Lethal (42 page)

He could have spent the day gazing into Isobel’s lovely eyes, teasing small, shy smiles out of her, perhaps daring to hold her hand. He could have seen for the first time how her hair and skin looked in sunlight, how a breeze from off the river would mold her clothes to the dainty body that tantalized him.

He would have enjoyed that.

He would have enjoyed killing the fed.

Instead, he’d wasted all day babysitting the fat guy’s car.

Bonnell Wallace hadn’t even left the bank for lunch. He’d parked his car in the bank employee lot that morning, and there it had stayed until he left for home at ten after five. The Bookkeeper had said to follow him, so Diego had followed him through rush-hour traffic. He’d gone straight home.

Fifteen minutes after he got to the mansion, a black
woman driving an SUV and wearing a domestic’s uniform had left. She drove through the property gate, and it had closed behind her automatically.

That had been hours ago, and no one else had come or gone.

Diego was bored stiff. But if The Bookkeeper wanted to pay him to watch a gate, that’s what he would do. For now. But never again. After collecting his pay for this job, plus the five hundred he was being paid for Isobel’s believed extermination, he’d get himself a new phone and disappear off The Bookkeeper’s radar.

As though conjuring up a call, his cell phone vibrated. He pulled it off his belt and answered.

“Are you ready for some action, Diego?”

“You hafta ask?”

The Bookkeeper issued him new instructions, but they were a far cry from what he had waited all day to hear. “You’re shitting me, right?”

“No.”

“I thought I was on standby to do the fed. ‘Be ready, Diego. At a moment’s notice, Diego,’ ” he mimicked. “What happened to that?”

“Change of plans, but this is related.”

“How?”

“It’s been a busy and trying night. Just do as I tell you without giving me an argument.”

Diego stared at the big white house and considered The Bookkeeper’s order. He was here and he’d invested a hell of a lot of time already; he’d just as well do it. Mumbling, he asked, “What do you want me to do with him after?”

“That’s a stupid question. You know the answer. Get on it. I need this information as soon as possible. Immediately.”

Fuck immediately
, Diego thought as he disconnected.
I’ve waited on you all fucking day
.

For several minutes after, he remained in his hiding place and analyzed the mansion. As before, he mentally ticked off all the reasons why breaching it would be dicey.

He didn’t like it. He had a bad feeling about this job, and had from the get-go. Why not heed his gut instinct and just walk away from it, let The Bookkeeper find someone else to do this?

But then he thought of Isobel. He wanted to get her pretty things, and he couldn’t always steal them. He would need money, especially if he planned to vacation for a while and spend idle days with her. The Bookkeeper’s money was good. An hour, two at most, and he would be due a hefty payday. After collecting, he could leave The Bookkeeper’s employ for good.

Mind made up, he came out from his hiding place. Keeping to the shadows and moving with the stealth of one, he found a place at the back of the Wallace property where the wisteria vine on the estate wall was thick and the lighting thin.

He went over the wall.

T
he place was still deserted. The padlock on the door of the detached garage was exactly as Coburn had left it. The black pickup hadn’t been moved from where he’d parked it that morning.

He pulled the sedan to a stop beside it and together they got out. Honor, functioning in a fog, looked to him for direction.

“Let’s see what’s up there.” He nodded toward the room above the garage.

They climbed the staircase attached to the exterior wall. The door at the top of the stairs was locked, but within ten seconds Coburn had found the key above the doorjamb. He unlocked and opened the door, then felt the inside wall for a light switch and flipped it on.

The small room obviously had been occupied by a young male. Posters and pennants for various sports teams were tacked to the walls. The bed was covered with a stadium blanket. Two deer heads with eight points each stared
at one another from opposite walls across a floor of clean but scuffed hardwood. A nightstand, a chest of drawers, and a blue vinyl beanbag chair were the only other pieces of furniture.

Coburn crossed the room and opened a door, revealing a closet in which were stored a tackle box and rod and reel, a few articles of winter clothing zipped into garment bags, and a pair of hunting boots standing upright on the floor.

A matching door opened into a bathroom that wasn’t much larger than the closet. There was no tub, just a preformed fiberglass shower stall that was slightly discolored.

Honor stood in the center of the room, watching Coburn as he explored without any sign of compunction. But to her, it all felt very wrong. She wished for some background noise. She wished for more space and a second bed. She wished for Coburn not to be shirtless.

Mostly she wished that the tears pressing against her eyelids would dry up.

Coburn tested the taps on the bathroom sink. After some knocking of pipes inside the wall and gurgling sounds, water gushed from both faucets. He found a drinking glass in the medicine cabinet above the sink, filled it with cold water, and passed it to Honor.

She took it gratefully and drained it. He ducked his head into the sink and drank straight from the faucet.

When he came up, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Home sweet home.”

“What if the family comes back?”

“I hope they won’t. At least not until I’ve used their shower.”

She tried to smile, but thought it probably fell flat. It felt as though it had. “Who blew up the car?”

“The Bookkeeper has somebody inside the FBI office.
Somebody privy to information.” His lips formed a grim line. “Somebody who’s gonna die as soon as I find out who he is.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Find your late husband’s treasure, and I’ll bet we find that person.”

