by Sandra Brown
“All that. He was a good athlete. He liked to hunt and fish. I’ve told you that.”
“Where’s his fishing and hunting gear?”
“At Stan’s.”
“Golf bag?”
“At Stan’s. And so are his bowling ball and the bow-and-arrow set he got for his twelfth birthday.” She said it with asperity, but he nodded thoughtfully.
“Sooner or later, I’m gonna have to pay Stan a visit.” Before she could address that, he asked her to describe Eddie.
“You’ve seen his picture.”
“I mean personality-wise. Was he serious and studious? Lighthearted? Moody? Funny?”
“Even-tempered. Conscientious. Serious when called for, but he liked to have a good time. Loved telling jokes. Liked to dance.”
“Liked making love.”
She figured he was trying to get a rise out of her, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Looking him straight in the eye, she said, “Very much.”
“Was he faithful?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“You can’t be positive.”
“He was faithful.”
“Were you?”
She glared at him.
He shrugged. “Okay, so you were faithful.”
“We had a good marriage. I didn’t keep secrets, and neither did Eddie.”
“He kept one.” He paused in order to give the statement significance, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Everybody keeps secrets, Honor.”
“Oh really? Tell me one of yours.”
A corner of his mouth tilted up. “Everybody but me. I don’t have any secrets.”
“Absurd thing to say. You’re wrapped up in secrets.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Ask away.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Idaho. Near the state line with Wyoming. In the shadow of the Tetons.”
That surprised her. She didn’t know what she had expected, but not that. He didn’t look like her image of a mountain man. Of course, he could very well be lying, inventing an unlikely past to protect his cover. But she went along. “What did your father do?”
“Drank. Mostly. When he worked, it was as a mechanic at a car dealership. He drove a snowplow in the winter.”
“He’s deceased?”
“For years now.”
She looked at him inquisitively. He didn’t respond to the silent question for so long that she didn’t think he would.
Finally he said, “He had this old horse that he kept in a corral behind our house. I named it, but I never heard him call it anything. He rarely rode it. Rarely fed it. But one day he saddled it and rode off. The horse came back. He didn’t. They never found his body. Of course they didn’t look very hard.”
Honor wondered if the bitterness lacing his voice was aimed at his alcoholic father or at the searchers who had given up on finding his remains.
“Dad had ridden that horse near to death, so I shot it.” His folded arms dropped back to his sides. He stared out into the rain. “No great loss. It wasn’t much of a horse.”
Honor let a full minute pass before she asked about his mother.
“She was French Canadian. Tempestuous by nature. When riled, she would launch into French, which she never bothered to teach me, so half the time I didn’t understand what she was screaming at me. Nothing good, I’m sure.
“Anyhow, she and I parted ways after I graduated high school. I attended two years of college, decided it wasn’t for me, joined the Marines. My first tour of duty, I got word that she’d died. I flew to Idaho. Buried her. End of story.”
“Brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
His facial expression was as devoid of feeling as his life had been devoid of love from any source.
“No cousins, aunts, uncles, nobody,” he said. “When I die, ‘Taps’ won’t be played. There’ll be no twenty-one-gun salute, and there won’t be anyone there to get a folded flag. I’ll just be history, and nobody will give a shit. Especially me.”
“How can you say something like that?”
He turned his head toward her, registering surprise. “Why does that make you angry?”
Now that he’d asked, she realized she was angry. “I genuinely want to know how someone, anyone, could be so indifferent when speaking about his own death. Don’t you value your life at all?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you care?”
“You’re a fellow human being.”
“Oh. You care about mankind in general, is that it?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah?” He turned the rest of his body toward her, until only his right shoulder was propped against the wall of the wheelhouse. “Why didn’t you beg him to come get you?”
She didn’t follow the shift in topic. “What?”
“Hamilton. Why didn’t you tell him where you were so he could send someone to pick you up?”
She took a shaky breath. “Because after what I’ve seen and heard over the past day and a half, I don’t know who to trust. I guess you could say I chose the devil I know.” She meant it in jest, but he didn’t crack a smile.
He inclined an inch toward her. “Why else?”
“If I have something that will convict The Bookkeeper, then I should help you find it.”
“Ah. Patriotic duty.”
“You could put it that way.”
“Hmm.”
He moved closer still, his nearness making her aware of her heartbeats, which had become stronger and faster. “And… and because… of what I’ve already told you.”
He stepped around until he was facing her, seemingly unmindful of the rain falling on him. “Tell me again.”
Her throat was tight, and not only because she had to tilt her head back in order to look up into his face. “Because of Eddie.”
“To preserve his reputation.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s why you’re here with me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
And then he pressed into her. First his thighs, then his middle, his chest, and finally his mouth. She made a whimpering sound, but its definition was unclear even to her, until she realized that her arms had gone around him instinctually, and that she was clutching his back, his shoulders, her hands restless and greedy for the feel of him.
