Slow Heat in Heaven (36 page)

He had his jeans buttoned and was pulling on his shirt before Rhoda realized what was happening. "You can't do this to me again, you bastard."

Cash slammed out the motel room door. Rhoda lunged off the bed and flung open the door, uncaring that she was stark naked and in full view of anyone on the highway. In a voice that disturbed truckers napping in the neighboring rooms, she screamed, "Screw you, Boudreaux! I'll get even with you for this."

"Schyler got a contract from Endicott Paper Mill."

Dale Gilbreath hissed a curse beneath his breath. "How large?"

"First I have to know if our deal still stands."

"It does," the banker said. "I get the house. The rest of Belle Terre you can do with as you wish."

"The
bank
will get Belle Terre."

Dale dismissed the clarification. "It'll be as good as mine."

"How so?"

"There'll be a foreclosure auction. Private bids."

"And you'll act as the auctioneer."

"Precisely," he said with an evil grin.

"You'll see to it that your bid is the highest." Dale nodded. "What if the bids are checked?"

"I'll fudge them."

"Even then, you'll have to come up with a tidy sum of cash. Will you have it?"

"The acquisition of Belle Terre is just one of my, uh, hobbies. I've always got more than one deal going."

"You're very clever, aren't you, Mr. Gilbreath?"

"Very."

Dale gauged the individual across from him. His own motivations for participating in this scheme were clear. He wanted Belle Terre because of the power and respect that went with the address. But what about the other's motivations? Were they as clearly defined as his, or were they murky, linked to the past, and related to the emotions? It didn't matter to him really. He was simply curious. Did one have to have concrete reasons for one's actions? Probably not. His coconspirator held a grudge. He couldn't care less where it had its roots, as long as it resulted in the downfall of the Crandalls and Belle Terre.

"How large is the Endicott contract?" Dale asked.

"It's sufficient to pay off the loan and then some."

"Damn!"

"But there is a catch. Crandall Logging has to deliver the entire order before Endicott lets go of one red cent."

"How do you know all this?"

"I know."

Dale examined the other's face and decided that the information wasn't speculation, but fact. He expulsed a deep breath. "So the key is to make sure that the last shipment doesn't go through."

"Right. A shipment will go out every day or so on the train. But, as you said, stopping the last one is the key."

"How soon will that be?" Dale asked.

"The order is so large, she'll be working right up to the deadline. And that means everybody working overtime and the weather holding out. She'll barely be able to get the timber there before the note comes due."

"You'll help me see that she doesn't succeed?"

"She's dumped on me for the last time. I'll do whatever needs to be done."

Gilbreath smiled, tasting victory that was only a few weeks away. "I'll speak to Jigger again. He was agreeable when I first mentioned our little project to him."

"Something else the two of you should know. Gayla Frances is at Belle Terre, lying in Schyler's own bed."

"Jesus. Flynn would love to know that."

"Wouldn't he though?"

"What happened to the girl?"

"Why?"

"Just curious."

"Are you sure? You look pale. You're not a regular customer, are you?"

"What happened to the girl?" Dale repeated with an implied threat.

"Jigger beat her up. She ran away from him. Schyler took her in. That's two strikes against Schyler as far as he's concerned. He'll be more than willing to help us out."

"And if anything should go wrong and he's caught—"

"He'll be the one to take the rap."

"Not quietly, he won't. He'll implicate us."

"And we'll say he's lying. It'll be our word against his. Who's going to take Jigger's word for anything?"

Gilbreath smiled at his conspirator. "Keep me posted."

"Don't doubt that for a minute. Schyler Crandall's comeuppance is long overdue."

Jimmy Don Davison stared at the envelope for a long time before opening it. It had been unsealed and the contents read by prison officials before being delivered to him. The flap on the stiff, cream-colored envelope was embossed with the return address:
Belle Terre, Heaven, Louisiana.
Now who in hell at Belle Terre would be writing to him in prison? Who at Belle Terre knew or cared that he was there?

Finally, slumped on his bunk with his back against the wall and his heels at the edge of the thin, lumpy mattress, he took out the single sheet of stationery. Before reading the lines of neat, cursive script, he glanced down at the signature.

