Текст книги "Lethal"

Автор книги: Sandra Brown

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Chapter 19

Son of a bitch!”

Coburn hissed the profanity under his breath out of deference to the kid. As for her mother, who’d already frowned at him for a slipped bullshit earlier, she was now staring at him as though a horn had grown from the center of his forehead.

He waggled the cell phone. “I guess you heard that.”

“That Agent Lee Coburn has been dead for over a year? Yes, I heard that.”

“Obviously she hasn’t got her facts straight.”

“Or I bought into your lies and now I’m—”

“Look,” he said, angrily cutting her off. “I didn’t ask for you either, okay? You want to go back to your house, take your chances with Doral Hawkins and anybody else who’s in The Bookkeeper’s pocket? Fine. Go. I’ll hold the door open for you.”

It wasn’t fine, of course, and he wouldn’t let her go even if she chose to. On her own, she wouldn’t live long. He’d been described as cold and heartless, and the adjectives fit. But even he would be uncomfortable sending a woman and four-year-old to certain death. Besides, she would be useful, now and later, toward building a case against The Bookkeeper. She probably knew a whole lot more than she was aware of. Until he’d wrung every last ounce of information from her, she stayed with him.

On the other hand, she and the kid were going to be a major pain in the ass.

He hadn’t counted on having to take care of anybody but himself until Hamilton could bring him in, and that was going to be dangerous enough, what with every gun-wielding yahoo within a hundred miles believing him to be a killer and kidnapper. He’d more or less resigned himself to not making it out of this intact, if he lived through it at all.

But now he was responsible for Honor and Emily Gillette, and with that responsibility came the commitment to seeing that they survived even if he didn’t.

Essentially taking back his offer to let her go, he said, “Whether you know it or not, you hold the key that will bust open The Bookkeeper’s crime ring.”

“For the umpteenth time—”

“You’ve got it. We just have to figure out what it is and where to find it.”

“Then drive me to the nearest FBI office and escort me in. We’ll all look for it together.”

“I can’t.”

“Because?”

“Because I can’t blow my cover. Not yet. Right now Hawkins and The Bookkeeper think that I’m just the freight dock worker who was lucky enough to get away. An eyewitness to the mass murder. Which is bad. But not nearly as bad as an eyewitness who’s also an undercover federal agent. If they discover that, the target on my back gets bigger.”

“But the FBI would protect you.”

“Like Officer Fred Hawkins of the Tambour P.D. was going to protect you?”

He didn’t have to spell it out. She connected the dots. “The Bookkeeper has local FBI agents on his payroll?”

“I’m not willing to bet my life against it, are you?” He gave her time to answer. She didn’t, which was as good as her saying, No, I’m not. “You wouldn’t be sitting there if you didn’t believe at least some of what I’ve told you.”

“I’m sitting here because I believe that if you’d intended to hurt us, you would have done so as soon as you arrived yesterday. Also, if everything you’ve told me is true, then our lives, mine and Emily’s, are in danger.”

“You’re right so far.”

“But the main reason I came with you has to do with Eddie.”

“What about him?”

“You’ve raised two questions that I want answered. One, was his death really an accident?”

“It was made to look like it, but I don’t think it was.”

“I have to know,” she said with feeling. “If he died of an accident, that’s one thing. Tragic, but acceptable. Fate. God’s will. Whatever. But if someone caused the crash that killed him, I want them punished for it.”

“Fair enough. What’s the second question?”

“Was Eddie a bad cop or a good cop? I know the answer to that one. I want you convinced of it, too.”

“I don’t care one way or the other,” he said, meaning it. “He’s dead. All I care about is identifying The Bookkeeper and putting him out of business. The rest of it, including your dead husband’s reputation, makes no difference to me.”

“Well, it makes a huge difference to me. And it will to Stan.” She gestured to the cell phone still in his hand. “I should call him, tell him we’re okay.”

He shook his head and pocketed the phone.

“He’ll be beside himself when we turn up missing.”

“I’m sure he will be.”

“He’ll fear the worst.”

“That you’re at the mercy of a killer.”

“He won’t know otherwise. So, please—”

“No.”

“That’s cruel.”

“So’s life. You can’t call him. I don’t trust him.”

“You mistrust on principle.”

“Now you’re catching on.”

“But you trust me.”

He looked at her askance. “What gave you that idea?”

“To have dragged me along with you, you must trust me to some extent.”

“Not as far as I can throw you. Probably even less than you trust me. But, like it or not, we’re dependent on each other.”

