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.
“It’s me,” Coburn said.
With profound relief, she dropped her gun hand to her side. “I’d almost given up on you.”
“It was a long way back to the truck, especially going overland. By the time I got there, it was getting dark and raining hard. Then I had to find a road. Only waterways were on the map. I finally found a gravel road that runs out about a quarter mile from here.”
It was a miracle to Honor that he’d found his way back at all.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Emily wanted to wait up until you got back, but we ate, then played with Elmo a while. I started telling her a story, and she fell asleep.”
“Probably better.”
“Yes. She would’ve been afraid of the dark, and I didn’t want to turn on the lantern. Although I considered putting it on the deck to guide you back. I was afraid you would miss us in the dark. You left me few instructions before you left.”
If he noticed the implied rebuke, he ignored it. “You did right.”
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could make him out. His clothes were soaked, his hair was plastered to his head. “I’ll be right back,” she told him.
She descended the steps and replaced the pistol beneath the mattress, then gathered up some items and returned to the wheelhouse. She passed him a bottle of water first. He thanked her, uncapped it, and drained it.
“I found these.” She handed him the folded pair of khakis and a T-shirt. “They were in one of the storage compartments. The pants will be too short, and they smell moldy.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re dry.” He peeled off Eddie’s LSU T-shirt and replaced it with one that had belonged to her father, then began unbuttoning the jeans.
She turned her back. “Are you hungry?”
“Yeah.”
She went back down the steps and flicked on the lantern only long enough to locate the food she’d set aside for him. By the time she returned to the wheelhouse, he had swapped out the pants. She set the foodstuffs on the console. “You forgot to get a can opener.”
“I got cans with pull tabs.”
“Not the pineapple. And of course, that’s what Emily wanted.”
“Sorry.”
“I found a can opener in a drawer under the stove. It’s rusty, so we may get lead poisoning, but she had her pineapple.”
Using his fingers, he ate his meal of canned breast meat chicken, pineapple slices, and saltine crackers. He washed it down with another bottle of water that Honor fetched from below. She’d also brought up a package of cookies to appease his noticeable sweet tooth.
He was sitting on the floor, his back propped against the console. She sat in her dad’s captain’s chair, which had suffered the ravages of the elements like everything on the boat.
The silence was broken only by the pelting rain and the crunch of cookies.
“It’s raining harder than ever,” she remarked.
“Um-huh.”
“At least the rain keeps the mosquitoes away.”
He scratched at a place on his forearm. “Not all of them.” He took another cookie from the package and bit off half.
“Will they find us?”
“Yes.” Noticing that his blunt answer had startled her, he said, “It’s only a matter of time, depending largely on when Hamilton kicks things into full gear. He probably has already.”
“If they find us—”
“When.”
“When they find us, will you…” She searched for the word.
“Go peacefully?”
She nodded.
“No, I won’t.”
“Why?”
“Like I told Hamilton, I’m not quitting until I get this son of a bitch.”
“The Bookkeeper.”
“It’s not just an assignment any longer. It’s one-on-one, him against me.”
“How did it work, exactly? The business between him and Marset?”
“Well, let’s see. Here’s a for-instance. Each time a truck passes from one state into another, it has to stop at a weigh station. Have you seen these arms that extend over the interstate near state lines?”
She shook her head. “I don’t routinely cross state lines, but in any case, no, I’ve never noticed.”
“Most people don’t. They look like streetlights. But they’re actually X-ray machines that scan trucks and cargo, and they’re constantly being monitored. Agents see a truck that looks suspicious, or that hasn’t stopped at the weigh station, it’s pulled over and searched.”
“Unless the person monitoring it is on the take and lets it pass.”
“Bingo. The Bookkeeper created a market out of doing just that. His business strategy was to corrupt the people enforcing the laws, effectively making the laws a joke. A human trafficker would pay for the protection and consider it a cost of doing business.”
“Sam Marset was a…?”
“Client. I believe one of the first, if not the first.”
“How did it come about?”
“Along with his honest business, Marset was doing a brisk trade in illegal goods. Since he was legit, no one suspected. Then Marset’s trucks started getting stopped often, his drivers hassled. The increased vigilance was enough to scare him. Above all, the elder of St. Boniface didn’t want to get caught. Enter The Bookkeeper with a solution to his problem.” Coburn grinned. “Thing was, The Bookkeeper had created the problem.”
“By orchestrating the searches.”
“And probably Marset knew it. But if The Bookkeeper could put a cog in his wheels, he could see to it that the cogs were removed. It was either pay The Bookkeeper for protection, or risk getting caught with a shipment of drugs. Life as he’d known it would be history.”
“Others would be forced to do the same.”
