Slow Heat in Heaven (5 page)

"Nothing significant."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Depends on which way you look at it. If it's a change for the worse, we'd rather do without."

"Of course."

"What the patient needs is bypass surgery. Triple, maybe quadruple. The pictures of his chest indicate that." He snapped closed the metal cover of the chart. "But he isn't strong enough yet. We've got to wait, build up his strength, and hope that he doesn't have another attack before we can go in."

"'We'?"

"The resident cardiologist, the general surgeon, and I."

She looked away, trying to think of a graceful way to put what she had to say. "Dr. Collins, at the risk of sounding ungrateful for everything you've already done, and doubtful of your ability—"

"You wonder if I know what the hell I'm doing?"

She smiled helplessly. "Yes. Do you know what the hell you're doing?"

"I don't blame you for wondering. We're a small hospital. But the financial backers who built this facility, your father included, spared no expense. The equipment has the latest technology available. The staff is well paid. We're not doctors and surgeons who couldn't find jobs anywhere else. It's just that we wanted a small-town environment for our families."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that you weren't competent or qualified."

He held up his hand, indicating that no offense had been taken. "When the time comes for surgery, if you want to have Mr. Crandall moved to another hospital, I'll be glad to make the arrangements for you and do whatever it takes to move him safely. I wouldn't advise that he be moved now, however."

"Thank you, doctor. I appreciate your candor. I hope you appreciate mine."

"I do."

"And I don't think it'll be necessary to have him transferred."

"That's gratifying to know."

They smiled at each other. "Can I go in and see him now?"

"Two minutes. By the way, I recommend that you catch up on your meals and start getting more rest. You look none too healthy yourself. Good night."

He set off down the hall with a confident stride that belied his wet-behind-the-ears appearance. Schyler took comfort in that as she nodded a greeting to the nurse monitoring the life-saving equipment and stepped into the ICU. Despite the bright fluorescent lighting, the room was sepulchral.

She tiptoed to the bed. Cotton's eyes were closed. A tube had been inserted into his mouth, held in place
by tape across his lips. Smaller tubes had been placed in his nostrils. Wires and conduits and catheters attached to the various machines disappeared beneath the sheet covering him. She could only guess at their unpleasant functions.

The only thing that was familiar was his shock of white hair. Tears blurred her eyes as Schyler reached out and ran her fingers through it. "I love you, Daddy." He didn't stir. "Forgive me for whatever I did." She used up the full two minutes before she kissed his forehead and quietly left the room.

Only after the door closed behind her did Cotton Crandall open his eyes.

Tricia and Ken were in the throes of an argument. From the steps of the veranda, Schyler could see them through the parlor windows. An authentic Aubusson rug was their arena. They were squared off across its muted, pastel pattern. Their voices were muffled, so she couldn't distinguish individual words. She didn't have to. They were gesturing angrily.

Stepping out of the wedge of light coming through the window, she went back down the steps. She didn't want to intrude or have them see her, especially if she were the source of the squabble.

Surely Tricia hadn't seen Ken kissing her before she left for the hospital. Tricia wouldn't have stayed undercover, waiting until Schyler left to confront her husband. She would have charged out of the house immediately and challenged them both.

The visit to the hospital had left Schyler emotionally drained. She didn't want to join the fracas going on in the formal parlor, so she left her purse and keys lying on the hood of her car and struck out across the lawn.

Maybe the exercise would exhaust her enough to make her sleep. She had been tired every night since her arrival but had lain awake, thinking about Cotton, thinking about Tricia and Ken, thinking about them sleeping together in the room down the hall from hers. She hated herself for still caring about that. But she did.

And because she did, it was curious that Ken's kiss hadn't affected her more than it had. For the last six years she had fancied herself still in love with him. The first kiss, after so long and heartbreaking a separation, should have electrified her, regardless that she was kissing her sister's husband. Yet all she had felt was a vague sadness, a sense of loss, which she couldn't explain.

That was just one of the things troubling Schyler as she made her way across the wide lawn and entered the surrounding forest. The evening air was sultry, only marginally cooler than it had been at sunset. Her footsteps disturbed patches of mist that hovered above the ground. Ethereally, it swirled around her ankles and climbed her calves. It could have been a spooky sensation, but Schyler regarded these patches of fog as friendly.

She followed the narrow path that paralleled the road for a few hundred yards before angling off to the left. From there, it meandered through the woods on a gradual decline until it reached the fertile banks of the bayou.

Here, on the higher terrain, there were a few hardwoods, trailing the harmless Spanish moss from their branches. But mostly there were pines, reproducing themselves prolifically until they gave way to the cypress and willow and cottonwood that claimed the muddy shore of the bayou as their domain.

