Текст книги "Lethal"

Автор книги: Sandra Brown

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Chapter 38

For Clint Hamilton the wait was agonizing.

An hour ago, an agent in the Lafayette office had called to inform him that the scheduled meeting between Honor Gillette and Tom VanAllen had ended disastrously with a car bomb explosion.

Since receiving the staggering news, Hamilton had been alternately pacing his Washington office or sitting with his elbows propped on his desk supporting his head while he massaged his forehead. He considered taking a shot from the bottle of Jack that he kept in his bottom desk drawer. He resisted. Whatever the forthcoming update from Tambour was, he needed to receive it with a clear head.

He waited. He paced. He wasn’t a patient man.

The anticipated call came shortly after 01:00 EDT.

Unhappily the update confirmed that Tom VanAllen had died in the explosion.

“My condolences, sir,” the agent in Louisiana said. “I know you had a special regard for him.”

“Yes, thank you,” Hamilton replied absently. “And Mrs. Gillette?”

“VanAllen was the only casualty.”

Hamilton nearly dropped the phone. “What? Mrs. Gillette? Coburn? The child?”

“Whereabouts unknown,” the agent told him.

Mystified, Hamilton processed that, but couldn’t come up with an explanation. He asked, “What is the local fire department saying about the explosion?”

He was told that an arson inspector from New Orleans had been asked to assist in the investigation. ATF agents had also been summoned. There were many unanswered questions, but of one thing the authorities were certain: Only one body was discovered in the burned-out car.

Hamilton asked if VanAllen’s wife had been notified. “I want to call her myself, but not before she’s been officially informed.”

“Two agents have been dispatched to the VanAllen home.”

“Keep me posted on that. I also want to know anything else you hear, whether it’s official or scuttlebutt. Anything. Especially about Coburn and Mrs. Gillette.”

He ended the call and slammed his fist onto his desk. Why the hell hadn’t Coburn called to advise him of his present position and situation? Damn the man! Although, he grudgingly admitted to himself, a car bomb wouldn’t exactly inspire an agent’s confidence in his agency, would it?

Hamilton decided that the situation down there could no longer be handled by long distance. He needed to go himself. In hindsight, he wished he had jetted to Louisiana immediately after receiving that first SOS call from Coburn. Since then, the shit had only gotten thicker.

He placed a series of calls and secured clearance from his superiors. He asked for a squad of agents trained for special ops. “No less than four men, no more than eight. I want them at Langley, geared up and ready to board the jet at 02:30.”

Everyone with whom he spoke asked why he was flying men and equipment down there when he could use personnel from the district office in New Orleans.

His answer to all of them was the same. “Because I don’t want anyone to know I’m coming.”

When her doorbell rang, Janice VanAllen ran to answer it, mindful that she was wearing only her nightgown, but uncaring about her lack of modesty. She had her phone in her hand and a look of concern on her face when she pulled open the front door.

Two strangers looked back at her. One was male, the other female, but their dark suits and serious expressions were practically identical.

“Mrs. VanAllen?” The woman palmed a leather ID wallet and extended it toward Janice. Her partner did the same. “I’m Special Agent Beth Turner, this is Special Agent Ward Fitzgerald. We’re from Tom’s office.”

Janice’s chest rose and fell on several short breaths. “Where’s Tom?”

“May we come in?” the woman asked kindly.

Janice shook her head. “Where is Tom?”

They remained silent, but their stoicism spoke volumes.

Janice made a keening sound and gripped the edge of the door for support. “He’s dead?”

Special Agent Turner reached for her, but Janice jerked her arm back before the woman could touch her. “He’s dead?” she repeated, this time on a ragged cry. And then her knees gave way and she crumpled to the floor.

The two FBI agents lifted her and supported her between them, half carrying her into the living room where they deposited her on the sofa. All the while Janice was screaming Tom’s name.

Then Agents Turner and Fitzgerald began asking her questions.

Is there someone we can call to come be with you?

“No,” she sobbed into her hands.

Your minister? A friend?

“No, no.”

Is there a family member who should be notified?

“No! Just tell me what happened.”

Can we make you some tea?

“I don’t want anything! I only want Tom! I want my husband!”