“And did. The Bookkeeper now has an expanded client base. Some are large commercial operations like Marset’s. Others are small-time independents. Men out of work due to the oil spill who have a pickup truck and kids to feed. They drive over to south Texas, pick up a couple hundred pounds of marijuana, drive it to New Orleans, their kids eat for another week.
“They’re breaking the law, but the bigger criminal is the individual who’s making it profitable for them to become felons. The smugglers run a much greater risk of being caught, and when they are, they can’t rat out the facilitator because they rarely know who it is. They only know their contact person, and that individual is low on the totem pole.”
“If Marset was such a good customer, why was he killed? You mentioned something to Hamilton about his whining.”
“Things rocked along okay for a time. Simpatico. Then The Bookkeeper started getting greedy, started increasing his commission for the services provided. Marset didn’t need a crystal ball to tell him that without a ceiling, the cost would keep going up, and soon a large slice of his overhead was going to be The Bookkeeper’s fee. But if he refused to pay it—”
“He’d get caught, exposed, and sent to prison.”
“Right. And The Bookkeeper could make it happen, because his tentacles reach into the entire justice system. So Marset, ever the diplomat, and a little naive as it turns out, proposed that they meet last Sunday night and settle on terms that both could live with.”
“You smelled a rat.”
“The Bookkeeper is the freaking Wizard of Oz. I couldn’t see him strolling into that warehouse, shaking hands, and negotiating.”
“Did Marset know his identity?”
“If he did, he died without telling. I’ve been through his files, read every scrap of paper I could get my hands on, including the one with your husband’s name on it.”
“Surely you don’t suspect Eddie of being The Bookkeeper.”
“No, The Bookkeeper is alive and well.”
“How do you think Eddie fit in?”
“You said he had moonlighted for Marset. Maybe he was in on the illegal side of his business. Or maybe he was a dirty cop on The Bookkeeper’s payroll. Maybe he was playing both ends against the middle, or holding out for a larger take. Maybe blackmail was his angle. I don’t know.”
She stared him down until, with a trace of reluctance, he added, “Or he was a cop trying to make a case against one or both. But crooked or straight, he would have tried to protect himself by collecting hard evidence that he could use for whatever his purpose was.”
Honor was steadfast in her confidence of Eddie’s integrity, but for the time being she let the matter drop. “Royale Trucking. Are all the employees crooked?”
“Not at all. Those six who died with Marset, yes. He had a separate set of books that only he and one other guy ever saw. People in the corporate office, even members of his own family, didn’t know about his sideline.”
“How could they not?”
He shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t look too deep. They didn’t want to. All they knew was that the business continued to do extremely well in a weak economy.”
“So they’ll be okay? Mrs. Marset?”
“In terms of prosecution, yes. Won’t be easy for her when the truth about her husband is exposed.”
Honor pulled her feet up to the edge of the seat, looped her arms around her legs, and propped her chin on her knees. Quietly she said, “They’ll kill you.”
He bit into another cookie, saying nothing.
“Doral or one of the Hawkins clan. Even the honest policemen, who only see you as Sam Marset’s killer, would rather bring you in dead than alive.”
“Hamilton’s told everybody I’m already dead. Wonder how he’ll wiggle out of that one.”
“How can you joke about it? It doesn’t bother you that you could be killed?”
“Not particularly.”
“You don’t think about dying?”
“I’m only surprised that it hasn’t happened yet.”
Honor picked at a cuticle that had been torn loose while they were working on the boat. “You know how to do things.” She glanced at him. He was looking up at her curiously. “Survival things. Lots of things.”
“I don’t know how to bake cupcakes.”
For the first time since she’d found him lying facedown in her yard, he was teasing her, but she wouldn’t let it divert her. “Did you learn all those skills in the Marine Corps?”
“Most of them.”
She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “You were a different kind of Marine than my father-in-law.”
“He’s a recruiting poster?”
“Exactly.”
“Then, yeah, I was different. No marching in formation for the kind of Marine I was. I had a uniform, but didn’t wear it but a few times. I didn’t salute officers, and nobody saluted me.”
“What did you do?”
“Killed people.”
She had suspected that. She’d even deluded herself into thinking she could hear him admit it without flinching. But the words felt like tiny blows to her chest, and she feared she would only feel them stronger if she heard more, so she carried the subject no further.
He finished his last cookie and dusted crumbs off his hands. “We need to get to work.”
“Work?” She was so exhausted her whole body ached. She thought that if she closed her eyes she would fall asleep where she sat. Stained mattress or not, she looked forward to lying down on it beside Emily and sleeping. “What work?”
“We’re going through it again.”
“Through what again?”
“Eddie’s life.”