by Sandra Brown
They introduced themselves by name and produced their identification. “We’re searching for the suspect in last night’s mass murder in Tambour.”
“I heard about that. It was awful.”
“Yes, ma’am. We have reason to think that the suspect is still in the region.”
“Oh.”
The deputy gave the space between them a reassuring pat. “He could be miles from here, but we’re canvassing all the houses along this bayou, hoping someone can provide us with useful information.” He rattled off a basic physical description of the man hiding inside her house. Honor envisioned him standing over Emily with a pistol in his hand.
So when the second deputy asked, “Have you seen anyone fitting that description, ma’am?” she replied immediately. “No.”
“Anyone passing by here today in a small craft?”
She shook her head. “But I wasn’t paying particular attention. My daughter and I have been down with a stomach virus.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Honor acknowledged that with a bob of her head.
“Are you out here alone, ma’am?”
“Just my daughter and me.”
“Well, please be on the lookout, Mrs. Gillette, and if you see anything unusual, call 911 immediately.”
“Of course.”
“Best keep all your doors and windows locked, too.”
“I always do.”
One of the deputies was already tipping his hat. The other took a step back.
They were about to leave! What could she do? She had to do something! A hand signal?
I’m “prey” to them, so I’ve got nothing to lose.
“We won’t disturb you any longer. Have a good evening.”
They turned and started walking away.
She couldn’t let them go! For godsake, do something, Honor! But what could she do without putting Emily’s life in danger?
It’s up to you.
Yes, it was up to her. Up to her to save her daughter’s life. But how. How?
Suddenly one of the deputies did an about-face. “Oh, Mrs. Gillette?”
She held her breath.
“I knew your husband,” he said. “He was a fine officer.”
Her heart sank and along with it her hope of alerting them to the imminent danger she was in. She mumbled, “Thank you.”
Then he touched his hat brim again, turned, and continued down the slope toward the dock.
She turned, went up the steps, and reentered the house. Coburn was standing in the opening between the living room and the hallway, between her and Emily.
“Turn on the porch light. Stand where they can see you and give them a wave.”
She followed his instructions, doubting that the deputies were looking back toward her, but even if they were, it was unlikely they could see the tears sliding down her cheeks.
The deputies got aboard their boat, revved the engine, and made a slow U-turn in the bayou. In seconds they were out of sight. The drone of the motor diminished to nothingness.
Honor closed the door. She leaned into it and pressed her forehead against the smooth wood. She sensed Coburn moving up behind her.
“Good girl. Emily is safe and sound and sleeping like a baby.”
His smug inflection was the final straw. The emotions that had been building inside her all day reached a boiling point. Without even thinking about it, or pausing to consider the consequences, she spun around and glared at him.
“I’m sick of you and your threats. I don’t know why you came here or what you want, but I won’t go along with it anymore. If you’re going to kill me anyway, I had just as soon you do it now. If not…” Reaching behind her, she twisted the doorknob and pulled open the door. “If not, shut up and get out of my house!”
He reached out to close the door. Seizing the opportunity, Honor jerked the pistol from the waistband of his jeans. But she fumbled with its unexpected weight. He gave her wristbone a hard chop. She cried out in pain as the pistol fell from her hand onto the floor and slid across the polished hardwood.
Both of them went for it at once. Honor dropped to the floor at the same time he kicked the pistol out of her reach. She scrambled across the floor after it. All she needed to do was get hold of it long enough to pull the trigger once. The deputies would hear the gunshot.
Her knees and elbows banged painfully against the wood floor as she belly-crawled toward the handgun. She touched the cool metal, but instead of getting a grip, her fingers nudged the pistol farther away by a mere inch.
Coburn had straddled her back and was crawling over her, reaching beyond her, trying to get hold of the gun before she did.
Straining every muscle, she extended her whole body. Her hand closed around the pistol barrel.
But before she could retract her arm and take full possession of it, he pinned her wrist to the floor with fingers that seemed made of steel. “Let it go.”
“Go to hell.”
Trying to throw him off, she squirmed under his weight. He only pressed down tighter, squeezing the breath from her. “Let it go.”
Instead, she yanked on her hand hard, wrenching it free of his grip.
He cursed profusely as she drew the pistol under her body, clutching it tightly to her chest.
Then they wrestled.
Honor lay as flat as possible, but he worked his hands between her and the floor and tried to pry the weapon from her hand. It became a life-or-death struggle for ownership, and he outlasted her. She was gasping for air by the time he secured the pistol grip and worked it out of her weakening fingers.
He yanked it out from under her. Honor, moaning in defeat, went limp and began weeping.
He flipped her over onto her back. He was on his knees, still straddling her. His hands, one of them in possession of the pistol, were planted on his thighs. He was breathing hard, and his face was contorted with fury.
And she thought, This is it. This is the moment I die.
But to her astonishment, he tossed the pistol aside, then placed both hands on her shoulders and leaned down on her heavily. “Why the fuck did you…? It could have discharged and blown a hole right through you. Stupid, idiotic thing to do, lady. Don’t you know what…” Seemingly at a loss for words, he gave her shoulders a hard shake. “Why’d you do that?”