"Schyler Crandall?"

"D'you say somethin', Jimmy Don?" his cell mate asked from the bunk above his.

"Nothin' to you, Old Stu."

"Dear Mr. Davison," the salutation read. In between that and the unexpected signature, he was apologetically reacquainted with the sender, as though anybody from Laurent Parish needed to be reminded who Schyler Crandall was. She inquired after his well-being. Then she got down to the purpose of the letter. It had been sent to inform him that Gayla Francis was living at Belle Terre for an indefinite period of time and that, should he want to contact her, all correspondence should be addressed to her there.

He read the puzzling letter several times to make certain he understood its meaning. On the surface it amounted to a change of address notification, but what Miss Schyler was telling him in a roundabout way was that he should get in touch with his old girlfriend. Some girlfriend; Gayla was a whore. Apparently she'd sunk so low that even Jigger Flynn wouldn't have her under his roof any longer.

Jimmy Don coined epithets for Gayla and the rich, white bitch who went meddling into other folks' business. The embossed cream paper became a wadded ball in his fist. He hurled it against the wall opposite him.

"Hey, man, what's in the letter?"

"Shut up," Jimmy Don growled to Old Stu.

Schyler Crandall seemed to think he was interested in Gayla's whereabouts. He was, but only to the extent of knowing where he could find her in a hurry when he got out. He'd have to move fast. She must have no warning. His revenge must be as swift and sure as the sword of God.

His black eyes snapped with anger. His fists clenched and opened subconsciously. He probed at Gayla's betrayal like a tongue poking at a sore tooth. No matter how much it hurt, he kept returning to it and asking how, how she could have ever resorted to that kind of life.

They'd talked about graduating college, getting married, having kids. Hell, they'd even named the first three or four. She'd been a virgin the first time they went all the way. He hadn't been far from one. They'd coached each other on how to make love, frankly expressing what felt nice, when to rush, when to tarry.

The idea of her applying those sexual skills for hire made him sick to his stomach. That she could be loving Jigger Flynn with the same sweetness and consideration that she had once loved him made him livid enough to kill them both and laugh while he was doing it.

He was so steeped in thoughts about their slow and torturous executions that he didn't notice the group of prisoners that collected outside his cell. It was free time and all the cell doors were opened. Prisoners were at liberty to walk about in unrestricted areas. Jimmy Don didn't see the nefarious group until they came strolling into his cell, crowding together to fit into the small space. Razz propped his elbow on the upper bunk and smiled down at him.

"What's happenin', boy?"

"Nobody invited you in, Razz."

Jimmy Don didn't like the odds. Razz and three of his lieutenants against Old Stu and him. If the prison were a microcosm, Old Stu was the village simpleton. He had been given life for killing a cop, almost assuredly a frame- up. Old Stu didn't seem to mind the injustice. He had no family. The prison was his home. He was useless; he was harmless. His credo was to hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil, and by doing so, survive.

Razz smiled down at Jimmy Don. "That don't sound very friendly. We came by to give you a going away party, right?" The other three brutes nodded their heads in agreement.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You're outta here, boy. Soon. Paroled. Ain't you heard about it yet?"

Jimmy Don had an appointment with the parole board, but he wasn't going to divulge the date to Razz. "I haven't heard anything official."

"No?" Razz asked, feigning surprise. "Well now, it would be a damn shame if you caused a fuss right before meeting with the parole board, wouldn't it?" He touched Jimmy Don
's
cheek affectionately. Jimmy Don jerked his head aside. When he did, he happened to catch one of the other inmates leafing through his Bible.

"Get your filthy hands off that," he said testily.

"Hey man, don't go messin' with Jimmy Don's Bible," Razz said to the other prisoner. "His mama must have give it to him, right, Jimmy Don?"

Jimmy Don moved to the edge of his cot. "I said to leave the Bible alone."

The other prisoner, ignoring his warning, read the inscription on die inside cover. "Say what? Now ain't that
sweet? You into religion, Jimmy Don?" He ripped out the illuminated page and crumpled it in his fist, just as Jimmy Don had done the letter from Belle Terre.

