  "I know better now. He's an excellent forester. He does even more than he gets paid for."

  "Then you quit. Let me take over."

  Schyler was surprised by how intensely she loathed that idea. As exhausting as her work at the landing was, she wouldn't think of giving it up. Her efforts to obtain large contracts from former markets had so far met with little success. But the thought of quitting now was untenable. Nor did she trust anyone else, not even Ken, to fight as diligently as she was fighting to keep Belle Terre
.

  It would be churlish to come right out and say that, so she tried to decline his offer diplomatically. "You can't be two places at one time."

  "I'll move my work to the landing office."

  "You can't handle both jobs, Ken."

  "I can," he argued insistently. "Give me a chance."

  "It's unnecessary to wear yourself out. Especially when I'm willing to—"

  He squeezed her arm hard. "I'm not willing. I'm not willing to let you turn into a ball-breaking, career broad."

  "I'm not like that."

  "Fast becoming." He pulled her close. "I remember how sweet and feminine you were when—"

  "Ken, please."

  "Let me finish, Schyler. I still lo—"

  "I thought I heard your voice out here. It's about time you dragged yourself home." Ken jumped away from Schyler and guiltily spun around and faced his wife. "Well, well, well," Tricia laughed lightly, pushing through the screen door. "What are you two up to?"

  For a sustained moment, no one said anything. Then Schyler replied smoothly, "I was asking Ken about some files that are missing from the batch he brought to the land­ing for me."

  Only a brief few weeks ago, Schyler would have wel­comed hearing a profession of love from Ken's lips. It would have been icing on the cake for him to profess it within Tricia's hearing.

  Now, that kind of reward seemed as cheap and insignifi­cant as a plastic trophy. Having him say he still loved her was no longer worth the tumult it would cause. She no longer wanted to hear it. His love just wasn't valuable to her anymore.

  "I'll look for those missing files to be on my desk some­time tomorrow then, all right?" she asked him.

  "Uh, sure, okay."

  "Good." She bent down and picked up the sandals she'd left beneath the swing. "I'm exhausted. Six o'clock comes early, so I'm off to bed. 'Night." She went inside and pad­ded upstairs.

  Tricia, leaning against one of the columns, gave her husband an accusatory and uncharitable look. "It's been a long day for me, too," he said quickly. "I'm going—"

  "You, stay where you are, Mr. Howell." Tricia's tone had a ring of authority to which Ken automatically re­sponded. For the second time in only a few minutes, his hand fell away from the handle of the screen door. "You smell like a tavern."

  He plopped down heavily in the swing and massaged his eyesockets with his middle finger and thumb. "Makes sense. That's where I've been."

  "Drowning your sorrows in an ocean of bourbon?"

  "Yeah," he said scornfully, "the chief sorrow being my bitch of a wife."

  "Forget me. I'm the least of your problems."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're going to let her waltz in here and take over, aren't you?"

  "What? Who?"

  "Schyler, you idiot. Can't you see what she's doing? Don't you care?"

  "I care, but she doesn't listen to me, Tricia."

  "Then you're not talking loud enough." She turned her back on him and crossed her arms as though holding in her temper. After a moment she glanced back at him over her shoulder. "Have you even mentioned to her what we dis­cussed?"

  He laughed scoffingly, shaking his head in disbelief. "About selling Belle Terre?"

  "Belle Terre, Crandall Logging, and everything else."

  "Schyler would never hear of it."

  "How do you know? You haven't asked her."

  "Neither have you." He made it a challenge.

  "She has never listened to me. If anybody holds sway over her, it's you." Her eyes narrowed. "Or are you losing ground to Cash Boudreaux? My, my, are the tongues in town flapping about that. Imagine what strange bedfellows the two of them make. Schyler Crandall, former belle of Laurent Parish, and Monique Boudreaux's bastard boy. Who'd ever believe it?"

  "Nobody who's got any sense."

  "You sound so sure."

  "I am. I just asked her. There's no truth to the rumor."

  "You think she'd tell you?"

  "Yes," he said with more surety than he felt. "I think she would."

  "Doesn't matter," Tricia said airily. "If folks think they're sleeping together, it's as good as fact." Her smile changed direction and turned downward. "And it would be just like her to lie down with white trash. She never had any dis­crimination." She gnawed the corner of her lip. "She'll drag our reputation right down into the swill with hers. I wouldn't be surprised if that's why she took up with Cash. To come back here and ruin us for doing . . . for what hap­pened when we got married."

