by Sandra Brown
The alarm system began chirping its warning.
Stan exclaimed his surprise upon seeing Honor, seized her arm, and drew her across the threshold.
Coburn sprang into the entryway behind her and kicked the front door shut.
He ordered Honor to disarm the security system.
Then he pushed her out of harm’s way when Gillette lunged forward and swiped at his midsection with a knife.
“No!” Honor shouted.
Coburn bowed his back, making his gut concave, but the tip of the blade cut through the oversized T-shirt and found skin.
Coburn was more astonished by the ferocity of the attack than he was hurt, and immediately realized that Gillette had planned on that. He took advantage of Coburn’s astonishment by kicking the pistol out of his hand.
Coburn hissed a curse and tried to grab Gillette’s knife hand. He missed, and Gillette drew another vicious arc with the blade, this time catching skin on Coburn’s shoulder.
“Stop it, old man,” Coburn shouted as he dodged another stabbing motion. “We need to talk to you.”
Gillette was having none of it. He continued to attack Coburn with a vengeance.
Honor, who’d silenced the incessant warning beep of the alarm system, was practically weeping. “Stan, please! Stop!”
Either the older man was maddened to the point of deafness, or he chose to ignore her plea. He seemed determined to kill or seriously maim Coburn, giving Coburn no choice except to be equally aggressive. He had expected resistance, harsh arguments, maybe some chest-thumping from the former Marine. But he hadn’t expected a full-out assault.
Each man fought to win. They fell over furniture, toppled lamps, knocked pictures off the walls. They gouged and kicked and slugged. Coburn couldn’t let up long enough to locate his pistol and aim without giving Gillette an open invitation to plunge the knife into him. So they fought hand to hand, as they’d both been trained to fight, as though it was a life-or-death contest.
And all the while Honor was begging for them to stop.
“Give it up,” Coburn growled as he deflected the knife yet again.
But Gillette didn’t relent. He was out for blood. Coburn’s blood. When the blade of his knife connected with Coburn’s forearm, cutting it clear to the bone, Coburn yelped an obscenity. He thought, to hell with the man’s age, his high blood pressure, and Semper Fi. He attacked with everything he had in him and kept at it until a well-placed blow to Gillette’s head caused him to lose his footing and stagger backward.
Coburn followed and seized his knife hand. Gillette didn’t let go of the knife voluntarily, nor would he ever have. But Coburn twisted his wrist until Gillette cried out in agony. His fingers went lifeless around the hilt of the knife and it fell from his hand.
Coburn got him facedown on the floor, planted a knee in his back, and jerked his hands up between his shoulder blades.
Honor was openly weeping.
Coburn said to her, “There’s a roll of duct tape on the work table in the garage. Bring it.”
She left to do as he asked, seeming to understand that arguing would only prolong both his and Gillette’s suffering. In any case, Coburn was glad he didn’t have to explain it to her because he’d barely had enough breath to say that much.
Lying with his cheek against the floor, Gillette snarled, “You’re a dead man.”
“Not yet.” But the cut on his arm was gushing blood.
Honor returned with the roll of tape. Coburn told her to tear off a strip and use it to bind her father-in-law’s hands. She looked down at the man who shared her name, then back at Coburn, and shook her head in refusal.
“Look,” Coburn said, panting from pain and exhaustion, “I may need him to testify, so the last thing I want to do is disable or kill him. But we can’t do what we came to do if I’m having to fight him, and he’s gonna keep fighting me if I don’t restrain him.”
He wasn’t certain he could stave off Gillette if he should happen to get his second wind and resume his attack. He needed to subdue the tough old bird while he had the strength to do so and before his injured arm became completely useless. He blinked sweat from his eyes and looked up at Honor.
“Tying him up is the only way I can guarantee that one of us won’t badly injure or kill the other. Don’t wimp out on me now, Honor. Tear off a strip of the goddamn tape.”
She hesitated but eventually pulled a strip of tape from the roll and bit it off with her teeth, then wound it around Gillette’s wrists. The two of them got him secured to a straight chair that Coburn had Honor bring from the kitchen.
