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 seat. 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.”
He closed his mouth. He blinked several times. He looked at Honor, and when she didn’t say anything, he looked back at the kid, whose damp cheek was still lying against Honor’s chest. He mumbled, “Sorry I made you cry.”
“That’s okay.”
Her mother, however, wasn’t in as forgiving a mood. “You scared her half to death. You scared me half to death.”
“Yeah, well it would have scared me half to death if I’d woken up looking into the double barrel of Doral Hawkins’s shotgun.”
Honor bit back a retort she obviously was itching to say. Instead she bent over Emily’s head and kissed the top of it.
The comforting gesture somehow made him feel even worse about setting the kid off. “Look, I said I was sorry. I’ll get her a… a… balloon or something.”
“She’s afraid of balloons,” Honor said. “They scare her when they pop.”
“Then I’ll get her something else,” he said irritably. “What does she like?”
Emily’s head popped up as though it was spring-loaded. “I like Thomas the Tank Engine.”
Coburn stared at her for several beats, then the absurdity of his situation got the better of him, and he began to laugh. He’d been eyeball to eyeball with villains whose best chance at an afterlife lay with taking off his head. He’d ducked heavy gunfire, dodged a rocket launcher, jumped from a chopper seconds before it crashed. He had cheated death too many times to count.
Wouldn’t it have been funny if he’d been done in by Thomas the Tank Engine?
Honor and Emily were watching him warily, and he realized that neither had ever heard him laugh. “Inside joke,” he said.
Happy once again, Emily asked, “Can we have breakfast now?”
Coburn considered, then said under his breath, “Why the hell not?”
He got out and opened a toolbox that was attached to the back of the truck’s cab. He’d discovered a denim jacket in it the day before. It smelled of gasoline and was covered in grease, but he pulled it on. Standing in the open wedge of the door, he leaned in. “What do you want?”
“Would you rather I go?” Honor asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“You still don’t trust me?”
“It’s not that. In this crowd…” His gaze moved over her tousled hair and whisker-burned lips. It took in her snug T-shirt and the clearly defined shape beneath it, which he knew by feel was the real deal, not fake. “You’d attract attention.”
She knew what he was thinking because her cheeks turned pink. She had ended last night’s kiss, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t liked it. In fact, he figured it meant she’d liked it a lot. Too much. He’d stayed on the deck for half an hour after her speedy retreat, but when he did go below, he’d known she was still awake even though she’d pretended otherwise.
Even after he’d lain down on the bunk, he’d stayed restless and hot for a long time. If she’d been as worked up over that kiss as he’d been, it was no wonder that she was blushing now and having a hard time looking him in the eye.
Face averted, she said, “Anything you get will do.”
He put on the cap and sunglasses he’d found in the truck, and, as he’d expected, he blended with the other customers. He waited in line to use the microwave, then took his heated breakfast sandwiches to the cash register and paid. As soon as he’d handed the sack of food over to Honor, he started the truck and drove away.
While driving, he ate his sandwich and sipped his coffee, which was chicory-enhanced and bracingly strong. But his mind wasn’t on either the hot food or the coffee, because it was busy assessing his situation and deciding on his next course of action. He was in a jam, and he wasn’t certain how to proceed.
Like the time in Somalia when his weapon had malfunctioned just as his target spotted him. He’d had to make a choice: Abandon the mission and save his own skin, or carry out his assignment and ante up on surviving it.
He’d had a nanosecond in which to make up his mind.
He’d dropped the weapon and used both hands to snap the guy’s neck.
He didn’t have much more time for decision-making now. He couldn’t see his pursuers yet, but he sensed their urgency to find him.
The odds weren’t in his favor, but he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel, abandon his mission, and let The Bookkeeper continue conducting business.
He wasn’t even ready to call Hamilton and ask for backup from Tom VanAllen, because he didn’t entirely trust his own agency. The bureau probably didn’t entirely trust him either.
For all the FBI really knew, he had gone postal and mowed down everybody in that warehouse on Sunday night. If it became expedient for the bureau to pass him off as a veteran suffering from P.T.S.D., then that’s what they would do, and no one, probably not even the woman sharing a stolen truck—and a wanna-fuck-you-bad kiss with him—would believe otherwise.
Chances were good that he wouldn’t be around to see the smoke clear on this case. He wouldn’t be available to exonerate himself for the warehouse massacre. He’d wind up on a slab, growing cold in infamy. But by God, he wasn’t going to take the fall for The Bookkeeper’s handiwork without putting up a hell of a fight.