Is your son…

Clearly they knew about Lanny, but didn’t know how to phrase a question regarding him. “Lanny, Lanny,” she chanted mournfully. “Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Tom had loved their son. As hopeless as it was that his love would ever be returned, Tom’s love for Lanny had never wavered.

Special Agent Turner sat down beside her and placed a comforting arm across her shoulders. Fitzgerald had moved away and was now standing across the room with his back to them, speaking softly into a cell phone.

Turner said, “You’ll have the full support of the bureau, Mrs. VanAllen. Tom was well liked and respected.”

Janice threw off her arm and wanted badly to slap her. Tom wasn’t respected at all, and, to hear Tom tell it, few of his fellow agents had liked him.

“How did it happen?”

“We’re still trying to determine—”

“How did it happen?” Janice repeated harshly.

“He was alone in his car.”

“His car?”

“He was parked near some abandoned railroad tracks.”

Janice raised trembling fingers to her lips. “Oh, God. Suicide? We… we had a quarrel this afternoon. He left the house upset. I’ve been trying to call him, to… to explain. Apologize. But he wouldn’t answer his phone. Oh, God!” she wailed and shot to her feet.

Turner grabbed her hand and pulled her back down onto the sofa. She stroked her arm. “Tom didn’t take his own life, Mrs. VanAllen. He was killed in the performance of his duty. The initial report is that a bomb was planted on his car.”

Janice gaped at her. “A bomb?”

“An explosive device, yes. A full investigation is already under way.”

“But who… who—”

“It pains me to tell you that the person suspected of involvement is another agent.”

“Coburn?” Janice whispered.

“You know of him?”

“Of course. First because of the warehouse massacre. Then Tom told me he was an agent working undercover.”

“Did they have contact?”

“Not to my knowledge. Although Tom told me earlier today that he might be called upon to bring Coburn in.” She read the pained expression on the agent’s face. “That’s the duty Tom was performing?”

“Mrs. Gillette was supposed to be at the train tracks. Tom went there to get her.”

“Coburn set him up?”

“We’re trying to ascertain—”

“Please tell me that Coburn is in custody.”

“Unfortunately no.”

“Jesus Christ, why not? What have you people been doing? Coburn is obviously crazy. If he’d been apprehended before tonight, as he should have been, Tom would still be alive.” Composure deserted her. She sobbed, “The whole freaking bureau is incompetent, and because of it, Tom is dead.”

“Mrs. VanAllen?”

Janice jumped. She wasn’t aware that Fitzgerald had rejoined them until he laid a hand on her shoulder and spoke her name.

He held his cell phone out to her. “For you.”

She stared at him, then at the phone, and eventually took it from him and put it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Mrs. VanAllen? This is Clint Hamilton. I just heard about Tom. I wanted to call and tell you personally how profoundly—”

“Fuck you.” She disconnected and handed the phone back to the agent.

Then she forcibly composed herself. She wiped her face and took several deep breaths, and when she felt more in control, she stood up and walked toward the door. She left the room, saying, “Let yourselves out. I need to check on my son.”

Chapter 39

Did you?”

“Did I what?

“Like the way I…” Honor let the unfinished question hang.

Coburn turned his head and looked at her. “No. I was faking it. Couldn’t you tell?”

She smiled shyly and burrowed her face into his chest.

He gathered her close. “I liked it.”

“Better than a sneeze or a cough?”

“Can I think about that and get back to you?”

She laughed softly.

They had moved from the floor to the bed and were lying with their legs entwined. Lightly she blew on the chest hair tickling her nose. “What was its name?”

“What?”

“The horse you had to shoot. You’d named it. What was its name?”

He glanced down at her, then away. “I forgot.”

“No you didn’t,” she said softly.

He lay perfectly still and said nothing for the longest time, then, “Dusty.”

She propped her fist on his breastbone and rested her chin on her fist, and looked into his face. He held out for several moments, then lowered his gaze to her. “Every day when I got home from school, he’d amble over to the fence like he was glad to see me. He liked me, I think. But only because I fed him.”

She reached up and ran her thumb along the line of his chin. “I doubt that was the only reason he liked you.”

He made an indifferent motion with his shoulder. “He was a horse. What did he know?” Then he turned to face her and said, “Dumb thing to be talking about.” He tugged on a strand of her hair, then studied it thoughtfully as he rubbed it between his fingers. “It’s pretty.”

