White Hot

Prologue Some said that if he was going to kill himself, he couldn't have picked a better day for it.Life was hardly worth living that particular Sunday afternoon, and most organisms were doing a half-assed job of it. The atmosphere was as thick and hot as breakfast grits. It sucked the energy right out of every living thing, be it plant or animal.Clouds evaporated under the ferocity of the sun. Moving from indoors to out was like stepping into a blast furnace like those in the Hoyles' foundry. At the family's fishing camp on Bayou Bosquet -- so named because of the island of cypress trees in the middle of the creek's slow-moving current -- a stuffed, six-foot gator basked in the heat of the yard. His glass eyes reflected the glare of the hot sky. The Louisiana state flag hung furled and limp upon its pole.Cicadas were too indolent to make their grating music, although one industrious insect occasionally disturbed the somnolent atmosphere with an attempt that was halfhearted at best. Fish remained well below the surface of the water and its opaque green blanket of duckweed. They kept to the shadowy, murky depths, their only sign of life being the periodic pulsing of gills. A water moccasin lay inert on the bank, menacing but motionless.The swamp was a natural aviary, but today every species of fowl seemed to be napping in its nest, with the exception of a single hawk. He was perched at the top of a tree that had been killed by a lightning strike decades before. The elements had left its branches as naked and white as bones picked clean.The winged hunter eyed the cabin below. Perhaps he spied the mouse skittering among the pilings that supported the fishing pier. More likely, animal instinct alerted him to imminent peril.The crack of the gunshot wasn't as loud as one might expect. The air, dense as a goose-down pillow, smothered the sound waves. The shot created barely a ripple of reaction in the swamp. The flag remained furled. The stuffed gator didn't flinch. Making only a small splash, the water moccasin slithered into the bayou, not alarmed, but piqued that his Sunday slumber had been disturbed.The hawk took flight, spiraling on air currents with a minimum of effort, on the lookout for prey more appealing than the small mouse darting among the pilings.To the dead man inside the cabin, the hawk gave no thought at all. Copyright 2004 by Sandra Brown Management Ltd. Chapter One "Do you remember Slap Watkins?""Who?""The guy who was spouting off in the bar.""Can you be more specific? What bar? When?""The night you came to town.""That was three years ago.""Yeah, but you should remember." Chris Hoyle sat forward in an attempt to goose his friend's powers of recall. "The loudmouth who caused the fight? Face that would stop a clock. Big ears.""Oh, that guy. Right. With the..." Beck held his hands at the sides of his head to indicate large ears."That's how he got the nickname Slap," Chris said.Beck raised an eyebrow."Whenever the wind blew, his ears -- ""Slapped against his head," Beck finished."Like shutters in a gale." Grinning, Chris tilted his beer bottle in a silent toast.The window blinds in the den of the Hoyles' home were drawn to block out the shimmering heat of a late-afternoon sun. The closed blinds also made the room agreeably dim for better TV viewing. A Braves game was being televised. Top of the ninth and Atlanta needed a miracle. But despite the unfavorable score, there were worse ways to spend a stifling Sunday afternoon than inside a semidark, air-conditioned den, sipping cold brews.Chris Hoyle and Beck Merchant had idled away many hours in this room. It was the perfect male playroom, with its fifty-inch TV screen and surround-sound speakers. It had a fully stocked bar with a built-in ice maker, a refrigerator filled with soft drinks and beer, a bBrown, Sandra is the author of 'White Hot', published 2004 under ISBN 9780743245531 and ISBN 0743245539.