Heat (8 page)

J
esse barely made it to work on time. He'd overslept, then had to make his own breakfast. Jenny still hadn't surfaced by the time he left for work.

He faced the first of the day's many truckloads of scrap lumber and branches, and occasionally he got a tree limb so big he had to trim it with a brancher, a hooked steel cutting implement fixed to a long handle. He looked upon that work as a welcome break from the monotony of feeding the hopper.

He got through the morning, then at lunchtime discovered that he had nothing to eat; he'd forgotten to fix himself a sandwich. He sat down on a bench in the locker room, too tired and numb to do anything about it.

Harley Waters came in and sat down beside him. “Aren't you eating anything, Jesse?”

Jesse shook his head. “Forgot to bring something. In a minute, when I get up the strength, I'll ride into town and pick up a burger.”

Harley handed him a thick, carefully wrapped sandwich. “Take this; my wife always makes me too much.”

“You sure? I can pick up something in town.”

“I'm sure; I still have to deal with a piece of pie.”

Jesse got a cold drink from the machine and sat back down next to Harley.

“Where you from, Jesse?”

Jesse told his story yet again. It came so naturally now that he hardly remembered his real background. “How about you?”

“Been here all my life,” Harley replied. “My grandad worked for Herman Muller's old man, on his farm. That was a long time ago.”

“You've known Herman a long time, then?”

“Oh, sure; I went to work for him right out of high school.”

“Has the business changed much since then?”

“It's gotten bigger, I guess; Herman's built it up practically with his own hands. Once in a while he gets an offer from one of the big companies, like Georgia Pacific, but he's hung onto it. Tell you the truth, after that boy died, I thought he'd sell out.”

“His boy?”

“James, his name was; his grandson, really. Car accident.”

“That's bad.”

“It was a mess, I'll tell you. Nobody's ever figured out who killed him.”

Jesse looked up from his sandwich. “Somebody killed him? An accident, you mean?”

“Well, Pat Casey said it was an accident, but I didn't like the look of it. He ran off the road coming down the mountain.”

“The one that sort of hangs over Main Street?”

“That's the one. Kill Hill, they call it; Herman's boy wasn't the only one to run off that road. Real steep.”

“This happen recently?” Careful, don't ask too many questions, he told himself.

“Four, five months ago. Herman was real broke up about it. I thought he'd sell.”

“He's had a lot of offers, huh?”

“Three or four. Latest one was…” Harley looked up to see another workman walk in. “Well,” he said, standing up. “I'll see you.”

“Thanks for the sandwich,” Jesse said. He watched as the other man sat down on a bench across the room. He was a big one, six-four, maybe six-five, heavy-set.

“You're the new fella,” the man said.

“That's right. Name's Jesse Barron.”

“Good for you.”

What the hell did that mean? Jesse wondered. He munched on his sandwich and sipped his drink.

“How you like it on the hopper?”

“'Bout the most fun I ever had,” Jesse replied.

“First time I ever heard anybody say that.”

“It was kind of a joke,” Jesse said.

“I guess I don't have much of a sense of humor,” the man said.

Jesse knew this man, in a way; there had been one in every schoolyard in every town his father had preached in. Big guy, bad attitude, didn't like newcomers, especially preachers' boys. “I didn't get your name,” Jesse said.

“Phil Partain,” the man said, lighting a cigarette. “Cigarette smoke bother you?”

“It's your lungs,” Jesse said.

“That's lucky for you,” Partain said, blowing a cloud in Jesse's direction, “'cause I'm not putting it out. So if you're one of them antismoking types, I guess you'll just have to put up with it.”

Jesse was one of those antismoking types, he guessed, and he had learned in every one of a dozen schoolyards how to put a stop to this. He got up, walked over to where Partain sat, plucked the cigarette
from his fingers, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it.

Partain looked astonished for about a second, then anger flashed across his face and he started to stand up.

Jesse, who was standing no more than a foot from Partain, reached out, put a hand on his shoulder and sat him back down. “Listen to me, Phil,” he said before the man could try again to get up. “Let's you and me concentrate on safety in the workplace. Neither one of us wants to get fired for fighting in the locker room; I know I don't, and that's just what Mr. Muller would do to both of us, don't you reckon?”

“Fuck Muller,” Partain said, starting to rise again.

Jesse pushed him back down onto the bench. “Let me give you some good advice, Phil,” he said quietly. “Never pick a fight with a stranger. You never know what you're getting into.”

“That's advice you might take yourself,” Partain said, looking up at him.

“Oh, I don't want you to get the wrong idea,” Jesse replied, smiling. “I'm not picking a fight, I'm nipping one in the bud. In fact, I'm going to make a real effort to get along with you, just as long as you don't blow cigarette smoke at me, and I hope you'll make an effort to get along with me. Life's going to be a whole lot sweeter that way.”

“Oh, yeah? Sweeter for who?” Partain asked.