Almost as soon as she could say her ABCs, Schyler could name every tree in the woods. She had never forgotten them. She remembered Cotton's forestry lessons well. She knew the forest by sight, touch, and smell. Her ears could still attach a label to each familiar sound.

Except one.

And it came upon her so swiftly that she didn't even have time to wonder about it until the vicious, snarling dog was blocking her path.

The animal had seemingly emerged from hell and sprung out of the marshy ground to stand only a few feet in front of her. His body was sturdy, with a deep and heavily muscled chest. His face was triangular and had a blunt snout. His sharply pointed tail curved in an upward arc that was aggressive and hostile. He was short-haired, an unattractive, mottled blend of black and brown and tan. Wide-set eyes glittered up at her. His snarling mouth drooled. He stood with his feet planted far apart, like a sailor on the deck of a tall ship. He was ugly, extremely ugly, the most menacing creature Schyler had ever seen. His sinister growl was terrifying in itself.

Instinctively she sucked in and held her breath. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. When she raised her hand to it, the animal lurched forward and gave three sharp, rapping barks.

She froze, not wanting to alarm the dog by moving a muscle. "Down, boy, down." The words were ridiculously trite. This wasn't an amiable pet. There wasn't a single friendly aspect to his character. This animal was a killer. His growl modified to a low vibration in his throat, but Schyler wasn't foolish enough to think that he was backing down.

Crying out for help would be futile. She was too far from the house. Besides, the sudden noise might provoke the short-tempered animal to attack her. But this Mexican standoff couldn't last forever. She decided to chance a half step backward. The dog didn't seem to notice, so she took another. Then another.

When she had put several yards between them, she decided to turn and make her way swiftly along the path toward the house. She wouldn't break into a run because he was certain to chase her. But she wouldn't waste any time either.

Dreading the risky result, she turned. The instant she did, the dog barked another sharp threat. The sound was so abrupt, so startling and loud, that she stumbled and fell. The dog lunged at her. Schyler rolled to her back, covered her face with her forearm, and knocked the powerful animal aside with the other.

Actually coming into physical contact with him was like living a hideous nightmare. His moist breath was hot on her arm. She felt rise scrape of sharp teeth on her skin. Either his saliva or her own blood felt sticky and wet as it trickled over her wrist. The bone in her arm almost cracked upon impact with the dog's broad skull. The blow numbed the nerves for several seconds.

She had no doubt that the animal would rip out her throat if she couldn't stop it. Acting on sheer survival instinct, she groped behind her and picked up the first thing she laid her hand on, a fallen pine branch about as big around as her wrist. When the dog launched his next attack, she whacked him in the face as hard as she could. The blow landed solidly but didn't deter him. Indeed, it only infuriated him more.

Swinging the pine branch wildly and, as a consequence, ineffectually, Schyler struggled to her feet and started to run. As she slashed her way through the trees, the dog was literally on her heels. She felt his teeth snapping at her thrashing ankles. Several times she barely escaped his clenching jaws.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, two brilliant lights cut through the forest as smoothly as a sythe through tall grass. They stopped on her like a searchlight that had found its target, blinding her. Mist and dust danced eerily in the twin beams. Reflexively, Schyler crossed her arms over her eyes.

A piercing whistle rent the still, humid air. She sensed the dog's immediate attention. He ceased his snarling and barking and came to an abrupt standstill. Another shrill whistle galvanized him. He sped past her. His sweaty body brushed against her bare leg, nearly knocking her down. He plunged through the undergrowth in the direction of the bright lights.

Schyler realized then that in her headlong plunge, she had almost reached the road. The lights belonged to a vehicle that had pulled to the shoulder. The steering wheel had been cut sharply to direct the headlights into the woods. She blinked into focus the shape of a pickup truck, made spectral by the cloud of dust that swirled around it.

The noises coming from the truck were surreal. The engine was wheezing and knocking. And from the back of the truck came the raucous sound of barking dogs. They were in a frenzied state, rattling their metal cages as they clambered to get out. Schyler couldn't tell how many there were, but it sounded like every hound in hell.

She reversed her direction and fled in tenor, certain that soon the whole bloodthirsty pack would be unleashed on her. She risked looking over her shoulder. The truck was backing up, the gears grinding. Then it turned onto the road and lumbered away. The forest was plunged into darkness again.

But the barking continued, so Schyler kept running from it, blindly clawing her way through the dense trees that had become alien. The moss that brushed against her cheek now was terrifying. Roots and vines were snares that wrapped around her ankles and tried to trap her in this nightmare. In vain, she fought off the mist that rose to embrace her in its ghostly arms.