The man’s face was a swelling, bleeding mess, but Honor got the full brunt of his animosity. “I thought I knew you.”
“You do, Stan.”
“How can you do this?”
“Me? You came at Coburn like you would kill him. You gave me—us—no choice.”
“There’s always a choice. You’ve been making very poor ones.”
Meanwhile, Coburn was tightly winding duct tape around the knife wound on his arm in an attempt to stanch the bleeding.
Honor knelt in front of her father-in-law and looked imploringly into his face. “Stan, please—”
“Even if you have no regard for Eddie’s memory, how dare you put my granddaughter’s life at risk.”
Coburn could tell that Gillette’s sneering tone pissed her off, but she replied in an even voice, “Actually, Stan, I’ve been protecting Emily and myself.”
“By teaming up with him?”
“He’s a government agent.”
“What kind of agent stages a kidnapping?”
“I knew that would make you frantic with worry. I wanted to call and tell you what had really happened, but I couldn’t without jeopardizing our safety. Mine. Emily’s. Coburn’s too. He’s been working undercover in a highly dangerous position, and—”
“And he’s flipped,” he said, giving Coburn a scornful once-over. “Wacked out. It happens all the time.”
Coburn had already lost patience with the man, but Honor continued to address him in a reasonable tone. “He hasn’t flipped. I’ve spoken with his supervisor in Washington, a man named Clint Hamilton. He has absolute trust in Coburn.”
“So you thought you could, too?”
“The truth is, I had placed my trust in him even before I spoke to Mr. Hamilton. Coburn saved our lives, Stan. He protected Emily and me from people who would’ve harmed us.”
“Like who?”
“The Hawkins twins.”
Gillette barked a laugh, but, reading her serious expression, followed it up by saying, “Surely you’re joking.”
“I assure you I’m not.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He shot Coburn a furious look. “What kind of nonsense have you been feeding her?” Turning back to Honor, he said, “Those men wouldn’t touch a hair on your head. Doral hasn’t stopped searching for you and Emily since you disappeared. His brother lay dead, but he’s been—”
“Pumping you for information about them, about where they might be, who might be sheltering them?” Coburn came to stand beside Honor so he could address Gillette directly.
Gillette’s chin went up a notch. “Doral has been a loyal friend. He’s gone without meals, sleep. He’s been turning over every rock.”
“Getting information from his moles in the police department?”
Gillette said nothing.
“Doral used that info to stay one jump ahead of the authorities, am I right? While he should be in mourning, he’s been desperate to find us before any branch of law enforcement did. Why is that, I wonder?” He let Gillette chew on that for several seconds before continuing. “Doral and Fred Hawkins shot Marset and the other six.”
The older man stared up at Coburn, then laughed a dry, mirthless laugh. “You say. You who stands accused of that mass murder.”
“Fred would have killed Honor, and probably Emily, too, if I hadn’t shot him first. Ever since last Sunday night, Doral has been trying
to mop up the mess he and his brother made in that warehouse. And it was a mess. Sam Marset and the others didn’t stand a chance. The twins slaughtered them.”
“And only you lived to tell about it.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t believe you. I’ve known those boys practically their whole lives.”
“Are you sure you know them? Are you sure you know what they’re capable of? For instance, did Doral tell you that he broke into Tori Shirah’s house and ambushed her? Yeah,” he said when he noticed a glint of surprise in the older man’s eyes.
“And then when she told him she hadn’t heard from Honor, he threatened her if she failed to contact him if and when she did. Did Doral mention that to you, Mr. Gillette? Never mind. I can see that he didn’t.”
“How do you know it’s true?”
“How do you know it isn’t?”
“Well, if you heard it from that slut, I’d say the source is unreliable.” He switched his attention back to Honor. “Is Emily with her?”
“Emily is safe.”
“Not from moral corruption.”
“Let’s put the character assassination of Tori on ice,” Coburn said. “We haven’t got time for it.”
“On that I agree with you, Coburn. Your time is up.”