Her reason for doing it should have been obvious: She’d been fighting for her life. Why was he asking such a dumb question?
Her breath coming in pants, she said, “Just tell me—and please make it the truth—are you going to kill us?”
“No.” His eyes bored into hers, and, in a rougher voice, he repeated, “No.”
She wanted desperately to believe him, which is perhaps why she was close to doing so. “Then why should I pay any attention to your threats? Why do anything you say?”
“Because you have a vested interest.”
“Me? I don’t even know what you’re looking for! Whatever it is, this thing you’re after—”
“Is the thing that got your husband killed.”
Chapter 11
It was well past the dinner hour when Tom returned home. He found Janice in Lanny’s room giving him his sponge bath, which they performed each evening before changing him into pajamas. In the morning, they dressed him in a track suit. Of course it made no difference what he wore, but changing his clothes was a much-needed nod toward normalcy.
Tom set his briefcase on the floor and began rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Honey, why didn’t you wait on me?”
“I didn’t know when you’d be home, and I wanted to get him settled for the night so I could put my feet up.”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to get some paperwork done on Tambour before tomorrow, because tomorrow will be crazy. It always is after a holiday. And now with this crisis, it’ll be doubly nuts.”
When he reached the bed, he elbowed her aside. “Sit down. I’ll finish.” Before dipping the sponge into the tub of warm water, Tom bent over his son and kissed his forehead. “Hi, L
anny.”
Lanny’s eyes remained fixed. The lack of response filled Tom with a familiar despair. He dipped the sponge in the water and, after squeezing out the excess, applied it to Lanny’s arm.
“How’s that going?” Janice asked.
“What?”
“The crisis in Tambour?”
Lanny’s arm was dead weight when Tom lifted it to wash his armpit. “The suspect is still at large. I think he’d be a fool to hang around here. It seems to me that he’d hitch a ride with a truck-driving pal and get as far away from southern Louisiana as possible.”
“Is there such a person as a truck-driving pal?” She had settled herself into the La-Z-Boy recliner and tucked her feet beneath her. The large chair served as a bed for one of them if Lanny was having a rough night.
“None identified as yet, but we’re checking with companies that do business with Royale. Fred Hawkins thinks it’s a waste of time. He thinks Coburn is still in the area.” He smiled across at her. “He feels him like standing hairs on the back of his neck.”
“Good Lord,” she scoffed. “What’s next? Reading chicken innards? I hope he’s not relying on a sixth sense to find a mass murderer.”
“It’ll take some smarts.”
“Is Fred Hawkins up to the task?”
Tom began washing Lanny’s legs and feet. “He’s certainly motivated. Mrs. Marset made a personal call to the superintendent of police and put the squeeze on him, which he passed along through the rank and file. Marset’s church is conducting a candlelight prayer vigil tonight. Heat is coming from God and government, and Fred is beginning to feel it.”
“He sounded pretty confident a while ago.”
She motioned toward the TV sitting on a dresser opposite the bed, which remained on around the clock in the hope that some programming might stimulate a reaction from Lanny. The picture was on now, but the audio had been muted.
“Fred fielded questions from reporters live on the evening news,” Janice said. “He seemed convinced that the footprint and blood spatters you found this afternoon were a major boon.”
It pleased Tom that she seemed suitably impressed by his contribution, which he had exaggerated slightly.
Taking advantage of her attention, he expanded the story. “Did I tell you about Mrs. Arleeta Thibadoux?” His anecdote about the colorful and semi-toothless woman actually coaxed a laugh from Janice. He detected a trace of the woman he’d fallen in love with and proposed marriage to.
He remembered that day as one of the happiest of his life, rivaling even their wedding day in his memory. After he’d slipped the solitaire diamond ring on her finger, they’d made love on the sagging bed in his stuffy, cramped apartment. It had been ardent, sweaty, and athletic, and afterward they’d celebrated their engagement by sharing a bottle of beer.
He wished he could turn back the clock to that afternoon and once again see Janice’s cheeks flushed, her lips soft and smiling, her eyes lambent with satiation and happiness.
But if he turned back the clock to that day, they wouldn’t have Lanny.
The next thought that flashed through his mind was involuntary but treacherous, and he was instantly shamed by it.
He dropped the sponge into the plastic tub and looked over at Janice. Judging from her expression, her thoughts were moving along a similar track, or one close enough to make her feel equally guilty.
She came out of the chair as though trying to outrun her own thoughts. “I’ll go fix dinner while you’re finishing up here. Omelets okay?” Without waiting for him to reply, she left the room as though the devil was after her.
Ten minutes later they sat down to their omelets and ate in virtual silence, exchanging only brief snippets of forced conversation. Tom remembered times when they couldn’t say enough, when they would talk over each other relating the events of the day.
When he finished his meal, he carried his plate to the sink and ran water over it, then mentally braced himself and turned to his wife.