“Thank you. It’s seen better days.”

“You’re pretty.”

“Thanks again.”

He took in all the features of her face, but eventually his eyes rested on hers. “You hadn’t been with anybody since Eddie.”

“No.”

“It felt good to me. But I think it might have hurt you.”

“A little at first. Then it didn’t.”

“Sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

In a husky whisper, she said, “Neither did I.”

It was a difficult admission to make, but it was the truth. She was glad that thoughts of Eddie hadn’t intruded upon the moment, although even if they had, they wouldn’t have stopped her from being with Coburn.

Two men, two entirely different experiences. Eddie had been a wonderful and ardent lover, and she would cherish forever sweet memories of him. But Coburn had a distinct advantage. He was alive, warm, virile, and inclining toward her now.

His kiss was languid and sexy. Their hands explored. She discovered scars on him that she kissed in spite of his mild protests. He called her depraved when she brushed her tongue across his nipple, but also claimed to be a big fan of depravity. Her hand glided over the hard muscles of his abdomen and followed the tapering shape of his body down to his sex.

“Do that thing with your thumb,” he whispered. She did as requested, and when she picked up moisture, he groaned a litany of swear words.

His fingertips went unerringly to her most sensitive places that, when he stroked them, left her breathless. She became hot and achy in her center again and moved against him in shameless appeal. He lowered his head to her breasts, where he took his time, loving them with his mouth.

He raised her arm above her head and kissed the sensitive underside, then down her rib cage, gradually turning her until she was on her stomach. He moved her hair aside and softly bit the back of her neck, then started pecking kisses down her spine.

His breath was warm against her skin when he released a short laugh. “My oh my. Who would have guessed?”

Knowing what he had discovered, she said primly, “You didn’t corner the market on tats.” She had spent several minutes admiring the barbed wire encircling his biceps.

“No, but a tramp stamp? On a second-grade schoolteacher? I can remember my second-grade teacher, and I seriously doubt she had one.” He leaned down and took her earlobe between his teeth. “But it makes me hot as hell to think about it. What inspired you?”

“Two Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s. Eddie and I spent a three-day weekend in New Orleans while Stan kept Emily.”

“You got drunk?”

“Tipsy. I was easily persuaded.”

Coburn had kissed his way down and now his tongue was drawing tantalizing circles around her tattoo. “What is it?”

“A Chinese symbol. Maybe Japanese. I can’t remember.” She moaned with pleasure. “In fact, with you doing that, I can’t even think.”

“No? What happens when I do this?” He worked his hand between her and the mattress and began massaging her from the front, while he settled heavily upon her back. “That day in your bathroom…” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “When I had you up against the door.”

“Um-hum.”

“This is what I wanted to be doing. Touching you… here.”

What he was doing caused her breathing to turn choppy, but she managed to say, “I was very afraid.”

“Of me?”

“Of what you would do.”

“To hurt you?”

“No, to make me feel like I do now.”

He stilled. “Is that the truth?”

“Shamefully, yes.”

“Turn over,” he growled.

He helped her onto her back, then knelt between her legs and rubbed his lips over her belly. He planted soft kisses on her hipbone and the hollow beneath it. Then nuzzled lower.

“Coburn?”

“Shh.”

His palm settled between her hipbones, and his fingertips caressed her belly while his thumb dipped down to separate and stoke. Then he deep-kissed her. The dual caress of mouth and thumb soon had her gasping his name and begging him with her arching body not to stop.

He didn’t. But he was inside her when she climaxed, inside her when she felt his own release, and when she finally regained the strength to open her eyes, he was still there, cupping her face between his hands and stroking her cheekbones with his thumbs.

The intensity of his expression caused her to tentatively ask, “What?”

“I’ve never been a big fan of the missionary position.”

Not quite sure how to respond to that, she said simply, “Oh.”

“I preferred making it any other way.”

“Why?”

“Because it didn’t have anything to do with getting off.”

“What didn’t?”

“Looking into the woman’s face.” He murmured the statement as though puzzled by it.

Her throat grew tight. She reached up and stroked his cheek. “You wanted to look into mine?”

He continued to stare into her eyes for several moments, then pulled away from her so abruptly that the emotional withdrawal was as definitive as the physical separation.

