Lethal (8 page)

“Nope.”

“Then how’s it being laid on this Coburn?”

“Only seven employees clocked in last night. Count Sam coming in, and that means eight people were here at midnight when the shooting started. Coburn’s the only one unaccounted for. At the very least he’s a person of interest.”

“What motive would he have had?”

“He locked horns with the boss.”

“Fact or conjecture?”

Doral shrugged. “Fact. Until somebody says otherwise.”

“What do you know about the man?”

“Well, we know he ain’t caught yet,” Doral said with exasperation. “Men and dogs have been all over that area where it’s believed he ran into the woods, but nothing’s turned up. Lady who lives around there says her rowboat’s missing,
but she suspects the neighbor’s kids took it and didn’t bring it back. Officers are checking out that lead. We’ll see.”

“Why aren’t you out there searching? If anybody can find him—”

“Fred wanted to escort VanAllen out there, make sure he got seen on TV, establish that the feds are on the case. As city manager I personally welcomed VanAllen into the fray.”

Stan processed all that, then asked, “What about the murder weapon?”

“Coroner says a large-caliber handgun killed Sam. The rest were shot with an automatic rifle.”

“And?”

Doral turned to his mentor. “Nary a firearm found at the scene.”

“Leading us to assume that Coburn is heavily armed.”

“And has nothing to lose, which makes him dangerous. Public enemy number one.” Doral noticed his brother waving at them. “That’s my cue to come rescue him.” He threw down his cigarette and ground it out.

Stan said, “Tell Fred I’ll join the volunteers later this evening.”

“Why not now?”

“Honor’s cooking me a birthday dinner.”

“Out at her place? Long way out there. When are you going to persuade her to move into town?”

“I’m making headway,” Stan lied, knowing that Doral was ribbing him about his running argument with his daughter-in-law.

Stan wanted her to move into town. She demurred. He understood her wanting to stay in the house that she and Eddie had moved into as newlyweds. They’d put a lot of themselves into making it a home, spending most weekends
applying elbow grease until they’d got it the way they wanted it. Naturally she would feel a strong bond to the place.

But it would be easier for him to keep an eye on her and Emily if they lived closer to him, and he didn’t plan to give up the argument until Honor came around to his way of thinking.

“I’ll catch up with you after the party,” he told Doral. “But it won’t be late.”

“Hopefully we’ll have Coburn by then. If not, ask around if you don’t see me or Fred right away. We’ll need you.”

“Challenging?”

“Not to Fred and me.”

Coburn figured Honor Gillette would jump at the chance to speak to her father-in-law, but she put up an argument. “He’s not due here until five-thirty. You’ll be gone by then.”

He hoped so, too. But he didn’t want the old man showing up early. He nodded at the phone in her hand. “Make up something. Convince him not to come.”

She used speed dial to place the call.

“Don’t try anything cute,” Coburn warned. “Put it on speaker.”

She did as he asked, so he heard the crispness in the man’s voice when he answered. “Honor? I tried to call you earlier.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t get to the phone.”

Immediately he asked, “Is something wrong?”

“I’m afraid the party has to be postponed. Em and I both came down with a bug. A stomach virus. I’d heard that one was going around. Two of the kids in Vacation Bible School—”

“I’m on my way.”

Coburn gave his head a hard shake.

“No, Stan,” she said quickly. “We’d expose you, and there’s no sense in your getting it, too.”

“I never catch these things.”

“Well, I’d feel awful if you did. Besides, we’re fine.”

“I could bring you Gatorade, soda crackers.”

“I’ve got all that. And the worst is past us. Em’s been able to keep down some Sprite. She’s napping. We’re feeling a little wrung out, but I’m sure this is one of those things that runs its course within twenty-four hours. We’ll have your party tomorrow evening.”

“I hate to postpone it for Emily’s sake. She’s going to love her present.”

She smiled wanly. “It’s
your
birthday.”

“Which entitles me to spoil my granddaughter if I’ve a mind to.”

Background noise, which had been loud during their conversation, turned into a racket.

“What’s all the noise? Where are you?” Honor asked.

“Just leaving Royale’s warehouse. If you’ve been sick you might not have heard about what happened here last night.” He encapsulated it. “Fred’s in charge of the posse. Doral briefed me.”

Her eyes on Coburn’s, she said, “This man sounds dangerous.”

“He should be scared silly. Regardless of the holiday, every badge in five parishes is on the lookout. They’ll run this murderer to ground soon enough, and when they do he’ll be lucky if they don’t string him up in the nearest tree. Everybody’s jumpy and wants to avenge Sam Marset.”

“Any fresh leads?”

“A woman’s boat was stolen overnight. They’re checking that out now. And the FBI is on board.”

Honor gave an appropriate murmur that could have been interpreted any number of ways. Stan Gillette must have taken it to mean that she was weary.

“Rest while you can. I’ll call later to check on the two of you, but in the meantime, if you need anything—”

“I’ll call, I promise.”

They exchanged goodbyes and Stan Gillette clicked off. Coburn extended his hand and, with reluctance, Honor dropped her cell phone into it. Meanwhile he was using his own phone to redial the number he’d called earlier. He got the same recorded message. “What holiday is it?”