“How is that?”

“You need my protection to survive. I need you in order to get what I came after.”

“I’ve told you repeatedly—”

“I know what you’ve told me, but—”

“Mommy?”

The kid’s voice interrupted him. Honor dragged her vexed gaze off him and looked back at her daughter. “What, sweetheart?”

“Are you mad?”

Honor reached over the car seat and patted Emily’s knee. “No, I’m not mad.”

“Is Coburn mad?”

Hearing the kid say his name caused his gut to clench. He’d never heard his name spoken in a child’s voice. It sounded different.

Honor pasted on a smile and lied through her teeth. “No, he’s not mad either.”

“He looks mad.”

“He’s not. He’s just… just…”

He did his earnest best not to look angry. “I’m not mad.”

The kid didn’t buy it. Not entirely, but she switched subjects. “I have to tinkle.”

Honor looked at Coburn, a silent question in her expression. He shrugged. “If she’s gotta go, she’s gotta go.”

“Can we drive to a gas station? I could take her—”

“Un-huh. She can go in the bushes.”

Honor debated it for about fifteen seconds, then was prompted with a plaintive “Mom-mee.” She opened the car door and got out. As she helped Emily from the backseat, she told her that they were going to have an adventure and led her by the hand to the rear of the car.

Coburn heard nothing more except a few conspiratorial whispers. Emily giggled once. He tried to block out the practical implications of a female having to pee in the great outdoors and instead to concentrate on more pressing problems. Like deciding what to do next. As Honor had said, they couldn’t keep driving around in a stolen car.

So where could they go? Not to his place. It was sure to be staked out. He didn’t trust Stan Gillette to safeguard them. He was in thick with the Hawkins brothers, so chances were good he was crooked. Honor was certain of his love and loyalty to her and Emily, but Coburn wasn’t ready to accept that, not without seeing evidence of it for himself. Gillette could also be a law-abiding former Marine who would feel honor-bound to notify the authorities immediately. In which case he still had to be rejected.

The deed done, Emily opened the passenger-side door and grinned across at him. “I did it!”

“Congratulations.”

“Can I ride in front?” she asked.

“No, you cannot.” Honor guided her into the backseat.

“But I don’t have my car seat.”

“No, you don’t.” Honor shot a condemning glance at Coburn for abandoning the kid seat along with her car. “We’ll break the rule just this once,” she told Emily as she helped her to buckle up.

When Honor was once again in the passenger seat, Coburn asked, “Do you know of someplace we can go?”

“You mean to hide?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. We’ve gotta stay out of sight until I can get through to Hamilton.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I know where we can go.”

Tom VanAllen was awakened early that morning with the startling news that Fred Hawkins was dead and that Honor Gillette and her child were missing from their home. Both the murder and the kidnapping were attributed to Lee Coburn.

When Tom shared this news with Janice, she registered total disbelief, and then remorse. “I feel terrible about the unflattering things I said about Fred yesterday.”

“If it’s any comfort to you, he would have died instantly. He probably didn’t feel a thing.” He told her about Doral’s finding the body.

“That’s horrible. They were so close.” After a moment of silence, she asked, “What were they doing at Honor Gillette’s house?”

He told her about the discovery of the boat. “It was a few miles from her house, but near enough to worry them, so Fred went to check on her. According to Doral, when Fred arrived he found that the house had been tossed.”

“Tossed?”

He described the condition of the house as it had been described to him by Deputy Sheriff Crawford. “Fred’s body was lying just inside the front door. Coburn apparently came up behind him.”

“Just like he shot Sam Marset.”

“Looks like. Anyway, I need to go, see it for myself.”

He hated having to leave the house before helping her with the arduous morning routine of getting Lanny cleaned, dressed, and fed. Because he couldn’t chew or swallow, Lanny got his nourishment through a feeding tube. Mealtimes weren’t pleasant.

Janice, however, was understanding about duty taking him away. She told him she could handle things at the house and for him not to worry. “This is a crisis situation. You’re needed.” As she saw him off, she whispered in his ear, “Be careful,” and even went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

Most of his work was done sitting behind a desk. He supposed that the exciting elements of this case represented to Janice more of what she’d had in mind when he told her he wanted to become an agent for the FBI. He surprised and pleased her by kissing her back.

He got lost twice on the back roads but finally found the Gillette place, arriving just as Crawford was about to leave. The two introduced themselves and shook hands. Crawford brought him up to speed.

