Lethal Page 7

  He turned his back and answered the call. “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine,” she replied. “I’m just calling to check on you. How’s it going?”

  “We just got a breakthrough, actually.” He shared with her the recent discovery. “Good news, it’s likely that we’ve picked up his trail. Bad news, it leads into the bayou. That’s a hell of a lot of swampy territory to cover.”

  “How long will you be?”

  “I was about to head back. Don’t hold supper on me, though. I’ve got to stop at the office before coming home. How’s Lanny?”

  “You always ask that.”

  “I always want to know.”

  She sighed. “He’s fine.”

  Tom was about to thank her for the update when he bit back the words. It was offensive to him, this feeling that he should thank her for answering a question about their son’s well-being. “I’ll see you in a while,” he said and immediately disconnected.

  Finding the footprint and blood had galvanized the flagging officers involved in the manhunt. Fresh search dogs had been sent for. Mrs. Thibadoux was yelling from her back porch that somebody would have to pay for any damages done to her yard or dock. Fred and Doral ignored her as they reorganized and divided responsibilities among the various agencies.

  Tom figured this would be a good time for him to slip away. His departure would go unnoticed, and he wouldn’t be missed.

  Chapter 10

  Darkness would impede the search for Coburn.

  Which made The Bookkeeper unhappy to see that the sun was going down.

  Sam Marset’s execution had required an entire week of thought and planning, and The Bookkeeper had braced for its repercussions. A backlash was to be expected, even hoped for, because the louder the communal gasp over such a bloody deed, the stronger the impact was on those who had to be taught a lesson.

  Case in point, the state trooper. His funeral procession had stretched for miles. Uniformed officers from numerous states had turned out for it, little knowing, or perhaps not caring, that he was an amoral bastard who took graft for looking the other way whenever trucks bearing drugs, or weapons, or even human beings traveled along the stretch of Interstate 10 that he patrolled.

  It had also been reported to The Bookkeeper that on occasion the trooper would avail himself of one of the girls before returning her to the hellish cargo hold of whatever vehicle was transporting her. It was said that he preferred virgins and that he didn’t return her in the condition in which he’d found her.

  When his body was discovered behind the left rear wheel of his patrol car, his head nearly severed, newspaper editorialists and television pundits had decried the violence and demanded that the decorated trooper’s killer be captured and made to pay the ultimate penalty for the brutal slaying. But within days the public outrage had been shifted to the breaking news of a Hollywood starlet’s premature release from rehab.

  Such was modern society’s moral decay. If one couldn’t beat it, one might just as well wallow in it. Having reached that conclusion several years ago, The Bookkeeper had set out to build an empire. Not one of industry or art, nor of finance or real estate, but of corruption. That was The Bookkeeper’s stock-in-trade. Dealing solely in that commodity, the business had flourished.

  In order to succeed in any endeavor, one had to be ruthless. One acted boldly and decisively, left no loose ends, and extended no mercy to competitors or traitors. The last person to have learned The Bookkeeper’s policy the hard way was Sam Marset. But Marset had been the township of Tambour’s favorite son.

  So as the sun slid below the horizon and darkness encroached, The Bookkeeper acknowledged that the ripples of killing him had taken on the proportion of a tidal wave.

  All because of Lee Coburn.

  Who must be found. Silenced. Exterminated.

  The Bookkeeper was confident of that happening. No matter how clever the man believed himself to be, he couldn’t escape The Bookkeeper’s widespread and inescapable net. It was likely that he would be killed by his eager but clumsy pursuers. If not, if he was brought into custody, then Diego would be called upon to eliminate the problem. Diego was excellent at stealth. He would find a way to get to Coburn in an unguarded moment. He would apply his razor deftly and feel the hot gush of Coburn’s blood on his hands.

  The Bookkeeper envied him that.

  By sundown, Honor’s house looked like storm damage.

  Emily had awakened from her nap on schedule. A juice box, a package of Teddy Grahams, and unlimited TV viewing had kept her pacified. But even her favorite Disney DVDs didn’t altogether distract her from their visitor.

  She tried to maintain a running dialogue with Coburn, pestering him with questions until Honor shushed her with uncharacteristic harshness. “Leave him alone, Emily.” She was afraid her daughter’s chatter, to say nothing of Elmo’s singing, would irritate him to the point of taking drastic measures to stop it.

  While he was tearing through every book in the living room shelves, Honor told Emily that he was on a treasure hunt, and that he didn’t want to be bothered. Emily looked doubtful of the explanation, but returned to her animated movie without argument.

  The afternoon wore on. It was the longest of Honor’s life, longer even than the days immediately following Eddie’s death, which had taken on the aspects of a dreadful dream from which she couldn’t awaken. Time ceased to be relevant. One hour bled into the next. While she’d been in a benumbed state, days had passed with hardly any notice from her.

  But today, time was extremely relevant. Each second mattered. Because eventually they would run out.

  And then he would kill them.

  Throughout the day, she had refused to accept that as an outcome, afraid that acknowledging it would make it a certainty. But as the day drew to a close, she could no longer delude herself. Time was running out for her and Emily.