“Why for both of us, Phil,” Jesse said in the friendliest tone he could muster. “We're both all grown up now, and when grown men get into fights, somebody gets hurt, likely as not, and I don't want it to be me. I mean, you're a big fella.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

“Couldn't miss it,” Jesse laughed, slapping Partain solidly on the shoulder. He looked at his watch. “Well, I'd better get back to work.” He turned and strolled out of the locker room, back toward the
waiting hopper. Phil Partain remained seated on the bench.

Jesse took a deep breath and thought about his pulse. Back in the schoolyard, his heart would have been hammering after an encounter like that, but now it beat right along, just the way it was supposed to. In the yard at Atlanta Federal Prison he had learned to fight without being angry and to avoid fights when he was angry, and the experience was serving him well. He hadn't felt the need to prove anything to Phil Partain; he'd done all his proving back in Atlanta.

He faced the hopper once more.

A
s Jesse walked up the front steps of the house he was struck by a scent from his past, an aroma of small-town Georgia, of the inadequate kitchens of parsonages in the mountains, of his mother making do and doing wonderfully. Somebody was frying chicken.

As he opened the door Carey ran out of the kitchen toward him. “Mama says you get your bath right now,” the little girl said. “Supper's in half an hour.”

Jesse trudged up the stairs, trying to deal with the emotions that the smell of fried chicken were causing to well up in him. He shaved, then soaked in the tub for fifteen minutes, then got dressed and went downstairs. The table was set, and Jenny's back was to him; she was dishing something up from the stove.

“Hey there,” she said, turning toward him. “That's perfect timing; have a seat.”

Jesse held a chair for Carey, who beamed up at him as she sat down, then he took a seat. Jenny set a platter of chicken before him, next to a bowl of green beans and another of corn, plus a plate of biscuits.

“You being a Southerner, I thought I'd whip up something Southern,” she said, placing an open bottle of beer and a glass on the table, then opening one for herself.

“I started smelling the chicken about halfway home,” Jesse said, spearing himself some white meat. “I can't tell you how long it's been since I had some.” He wasn't lying; the last time was before Beth had gotten sick. Two years? Three? They hadn't served fried chicken in prison.

“I'm glad you like it,” she said, watching him tear into the food.

“The beans and corn are what my mother used to make. The biscuits, too.”

“I'm a good guesser, then.”

“You certainly are.”

The three of them consumed their dinner, and when they had finished, Jenny produced a hot peach cobbler from the oven, and Jesse thought he had died and gone to heaven. It was different from wishing he had.

 

“About last night,” Jenny said when they were comfortable in the living room. Carey was doing the dishes.

“You don't owe me any explanations,” Jesse said, and he hoped she didn't believe him.

“Fred and I have been out a few times. There's nothing there—not for me, anyway; he's just okay, no more. We met some other people at the Legion Hall for a dance, and I had a lot to drink, mostly because I wasn't where I wanted to be, which was with you.”

Jesse flushed, and it felt wonderful.

“I was hungover, I guess, and I overslept. I'm sorry I wasn't up to get your breakfast.”

“It's okay,” he said, patting her knee.

“I told Fred Patrick last night that I wasn't available anymore,” she said. “Maybe you think that's rushing things, but it was the way I felt. Still do.”

“I'm glad you told him that,” Jesse said, and I'm glad you feel that way.

She reached over and kissed him lightly. “Carey'll be in bed in half an hour,” she said. “I'll come to you.”

 

As he climbed the stairs to his room Jesse was overcome with the feeling that he was now Jesse Barron, not Warden; that he had become the man he pretended to be. Reality was no longer the Atlanta pen and Kip Fuller and Dan Barker. Reality was St. Clair Wood Products and Jenny Weatherby and her little girl and fried chicken on the table. By the time he had crawled into bed the past was receding from him at the speed of light, and when Jenny opened his door and climbed into bed with him and pressed her naked body against his, he sloughed off the broken man called Jesse Warden like a dirty shirt.

P
at Casey got out of his car and walked toward the church, nervous at the prospect of the meeting. He had known Jack Gene Coldwater for more than twenty years, and he could not remember a relaxed moment in his presence. There was something in the man that kept Casey on edge, but also something that made him want to please his leader.

Kurt Ruger was waiting in the anteroom and stood as Casey entered. They walked together to the office door and knocked.

“Come,” a deep voice replied.

The two men entered the room and took seats opposite the man who sat at the desk. Casey saw Coldwater only once a month, unless there was some special reason, and this was the regular monthly meeting.

Coldwater was bent over the desk, reading a document, and the sunlight through the window fell on his white hair, which was long and tied at the nape of the neck. The effect was nearly that of a halo, and Casey wondered if the man had planned it that way.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Jack Gene Coldwater said in his rumbling voice.

“Morning, Jack Gene,” Casey said in unison with Ruger. They were the only ones who were allowed to call him that, in memory of their early days together in Vietnam.

“Let's hear from finance first,” Coldwater said, nodding at Ruger. “Kurt?”

“You've seen the monthly financial statement,” Ruger said, indicating the document on Coldwater's desk. “We're in pretty good shape, if a little cash poor.”