“I’ve turned it over to our CSU. They’ve got their hands full with this one. Your agents have come and gone. They’re meeting me back in town, where we’ll set up phone lines, organize a task force, divide the labor. Tambour P.D. has offered us space for a command center on their top floor.”

“Yes, I talked to my men on my drive down. I emphasized that cooperation is key, and that priority one is to find Mrs. Gillette and the child before they come to harm.”

Crawford looked at him with an implied Duh, which Tom tried to disregard. “Anything enlightening come from Doral Hawkins?”

“Not much. He says he received an excited call from his brother just as dawn was breaking. Got here as fast as he could. Fred’s boat was tied up at the dock. First sign that something was out of joint, the front door of the house was standing open.”

“What did he make of the mess inside?” Tom asked.

“You mean in addition to his brother’s body? Made the same thing I did of it. Somebody—we gotta presume Coburn—was searching for something.”

“Like what?”

“Anybody’s guess.”

“Was it found?”

“Anybody’s guess. Nobody seems to know what Coburn was after. Not Doral, not Mrs. Gillette’s father-in-law.”

He told Tom about Stan Gillette’s untimely arrival at the crime scene and described the former Marine down to his spit-and-polished shoes. “He’s a real hard-ass, but in his present situation, I probably wouldn’t be a nice guy either,” the deputy admitted.

The investigator took his leave, but gave Tom permission to walk through the house. He was conscientious to stay out of the way of the technicians who were painstakingly picking through the mess, trying to gather evidence. He was in and out in a matter of minutes.

His drive back to Lafayette from the Gillette place took over an hour, and when he walked into his office, he did so relieved that the obligatory errand was behind him.

But no sooner had he sat down at his desk than the office line rang. He depressed the blinking intercom button. “Yes?”

“Deputy Director Hamilton is calling from Washington.”

Tom’s stomach dropped like a plunging elevator. He cleared his throat, swallowed, thanked the receptionist, and depressed the other blinking button. “Agent VanAllen.”

“Hi, Tom. How are you?”

“Fine, sir. You?”

Clint Hamilton, with customary brusqueness, cut straight to the reason for the call. “You’ve got a dung heap of trouble down there.”

Tom, wondering how in hell Hamilton had gotten wind of it, hedged. “It’s been a busy couple of days.”

“Fill me in.”

Tom talked for the next five minutes without interruption. Several times, he paused to make sure that they hadn’t been accidentally disconnected. During those pauses, Hamilton didn’t speak, but Tom could hear him breathing, so he kept talking.

When he finished, Hamilton remained quiet for several moments, long enough for Tom to dab at his damp upper lip with his pocket handkerchief. Hamilton had placed a lot of confidence in him. That faith in his abilities was now being tested, and he didn’t want Hamilton to find him lacking.

When Hamilton finally spoke, he stunned Tom with a question. “Was he one of your agents?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This man Coburn. Was he an agent working undercover for you to investigate Sam Marset’s trucking interests?”

“No, sir. I never heard of him until I went to the crime scene at the warehouse and learned from Fred Hawkins the name of the suspect.”

“Fred Hawkins who’s now dead.”

“Correct.”

After another noticeable pause, Hamilton said, “Okay, continue.”

“I… uh… I forgot—”

“You were telling me that agents from your office are working hand in glove with the Tambour P.D.”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t want to sweep in there and piss them off. The warehouse murders are their jurisdiction. The sheriff’s office has Fred Hawkins’s homicide. But once it’s determined that Mrs. Gillette has indeed been kidnapped—”

Hamilton rudely interrupted him. “I know about jurisdiction, Tom. Let’s go back to Sam Marset. He would have been in a perfect position to engage in illegal interstate trafficking.”

Tom cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“Has any such connection been drawn?”

“No, nothing so far.” He told Hamilton about the search of every truck in the fleet, the questioning of each driver and other employees. “I’ve assigned agents to track down and interview anyone that we can place in and around that warehouse in the last thirty days, but so far no illegal contraband has been discovered.”

“What motive did the suspect have for killing his boss and fellow employees?”

“We’re trying to ascertain that, sir. But Coburn’s lifestyle is making it difficult.”

“In what way?”

“He’s been described as a loner. No friends, family, little interaction with coworkers. Nobody knew him well. The people—”

“Give it your best shot, Tom,” Hamilton said with palpable impatience. “Take a guess. Why’d he kill them?”

“He was a disgruntled employee.”

“A disgruntled employee.” Hamilton said it without inflection, certainly without enthusiasm.

Tom thought it smart to keep quiet.