Reluctant to let that happen, she followed him, turning onto her side toward him. He lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling, suddenly but completely detached.

She spoke his name.

He turned only his head toward her.

Quietly she said, “When this is over, I’ll never see you again, will I?”

He waited for a beat or two, then gave an abrupt negative shake of his head.

“Right,” she whispered, smiling ruefully. “I didn’t think so.”

He returned to his study of the ceiling, and she thought that would be the end of it. Then he said, “I guess that changes your mind about this.”

“This?”

“Fucking me. But you knew what you were getting,” he said as though she’d disputed him. “Or you should have known. I haven’t made a secret of who I am, what I’m like. And, yeah, I’ve wanted you naked from the minute I saw you, and I made no secret of that either.

“But I’m not a hearts and flowers guy. I’m not even an all-night guy. I don’t hold hands. I don’t cuddle…” He paused, swore. “I don’t do any of that stuff.”

“No, all you’ve done is risk your life to save mine. More than once.”

He turned his head and looked at her.

“You repeatedly asked me why I left the garage,” she said. “Now I want to ask you something. Why were you coming back to it?”

“Huh?”

“You had told me that if you didn’t return within a few minutes of ten o’clock, I was to drive away and get as far from Tambour as possible. So, for all you knew, that’s what I had done. After nearly dying in that explosion, with a burn on your shoulder, and your hair singed, you could have run in any given direction in order to get away, but you didn’t. When you found me on the railroad tracks, you were racing back to the garage. To me.”

He didn’t say anything, but his jaw tensed.

She smiled and moved closer to him, aligning her body along his. “You don’t have to give me flowers, Coburn. You don’t even have to hold me.” She laid her head on his chest just below his chin. Her hand curved around his neck. “Let me hold you.”

Chapter 40

Diego held the edge of his razor to Bonnell Wallace’s Adam’s apple.

Wallace was proving to be a stubborn son of a bitch.

Getting into the house had been easier than Diego had anticipated. The alarm hadn’t been set, so he hadn’t had to strike immediately and then run like hell to get away before the cops showed up. Instead, he’d been able to sneak in and get the layout of the house before Wallace knew he was there.

He thought he’d caught every break, until he realized that Wallace was in the study in the front of the house where he’d seen him the night before, in plain view of anyone who happened by on the street.

The soundtrack of a television show had covered his footsteps as he’d climbed the curved staircase. The second floor had bedrooms along both sides of a long hallway, but Diego soon discovered the one that belonged to the master of the house. The gray pinstripe suit that Wallace had worn to the bank that day had been slung over the back of an easy chair. His dress shoes were in the center of the floor, his necktie lying on the foot of his giant bed.

Diego had made himself at home inside the walk-in closet. A long hour and a half had elapsed before Wallace came upstairs.

From inside the closet Diego had heard the chirps of the security system as Wallace punched in the code numbers to set it for the night. Which posed a problem, of course. It meant that Diego couldn’t get out of the house without tripping the alarm. But he’d decided not to worry about that until the time came. First he’d had to figure out how to overpower a man who was twice his size.

Wallace had obliged him. As soon as he’d entered the bedroom, he’d headed for the adjacent bathroom and unzipped. He’d used both hands to aim.

Diego had come up behind him, placed one hand on his forehead and jerked it back at the same time he pressed his razor to the banker’s exposed throat. Wallace had cried out, not so much in fear as from shock. Reflexively he’d reached behind him with both hands and tried to twist around to ward off his attacker. Pee had sprayed the wall behind the commode.

Diego had sliced the back of his hand to show him he meant business. “You fight me, I’ll slit your throat.”

Wallace stopped struggling. Breathing heavily, he asked, “Who are you? What do you want? Money? Credit cards? Take them. I haven’t seen you. I can’t identify you. So just take what you want and get out.”

“I want your bitch.”

“What?”

“Your bitch. Tori. Where is she?”

Wallace had been taken aback by that. Diego could practically feel the thoughts racing through the banker’s head as he’d held it secure against his chest.

“Sh… she’s not here.”

“I know that, jerk face. Why do you think I’ve got a razor to your throat? I want to know where she is.”

“Why?”

Diego’s hand had moved like lightning and cut an inch-long slice into Wallace’s cheek.