He kissed her openmouthed, using his tongue, and when she kissed back, she felt the hum that vibrated deep inside his chest. It was the kind of hungry sound she hadn’t heard in a long time. Masculine and carnal, it thrilled and aroused her.
He cupped the back of her head in his large hand. He pushed his thigh up between hers, high, and rubbed it against her, and continued kissing her as if to suck the very breath from her. She reveled in every shocking sensation.
He broke the kiss only to plant his hot mouth at the base of her throat. Boldly and possessively his hand covered her breast, squeezed it, reshaped it to fit his palm, felt her hard nipple, and hissed his pleasure.
And that brought Honor to her senses.
“What am I doing?” she gasped. “I can’t do this.” She shoved him away. He stood, impervious to the torrent beating at his head and shoulders, his chest rapidly rising and falling as he stared at her through the gloom.
“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it to the bottom of her soul. But was she sorry for him, or sorry for herself? Sorry about letting it happen, or sorry she’d stopped it?
She didn’t know, and she didn’t allow herself to debate it. She rushed through the door of the wheelhouse, down the steps, and into the cabin.
Emily came awake, sat up, and looked around.
It was still kind of dark, but she could see, so she wasn’t scared. Mommy was there, lying beside her on the smelly bed. Coburn was in the other one. They were both asleep.
Mommy was lying on her side, her hand
s under her cheek. Her knees were pulled up until they were touching her tummy. If her eyes had been open, she would have been looking at Coburn. He was lying on his back. One of his hands was resting on his stomach. The other one was hanging off the edge of the bed. His fingers were almost touching Mommy’s knee.
She hugged Elmo against her and dragged her bankie along as she scooted to the end of the bed and climbed down. She wasn’t supposed to walk barefoot on the floor because it was so nasty. Mommy had said. But she didn’t want to sit down on it to put her sandals on, so she went on tiptoe up the steps and looked into the room with all the funny stuff in it.
Her mommy had sat her in the crooked chair and told her that it used to be her grandpa’s seat, and that he had let her sit in his lap while he steered the boat. But she’d been a baby, so she didn’t remember. She wished she did, though. Driving a boat would be fun.
Her mommy had got to drive it yesterday, but when she asked Coburn if she could drive it too, he said no because they were in a hurry, and he had better things to do than to entertain her. But then he’d said maybe later, we’ll see.
Coburn had told her not to get too close to the broken windows because the glass could cut her. She had asked him why glass cut people, and he said he didn’t know, it just could, and for her to keep away from the windows.
It wasn’t raining anymore, but the sky looked wet, and so did the trees that she could see.
Her mommy probably wouldn’t like it if she went any farther, so she tiptoed back down the steps. Mommy hadn’t moved and neither had Coburn, except that his stomach went in and out when he breathed. She pressed her hand to her stomach. Hers went in and out too.
Then she spied the forbidden phone and the battery lying at the foot of Coburn’s bed.
Yesterday, while her mommy and Coburn were cutting bushes off the boat, she’d asked if she could play her Thomas the Tank Engine games on Mommy’s phone. Both of them had said “No!” at the same time, except that Coburn had said it a little louder than Mommy. She hadn’t understood why they said no, because sometimes when Mommy wasn’t using the phone she would let her play games on it.
Mommy wasn’t using her phone now, so she probably wouldn’t mind if she played a game.
She had watched when Coburn showed Mommy how to put the battery in. She could do it. Coburn had said so.
He didn’t move when she picked up the phone. She lined up the gold bars on the battery and snapped it into place, just like Coburn, then turned on the phone. When all the pretty pictures came on the screen, she tapped on the picture of Thomas the Tank Engine. Of all the games, she liked the puzzle best.
Concentrating hard, she started with the wheels, then added the engine and the smokestack, and all the other parts, until there was a whole Thomas.
Each time she worked the puzzle, Mommy told her how smart she was. Mommy knew she was smart, but Coburn didn’t. She wanted him to know that she was smart.
She crept toward the head of his bunk and lowered her face close to his. “Coburn?” she whispered.
His eyes popped open. He looked at her funny, then looked over to where Mommy was sleeping before looking back at her. “What?”
“I worked the puzzle.”
“What?”
“The Thomas puzzle. On Mommy’s phone. I worked it.”
She held it up for him to see, but she didn’t think he really looked at it, because he jumped off the bed so fast he banged his head on the ceiling.
Then he said a really bad word.
Chapter 27
Deputy Sheriff Crawford was surprised to discover that their destination was a derelict shrimp boat that seemed not to be floating so much as squatting in the water.
As hiding places went, it was a sorry choice. First, it was an untrustworthy-looking vessel. Bad enough. But then it was also situated between miles of hostile terrain and a labyrinth of bayous in which one could easily become hopelessly lost before reaching the Gulf of Mexico, if that was indeed the planned escape route.
Maybe Coburn wasn’t as smart as he’d given him credit for. Maybe he was becoming desperate.
Using only hand signals to communicate to the men with him, they approached the craft on foot with stealth and extreme caution.