“Janice, let’s talk.”
She set her fork on the rim of her plate and placed her hands in her lap. “About what?”
“Lanny.”
“Specifically?”
“It may be time to readjust our thinking about his care.”
There, he’d said it.
Lightning didn’t strike him, nor did the statement spark a reaction from his wife. She just stared up at him with an expression as closed as a storm shutter.
He pressed on. “I think we should revisit the possibility—just the possibility—of placing him in a facility.”
She looked away from him and rolled her lips inward. Giving her a moment, he cleared the remainder of the dishes and utensils from the table and carried them to the sink.
Finally she broke the tense silence. “We made promises to him, and to each other, Tom.”
“We did,” he said somberly. “But when we pledged to keep him with us always, I think we nursed a kernel of hope that he would develop to some extent, acquire some capabilities. True?”
She neither denied nor admitted having held out such a feeble hope.
“I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.” That was something both of them knew, but had never acknowledged out loud. Saying it had caused Tom’s voice to crack with emotion.
Tight-lipped, Janice said, “All the more reason why he needs the best of care.”
“That’s just it. I’m not sure we’re providing it.” She took immediate offense, but he spoke before she could. “That’s not a criticism of you. Your patience and endurance amaze me. Truly. But caring for him is killing you.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I? It’s shredding you, body and soul. I see evidence of it daily.”
“You can look into my soul?”
Her sarcasm was more effective than a flat-out rebuke would have been. He rubbed his eyes, the activities of the day catching up with him, and then some. “Please don’t make this subject even more difficult than it already is. It hurts me even to suggest moving him to a facility. Don’t you know that?”
“Then why bring it up?”
“Because one of us had to. We’re eroding as human beings, Janice. And I’m not just thinking about us. I’m thinking about Lanny. How do we know that we’re doing what’s best for him?”
“We’re his parents.”
“Loving parents, yes, but untrained in how to care for him. There are specialists for patients like Lanny.”
She stood up and wandered the kitchen as though looking for a means of escape. “This is a pointless conversation. Even if we agreed that it would be best, we can’t afford the private facilities. As for some modern-day Bedlam operated by the state, forget it. I would never put him in a place like that.”
The implied suggestion that he would bothered him, but he didn’t let himself be drawn into an argument. He stuck to the core of the matter. “We owe it to ourselves, and to him, to visit some of the better places and see what they’re like.” He hesitated, then asked, “Would you be open to doing that if finances weren’t a consideration?”
“But they are.”
“If they weren’t,” he said insistently.
“Are you planning on winning the lottery?”
Again, he felt the sting of her sarcasm, but he let it pass. He’d said enough for one night. He’d given her food for thought. He’d known that broaching this subject would automatically make him out to be the bad guy, but one of them had to be, and it wasn’t going to be Janice.
She’d been valedictorian of her high school class, an honor graduate from Vanderbilt, a rising star in an investments firm. Then fate cruelly interrupted not only her promising career path but the sum total of her life.
She’d had to sacrifice everything for Lanny, which made admitting defeat untenable to her. In her mind, placing Lanny in a facility was full-scale surrender, as good as an admission that—yet again—she had been denied the opportunity to finish something she’d started.
/> He sighed. “I’d better get to bed and sleep while I can. I won’t be surprised if I get a call in the middle of the night.”
“What for?”
“The agents I left in Tambour know to call me with any developments.” He paused at the door. “You look done in, too. Coming?”
“Not yet. I’m tired but not sleepy. I think I’ll stay up for a while.”
“Playing your word game with your cell phone friend in Japan?”
“Singapore.”
He smiled. Playing the games were her one form of recreation, and it had become almost an addiction. “I hope you win.”
“I’m leading by forty-three points, but I’ve got a j that’s challenging me.”
“You’ll come up with a word for it,” he said with confidence. “But don’t stay up too late.”
Two hours later, Tom was still alone in their bed. He got up and padded barefoot down the hall. After looking in on Lanny, he found Janice in the den, staring raptly into the screen of her cell phone, totally engrossed in a pastime that apparently was much more enjoyable to her than sleeping with him.
Without her ever knowing that he’d been watching her, he turned away and retraced his steps to their bedroom.
Chapter 12
Coburn gradually withdrew his hands from Honor’s shoulders. He got off her and retrieved the pistol, tucking it back into his waistband. She continued to lie there staring up at him.
“That was a damn stupid thing to do,” he said. “If you’d accidentally pulled the trigger, one of us could be dead, and if it turned out to be you, I’d be stuck with your kid.”
It was a harsh thing to say, which is why he’d said it. Her daughter was the button to push when he wanted something from her, and right now he wanted her to stop gaping like a beached perch.
He knew she heard him, because she blinked. But she remained perfectly still, and for one panicked moment he wondered if she’d been seriously injured during their struggle.
He wondered why he cared.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded.
Relieved of that worry, he turned away and looked at the mess he’d made of her house. When he’d arrived this morning, everything had been in its place. Lived in, but tidy and neat. Homey. Smelling of fresh cake.