  As Coburn upended pieces of furniture to search the undersides, she clung to a single ray of hope: He hadn’t killed them immediately, which would have been more expedient than his having to cope with them. She supposed they’d been spared a sudden death only because he thought she could be useful to his search. But if he became convinced that she knew nothing and her usefulness ran out, what then?

  Dusk claimed the last of the sunlight, and Honor’s hope went with it.

  Coburn switched on a table lamp and surveyed the havoc he’d wreaked on her orderly house. When his eyes landed on her, she saw that his were bloodshot, making the blue irises look almost feral as they glowered at her from deeply shadowed sockets. He was a man on the run, a man with a mission that he’d failed to accomplish, a man whose frustration had reached a breaking point.

  “Come here.”

  Honor’s heart began beating painfully hard and fast. Should she throw herself over Emily in an attempt to protect her, or attack him, or plead for mercy?

  “Come here.”

  Keeping her expression impassive, she approached him.

  “Next I’ll start tearing into the walls and ceilings, pulling up floors. Is that what you want?”

  She almost collapsed with relief. He wasn’t finished yet. She and Emily still had time. There was still hope for rescue.

  Denying that her house concealed a treasure hadn’t made a dent in his resolve, so she took another tack. “That would take a lot of time. Now that it’s dark, you should leave.”

  “Not till I get what I came for.”

  “Is it that important?”

  “I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble if it wasn’t.”

  “Whatever it is, you’ve spent precious hours looking for it in the wrong place.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I know so. It’s not here. So why don’t you leave now while you still have a chance of getting away?”

  “Worried about my welfare?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “You could die.”

>   He raised one shoulder. “Then I’d be dead, and none of this would matter to me. But right now, I’m alive, and it does matter.”

  Honor wondered if he truly was that indifferent to his own mortality, but before she could address it, Emily piped up. “Mommy, when is Grandpa coming?”

  The DVD had ended, and all that remained on the TV screen were exploding fireworks. Emily was standing beside her, Elmo held in the crook of her elbow. Honor knelt down and rubbed her hand along Emily’s back.

  “Grandpa’s not coming tonight after all, sweetheart. We’re going to have the party tomorrow. Which will be even better,” she said quickly in order to prevent the protest she saw forming on Emily’s lips. “Because, silly me, I forgot to get party hats. We can’t have Grandpa’s party without hats. I saw one that looks like a tiara.”

  “Like Belle’s?” she asked, referring to the character in the DVD.

  “Just like Belle’s. With sparkles on it.” Lowering her voice to an excited whisper, she said, “And Grandpa told me that he has a surprise present for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. If he’d told me, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

  Emily’s eyes were now shining. “Can I still have pizza for supper?”

  “Sure. Plus a cupcake.”

  “Yea!” Emily raced toward the kitchen.

  Honor stood up and faced Coburn. “Her dinner is past due.”

  He pulled his lower lip through his teeth, glanced toward the kitchen, then hitched his chin in that direction. “Make it quick.”

  Which wouldn’t be a problem, because by the time they entered the kitchen, Emily had already taken her pizza from the freezer. “I want pep’roni.”

  Honor cooked the small pizza in the microwave. As she set it in front of Emily, Coburn asked, “You got any more of those?”

  She heated him a pizza, and when she served it, he ate as greedily as he had at lunch.

  “What are you eating, Mommy?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Coburn looked at her and arched an eyebrow. “Stomach virus?”

  “Spoiled appetite.”

  He shrugged indifferently, went to the freezer, and helped himself to another pizza.

  When it came time for Emily’s cupcake, she insisted that Honor also have one. “So that it’s a real party,” she chirped.

  Honor placed cupcakes on Dora the Explorer paper plates and, to please Emily, served them ceremoniously.

  “Don’t forget the sprinkles.”

  Honor brought the jar from the counter and passed it to Emily. Coburn was about to take a bite of his cupcake when Emily tapped his hand where it rested on the table. He jerked it back as though he’d been struck by a cobra.

  “Company first. You need sprinkles.”

  He looked down at the extended jar of sprinkles as though it was a moon rock, then said a gruff thanks, took it from Emily, and shook the candies onto his cupcake before passing the jar back to her.

  He was jumpy, his nerves rubbed raw by exhaustion, the signs of which had become more apparent. The ceiling light above the dining table cast shadows on his prominent cheekbones, making the lower half of his face appear all the more lean and taut. The set of his shoulders and the heavy quality of his breathing were evidence of his weariness. Honor caught him several times blinking rapidly as though trying to stave off sleepiness.

  Reasoning that fatigue would slow his reactions and dull his senses, Honor determined to watch and wait for an opportunity to make her move. She needed only one nanosecond of weakness, one blink when his guard was down.

  The problem was, she was exhausted too. Emotions ranging from terror to rage had been supercharged all day, leaving her totally depleted of energy. Emily’s bedtime came as a relief. Honor changed her into pajamas.

  While she was using the bathroom, Honor said to Coburn, “She can sleep in my bed.”

  “She can sleep in her bed.”

  “But if she’s with me, you can watch both of us at the same time.”