This morning had been a close call. As sure as he was still breathing, that engaged cell phone had brought people running to that damn tub, and in all probability Doral Hawkins had been leading the pack. If Emily hadn’t awakened him when she had, they’d all have been shot in their bunks.
Risking his own life was a job requirement. Risking theirs, no way.
Mind made up, he said, “You mentioned a friend yesterday.”
Honor looked over at him. “Tori.”
“Aunt Tori,” Emily chirped. “She’s funny.”
The gender of Honor’s friend shouldn’t have mattered to him at all. He was surprised by how glad he was to learn it was a woman. “Good friend?”
“Best friends. Emily thinks she’s family.”
“You trust her?”
“Implicitly.”
He pulled off the road, rolled to a stop on the shoulder, and dug his cell phone from his front pants pocket. Then, turning to Honor, he laid it on the line. “I gotta dump the two of you.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he said emphatically. “Only thing I need to know, when you’re free of me, are you going to call in the cavalry?”
“You mean Doral?”
“Him, the police, the FBI. Last night, you enumerated all the reasons you came with me. One of them was mistrusting the authorities. Does that still hold?”
She nodded.
“Say it.”
“I won’t call in the cavalry.”
“All right. Do you think your friend would hide you for a couple of days?”
“Why a couple of days?”
“Because that’s how long Hamilton gave me.”
“He gave you less than that.”
“Will she hide you?”
“If I ask her to.”
“She wouldn’t betray your trust?”
Without an instant’s hesitation, she gave an emphatic shake of her head.
“That means she can’t call in the cavalry either,” he said.
“That would be the last thing Tori would do.”
It went against his nature, as well as his training and experience, to trust anyone. But he had no choice except to give Honor the benefit of the doubt. As soon as he was out of sight, she might very well sic Doral Hawkins on him, but that was a risk he had to take.
The alternative was to keep her and Emily with him. If he did, they could very well get hurt or killed. He didn’t think even he, who’d seen unimaginable atrocities, and had inflicted a few himself, could handle watching the two of them die. It was his fault they were in this. He should have left Honor blissfully ignorant.
But second-guessing was a waste of energy, and he didn’t have time for regret.
“Okay. You’re about to put that implicit trust in your friend to the test. What’s her number?”
“It won’t work if you call. I’ll have to.”
He shook his head. “If you do, you could be implicated.”
“Implicated? In what?”
He glanced at Emily, who was singing along with Elmo. The ditty had annoyed him at first, but he was used to it by now and, most of the time, able to tune it out. Coming back to Honor, he spoke softly. “Implicated in any shit that may come down when my deadline expires.” Her green eyes stayed fixed on his; he read the question in them. “If I do nothing else, I’m going to take care of Doral Hawkins.”
“Take care of?”
“You know what I mean.”
“You can’t just kill him,” she whispered.
“Yeah, I can. I will. I am.”
She turned her head away and stared through the bug-spattered windshield at the glowering sky. Visibly distressed, she said, “I’m so far out of my element here.”
“I realize that. But this is my element, so you’ve got to trust my judgment.”
“I know you’re doubtful about Stan. But he would—”
“Not an option.”
“He’s my father-in-law, Coburn. He loves us.”
He lowered his voice even more, so that Emily wouldn’t be distracted from her singing. “Do you want Emily around to witness the confrontation between him and me? Because you know it will eventually come down to that. Do you think he’s going to let me just walk into his house and start going through Eddie’s things? No. Whether he’s guilty of partnering with The Bookkeeper or Marset, or an honest citizen safeguarding his dead son’s good name, he’s going to resist my intrusion. With force. Not only that, he’ll be good and pissed with me for dragging you and his granddaughter into this.”
Her expression was a giveaway. She knew he was right. Even so, she continued to look miserably indecisive. He gave her only a few seconds before prodding her again. “What’s Tori’s number?”
She raised her chin stubbornly. “Sorry, Coburn. I can’t.”
“You don’t trust her enough?”
“This is my mess. How can I drag Tori into it? I’ll be placing her in danger, too.”
“Tough choice, I know. But it’s the only one you’ve got. Unless…” He tipped his head toward Emily. “You trust Doral Hawkins to spare her life. I wouldn’t bet on it. You might.”
She gave him a baleful look. “You always use that.”
“Because it always works. What’s Tori’s number?”