“Yesterday was the Fourth. Since it fell on Sunday—”

“Today’s the national holiday. Shit. I didn’t think of that.”

He pocketed both phones, then stood there considering the boxes he intended to pillage. “How long will the kid sleep?”

“An hour. Sometimes a little longer.”

“Okay, into the bedroom.”

He nudged her elbow, but she balked. “Why? I thought you wanted to go through the files.”

“I will. After.”

Her expression went slack with fear. “After?”

“After.”

H
e nudged her toward the bedroom. Her heart was hammering, and as she entered the room, she frantically looked about for a possible weapon.

“Sit on the bed.”

There was nothing she could reach and utilize before he shot her, but the least she could do was to make a stand. She turned to face him and defiantly asked, “Why?”

He’d removed the pistol from the waistband of his jeans. He wasn’t pointing it at her, but even holding it down at his side and lightly tapping his thigh with the barrel was threat enough. “Sit down on the end of the bed.”

She did as told but with attitude.

He backed up through the doorway and into the hall. Keeping his eyes on her, he used his foot to push the opened box of clothing from the hallway into the bedroom, moving it along the hardwood floor until it was within her reach.

“Pick out some clothes I can wear. It makes no difference
to me what it is, but it might to you. I don’t want to defile some sacred garment.”

It took her a moment to comprehend that she wasn’t about to be raped, and that all he wanted from her was a change of clothing. But not mere clothing. Clothes that Eddie had worn.

She started to tell him that he could rot in his bloodstained clothes for all she cared. But he would only take something from the box himself, so what would be the point?

She knelt beside the box and rifled through the garments, choosing a worn pair of jeans and an LSU Tigers T-shirt. She held them up for his inspection.

“Underwear? Socks?”

“I didn’t keep any.”

“Okay, bring the clothes with you into the bathroom.”

“Into the bathroom? What for?”

“A shower. I’m sick of my own stink.”

She looked through the connecting door into the bathroom, then came back to him. “Leave the door open. You can see me from here.”

“Not an option.” He flicked the barrel of the pistol toward the bathroom.

Slowly she stood up and walked toward it. He motioned for her to sit on the lowered commode lid, which she did, watching with dread as he closed the door and flipped the lock.

He opened the shower stall door and turned on the water, then, after setting the pistol on a decorative shelf well out of her reach, he tugged off his cowboy boots one at a time. Socks came next. He whipped off his T-shirt and tossed it to the floor.

She stared at intersecting lines of grout on the tile floor, but within her peripheral vision she could see a lean torso
with a fan of hair over the pectorals. A barbed-wire tattoo banded the left biceps.

She had hoped he would forget the cell phones in his jeans pockets, but she saw him take them out and set them on the shelf beside the pistol. He also took from his pockets a wad of currency and a piece of paper that had been folded into a tight rectangle about the size of a playing card. These, too, went onto the shelf.

Then his hands moved to the fly of his jeans and deftly worked the metal rivets from their well-worn holes. Without the least compunction, he pushed the jeans down his legs and stepped out of them, kicking them aside. Last came a pair of undershorts.

Honor’s heart was thudding so hard she felt each pulse against her eardrums. She’d forgotten, or rather hadn’t allowed herself to remember, the particular essence of a naked man, the shape of the male body, the intriguing textures.

Perhaps because she feared Coburn, because he posed a physical threat, she was acutely aware of his nakedness as he stood only inches from her emanating a very real, dominant, primitive masculinity.

Beneath Eddie’s clothes that were lying in her lap, her hands curled into fists. Despite her determination not to be cowed, she’d kept her eyes open. But now they seemed to shut tightly of their own volition.

After what seemed like an eternity, she sensed him moving away from her and stepping into the shower stall. He didn’t close the door. When the spray of hot water hit him, he actually sighed with pleasure.

That was the instant she’d been waiting for. She shot to her feet, dumping the garments to the floor, and, hands outstretched, lunged for the shelf.

Only to find it empty.

“I figured you would try.”

Angrily, she spun toward the stall. He was casually working the bar of soap into a lather between his hands, water sluicing over him. With a smug smile, he tipped his head toward the narrow window high in the shower wall. On the tile ledge, safe and dry, were the pistol, the cell phones, the money, and the folded piece of paper.

With a strangled cry of despair, she launched herself toward the door and turned the lock. She even managed to yank the door open before a soapy hand shot over her shoulder and slammed it shut, then remained flat against it. He placed his other hand at her hip, the heel of it pressing against the bone, his palm and fingers tightly fitting themselves to the curve of her belly.

The wet imprint of his hand was as distinct and searing as a brand as he crowded up behind her, mashing her between him and the door. From the corner of her eye she had a close-up view of the barbed-wire tattoo, which looked as unyielding as the hard muscle it encircled.

She froze with fear. He didn’t move either, except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest against her back. Her clothing acted as a sponge to his wet skin. Water dripped off him and trickled down the backs of her bare legs. Soap bubbles dissolved into liquid on his hand that was still flattened against the door.

His breath was rapid and hot against her neck. He bent his head downward toward her shoulder even as his hips angled up. It was an oh-so-subtle adjustment of two body parts, perfectly synchronized and corresponding. But it was enough to cause Honor’s breath to catch in her throat.