Lethal (5 page)

“They’ve all been deleted.”

“Why?”

“They were taking up space on the computer.”

He didn’t say anything, but she felt a tug on her ponytail and realized that he was winding it around his fist. When he had a tight grip, he turned her head toward him. She closed her eyes, but she could feel the pressure of his gaze on the top of her head.

“Open your eyes.”

Given her recent thoughts on the strength of his hands, she did as he ordered because she was afraid not to. She was on eye level with his waist. The proximity of her face to his body, and the intimacy it suggested, was disconcerting, as she supposed he intended. He wanted there to be no doubt as to who was in charge.

But perhaps she could turn this to her advantage. Her nose was inches from the outline of the pistol beneath his T-shirt. Her hands were free. Could she—

No. Even before she had finished formulating the thought, she cast it aside. Eddie had taught her how to shoot a handgun, but she’d never been comfortable handling any firearm. She couldn’t secure the pistol and fire it before Coburn knocked it aside or yanked it from her. Any attempt to do so would only anger him. And then what? She didn’t hazard to guess.

Using her fisted ponytail as leverage, he tilted her head back until she was looking up into his face. “Why did you delete your husband’s emails?”

“He’s been gone for two years. Why would I keep them?”

“They could have had important information in them.”

“They didn’t.”

“She says, sounding real sure about it.”

“I am,” she snapped. “Eddie wouldn’t have been so careless as to put important information in an email.”

He held her stare as though gauging the strength of her argument. “Do you do your banking on this computer?”

“No.”

“Pay any accounts?”

She shook her head as much as his hold on her hair would allow. “Neither of us used it for personal business.”

“What about his work computer?”

“It belonged to the police department.”

“It wasn’t given to you?”

“No. I suppose another officer has use of it now.”

He studied her face for another long moment, and must have determined that she was telling the truth. He released her hair and backed away. Relieved, she stood up and moved away from him and toward the door. “I’m just going to check on Emily.”

“Stay where you are.”

His eyes made a sweep of the room and did a double take when something on top of the dresser grabbed his attention. He crossed quickly to the bureau and picked up the picture frame, then thrust it into her hands. “Who are these guys?”

“The oldest one is Stan.”

“Eddie’s father? He’s in awfully good shape for a man his age.”

“He works at it. That’s Eddie standing next to him.”

“The other two? Twins?”

“Fred and Doral Hawkins. Eddie’s best friends.” Smiling over the fond memory, she ran her fingers across the glass sealing the photograph. “They’d gone on an overnight fishing trip into the Gulf. When they put in the following afternoon, they posed on the pier with their catch and asked me to take this picture.”

“Is that the boat you sold?”

“No, that was Doral’s charter boat. Katrina took it. Now he’s our city manager. Fred is a policeman.”

He looked at her sharply, then tapped the glass inside the frame. “This guy’s a cop?”

“He and Eddie enrolled in the police academy together and graduated in the same class of new officers. He—” She broke off and looked away from him, but he caught her chin and jerked her head back to him.

“What?” he demanded.

She saw no point in hedging. “Fred is spearheading the manhunt for you.”

“How do you know?”

“He conducted a press conference this morning. He pledged your swift capture and justice for the seven men you killed. Allegedly.”

He absorbed that, then released her chin and took the frame from her. To her consternation, he turned it over and began folding back the metal tabs so he could remove the easel back.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

He took it apart and, inside, found only what she knew he would: the photograph, a piece of stiff backing, and the glass. He stared hard at the photograph and checked
the date printed on the back of it. “They seem like a real chummy quartet.”

“The three boys became friends in grade school. Stan practically raised the Hawkins twins along with Eddie. They’ve been a great help to us since he died. They’ve been especially attentive to Emily and me.”

“Yeah?” He gave her a slow once-over. “I’ll bet they have.”

She wanted to lash out at him for what his smirk insinuated. But she held her tongue, believing it was beneath her dignity to defend her morals to a man who was smeared with his victims’ blood. She did, however, take the photograph from him and return it and the pieces of the frame back to the top of her bureau.

“How’d he die?” he asked. “Eddie. What killed him?”

“Car accident.”

“What happened?”

“It’s believed he swerved to miss hitting an animal, something. He lost control and went headlong into a tree.”

“He was by himself?”

“Yes.” Again she looked wistfully at the photograph that had so perfectly captured her husband’s smiling face. “He was on his way home from work.”

“Where’s his stuff?”

The question yanked her from the poignant reverie. “What?”

“His stuff. You’re bound to have kept his personal belongings.”

In light of their conversation, his wanting to go through Eddie’s effects was the height of insensitivity, and it offended her almost more than having been threatened with a pistol. She met his cold, unfeeling eyes head-on. “You’re a cruel son of a bitch.”

His eyes turned even more implacable. He took a step toward her. “I need to see his stuff. Either you hand it over to me, or I’ll tear your house apart looking for it.”

