by Sandra Brown
Thoughts of Eddie called to mind that fishing trip that had been captured in the framed photo that Crawford had bagged as evidence. Doral remembered that excursion as one of the best times the four of them had had together.
From thoughts of that day, his mind drifted to his fishing boat and his pre-Bookkeeper years. He and Fred had been born poor, and it had been an uphill struggle all their lives to make ends meet. Fred had sought financial stability by signing on with the police department. But wearing a uniform, working a shift, wasn’t for Doral. He enjoyed flexibility.
He’d bought his boat on credit extended to him by a banker so tight-assed he squeaked when he walked. The rate of interest had been usurious, but Doral had never even been late on a payment.
Then for years he had run charters into the Gulf, putting up with groups of rich, drunken sons of bitches—doctors, lawyers, stockbrokers, and such—who thought of themselves as far above a fishing guide with callused hands and a Cajun accent. He had endured their verbal abuse, and their vomiting up their expensive booze, and their griping about the heat and the sun, rough seas, and uncooperative fish. He’d tolerated their crap because his livelihood had depended on it.
In a way, he’d been grateful to Katrina for destroying his boat and putting an end to it. No more kissing up to abusive assholes for Doral Hawkins, thank you very much.
That’s when The Bookkeeper had approached him and Fred with a moneymaking idea. The work was going to be a lot more exciting and lucrative than any enterprise they could have dreamed up on their own. Even in a state where taking graft was as commonplace as crawfish, the scheme was a way to get filthy rich.
Doral hadn’t shied away from the danger involved. The payoff was worth the risks. He liked walking a tightrope and enjoyed the inside joke of being a public official by day and something else entirely by night.
His job description was to intimidate, maim, or kill if necessary. He had a natural propensity for stalking and hunting, and now he could make a living at it. The only difference was that the prey was human.
So here he was speeding along back roads, his prey Lee Coburn. And his best friend’s widow and child.
When his cell phone rang, he slowed down only marginally in order to answer the call, but after hearing the urgent message the caller imparted, he floorboarded his brake pedal and skidded to a stop, sending up a cloud of dust that enveloped his car. “Are you shitting me?”
There was a lot of background noise, but the whispering caller made himself heard above it. Not that Doral wanted to hear anything of what he had to report.
“I thought you should know so you could pass it along to The Bookkeeper.”
“Thanks for nothing,” Doral muttered. He disconnected and pulled his car off the road, letting it idle on the edge of a ditch as he first lit a much-needed cigarette, then called The Bookkeeper.
He was stone cold sober now.
He skipped traditional greetings. “It’s rumored that Coburn is a federal agent.”
The Bookkeeper said nothing, just breathed slowly and deeply. Malevolently.
Doral, envisioning a seething volcano about to erupt, swiped at a bead of sweat rolling down his temple and into the outside corner of his eye.
“When did you hear this?”
“Ten seconds before I called you.”
“Who told you?”
“One of our plants in the P.D. He heard it from a feeb who’s working with them and the sheriff’s office on the kidnapping. The buzz is that Coburn is an agent who’s been working undercover.”
A long silence ensued. Then, “Well, as you so astutely pointed out this morning, he does seem unusually smart for a dock worker. I only wish you had realized that before you let him escape the warehouse.”
Doral’s gut clenched as tight as a fist, but he didn’t say anything.
“What about Honor’s friend? Anything from her since you paid her a call this morning?”
“Tori hasn’t left her house. I honestly don’t think she’s heard from Honor or she wouldn’t be sitting tight. One thing I did find out, she’s got a new boyfriend. Bigwig banker in New Orleans name of Bonnell Wallace.”
“I know him. We’ve got money in that bank.”
“No shit? Well, I caught up with the health club’s bimbo receptionist at Subway when she went out for lunch. Made it look like a chance meeting. Schmoozed her, and it didn’t take much. She was only too happy to unload about Tori, who she referred to as a royal B with a capital letter, and that’s a quote.”
Doral was now breathing a little easier. He was pleased to have something positive to report following the rumor about Coburn. He hadn’t been idle today. He’d been proactive and was making progress. It was important that The Bookkeeper know that.
“The bimbo—her name’s Amber—her guess is that Wallace doesn’t want any of his banking customers or highfalutin friends to know he requires a personal trainer, so that’s why he started coming down here for his workouts. He’s got a fat belly, but a fatter purse. Tori was all over him in a New York minute. Sank her claws into him, and now he’s ga-ga. Tori is under the misconception that their affair is a secret, but all the employees know that it’s not just iron Mr. Bonnell Wallace is pumping whenever he comes to Tambour.”
After a lengthy silence, The Bookkeeper said, “Good information to hold in reserve in case we need it. Unfortunately, it hasn’t moved you any closer to locating Coburn, has it?”
“No.”
“You and Fred left us with a mess, Doral. At a time when we least need a mess. No matter what Coburn is, he should have been killed along with the others. I haven’t forgotten who let him get away. Find him. Kill him. Don’t disappoint me again.”