“Really?” Coburn leaned down, putting his face within inches of Gillette’s. “You say that with a lot of conviction. How do you know my time is up?”
Gillette’s eyes narrowed fractionally.
Coburn continued. “The Hawkins twins are clever, but they don’t strike me as bright enough to run an organization as sophisticated as The Bookkeeper’s.”
Gillette looked beyond Coburn to Honor. “What’s he talking about?”
“Hey.” Coburn nudged the man’s knee, drawing his attention back to him. When Gillette’s fierce eyes met his again, he continued. “Somebody with an authoritative personality and a god complex has been giving Fred and Doral their marching orders. I’ve got my money riding on you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Coburn made a show of checking his wristwatch. “You’re either staying up awfully late or getting up very early. Why aren’t you groggy from having been woken up when the doorbell rang? Why aren’t you dressed in pajamas or skivvies? Instead, here you are, Mr. Gillette, fully dressed. Even wearing shoes. How come? Why are you all spit-and-polished at this time of morning?”
Gillette only glared.
“You know what it looks like to me?” Coburn continued. “Like you’re on standby for something. For what? For a showdown with me, the federal agent who’s put a real crimp in your crime chain?”
Hostility radiated from Gillette, but he remained silent.
Coburn straightened up slowly but continued to hold the man’s stare. “The only reason I might second-guess myself is because I really can’t see you ordering the murder of your own flesh and blood. Not because you might have some moral hang-up about it, but because your overblown ego wouldn’t let you destroy your own DNA.”
Gillette had had enough. He began struggling against the tape binding him, gnashing his teeth in frustration and rage. “You have maligned my character. You’ve insulted me as a man and as a patriot. And furthermore, you’re a lunatic.” His gaze shifted to Honor. “For godsake, why are you just standing there, saying nothing? Has he brainwashed you into believing this bullshit?”
“He’s convinced me that Eddie’s car wreck wasn’t an accident.”
Gillette stopped struggling as suddenly as he’d begun. His eyes darted between her and Coburn, landing on him. Coburn nodded. “Eddie died because he had incriminating evidence on a lot of people. Not just low-life types, but prominent, outstanding-citizen types like Sam Marset and law enforcement personnel who streamline the trafficking of drugs, weapons, even human beings.”
Honor said, “They had Eddie killed before he could expose them.”
“Or,” Coburn countered, “before he could blackmail them.”
“Drug dealing? Blackmail? My son was a decorated police officer.”
“Yeah, well, I’m an agent of the federal government, but five minutes ago you accused me of wacking out. It happens all the time, you said.”
“Not to my son!” Gillette shouted with such force he sprayed spittle. “Eddie wasn’t a crook.”
“Then prove it,” Coburn challenged. “If you’re so damn sure of Saint Eddie’s honor, if you’re innocent of criminal activity, you should be eager to help us find whatever it was that Eddie stashed before he was killed.”
Honor took a step closer to her father-in-law. “I believe Eddie died a hero, not the victim of an accident. My actions this week might appear out of character, bizarre even. But, Stan, everything I did, I did with one purpose in mind, and that was to dispel even a hint that Eddie was corrupt.”
“This man,” Gillette said, hitching his chin toward Coburn, “who you claim to trust, is the one who has brought Eddie’s reputation into question. Doesn’t that strike you as a paradox?”
“Coburn questions everything and everyone. That’s his job. But no matter what Coburn says or suspects, I haven’t lost faith in Eddie.” She paused, then asked softly, “Have you?”
“Certainly not!”
“Then help me prove just how valorous he was. Help us find what we’re looking for.”
He released a gust of breath. He looked from her to Coburn, patent dislike in his burning gaze.
Coburn felt the old man needed some goading. “How come you hate me so much?”
“You have to ask?”
“We’ve explained why I took Honor and Emily away, why I kept them separated from you. Now that you know I’m not a kidnapper, now that you know they’re safe, I’d think a little gratitude for saving their lives would be in order.