  He gave one firm negative shake of his head. Arguing would be futile. She wouldn’t leave the house without Emily, and he knew that. Separating them ensured that she wouldn’t try to escape.

  While Honor read the compulsory bedtime story, Coburn searched Emily’s closet, pushing aside the hangers and tapping the back wall. He removed her shoes from the floor and knocked on the planks with the heel of his cowboy boot, listening for a hollow spot.

  He squeezed every stuffed toy in Emily’s menagerie, which caused Emily to giggle. “Don’t forget to hug Elmo,” she said, and trustingly handed the toy up to him.

  He turned it over and ripped open the Velcro on the back seam.

  “No!” Honor cried.

  He shot her a look filled with suspicion.

  “That’s just access to the battery,” Honor said, knowing that Emily would be traumatized to see Elmo disemboweled. “Please.”

  He examined the inside of the toy, even removed the batteries and checked beneath them, but, eventually, satisfied that the toy wasn’t concealing anything, he closed it up and returned it to Emily.

  Honor continued reading. The bedtime story reached its happ’ly-ever-after conclusion. Honor listened to Emily’s bedtime prayer, kissed both her cheeks, and then hugged her extra close, prolonging the embrace because she feared that this might be the last time she would tuck her daughter in for the night.

  She tried to preserve the moment, seal it inside her heart and mind, memorize the smell and feel of Emily’s sweet little body, which felt incredibly small, fragile, and vulnerable. Maternal love pierced her heart.

  But eventually she had to let go. She eased Emily back onto her pillow and forced herself to leave the room. Coburn was lurking in the hallway just outside the door. As she pulled it shut, she looked up into the unfeeling mask of his face.

  “If you… do something to me, please don’t let her see. She’s no threat to you. No purpose would be served by harming her. She—”

  A cell phone rang.

  Determining that it was hers, he took it from his pocket, glanced at the readout, and passed it to her. “Same as before. Put it on speaker. Find out what you can about the hunt for me, but don’t make it obvious.”

  She answered with, “Hi, Stan.”

  “How are you feeling? Emily okay?”

  “You know how kids are. They bounce back from these things quicker than adults do.”

  “The party still on for tomorrow night, then?”

  “Of course.” Looking into Coburn’s bloodshot eyes, she asked, “Any news about the fugitive?”

  “He’s still on the loose, but it’s only a matter of time. He’s been out there going on twenty-four hours. He’s either already dead or weakened to the point of being easy prey.”

  He told her about the stolen boat and the place at which Coburn had launched it. “Dozens of boats are searching the waterways and will be through the night. The whole area is crawling with lawmen.”

  “But if he has a boat—”

  “Not a very reliable one from what I understand. Nobody thinks it will get him far.”

  “It might have sunk already,” Honor ventured.

  “Then unless he sunk with it, they’ll pick up his trail. They’ve got excellent trackers and dogs going over solid ground.”

  He urged her to rest well, then they said good night and signed off. As Coburn took the phone from her, she felt disheartened. Stan’s news didn’t bode well for her and Emily. As Coburn’s chances of escape dwindled, so did theirs.

  But rather than reveal the desperation she felt, she played up the hopelessness of his situation. “Instead of tearing into the walls of my house, why don’t you get out of the area while you can? Take my car. Between now and daylight, you could cover—”

  Her words came to an abrupt halt when she heard the throaty growl of a small motor, getting closer, growing louder. She spun away from Coburn and bolted toward the living room.

 
But if Coburn’s reflexes had been slowed by exhaustion, they were boosted by the sound of the motorboat. He was on her before she got halfway across the room. One arm closed around her waist like a pincer and hauled her up against him as his other hand clamped down hard over her mouth.

  “Don’t go stupid on me now, Honor,” he whispered in her ear. “Get out there before they reach the porch. Talk loud enough for me to hear. If I sense that you’re trying to send them a signal, I won’t hesitate to act. Remember that I’m ‘prey’ to them, so I’ve got nothing to lose. Before you get cute, think about me standing over your daughter’s bed.”

  The boat’s motor was now idling. She saw lights dancing through the trees, heard masculine voices.

  “You got it?” he repeated, shaking her slightly.

  She nodded.

  Gradually he released her and withdrew his hand from her mouth. She turned around to face him. She gasped, “I beg you, don’t hurt her.”

  “It’s up to you.”

  He spun her around and prodded her lower spine with the barrel of the pistol. “Go.”

  Her legs were shaking. She gripped the doorknob and took several deep breaths, then pulled the door open and stepped out onto the porch.

  Two men were coming up the path from the dock, sweeping her property with their flashlights, the bright beams penetrating the shrubbery. They wore badges on their uniform shirts. Gun belts were strapped to their hips. One of them raised his hand in greeting.

  “You Mrs. Gillette?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be alarmed, ma’am. We’re sheriff’s deputies.”

  Remembering Coburn’s instructions, she took the porch steps down to ground level. She knew he’d be watching from the window in Emily’s bedroom. His warning echoed inside her head, making her stomach pitch.

  Trying to disguise her fear as curiosity, she asked, “Is something wrong? What can I do for you?”