"Goddamn you!" Jimmy Don lunged off the cot, hands aimed at the other prisoner's throat.

Razz caught him by the neck of his T-shirt and held Mm back. Mockingly he scolded Jimmy Don's tormentor. "Leave the boy's Bible alone. Didn't you know he's into all that? It's always revival time at Jimmy Don's church. They get baptized, speak in tongues, handle serpents, all that weird shit."

Several more gilt-edged pages of the Bible were maliciously ripped out and divided between the prisoners. Laughing at their own cleverness, they tore them to shreds before letting them flutter to the floor.

"You sons of bitches," Jimmy Don snarled.

"Now is that any way to talk to your friends? Hmm?" Razz cooed. "We come to give you a little going away present."

"Make that a
big
going away present." The prisoner stroked the fly of his pants. The joke earned him loud, approving laughter.

Jimmy Don put up a fierce struggle, but it was a token struggle and he knew it. He was as strong as a young bull, but he couldn't overpower the four of them. It would be useless and even more dangerous to call for a guard because the guard, out of fear of retribution, would side with Razz. If Jimmy Don called attention to himself or caused any trouble in the cell block, he wouldn't make parole. If he didn't make parole, he wouldn't have the chance to do what God had sanctioned him to do to Jigger and Gayla.

So he gritted his straight, white teeth and endured the gang rape while Old Stu lay in the bunk above him, picking his toenails, and thanking the Lord he was too old and ugly for any of Razz's gang to want him.

"Damn!"

Schyler's terse expletive was directed toward the bank statement she had been trying to balance for the last hour. Either she had no head for figures or her calculator was broken or several thousand dollars in the Crandall Logging account was indeed missing.

She needed Ken's help with this. He was the accountant. He was being paid to track down misplaced money. She reached for the telephone on her desk but before she touched it, it rang.

"Hello?"

"Schyler? Jeff Collins."

She and the doctor had been on a first-name basis since Cotton's surgery. "There's nothing wrong I hope."

"Why do people always think the worst when a doctor calls?"

She laughed. "Sorry. Are you the bearer of good news?"

"I hope you'll think so. Your father can leave tomorrow."

"That's wonderful," she exclaimed.

"You might want to check with the nurses before you say that," the doctor remarked around a chuckle. "Within a week you might want to send him back. Not that we'd take him back. He's gotten to be a real pain in the ass."

"Feisty old codger, isn't he?"

"The feistiest."

"I can't wait to have him home."

"If you want to come by this afternoon, I'll have all the release forms ready for you to sign. That way you won't bottleneck with the other dismissed patients in the morning."

"Thanks for the consideration, Jeff. I'll be right over."

Before she could hang up, he said, "We haven't told him yet. I thought you might want to break the good news yourself."

"Thanks, I appreciate that. See you shortly."

Grimacing with distaste, she folded all the canceled checks back into the folder, along with the bank's computerized printout of her account. The damn thing would have to remain unreconciled for the time being.

In fact, everything could be put on hold. Cotton Crandall was coming home.

"Seen Ms. Crandall?" Cash asked a logger who was weighing in the load on his rig. The scale at the landing was so delicate, the amount of board feet the load contained could be measured precisely.

"She left 'bout five minutes ago," he answered around a chaw of tobacco. "What are you doing here?"

"I brought Kermit back," Cash replied absently. It was unusual for Schyler to leave this early in the afternoon. "Did
Ms.
Crandall happen to say where she was going?"

"The hospital."

Cash, who'd been wiping his perspiring face with his bandanna, froze. The logger had his back turned and was shouting directions to the driver of another rig. Cash caught his shoulder and turned him around. "The hospital?"

"That's what she said, Cash."

"Did she say why? Did it have something to do with Cotton?"

"The lady don't inform me of her comin's and goin's. All I know is that she was in a big hurry. Shouted out to me that she'd be at the hospital if anybody asked, then herded that car of hers outta here lickety split."

Cash's face settled into a deep frown. His brows were pulled down low over his eyes. He stared toward the bridge in the direction Schyler had taken.