“But we haven’t found it.”

“We haven’t looked in the right place.”

“Was VanAllen—”

“He was clueless.”

“What did he say when you showed up instead of me?”

Speaking tersely, Coburn recounted his brief conversation with Tom VanAllen. Honor hadn’t known him, but she knew that he’d married a girl from Eddie’s high school class.

“Janice.”

Coburn, who had continued talking while her mind wandered, looked at her strangely. “What?”

“Sorry. I was thinking about his wife. Her name is Janice, if I’m remembering correctly. She became a widow tonight.” Honor could empathize.

“Her husband should have been smarter,” Coburn said. “The naive bastard really thought we were all alone out there.”

“Somebody set him up to die.”

“Along with you.”

“Except that you took my place.”

He shrugged with seeming indifference.

She swallowed the emotion that was making her throat ache and focused on something else. She pointed toward his shoulder. “Does that hurt?”

He turned his head and looked at the patch of raw skin. “I think a piece of burning car upholstery fell on me.
It stings a little. Not bad.” His eyes moved over her. “What about you? Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No.”

“You could have been. Seriously. If you’d been closer to the car when it blew, you could have been killed.”

“Then I guess I’m lucky.”

“Why’d you leave the garage?”

The question took her off guard. “I don’t know. I just did.”

“You didn’t do what I told you to. You didn’t drive away.”

“No.”

“So why not? What did you plan to do?”

“I didn’t
plan
anything. I acted on impulse.”

“Were you going to throw yourself on VanAllen’s mercy?”

“No!”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know!” Before he could say anything further on that subject, she motioned toward his head. “Your hair’s singed.”

Absently he raked his hand over his hair as he moved to the chest of drawers. In one he found a T-shirt, in another a pair of jeans. The T-shirt would do, but the jeans were six inches too short and six inches too large in the waist. “I’ll have to make do with your dad’s khakis.”

“We’re both pretty much a mess.” She was still wearing the clothes she’d had on when they’d fled her house yesterday morning. Since then she’d waded through a swamp, run through a marsh, and barely escaped an explosion.

“You use the shower first,” he said.

“You’re worse off than I am.”

“Which is why you won’t want to get in it after me. Go
ahead. I’ll see if I can find us something to eat in the main house.”

Without another word, he left. Listlessly, Honor stared at the closed door and listened as he went down the outside stairs. Then for several minutes she stayed exactly as she was, lacking the wherewithal to move. Finally she forced herself.

The bar soap in the shower was locker room variety, but she used it liberally, even washed her hair with it. She could have luxuriated in the hot water all night, but, remembering that Coburn needed it even worse than she, she got out as soon as she had thoroughly rinsed.

The towels were thin but smelled reassuringly of Tide. She finger-combed the tangles out of her hair, then dressed in her dirty clothes. But she couldn’t bring herself to put her feet back into her damp sneakers. She carried them out with her.

Coburn had returned, bringing with him staples similar to what he’d brought to her father’s boat. He’d set out the selection on top of the chest of drawers.

“No perishables in the fridge, so they must have planned to be gone for a while. But I found one lone orange.” He had already peeled and sectioned it. “And these.” He held up a pair of kitchen scissors, the kind used to cut up poultry. “For your jeans. Only the lower part of the legs is really dirty.”

He had already used them on her dad’s pants. They’d been hacked off at the knees.

She took the scissors from him. “Thanks.”

“Dig in.” He motioned toward the food, then went into the bathroom and closed the door.

She hadn’t eaten since the breakfast sandwich from the
truck stop, but she wasn’t hungry. She did, however, take the scissors to her jeans, leaving them with a ragged, stringy edge just above her knees. It felt worlds better to be rid of the fabric that was stiff with dried mud and swamp water.

The ceiling light was glaring, so she turned it off and switched on a small reading lamp on the nightstand. Then she moved to the window and separated the inexpensive, no-frills curtains.

It had been an overcast day, but the clouds had thinned out. Now only wisps of them drifted across a half moon.
I see the moon, and the moon sees me
. The song she and Emily sang together caused her heart to clutch with homesickness for her daughter. She would be fast asleep by now, hugging her Elmo and bankie close.

Honor wondered if she had cried for her at bedtime, when homesickness was always the strongest. Had Tori told her a story, listened to her prayers? Of course she had. Even if she hadn’t thought to do so, Emily would have reminded her.

God bless Mommy and Grandpa, and God bless Daddy in heaven
. Emily prayed the same prayer each night. And last night, she’d added,
God bless Coburn
.

Hearing him emerge from the bathroom, Honor hastily wiped the tears off her cheeks and turned back into the room. He had dressed in the cut-off khakis and the oversized T-shirt he’d pilfered from the chest of drawers. He was barefoot. And he must have found a razor because he had shaved.

He looked up at the extinguished ceiling light, then over at the lamp on the bedside table, before coming back to her. “Why are you crying?”

“I miss Emily.”

He raised his chin in acknowledgment. He glanced at the food items. “Did you eat anything?”