  Tricia thumped her fists on the column. "Well, I won't have it. She's provided us even more reason to get away from here. Belle Terre," she sneered. "A pretty name for . . . what?" She waved her hand to encompass the lawn and beyond. "A pile of dirt. Trees. A stinky old bayou that's good for nothing but breeding mosquitoes and crawfish. The house isn't even an original. It's a replica of one the Union army burned down when they were done with it. There's nothing special about it."

  "Except that Schyler loves it." Ken gave his wife a cal­culating look. "Which I believe is the very reason you in­sisted we live here."

  She counterattacked. "Well, I haven't heard you com­plaining. You haven't had to pay rent, have you? You haven't had to buy groceries. Not one red cent of your money goes into keeping up the place. You've had it pretty damn good for the six years we've been married." She paused before playing her trump card. "Up till now that is."

  "Don't threaten me, Tricia."

  "Take it as fair warning. If you're not careful, Schyler will replace you, sugar pie. She'll barge right in and make you superfluous. You'll be deadwood around here and Cot­ton won't hesitate to cut you off."

  Because she teased him with his greatest fear, Ken got up and headed for the front door again. As he went past her, Tricia caught his arm and detained him. Changing her tactic, she snuggled against him and laid her cheek on his chest, disregarding the sour smell.

  "Don't go huffing off, baby. Don't get mad at me. I'm telling you this for your own good. Our own good. Talk Schyler into getting rid of Belle Terre. What do we need a great big old house like this for? We're sure as hell not going to fill each bedroom with a grandbaby like Cotton expected us to. With our share of the sale money we could buy a modern condo in any city we want. We could travel. We—"

  "Tricia," he interrupted wearily, "even if Schyler agreed, which she won't, what about Cotton? He will never agree to selling this place."

  "Cotton might die." Ken stared down into his wife's face. It was cold and unfeeling enough to make him shiver. Her expression softened only marginally when she said, "We have to prepare ourselves for that eventuality. It could happen any (lay. Now, will you approach Schyler with the idea of putting Belle Terre up for sale or not?"

  "I've got a lot on my mind," he mumbled evasively. "But I promise to think about it."

  He disengaged himself and went inside. Tricia watched him go, despising the dejected manner in which he climbed the stairs, head down, shoulders stooped, hand dragging along the banister like a lifeless appendage.

  By comparison, Tricia felt like a kettle about to boil. Flattening herself against the wall of the house, she clenched her fists and clamped her teeth over her lower lip to keep from screaming in frustration. She wanted and wanted and wanted and never got any satisfaction. She thought the people around her, especially her husband, were so unambitious and dull.

  No one seemed to care that life was passing them by with the speed of a zephyr, while they had no more for­ward motion than the waters of the bayou. They were will­ing to settle for so little when there was so much out there waiting to be had. They seemed content to rot in Heaven.

  Her impatience to get away and change her life was so strong that her skin itched from the inside.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Heart patients were robbed of all dignity.

  Spending weeks in a hospital ICU had made Cotton Crandall expertly familiar with humiliation. His body's weakness, assisted by powerful medications, had kept him dr
ifting in and out of consciousness. But he knew that hav­ing his ticker on the blink was as debasing and emasculat­ing as castration.

  He pretended to be woozier than he actually was while the nurse exchanged IV bottles because he was only mildly curious about what was being dripped into his veins. His thoughts were more with the nurse. She wasn't one of the bossy nuns who ran the place like military generals. She was young and pretty. From an advantageous angle, Cotton could appreciate the shape of her breasts while she took his blood pressure. He wondered what she would do if he tented the covers with an erection.

  He wanted to laugh at the thought but couldn't quite garner the energy, so he satisfied himself with a smile that never quite creased his lips.

  There was little hope of an erection, though, since he had a tube running up his cock to drain his bladder for him. "Shit," he thought scornfully. He wasn't even able to piss by himself.

  Satisfied with his current condition, the nurse gave his shoulder a kindly pat and left the room. He was left in peace, if not in silence. The computerized machines that monitored all his vital statistics beeped out their informa­tion on small, green screens.

  How long before he could leave? How soon could he go home to Belle Terre? God, at least grant me the blessing of dying there, he prayed.

  But he seriously doubted that God, if there even was one, remembered Cotton Crandall's name.

  Still, he hoped. His dream death had him sitting on the veranda of Belle Terre, a tall glass of neat bourbon in one hand, his other arm around Monique.

  The beeping signals faltered. He heard the glitches be­fore he even felt the palpitation inside his chest. To be safe, he pushed the thought of Monique aside.

  Instead, he thought about those living at Belle Terre. As usual his thoughts centered on Schyler. Her name evoked profound love and glaring resentment. These two emotions warred within him, each so strong as to cancel out the other and leave him numb.