Eventually Hamilton said, “If Coburn’s only beef was with his boss, if he wigged out over a slight he suffered on the loading dock, or because he was shortchanged on overtime pay, why’d he go to the house of a dead cop and turn it upside down? If he was fleeing the scene of a mass murder, why’d he hide out with the widow and child for an estimated twenty-four hours? And if he took them, why did he? Why not just dispose of them right then and there? Doesn’t that atypical behavior bother you like a popcorn hull stuck in your teeth?”

These weren’t rhetorical questions. Tom had worked in the Lafayette field office with Clint Hamilton only briefly, but it had been long enough for him to learn that the man didn’t waste his breath on unnecessary words.

When Hamilton was bumped up to Washington, D.C., leapfrogging the district office in New Orleans, he had recommended Tom as his successor, and, even at the time, Tom had been aware that Hamilton’s endorsement of him had been met with skepticism by some and vociferous opposition by others. Hamilton had fought for Tom, and he’d won the fight.

Each day when he entered the office where Hamilton had once sat, Tom felt pride in succeeding such an able, revered, even feared agent. He also experienced a cold panic that he wouldn’t live up to the other man’s standards or expectations. In any capacity.

If he were being baldly honest with himself, he would even go so far as to wonder if Hamilton had tossed him a bone because of Lanny. It made him hot with humiliation and indignation even to consider that his appointment had been extended out of pity, but he feared such was the case.

He also wondered where Hamilton was getting his information. He didn’t just know about Marset’s murder and what had happened afterward, but he was well informed of the details. Meaning that he had consulted someone in the local office even before calling Tom. That rankled.

However, he didn’t want Hamilton to discern his self-doubt, so he affected a confident tone. “I’ve asked those questions myself, sir. They’re unsettling.”

“To say the least. They imply that this was no mental malfunction, no ordinary shoot-’em-up by some nutcase with personality issues. Which means, Tom, that you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“First order of business, find them.”

“Yes, sir.”

After a pregnant pause the length of an aircraft carrier, Hamilton said a brisk, “I’ll be standing by,” then clicked off.

Chapter 20

Following the directions Honor gave him, Coburn drove the stolen car down the narrow dirt lane. It was overgrown with weeds and saplings that knocked against the car’s underside. Forty yards from their destination, he rolled to a stop and stared in dismay at the derelict shrimp boat, then turned his head and looked pointedly at Honor.

Defensively she asked, “Do you have a better idea?”

“Yeah. We don’t launch it.”

He took his foot off the brake and continued on, approaching with caution, although it was virtually impossible that anyone would be lying in wait to ambush them on the hulk. A person would have to be crazy to board the vessel, which seemed about to collapse in on itself at any second.

“Who does it belong to?” he asked.

“To me. I inherited it when my dad died.”

Coburn knew virtually nothing about marine craft of any size, but he’d been in coastal Louisiana long enough to recognize an inshore shrimp trawler. “He shrimped in that thing?”

“He lived on it.”

The craft looked about as seaworthy as a broken matchstick. It sat half in, half out of a sluggish channel that Honor claimed eventually fed into the Gulf. But from this vantage point, the waterway looked like a stagnant creek.

Coburn guessed that the boat hadn’t been afloat for years. Vines had overtaken the hull. The wheelhouse paint, what was left of it, was curled and peeling. Windowpanes that weren’t missing altogether were cracked and so coated with grime they barely resembled glass. The metal frame supporting the butterfly net on the port side was bent practically at a forty-five-degree angle, making it look like the broken wing of a great bird.

But for all those reasons, it had been abandoned, probably forgotten, and that worked in their favor.

“Who knows it’s here?” he asked.

“No one. Dad brought it here to ride out Katrina, then decided to stay. He lived here till he got sick and went downhill fast. I moved him into a hospice house. He was there less than a week when he died.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Only a few months before Eddie’s accident. Which made Eddie’s dying all the more difficult for me.” She smiled ruefully. “But I was glad Dad didn’t live to see me widowed. That would have been very upsetting to him.”

“Your mother?”

“Died years before that. That’s when Dad sold the house, moved onto the boat.”

“Does your father-in-law know it’s here?”

She shook her head. “Stan didn’t exactly approve of my dad’s way of life, which was rather… bohemian. Stan discouraged visits with him. He especially didn’t like Emily being exposed to him.”

“Exposed? Bohemianism is contagious?”

“Stan seemed to think so.”

“You know,” he said, “the more I hear about this father-in-law of yours, the less I like him.”