“Instead, you attack me, nearly cut off my arm. You wouldn’t even have talked to me if I hadn’t secured you to that chair. You despise me on principle, Gillette. Why?” He waited a beat, then said, “Is it because you think my suspicions of Eddie are so very wrong? Or because you’re afraid they’re right?”
Gillette’s glare turned even more malevolent, but finally he ground out the question, “What the hell is it that you’re looking for?”
“We don’t know, but we have a clue.” Coburn motioned to her. “Show him.”
She turned her back to Gillette, raised her shirt, and tipped down her waistband to expose the small of her back. She explained when and how she’d gotten the tattoo. “That long weekend was only two weeks before Eddie was killed. He drew the design for the tattoo artist. He didn’t want to place me in danger by giving me the item outright, so he left me with the clue of where to find it.”
“You still don’t know what this item is?” Stan asked.
“No, but Coburn figured out that the tattoo says ‘Hawks8.’ ”
It had taken a while to decipher the figures concealed within the intricate swirls and curlicues of the seemingly random pattern. The significance of the time and intimacy required to unravel the puzzle wasn’t lost on Gillette.
“You went to bed with this guy.”
Although the old man bristled with censure as he snarled the words, Honor didn’t flinch. “Yes, I did.”
“For the purpose of vouchsafing your husband’s integrity. Is that what you expect me to believe?”
She glanced at Coburn, then looked her father-in-law straight in the eye. “Frankly, Stan, I don’t care what you believe. The only reason I slept with Coburn was because I wanted to. It had nothing to do with Eddie. Judge me to your heart’s content, but I’ll tell you right now that your opinion on this matter makes no difference to me whatsoever. I didn’t need your permission to sleep with Coburn. I don’t have to justify it. I don’t regret it. I won’t apologize for it, now or ever.” She squared her shoulders. “Now, what does ‘Hawks8’ mean?”
Coburn knew the instant that Gillette realized he was defeated. Diminished pride transformed him physica
lly. His chin lowered to a less belligerent angle. His shoulders relaxed, fractionally but noticeably. The ferocity in his eyes faded several degrees, and there was weariness in his voice when he spoke. “The Hawks was a soccer team up in Baton Rouge. Eddie played one season with them. He was number eight.”
Coburn asked, “Does he have a framed picture of the team? A roster? Trophy? Uniform?”
“Nothing like that. It was a ragtag league and soon disbanded. What they mostly did was get together on Saturday afternoons and drink beer after the games. They played in shorts and T-shirts. Nothing fancy. No team photos.”
“Keep an eye on him,” Coburn said to Honor, then left them and went into Eddie’s bedroom, where he remembered finding a pair of soccer cleats in the closet. He had examined each shoe, but perhaps he’d missed something.
He took the cleats from the closet, dug his fingers into the right shoe, then ripped out the innersole. Nothing. He turned the shoe over, studied the sole, and realized he’d need a tool in order to pry it off. He searched the left shoe in a similar manner, but when he ripped out the innersole, a minuscule piece of paper dropped into his lap.
It had been folded once so that it would lie flat inside the innersole without causing a wrinkle. He unfolded the note and read the single printed word: BALL.
On his dash from the room, he rounded the corner of the door so fast, he grazed his shoulder, which jarred his injured arm and sent a bolt of pain straight to his brain. It hurt so bad it made his eyes water, but he kept running.
“What is it?” Honor asked as he raced through the living room.
On his way past her, he slapped the small note into her hand. “His soccer ball.”
“I put it back in the box in the loft,” Gillette called after him.
Coburn made it through the kitchen and into the garage within seconds. He flipped on the light, then rounded Gillette’s car and hastily climbed the ladder to the loft. He ripped open the box and upended it, catching the soccer ball before it bounced off the loft and down to the garage floor. He shook it, but heard nothing moving inside.
Cradling the ball in his elbow, he retraced his path back into the living room. With Honor and Gillette watching expectantly, he pressed the ball as one would test a melon’s ripeness. Noticing that one of the seams was crudely sewn, not at all like the factory stitching on the rest of the ball, he picked up Gillette’s knife from off the floor and used it to rip the seam. He pulled back the leather flap he’d created.