“Did you talk to Schooner?”

Ruger nodded. “He poor-mouthed me; said the stock was down, and there's a threat of an antitrust suit from the Justice Department over the acquisition of Security Software.”

“I told him to expect that,” Coldwater said. “It's winnable.”

“I tried to buck him up, but he's shaky. I think maybe you should consider talking to him.”

Coldwater swiveled in his chair and gazed out at the mountains, offering Ruger and Casey his Indian profile. “Perhaps it's time we had Schooner up here for a little retreat; get his mind concentrated.”

“Excellent idea, Jack Gene,” Ruger said. “Shall I call him?”

“I'll call him myself,” Coldwater said. “What else do you have for me?”

“Collections are coming in well, except for Herman Muller, of course.”

“Of course. He turned down our latest offer?”

“He did.”

“How much do you think he'll take?”

“Jack Gene, it's my feeling about Muller that he just won't sell. He doesn't need the money—I mean, the man's an elderly, childless widower who lives like
a monk; the business keeps him alive, and he knows it.”

“Maybe it's time just to remove Muller from the scene,” Coldwater said. “He's beginning to annoy me.”

“I'm not sure that's wise,” Ruger said. “He's childless, but he has relatives out of state. We don't know who would inherit, and we could just be opening a big can of worms.”

Coldwater nodded, then turned back to face his two subordinates. “Let's hear from security. Pat?”

Casey sat up a little straighter. “All's well, Chief.”

“That's it? ‘All's well'?”

“Everything is running as smoothly as we could want. There's no threat from any quarter. It's what we've planned for all these years.”

“What about the new boy? I hear he did well during the bank robbery.”

“That's true, although Frank damn near shot him. Barron's settled down at the hopper, working his ass off. Settled in at home, too, from all appearances.”

“Good. He could still be a cop or a fed, though.”

“Possible, of course, but, in my judgment, very unlikely.”

“I've always trusted your judgment, Pat,” Coldwater said. “You're a hard man to fool; you've proved it over the years.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

“But we're entering a critical time.”

“I know that, Jack Gene, and that's why I've been so careful with him. I've checked him every which way, and he adds up.”

“If the feds were putting in a new man, they'd have an airtight background for him, wouldn't they?”

“It's not just his background, though that certainly checks out. It's the kind of man he is. I've known one hell of a lot of cops, and, believe me, he doesn't fit the mold. I've nudged him a little, and—”

“Nudged him? How?”

“I let Phil Partain push him, just to see how he'd react.”

“And how did he react?”

“He didn't take the bait, but he didn't back down, either. I think Partain's a little scared of him.”

“Partain's a bully; he's scared of anybody who stands up to him,” Coldwater said.

“That's true,” Casey agreed, “and it would take a pretty sharp guy to figure that out right off the bat. Partain's got a real mean streak; Barron could have walked into a buzz saw, but he didn't. Partain was impressed; so was I, when I heard about it.”

Coldwater gazed off into the middle distance. “Doesn't fight, but doesn't back down; I like it. That's how I chose you, Pat; did you know that?”

Casey blinked. “No, I didn't.”

“The first time I laid eyes on you was some godawful bar in Saigon. There was a drunk marine raising hell, and he tried to take you on. I liked the way you handled him; you didn't fight him, but you didn't back down.”

“I remember that,” Casey said. “It was quite a while before we met.”

“I marked you down on the spot,” Coldwater said. “Later on, I got you transferred.” He winked at Ruger. “I picked Kurt, here, for different reasons.”

“Partain says Barron's foreman likes him, that he'll recommend to Muller to move him to the line, when a vacancy comes. Partain doesn't like that, figures he's in line first.”

“Tell you what,” Coldwater said. “Let Barron stew on the hopper for a couple of weeks more, then make a vacancy.”

“One of our people?” Casey asked.

“Certainly not,” Coldwater replied. “One of Muller's.”

“Consider it done.”

“I know you'll do it subtly, Pat; you usually do.”

“I will.”

“Don't come between Barron and Muller; let them build a relationship, then we'll see how he reacts when we bring Muller down.”

Ruger sat up straight. “We going to bring Muller down?”

“Somehow. I don't see any other way, do you?”

Ruger shook his head. “No, but it's going to be tricky; we certainly can't let it get around that we had anything to do with it. He's awfully popular, and there are still questions around town about the grandson.”

“I'm aware of the affection in which most of the town holds Muller. I'm not about to do anything precipitous.”

“You never do, Chief,” Ruger said. “I'll look forward to seeing how you handle it.”

“I'll handle it simply,” Coldwater said. “Simple is always best.”

“I'll get Barron promoted,” Casey said.

“Good,” Coldwater replied. “And when Phil Partain finds out about it, don't get in his way. I want to know what will happen when the two butt heads.”

“Partain will kill him, if he gets the chance.”

Coldwater shrugged. “If Phil Partain can kill him, then Barron's not for us, is he?”