“He’s probably thinking the same of you.”

“I won’t lose sleep over it.”

“I’m sure you won’t.” She pushed back her hair and, after a moment of staring at the boat, said, “Stan means well.”

“Does he?”

That touched a sore spot. She came around to him quickly. “What business is it of yours?”

“Right now, it’s my business to know if he’ll look for us on this damn heap.”

“No.”

“Thank you.”

He opened his door and got out. A snake slithered past his boot. He swore under his breath. He wasn’t especially afraid of snakes, but he’d just as soon avoid them.

He opened the door to the backseat and reached in for Emily, who’d already unbuckled her seat belt and was holding her arms up to him. He lifted her out, then carried her around to the other side and passed her to Honor.

“Don’t set her down. I saw a…” He stopped himself, then spelled out the word.

Honor’s eyes went wide with fear as she inspected the ground. “A water moccasin?”

“I didn’t ask.”

He slipped the pistol from his waistband, but palmed it quickly when Emily turned to him. “Coburn?”

“What?”

“Are we still on a ’venture?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

“Mommy said.”

“Then, yeah, we’re on an adventure.”

“Can we be on it for a long time?” she chirped. “It’s fun.”

Oh, yeah, this is a blast, he thought as he went ahead of them, cautiously picking his way to the boat. The name of it was barely legible because of the peeling paint, but he could make it out. He gave Honor a significant look from over his shoulder. A look she ignored.

By design, the sides of the hull were shallow. He stepped aboard easily, but his boot settled into a nest of Spanish moss and other natural debris. His trained eyes looked around for signs that someone had been there recently, but cobwebs and forest detritus were evidence that the deck hadn’t been disturbed for some time, probably not since the day that Honor’s dad had been moved to a hospice house to die.

Satisfied that they were alone, he kicked aside the clump of moss to clear a spot for Emily when Honor passed her up to him. He set her down on the deck. “Don’t move.”

“Okay, Coburn, I won’t.”

Once she’d broken the barrier of using his name, it seemed she welcomed every opportunity to do so.

He leaned down, extended his hand to Honor, and helped her up and over. Once aboard, she surveyed the littered deck. Coburn noticed a sadness in her expression before she shook it off and said briskly, “This way.”

She took Emily’s hand and told her to be careful where she stepped, then led them around the wheelhouse to the door, where she halted and looked back at Coburn. “Maybe you should go first.”

He stepped around her and pushed open the door, which resisted until he put his shoulder to it. The interior of the wheelhouse was in no better condition than the deck. The control panel was covered with a littered tarp that had collected small lakes of scummy rainwater. A tree branch had broken through one of the windows so long ago that a good crop of lichen had had time to grow on its bark.

Honor surveyed it with evident despondency. But all she said was, “Below,” and pointed to a narrow passage with steps leading down.

He descended carefully, and had to duck to keep from hitting his head when he squeezed through an oval opening into a low-ceilinged cabin. It smelled of mildew and rot, brine and dead fish, motor oil and marijuana.

Coburn looked behind him at Honor who was poised on the steps. “He smoked weed?”

She admitted it with a small shrug.

“Do you know where he kept his stash?”

She glared, and he gave her a grin, then turned his attention back to the compact chamber. It had a two-burner propane stove that was ghosted over with cobwebs. The door of the small refrigerator stood open. Empty.

“Electricity?” Coburn asked.

“There’s a generator. I don’t know if it still works.”

Doubtful, Coburn thought. He opened two pantry doors that revealed mouse droppings but otherwise bare shelves. There were two bunks separated by an aisle no more than a foot wide. He pointed to a door at the back of the cabin. “The head?”

“I don’t recommend it. I didn’t even when Dad lived here.”

In fact, there was nothing to recommend the boat except that it seemed watertight. The floor was a mess, but it was dry.

“Can we stay here?” she asked.

“Hopefully we won’t have to for more than a few hours.”

“Then what?”

“I’m working on it.”

He went to one of the bunks and peeled back the bare mattress, checking beneath it for varmints. Finding none, he turned to Honor and held his hands out for Emily. Honor handed her over. He deposited her on the mattress.

She wrinkled her nose. “It smells bad.”

“Tough,” Coburn said. “Sit there and don’t get down.”

“Is this gonna be our house?”

“No, sweetheart,” Honor said with forced gaiety as she squeezed into the cabin behind Coburn. “We’re just visiting. Remember when Grandpa lived here?”

The child shook her head. “Grandpa lives in a house.”