The cheap whiskey surged into the back of Doral’s throat, scalding and rancid. He gargled it down. “How were Fred and I to know—”
“It’s your business to know.” The Bookkeeper’s tone of voice sliced to the bone, silencing any excuses Doral might have made. And just in case the message hadn’t quite sunk in, The Bookkeeper added, “You’ve heard me speak highly of Diego and his razor.”
Goosebumps broke out on Doral’s sweat-dampened arms.
“The only problem with using Diego is that it’s over too quickly for the person who failed me. He doesn’t suffer long enough.”
Doral barely made it out of his car before throwing up in the roadway.
Chapter 25
Honor was stunned to realize that Coburn seriously planned to move her father’s shrimp trawler.
Her protests fell on deaf ears.
Within minutes of hanging up on Hamilton, Coburn was in the wheelhouse, flinging back the tarp that had been placed over the control panel. “Do you know how to start the engine?” he asked impatiently, motioning to the controls.
“Yes, but we’d have to get it into the water first, and we can’t do that.”
“We’ve got to. We gotta relocate.”
Several times over the next hour she tried to convince him that it was an impossible project, but Coburn wouldn’t be deterred. He found a rusty machete in a toolbox on deck and was using it to whack at the fibrous vegetation that clung to the hull. It was backbreaking work. Once again she tried to dissuade him.
“Hamilton gave you his word. You don’t trust him to keep it?”
“No.”
“But he’s your boss. Overseer, supervisor? Whatever you call it in the FBI.”
“He’s all of that. And the only thing I trust him to do is to cover his own ass first. Remember, Lee Coburn no longer exists.”
“He gave us thirty-six hours.”
“He’ll renege.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I know how he thinks.”
“Doesn’t he know how you think, too?”
“Yeah, which is why we need to hurry. As we speak, he’s probably already trying to get a location on my cell number.”
“You didn’t give it to him. You said disposables were untraceable. You said�
�”
“Yeah, I said. But I don’t know everything,” he muttered.
Anxiously, she looked into the sky, where clouds were scuttling in off the Gulf. “Would he send a helicopter?”
“Unlikely. Hamilton would opt for something more covert, something that wouldn’t give us warning. Besides, there’s a storm coming. He won’t come by air.”
“Then why are you in such a hurry?”
He paused to wipe his sweating forehead with the back of his hand. “Because I could be wrong.”
But the harder they worked, the more hopeless it seemed. Honor suggested that they take their chances in the recently stolen pickup. “No one’s looking for that truck. You said so yourself.”
“Okay, and go where?”
“To my friend.”
“Friend.”
“A lifelong friend who’d give us a hiding place, no questions asked.”
“No. No friends. They’ll be watching your friends.”
“We could spend the night in the truck.”
“I could,” he said. “We couldn’t.”
Eventually she stopped wasting energy on trying to change his mind. She lacked his stamina and skills, but she applied herself to helping and did whatever he asked of her.
Emily awakened from her nap. She was chatty and excited by the activity. She got in the way, but Coburn worked around her with surprising patience. She stood on deck and called down encouragement to them as, together, they put their backs to the prow and pushed the unfettered craft off the bank into the water.
Coburn checked for leakage and, finding none, joined Honor at the controls. Her dad had taught her how to start the engine and to steer. But it had been years. Miraculously, she remembered the steps, and when the engine belched to life, she didn’t know who was the more astonished, her or Coburn.
He asked about fuel. She checked the gauge. “We’re okay. Dad was preparing for a hurricane. But the other gauges…” She looked at them dubiously. “I don’t know what all of them are for.”
He spread a yellowed nautical map over the control panel. “Do you know where we are?”
She pointed out their location. “Somewhere along here. If we head south toward the coast, we’ll become more exposed. On the other hand, one shrimp boat in a marina lined with them won’t be as obvious. Further inland, the bayous are narrower. There’s more tree coverage. Waters are also shallower.”
“Since we’ll probably have to bail out, I vote for shallow water. Just get us as far as you can.”
He traced their progress on the map. They chugged for about five miles through the winding waterways before the engine began to cough. The waters became thick with vegetation. Several times, Honor narrowly missed running over cypress knees that poked up through the opaque surface.
Coburn nudged her elbow. “Over there. It’s as good a place as any.”
Honor steered the boat closer to the marshy shore, where a dense cypress grove would provide partial concealment. Coburn dropped anchor. She cut the engine and looked at him for further instruction.
“Make yourselves comfortable.”
“What?” she exclaimed.
He folded the map and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans, then checked his pistol and set it on the control panel, well out of Emily’s reach. “I’ll take Hawkins’s .357. You keep this one. It’s ready to fire. All you have to do is point and pull the trigger.”
“What are you doing?”
Before she’d even finished asking, he was out of the wheelhouse. When she reached the deck, he was lowering himself over the side of the boat into the knee-deep water. “Coburn!”
“Can’t leave the truck back there.” He hesitated, then, swearing under his breath, pulled her cell phone and its battery from his pocket. “I guess I should leave you a phone. Just in case something happens to me. But I’m trusting you not to use it. If you have to call someone, call 911 and only 911.” He passed her the two components.
