Slow Heat in Heaven (47 page)

"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.

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.