“Not Grandpa Stan. Your other grandpa. He lived on this boat. You used to love coming here to see him.”

Emily looked at her blankly.

Coburn could tell that Emily’s lost memory of her grandfather caused Honor heartache, but she put up a brave front. “This is part of our adventure.”

The kid was perceptive enough to recognize a lie when she heard one, but she was also smart enough to stay quiet when her mother was on the verge of losing it. Seeing through Honor’s false enthusiasm, she held her bankie close and turned on Elmo, who broke into cheerful song.

Honor spoke in a whisper. “Coburn, we’ve got to get some food and water at least.”

“By we you mean me.”

She had the grace to look chagrined. “I did, yes. I’m sorry.” She raised her hands at her sides. “I haven’t been here since I buried Dad. I didn’t realize…” She ran out of things to say and looked at him with helplessness. “Please let me call Stan.”

Rather than go through that tired routine, Coburn opened a narrow closet and found a broom, which he handed to her. “Do your best. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

When two hours had passed and he still hadn’t returned, Honor began pacing the deck of the trawler, her eyes searching the end of the road that had got them here, willing him to reappear, listening above the call of birds for the welcome sound of an approaching car.

She tried not to convey her concern to Emily, who had become increasingly cantankerous and whiny. She was hot, hungry, thirsty. Where did Coburn go? and When’s he coming back? were questions repeated about every five minutes, until Honor lost what little patience she had remaining and snapped at her. “Stop asking me that.”

She didn’t know the answers to Emily’s nagging questions, but the possible answers terrified her. Her overriding fear was that Coburn had abandoned them.

Her father had chosen to dock his boat here specifically because the surrounding forest was swampy, virtually impenetrable, and would provide some shelter from hurricanes. He’d chosen to “retire” here because he liked the isolation of the place. It was off the beaten path and hard to get to. Moreover, he didn’t have to pay rent for a slip at a marina, and here he could avoid other pesky interferences with his freedom, things like rules and regulations, laws and ordinances, fines, and taxes.

He became a virtual hermit, avoiding contact with the outside world as much as possible. To her knowledge, she and Emily were the only other persons ever to come here. Not even Eddie had visited with her.

Coburn had asked her if she knew of a good place to hide. This was an excellent choice, but now she wished she had kept it to herself. The qualities that made it a good hiding place were the same ones that might do her in. The closest connection to civilization was a two-lane state road, and it was more than five miles from here. She couldn’t walk that, not with Emily in tow, and not without water.

She was stuck here until Coburn returned or…

She didn’t allow herself to think of the or. When the sun set and it grew dark, how would she keep Emily from being afraid? How would she maintain her own courage? She was completely without resources or means of communication.

Coburn had refused to leave a cell phone with her.

“I swear I won’t use it.”

“Then why do you want me to leave it?”

“We could have an emergency. A snakebite.”

“Stay out of their way, and they won’t hurt you.”

“I’m sure there are alligators.”

“They’re not Jaws. They won’t jump into the boat.”

“You can’t just leave us here like this!”

“No, I could tie you up.”

That had silenced her. She had wanted to fly at him, but didn’t want to do so in front of Emily. A fight between them would frighten her, and Honor knew it would be futile anyway, resulting in nothing except sorer muscles and more bruises.

She absently rubbed at one on her elbow, growing even more resentful of Coburn’s desertion and her own fear. She wasn’t helpless. She’d been a single parent, living alone, in a remote place, for more than two years. She had confronted every problem bravely because she’d had no choice. Sure, Stan, the twins, other friends had been there to lend support. If she got in a pinch and asked for help, they came running.

This time was different. She was entirely alone.

But, by God, she wasn’t helpless. She—

“Coburn!” Emily cried.

She launched herself from the crate on which she’d been sitting and skipped across the deck, throwing herself against him and wrapping her arms around his knees. “Did you bring me something? Mommy said you were going to bring me some lunch.”

Honor’s heart was in her throat. He was standing on the deck only yards away from her, but she hadn’t heard a sound to signal his approach. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, which he now removed, hooking one stem on the neck of his T-shirt. Eddie’s T-shirt, she reminded herself. His boots and pants legs from midcalf down were wet, dripping water onto the filthy deck.

Seeing that she noticed, he said, “I came around along the creek bank.”

Emily was bouncing up and down on her toes. Without taking his eyes off Honor, he fished a Tootsie Pop from the pocket of his jeans and handed it down to her. She didn’t even ask Honor’s permission before ripping off the purple wrapper.