The team, working out of the temporary command center in the Tambour Police Department, consisted of himself, two other sheriff’s deputies, three Tambour policemen, two FBI agents, and one state trooper who’d just happened to be in the room chewing the fat with the others when a techie came in and announced that he was getting a signal from Honor Gillette’s cell phone.
His attempt to locate it using triangulation was successful.
It then took an agonizing hour of discussion to determine how best to get to the isolated location. By air, land, or water? Once it was decided that land was the best option in terms of a surprise, Crawford had yielded the floor to the closest thing that either the Tambour P.D. or the sheriff’s department had to a S.W.A.T officer, who had taken a few classes in his spare time and at his own expense.
He shared his limited knowledge and summarized by saying, “Don’t screw up and shoot the woman or kid,” which Crawford could have told the group himself in five seconds rather than thirty-five minutes.
They piled into three official SUVs, then drove through fog and mist for what seemed like hours, but was actually only forty minutes, until they could go no farther, not even in vehicles with four-wheel drive.
Besides, Crawford didn’t want their approach announced by engine noise. They’d proceeded on foot, and now were hunkered down among the trees, watching for signs of life aboard the boat, from which the phone’s cell signal was emanating. Crawford thought it a miracle that there was a cell tower anywhere near this place, but he wasn’t going to question either the benevolence of the gods or the foresight of the cell provider.
The sun was rising, but the eastern horizon was so heavily banked by clouds that daybreak did little to relieve the dim and gloomy atmosphere. The water in the bayou, which looked swollen after last night’s torrential rains, was absolutely still, as was the Spanish moss that hung from tree branches in saturated clumps. It was too early even for birds. The silence was as thick as cotton.
Crawford motioned the men forward. They had no choice but to risk exposure as they covered the distance between the tree line and the creek bank. When Crawford reached the boat, he crouched down against its hull, checked his weapon again, then climbed over and stepped lightly onto the deck. Others followed, but Crawford was the first inside the wheelhouse, the first to hear a vicious curse and movement coming from below, the first to aim at the man coming up the steps.
Stan Gillette stepped out of the passageway into the wheelhouse with his hands raised. In one of them, he was holding a cell phone. “Deputy Crawford. You’re late.”
He’d made the kid cry.
When he’d wrenched the cell phone from her hand, she’d let out a howl that could’ve raised the dead. It got her mother up off the bunk, all right.
He’d scooped up the bawling kid and practically slung her over his shoulder, freeing his other hand to get Elmo and bankie. He’d shoved them into her chubby arms, then grabbed Honor’s hand and dragged her—protesting—up the steps, through the wheelhouse, and onto the deck.
Alone, it would have taken him only minutes to abandon the boat, wade through the bayou, then sprint the half mile through sucking mire to where he’d left the pickup. Even in the semi-light of predawn, he’d have been away from there in a fraction of the time it had taken him just to get them off the boat. Honor had balked at stepping into the water, but he’d pushed her, and she’d managed to splash her way out of the shallows. Twice she’d stumbled during their mad dash to the pickup.
And all that time, the kid had kept a stranglehold on his neck, wailing in his ear over and over, “I didn’t mean to.”
When they reached the truck, she was still blubbering. He’d handed her over to Honor, who’d scrambled into the passenger sea
t. He’d slammed the door, run around the hood, vaulted into the driver’s seat, and crammed the key into the ignition. The tires had spun in the mud, but eventually gained traction, and the pickup had lurched forward.
They were well away from the shrimp boat now, but he didn’t let his guard down. Honor’s cell phone would have been as good as a damn beacon on a lighthouse, leading the police straight to them. As soon as it was discovered that they were no longer aboard the boat, the chase would resume.
He didn’t know at what time the kid had turned on her mother’s phone. Minutes before she woke him up? Hours? But he had to assume the worst, in which case he was surprised they’d escaped at all. At best, they couldn’t have got too much of a head start.
So he blocked out the presence of the sobbing kid and her mother and concentrated on putting as much distance as possible between them and the boat, in the shortest amount of time, without getting too lost, driving into a bayou, or hitting a tree.
Honor shushed Emily, crooning to her as she hugged her close to her chest and smoothed her hand over her hair. Eventually the kid stopped crying, although every time he glanced at them he was met with four reproachful eyes.
He finally came upon a main road. Not wanting to get stopped for speeding, he let up on the accelerator and asked Honor if she had any idea where they were.
“South and east of Tambour, I think. Where did you want to go?”
Where did he want to go?
Fuck if he knew.
Presently, all he was doing was burning precious gas, so he pulled into the parking lot of a busy truck stop, where the pickup wouldn’t be noticed among so many similar vehicles. By the looks of things, the combo fuel stop and convenience store was a gathering spot for day laborers who stoked themselves on coffee, cigarettes, and microwave breakfasts before going to work.
For easily thirty seconds after he cut the engine on the pickup, no one said anything. Finally he looked over at the two females who were sorely complicating his life. He intended to tell them as much in unmitigated terms, when the kid said in a trembling voice, “I’m sorry, Coburn. I didn’t mean to.”