“Jesus!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?” He’d thrust his knee into the back of Wallace’s, causing it to buckle, but it didn’t completely give way. The man was heavy and it was getting harder to hold him. “Get down on your knees.”

“Why? I’m cooperating here. I’m not fighting you.”

“Down on your knees,” Diego had said, straining the words through his teeth.

Wallace had complied. Diego liked this angle better. It afforded him more flexibility and options. It was also the position of a beggar, which worked to Diego’s advantage.

“Tell me where Tori is.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen or heard from her today.”

Diego flicked the razor and the bottom half of Wallace’s earlobe dropped onto his shoulder. Again, he’d cried out.

“It’s the whole ear next time. And then Tori won’t want you no more, you fat turd. Or any other snatch for that matter, because you’ll look like a freak. Where is Tori?”

The ear trick usually worked. Typically that was the last thing to go before they told Diego what he needed to know, and then he would end it with one deep cut across their throat. He’d had one man hold out until both ears and his nose were gone, but he’d been exceptionally ballsy.

Diego hoped the banker wouldn’t take that long. He didn’t like being inside this house. It occurred to him that Wallace might have activated a silent alarm, some kind of panic button that alerted police to an intruder and duress. He didn’t think so, but he hadn’t lived this long by being careless.

So now, after five minutes of this song and dance, he was ready to be done with Wallace and to say adios to The Bookkeeper forever. “One more time. That’s all I’m giving you, just because I’m a nice guy. Where is Tori?”

“I swear to you that I don’t know,” Wallace said. “I had one short text from her early this morning, saying she had to leave town on short notice.”

“Going where?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“I left it at the office.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot!” His shout echoed off the marble walls of the bathroom. He severed off a chunk of Wallace’s other ear.

Wallace sucked in air, but this time he didn’t cry out. “I tossed my phone on the chair when I came in here to pee. Go look. You’ll see.”

“I’ll see that you’re jacking me around.”

“No, I’m not. I swear.”

“You want me to go see if your phone is in the bedroom? Fine. Only thing is, I’ll have to kill you first, because I’m not letting go of you until you tell me what I want to know or until you’re dead.” He let that sink in. “Makes no difference to me, but you could make it easier on yourself.”

“I think you’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Tell me where Tori’s at.”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is she?”

“If I knew I’d be with her.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Tell me, or you die in the next five seconds.”

“I’m not telling you shit. I love her.”

Diego moved like a striking snake, but he didn’t cut the man’s throat. Instead, he bashed his head against the toilet. The big man fell heavily to the marble tile floor. His forehead left an interesting pattern of blood on the white porcelain toilet bowl.

Diego used a monogrammed towel to wipe his razor clean, then folded it closed and left the bathroom. The cell phone was exactly where Wallace had said. Diego, from his vantage point inside the closet, had missed him dropping it there on his way into the john.

Rapidly he made his way downstairs, avoiding the windows on the front of the house. He’d entered the house by way of the kitchen. There was only one light on and it was the one above the range. He held Wallace’s cell phone up to it and accessed his text messages. Tori. Eight forty-seven a.m. She said she was leaving town on short notice, but didn’t say where. Next Diego looked at Wallace’s call log. Many had been placed to Tori’s number. None had come in from her. The fat man had been telling him the truth.

Diego used his phone to call The Bookkeeper. “I’ve got Tori Shirah’s cell phone number.”

“I asked for her location.”

Diego recited the number and explained the text message.

“All well and good,” The Bookkeeper said tightly, “but where is she?”

“Wallace doesn’t know.”

“You didn’t get it from him?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t? Present tense?”

“What good would it do to kill him?”

“What’s the matter with you, Diego? A dead man can’t identify you.”

“Neither can Wallace. He didn’t see me.”

After a sustained silence The Bookkeeper asked, “Where are you now?”

“Still inside his house.”

“So try again. He’s got fingers, toes, a penis.”

“It wouldn’t do any good.” Above all else, Diego trusted his instincts, and Wallace seemed the type who would die protecting his ladylove.

“He says he doesn’t know where she is, and I believe him,” he stressed to The Bookkeeper.

“No loose ends, Diego.”

“I’m telling you, he didn’t see me, and I never mentioned you.”

“You’ve never left a victim alive. Why now? Why have you gone soft?”