She actually screamed when she was brought up hard against a solid, impregnable body. She fought it, struggling to scratch and claw her way free. She was lifted up; her feet left the ground. She used them to kick.

"Stop it! What in hell's name is the matter with you?"

Despite her terror, Schyler realized that this phantom in her nightmare had a very human voice. He felt human, too. She flung her head back and looked up at him. It was the devil, all right.

Cash Boudreaux was gazing down at her curiously. Several seconds lapsed, then he swung her up in his arms. Schyler was too relieved to argue. The dog's attack was still too recent for her not to welcome a larger, stronger presence than herself.

Her breath came in short, swift pants that fanned his throat. She clutched the front of his shirt. She shuddered with revulsion at the recollection of the dog's slobbering, snarling mouth. But when the remnant horror began to recede, embarrassment set in.

She drew in a long, unsteady breath. "You can put me down now, Mr. Boudreaux. I'm fine." He didn't set her down. He didn't even stop but kept walking in the direction of the bayou. "Did you hear me?"

"
Oui
."

"Then please put me down. This is nice of you, but—"

"I'm not being nice. It's just more convenient to carry you than drag you along behind me."

"That's my point. I can manage alone."

"You couldn't stand up. You're shaking too bad."

That was true. From the marrow out, she was quaking like a dead leaf in a gale. Willing, at least for the moment, to concede the point to him, she let him carry her. "You're going the wrong way. The house is back there."

"I know where the house is." There was a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "I thought you might be running scared from something or someone there."

"What would I be afraid of there?"

"You tell me."

"For your information, I was attacked by
a. . .
a dog." Her voice cracked. It was mortifying to feel tears in her eyes but she couldn't help it.

Boudreaux stopped in his tracks. "A dog? A dog attacked you?" She nodded. "I heard the barking," he said. "Were you bitten?"

"I think so. I'm not sure. I ran."

"Jesus."

He started down the path again, walking more quickly now. The chorus of bullfrogs grew louder. Schyler recognized the willows, whose long, trailing branches bent toward the still, murky waters like a penitent paying homage. This branch of the bayou was distributary, drawing water out of the wider, freer flowing Laurent Bayou. It was a narrow creek. The waters flowed sluggishly if at all, making it appear almost stagnant.

There was a pirogue lying half in, half out of the water. Agilely, Cash put one foot in it and leaned down to deposit Schyler in the narrow, canoe-type boat. Taking a book of matches from the breast pocket of his shirt, he struck one and lit a kerosene lantern. The yellow light made his eyes appear as sinister as the wildcats that prowled the swamps. He blew out the match and turned up the lantern.

"What were you doing here?" she asked with a detached curiosity.

"Hauling in the day's catch." He nodded toward a net trap that was partially submerged in the shallow water. Several d-»' *n red swamp crayfish were squirming inside.

"You seem to have a propensity for trespassing where you don't belong."

He didn't defend himself. "Here, have a drink."

A pint bottle of bourbon was lying in the bottom of the pirogue. He twirled off the cap and passed the bottle to her. She regarded it blankly. "Go on," he said impatiently. "It's not moonshine and it's not bootleg. I bought it this afternoon from a respectable liquor store."

"I'd rather not."

He leaned forward, his face looking satanic in the lantern light. "When you plowed into me you looked like you'd seen a ghost. I don't have any crystal glasses or silver ice buckets like up at Belle Terre. I'm sure it's not as fancy a cocktail as you're used to, but it'll give you a good, swift kick in the gut, which is what you need to stop your shakes. Now take a drink, goddammit."

Not liking anything he had said, liking less the imperious way he'd said it, Schyler yanked the pint of liquor from him and tipped it to her mouth. Cotton had taught her to drink, just like he'd taught her to do everything else. But he'd taught her to drink like a lady, in a manner Macy had approved of. The hefty swig of bourbon she drew out of Cash Boudreaux's pint scalded her throat and every inch of her esophagus along its way to her stomach where it exploded with the impetus of a dying sun.

She gave a hoarse, unladylike cough, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and passed the bottle to him. He took it from her and, staring at her with amusement, drank from it himself. "More?"

"No, thank you."

He took another drink before recapping the bottle and tossing it into the bottom of the pirogue. He climbed in and crouched down in front of Schyler. "Did he get you anywhere beside the arm?"

Schyler gasped when he reached out and encircled her wrist, drawing her arm closer to the lantern. His touch elicited a tingle, but what alarmed her was that her arm was oozing blood from several ugly scratches. "I didn't realize. My God."

His fingers were warm, strong, and gentle as he probed the wounds, examining them carefully. "What did it look like?"