“How do you…”
“Lucky for us, yours is an older phone. It’s easier to do than with the newer models.” He removed the back of her phone and demonstrated how to replace the battery. “Line up the gold bars, snap it into place. Emily could do it.” His eyes met hers. “But—”
“I promise I won’t unless you don’t come back.”
He bobbed his head once, then turned away from the boat.
He slogged his way to solid ground, then disappeared into the undergrowth.
Diego was shopping in a Mexican supermarket when his cell phone vibrated again. He stepped outside the store to answer. “You ready for me?”
“Yes,” The Bookkeeper said. “I want you to watch someone for the next couple of days.”
“What? Watch someone?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“What about Coburn?”
“Just do as I tell you, Diego. The man’s name is Bonnell Wallace.”
Who cared what the hell his name was? It wasn’t Coburn. Before he could voice his objections, he was given two addresses, one for a bank on Canal Street, the other a residence in the Garden District. It wasn’t explained to him why this man needed watching, and actually, Diego didn’t give a flip. It was a bullshit job.
With exaggerated boredom, he asked, “Do you want him to know he’s being watched?”
“Not yet. I’ll let you know when another move is called for. If one is called for.”
“Okay.” His cavalier tone didn’t escape The Bookkeeper.
“Am I keeping you from something, Diego?”
Yeah, he thought. You’re keeping me from a high-paying hit. Instead he put The Bookkeeper on the defensive. “I haven’t been paid for the massage parlor girl.”
“I don’t have proof that she’s dead.”
“What, you want me to send you her head in a box like those vultures in Mexico do?”
“No need to go that far. But I haven’t seen anything on the news about a body being found.”
“It won’t be. I saw to that.”
“But you didn’t give me any details.”
“Like what?”
“When you tracked her down, was anyone with her?”
“No. She was soliciting conventioneers there where the riverboats dock.”
“The Moonwalk.”
“Whatever.”
“She was alone? No pimp? Somebody helped her get away. She wouldn’t have had the courage to leave on her own.”
“All I know is that she was alone when I found her. No pimp, or she would have been doing more business,” he said, putting a chuckle behind it. “She was easy pickings. I negotiated a ten-dollar blowjob, then when I got her under some pilings, I slit her throat. For good measure, I opened up her belly, filled it with rocks, and sank her in the river. If her body ever pops up, it won’t look like her no more.”
Referring to Isobel in these terms made him wince, but he had to keep up appearances. The laugh, the cockiness was fake, but he must make himself believed.
The Bookkeeper kept him waiting an interminably long time before speaking. “All right. You can pick up your money tomorrow. Where do you want it left?”
Paydays came in the form of an envelope of cash, left for him in a designated spot that changed each time. He gave The Bookkeeper the location of a dry cleaning establishment that had been abandoned since Katrina.
“There’s an old cash register on the counter. Have it left in the drawer.”
“It will be there. In the meantime, keep me posted on Bonnell Wallace. I want to know anything he does that’s not part of his daily routine.”
“Oh, like that’s a big fucking deal.” Before The Bookkeeper could respond to that, Diego clicked off and returned to the store. He got another cart and started over. He never left anything unattended, fearing a transponder or something worse being planted on it.
And, as nice as an envelope containing five hundred dollars would be, he wouldn’t pick it up for several days. First, he would watch the dry cleaner
’s building to make certain that a trap wasn’t being laid for him. The Bookkeeper might not trust him entirely. But he trusted The Bookkeeper not at all.
It was raining by the time he left the store with his purchases and one shoplifted canned ham. Regardless of the weather, he took a long, rambling route home, checking over his shoulder frequently and approaching blind corners with his razor in hand.
Isobel greeted him with a sweet smile and a dry towel. Her shyness toward him lessened a little each day. She was coming to trust him, starting to believe that he wasn’t going to harm her or sell her services.
He had stopped touching her. He no longer trusted himself even to stroke her cheek, not when the sight of her melted his heart but made his cock swell with desire.
At night she clutched her silver crucifix in her tiny fist and cried herself to sleep. She would awaken screaming from nightmares. When bad memories caught up with her, she would weep for long periods of time, covering her face and moaning, overcome with shame for having been sexually coupled with hundreds of men.
But to Diego, she was pure and good and innocent. It was he who was evil, he who was stained with a vileness that could never be washed way. His touch would have tainted her and left a scar on her soul. So he refrained, and loved her only with his eyes and brimming heart.
He emptied the sacks of groceries. They shared a carton of ice cream. He turned on his iPod, and he would swear the music sounded better because she was there to share it. She laughed like a child when her goldfish blew her kisses through the glass bowl.
He thought of her as an angel who had filled his underground room with an essence as bright and clean as sunlight. He basked in her light and was reluctant to leave it.
The Bookkeeper’s stupid assignment could keep for an hour or two.
Honor was sitting on the bunk beside her sleeping daughter, listening to the rain and her own anxious heartbeat, when she heard a bump and actually felt the vibration of it. She slid the pistol from beneath the mattress and held it in front of her as she crept up the steps and peered through the opening.