"Anything wrong, Cash?" the logger asked worriedly.

"No. Probably nothing." He roused himself from his private thoughts and tried to appear casual. "Keep an eye on things here, okay? Get all this timber ready to load on the train before quitting time. If I don't come back, see that the office is locked for the night before you leave. And tell Kermit to sit in there for the rest of the afternoon and man the phone. He got red in the face because of the heat, but he doesn't want to miss out on the overtime."

"Okay, Cash, but where're you goin'?"

Cash didn't hear him. He was already running toward
his
pickup.

"I'm going to turn the downstairs study into a bedroom for you. It might not be finished by tomorrow, but when I get through with it, you'll be able to lie in bed and look outside at the back lawn of Belle Terre."

"I liked my old bedroom."

Cotton sounded grumpy, but Schyler knew how pleased he was to be going home. She tried to hide her indulgent smile. "Dr. Collins said you shouldn't be climbing the stairs."

He aimed an adamant index finger at her. "I won't be babied. Not by you. Not by anybody. I've had enough of that in here. I'm not an invalid."

That's exactly what he was. He knew that's what he was, but Schyler knew better than to let on that he was. "You're damn right you're not. Don't expect to be pampered. I'm going to put you to work as soon as you're rested up."

"From what I hear you've got more help around the place than you can use." He shrewdly gauged her reaction from beneath his bushy white eyebrows.

"Tricia told you about Mrs. Dunne?"

"She did. Said she's bossy as all get out."

"Maybe that's why I like her so much. She reminds me of Veda."

" 'Xcept she's white."

"Well, yes, there is that difference," Schyler said, laughing.

"Can she cook as good as Veda?"

"Yes." She waved a sheet of paper in front of him. "She can cook everything on this diet Jeff gave me for you."

"Shit."

"Come now, it's not that bad," she teased. "But there'll be no grits and sausage gravy for you. And I won't have you bribing Mrs. Dunne either. Her first loyalty is to me. She won't be swayed, no matter how persuasive or ornery you get."

Cotton's expression remained disagreeable. "I wasn't just referring to the housekeeper when I mentioned the new help."

Schyler kept her smile intact. Was he referring to Cash? Had Tricia, in spite of Schyler's warning, come tattling?

"Veda's girl," Cotton grunted. "I hear she's taken up residence at Belle Terre."

The tension in Schyler's chest receded. "Yes, Gayla's there at my invitation. I felt like we Crandalls were responsible for her misfortunes."

"I heard she's trashy as the day is long."

"I'm sure you have," she said, thinking of Tricia's vicious tongue. "But there were extenuating circumstances. Jigger Flynn's been abusing her for years. This time he nearly killed her. Luckily she was able to get away from him. While she's recuperating, I want her to stay with us."

"That's mighty generous of you."

She pretended not to notice his sarcasm. "Thank you."

Schyler's motives were not purely unselfish. She treasured Gayla's friendship. Lately, her list of friends had dwindled drastically. Because of their most recent altercation, every time Tricia looked at Schyler, resentment wafted from her like cheap perfume.

As for Ken, Schyler apparently had bruised his pride when she asked him to leave her alone with Cash. On the heels of turning down his request of a loan, she had added insult to injury. He, too, was avoiding her these days. He spoke only when it was absolutely necessary and then with rigid politeness.

Cash had dispensed with their coffee-drinking sessions in the mornings. She knew he had been in the landing office ahead of her each day when she arrived, but since their latest quarrel, he had made it a point to leave before she got there. If he returned to the landing before she left in the evenings, he spent the time in the yard among the men, making daily inventory of the timber that had been cut, weighing the loads, recording the figures, and supervising the loading of it onto the freight cars.

If it was necessary for him to consult with her on something pertaining to business, he did so as briefly as possible. His face looked like it would crack if he smiled. His hazel eyes seemed to look straight through her. He was as remote and quick to take offense as when they had first met. His hostility was sexually charged. She knew it, felt it, and recognized it because she felt the same way.