“Be my guest. But I’ll be damned before I’ll help you.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

Catching his malevolent implication, her gaze swung beyond his shoulder toward the living room where Emily was still enjoying one of her favorite shows.

“Your kid is all right, Mrs. Gillette. She’ll stay all right so long as you don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not playing games.”

“So we understand each other, neither am I.”

He spoke softly, malevolently, and his point was made. Furious with him, and with herself for having to capitulate without putting up more of a fight, she said coolly, “It would be helpful if you told me what you’re looking for.”

“It would be helpful if you quit jerking me around.”

“I’m not!”

“Aren’t you?”

“No! I have no idea what you want or even what you’re talking about. Gold bars? Stock certificates? Precious stones? If I had something like that, don’t you think I would have liquidated it by now?”

“Cash?”

“Do I look like I have a lot of cash at my disposal?”

“No. You don’t. But you wouldn’t make it obvious, because that would be stupid.”

“Stupid in what way?”

“If you were suddenly flush with cash, people would be on to you.”

“People? What people? On to me? I don’t understand.”

“I think you do.”

During this heated exchange, he’d been coming ever
closer until now they were toe to toe. His sheer physicality made her feel trapped. It was hard not to move away from him, but she refused to dance that dance again. Besides, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how effective his intimidation tactics were.

“Now, for the last time,” he said, “where’s Eddie’s stuff?”

She defied him with her glare, her upright posture, her sheer force of will. Telling him to go straight to hell was on the tip of her tongue.

But Emily giggled.

In her sweet, piping voice she addressed something to the characters on the program, then squealed in delight and clapped her hands.

Honor’s bravado evaporated. She lowered her defiant chin, and rather than telling him to go to hell, she said, “There’s a storage box under the bed.”

I
t wasn’t a long commute between Tom VanAllen’s home and the FBI’s field office in Lafayette. Often, he considered it not long enough. It was the only time of his day in which he could switch off and think of nothing more complicated than to stay in his lane and drive within the speed limit.

He wheeled into his driveway and acknowledged that his house looked a little tired and sad compared to others in the neighborhood. But when would he have time to do repairs or repaint when something as necessary as mowing the lawn was only done sporadically?

By the time he entered through the front door, those self-castigating thoughts had already been pushed aside by the urgency of the situation in Tambour.

Janice, having heard him come in, hurried into the entryway, cell phone in hand. “I was just about to call you to ask when you’d be home for lunch.”

“I didn’t come home to eat.” He took off his suit jacket
and hung it on the hall tree. “That multiple murder in Tambour—”

“It’s all over the news. The guy hasn’t been caught yet?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got to go down there myself.”

“Why must you? You dispatched agents early this morning.”

Royale Trucking Company conducted interstate trade. When the carnage was discovered inside the warehouse, Tom, as agent in charge of the field office, had been notified. “It’s politic for me to review the situation in person. How’s Lanny today?”

“Like he is any other day.”

Tom pretended not to hear the bitterness underlying his wife’s voice as he headed down the central hallway toward the room at the back of the house where their thirteen-year-old son was confined.

In fact, where he and Janice were also confined. Sadly, this room was at the epicenter of their lives, their marriage, their future.

An aberrant accident in the birth canal had cut off their son’s oxygen and left him with severe brain damage. He didn’t speak, or walk, or even sit alone. His responses to any stimuli were limited to blinking his eyes, but only on occasion, and to making a guttural sound, the meaning of which neither Tom nor Janice would ever be able to interpret. They had no way of knowing if he even recognized them by sight, or sound, or touch.

“He’s soiled himself,” Tom said upon entering the room and being hit with the odor.

“I checked him five minutes ago,” Janice said defensively. “I changed the sheets on his bed this morning and—”

“That’s a two-person job. You should have waited for me to help you.”

“Well, that could have been a wait, couldn’t it?”

Quietly Tom said, “I had to leave earlier than usual this morning, Janice. I had no choice.”

She blew out a gust of air. “I know. I’m sorry. But after changing his bed, I had to do laundry. It’s not even lunchtime, and I’m exhausted.”

He stayed her as she moved toward the bed. “I’ll take care of this.”

“You’re in a hurry to get away.”

“Five minutes won’t matter. Will you fix me a sandwich, please? I’ll eat it on the way down to Tambour.”

After seeing to Lanny, he went into their bedroom and changed out of his suit and into outdoor clothes. Before day’s end, he would probably be called upon to join the manhunt. He had little or nothing to contribute to such an undertaking, but he would make the gesture of pitching in.

He dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt, and slipped on an old pair of sneakers, reminding himself to check the trunk of his car for the rubber boots he used to wear whenever he went fishing.

He used to do a lot of things he no longer did.

When he walked into the kitchen, Janice’s back was to him. She was preoccupied with making his sandwich so he studied her for several seconds without her being aware of it.