“I haven’t. But I haven’t lost my marbles either. Killing Wallace would be risky because I can’t just sneak away. Once I open a door to this place, all hell’s gonna break loose. If I can’t outrun the police, I don’t want to be caught with a dead man.”

“You’re refusing to deliver what I asked for?”

“What you asked for can’t be had. It would be a waste to kill a man over information he ain’t got.”

There was a long silence on the other end, then, “This is the second time this week that you’ve disappointed me, Diego.” The silkiness of The Bookkeeper’s tone sent a tingle down Diego’s spine.

Anyone who knew anything about The Bookkeeper knew what happened to people who disappointed or failed. Diego didn’t fear being rubbed out. He was too talented to be squandered. No, The Bookkeeper would use some other means to punish him, some other—

Sudden realization came crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. This is the second time.

Diego’s stomach lurched. He thought he might vomit. He disconnected and, without even considering the consequences, opened the kitchen door. Alarm bells went off. The noise was deafening, but it barely registered with Diego. The fear clamoring inside his head portended something far worse than arrest.

He sprinted across the stone terrace and over the lawn. By the time he reached the estate wall, he was winded, but he didn’t even pause to catch his breath. He scaled the wall using the leafy vine for footholds and handholds. When he reached the top, he threw his legs over and jumped. He landed hard on the ground twelve feet below. His knees absorbed the impact, and it hurt like hell, but the pain didn’t slow him.

He heard the whoop-whoop of approaching police car sirens, but he took the most direct route to his stolen car, even though it meant being out in the open as opposed to keeping to the shadows.

No one apprehended him. When he reached the car, he was wet with sweat and shaking so uncontrollably he barely managed to get it started. Heedless of it drawing notice, he pulled the car away from the curb with a squeal of tires.

He leaned into the steering wheel, gripping it with fingers that had turned bone-white with fear and fury. He’d never been taught to pray and knew no god, so he bargained with abstractions and fervently appealed to whatever unnamed supreme power was listening.

He broke his unbroken law and drove directly to his building. The tires smoked when he brought the car to a jarring halt. He bolted out, not even bothering to cut off the engine or close the door.

A cutting torch had been used to excise the lock on the exterior door, which stood ajar. Diego plunged through it into total darkness. He raced through the dank corridors and bolted down the staircases that he knew by feel.

When he reached the lower level and saw the door to his domain standing open, he drew up short. His breath made a horrible sawing noise, and that was the only sound in the entire building. He thought he might die from the pain in his chest. He almost hoped he would, so he wouldn’t have to know.

But he had to know.

He forced himself to walk to the lighted doorway and look into the room that had been his safe haven. Until tonight.

Isobel was lying on her back on the bed. She’d been stripped naked and obscenely positioned. Her face had been brutalized. Her limbs were bruised and bore scratches. There were bite marks, so deeply impressed that they’d broken through her golden skin. There was dried semen. And blood.

He’d been kept away all day so that The Bookkeeper’s facilitators could take their time terrorizing, torturing, and killing Isobel and, by doing so, teach Diego a hard lesson in blind obedience.

Only her beautiful, silky black hair had escaped the assault. When Diego knelt beside the bed, it was her hair he stroked, her hair that he crooned to, that he held against his face and cried into.

His knees had grown numb by the time he finally got to his feet. He rearranged Isobel’s body to restore her modesty. He gently unclasped her silver crucifix. He kissed her cut and swollen lips, their first kiss also being their last. Finally, he pulled a blanket over her.

He surveyed the room, taking account of everything in it, and deciding there was nothing there he cared to salvage, not even the expensive rug. He poured the goldfish into the toilet and flushed. It was a mercy killing. Better that than to boil to death.

He made a pile of his belongings in the center of the room, set a lighter to them, and waited to make certain that the fire would catch. When he turned his back on the room, flames were already licking at the covers on the bed, Isobel’s funeral bier.

Slowly, laboriously, he made his way up through the former factory to street level. He could already smell smoke, and reasoned that it wouldn’t take long for the blaze to eat the building whole.

The car was gone, of course. It didn’t matter. He struck off down the sidewalk, staying close to the buildings, keeping his right hand around the razor in his pants pocket, thinking that possibly The Bookkeeper wasn’t finished with him yet.

He for sure as hell wasn’t finished with The Bookkeeper.