She was restless. During the hot days, she used exhausting work to keep that internal turmoil on simmer. But at night she tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep, her mind occupied with disturbing thoughts and even more disturbing fantasies. She hated acknowledging how much she missed Cash. Even having him around when he was surly and insulting was preferable to not having him around at all. Also, recollections of that rainy afternoon kept her in a constant state of dissatisfaction.

So she had taken solace in the quiet talks she shared with Gayla. She talked frequently about Mark and their life in London. Gayla, tearfully and over a period of days, revealed what her nightmarish life with Jigger Flynn had been like. Schyler urged her to press charges against him, but Gayla wouldn't hear of it.

"He'd kill me, Schyler, before he ever came to trial. Even if he was in jail, he'd find a way. Besides, who would believe me?" she had asked.

Who indeed? Gayla's tales were unbelievable.

"There was a girl who worked in the Pelican Lounge," Gayla had told her one afternoon. "Jigger strangled her for not giving him his fair cut of what she earned. One morning she was found dead in a dumpster out behind the building. Her murder went down as an unsolved crime. I even tipped the sheriff with an anonymous phone call, but nothing was ever done about it."

"How could a law officer just blow off a murder like
that?"

"Either
he was scared of Jigger, or, most probably, he thought the girl had
it
coming for holding out on him."

Gayla had also told her, "Another of the girls got pregnant by one of her johns. Only he wasn't just a customer to her. She loved him and wanted to have the baby. Jigger found out about it and knew that if she carried the baby, he'd lose a valuable employee. He beat her with his fists until she aborted.

"He gets crazy if somebody welshes on a bet. One man owed him a lot of money over a pit bull fight. Jigger sent thugs out to get it, but they couldn't collect. The man went out in his fishing boat one day and never was seen again. They ruled it an accidental drowning and dragged the lake for his body. I guarantee you, it's anchored to the bottom and never will be found."

Day by day, with the help of Cash's ointment and Mrs. Dunne's plentiful meals, Gayla recovered physically. The scratches on her face diminished and eventually disappeared. The swelling went down until her beautiful bone structure was evident again. The bleeding stopped, but she was jittery; she jumped at every loud noise. Schyler realized that it would take months, maybe years, for Gayla to
get
over her recurring fears and
to recover
emotionally from the hellish existence she'd been subjected
to.

Still, she was fiercely proud. "I can't stay here indefinitely, Schyler," she had insisted on more than one occasion.

Schyler had been just as insistent. "I want you here, Gayla. I need a friend,"

"But I can't ever repay you."

"I don't want you to."

"I can't take your charity."

Schyler had considered it for a moment. "I can't afford to pay you a salary just now. Would you be willing to work for room and board?"

"Work? You just hired Mrs. Dunne."

"But there's plenty for you to do."

"Like what?" Gayla had asked skeptically. "You've got a crew that takes care of the yard. Somebody else tends to the horses. What is there for me to do?"

"I'd like the books in the small parlor to be cataloged. Those shelves haven't been inventoried in years. No telling what's op there. Yon can start on that. And don't rash it. Don't wear yourself out now that you're regaining your strength. Work only when you feel like it."

Gayla had seen through Schyler's ploy. She knew the job had been invented and was unnecessary. "All right. I'll inventory the books. Some of the houseplants need attention, too," she had said, holding her chin at a proud tilt. "Mama would have a fit if she could see how they've been neglected. And there's mending that needs to be done. I've noticed tears in some of the bed linens."

Gayla had moved out of Schyler's bedroom and into a small room off the kitchen. She refused to eat with the family in the dining room as Schyler had wanted her to. Instead she stubbornly ate her meals with Mrs. Dunne in the kitchen. They had established a fast friendship because Mrs. Dunne's kindness was extensive.

"Gayla has fit in beautifully," Schyler told her father now. "In fact, I don't know how I managed without her. I think you'll find everything at Belle Terre to your liking."

He frowned doubtfully. "You'll hear about it if I don't."

"I'm sure I will." She eased herself off the edge of his bed. "See you in the morning. Not too early. You'll have breakfast here. Take your time getting showered and shaved. I'll be here around ten, okay?" She bent down and kissed him good-bye.