Текст книги "Lethal"

Автор книги: Sandra Brown

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Chapter 11

It was well past the dinner hour when Tom returned home. He found Janice in Lanny’s room giving him his sponge bath, which they performed each evening before changing him into pajamas. In the morning, they dressed him in a track suit. Of course it made no difference what he wore, but changing his clothes was a much-needed nod toward normalcy.

Tom set his briefcase on the floor and began rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Honey, why didn’t you wait on me?”

“I didn’t know when you’d be home, and I wanted to get him settled for the night so I could put my feet up.”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to get some paperwork done on Tambour before tomorrow, because tomorrow will be crazy. It always is after a holiday. And now with this crisis, it’ll be doubly nuts.”

When he reached the bed, he elbowed her aside. “Sit down. I’ll finish.” Before dipping the sponge into the tub of warm water, Tom bent over his son and kissed his forehead. “Hi, Lanny.”

Lanny’s eyes remained fixed. The lack of response filled Tom with a familiar despair. He dipped the sponge in the water and, after squeezing out the excess, applied it to Lanny’s arm.

“How’s that going?” Janice asked.

“What?”

“The crisis in Tambour?”

Lanny’s arm was dead weight when Tom lifted it to wash his armpit. “The suspect is still at large. I think he’d be a fool to hang around here. It seems to me that he’d hitch a ride with a truck-driving pal and get as far away from southern Louisiana as possible.”

“Is there such a person as a truck-driving pal?” She had settled herself into the La-Z-Boy recliner and tucked her feet beneath her. The large chair served as a bed for one of them if Lanny was having a rough night.

“None identified as yet, but we’re checking with companies that do business with Royale. Fred Hawkins thinks it’s a waste of time. He thinks Coburn is still in the area.” He smiled across at her. “He feels him like standing hairs on the back of his neck.”

“Good Lord,” she scoffed. “What’s next? Reading chicken innards? I hope he’s not relying on a sixth sense to find a mass murderer.”

“It’ll take some smarts.”

“Is Fred Hawkins up to the task?”

Tom began washing Lanny’s legs and feet. “He’s certainly motivated. Mrs. Marset made a personal call to the superintendent of police and put the squeeze on him, which he passed along through the rank and file. Marset’s church is conducting a candlelight prayer vigil tonight. Heat is coming from God and government, and Fred is beginning to feel it.”

“He sounded pretty confident a while ago.”

She motioned toward the TV sitting on a dresser opposite the bed, which remained on around the clock in the hope that some programming might stimulate a reaction from Lanny. The picture was on now, but the audio had been muted.

“Fred fielded questions from reporters live on the evening news,” Janice said. “He seemed convinced that the footprint and blood spatters you found this afternoon were a major boon.”

It pleased Tom that she seemed suitably impressed by his contribution, which he had exaggerated slightly.

Taking advantage of her attention, he expanded the story. “Did I tell you about Mrs. Arleeta Thibadoux?” His anecdote about the colorful and semi-toothless woman actually coaxed a laugh from Janice. He detected a trace of the woman he’d fallen in love with and proposed marriage to.

He remembered that day as one of the happiest of his life, rivaling even their wedding day in his memory. After he’d slipped the solitaire diamond ring on her finger, they’d made love on the sagging bed in his stuffy, cramped apartment. It had been ardent, sweaty, and athletic, and afterward they’d celebrated their engagement by sharing a bottle of beer.

He wished he could turn back the clock to that afternoon and once again see Janice’s cheeks flushed, her lips soft and smiling, her eyes lambent with satiation and happiness.

But if he turned back the clock to that day, they wouldn’t have Lanny.

The next thought that flashed through his mind was involuntary but treacherous, and he was instantly shamed by it.

He dropped the sponge into the plastic tub and looked over at Janice. Judging from her expression, her thoughts were moving along a similar track, or one close enough to make her feel equally guilty.

She came out of the chair as though trying to outrun her own thoughts. “I’ll go fix dinner while you’re finishing up here. Omelets okay?” Without waiting for him to reply, she left the room as though the devil was after her.

Ten minutes later they sat down to their omelets and ate in virtual silence, exchanging only brief snippets of forced conversation. Tom remembered times when they couldn’t say enough, when they would talk over each other relating the events of the day.

When he finished his meal, he carried his plate to the sink and ran water over it, then mentally braced himself and turned to his wife.

“Janice, let’s talk.”

She set her fork on the rim of her plate and placed her hands in her lap. “About what?”

“Lanny.”

“Specifically?”

“It may be time to readjust our thinking about his care.”

There, he’d said it.

Lightning didn’t strike him, nor did the statement spark a reaction from his wife. She just stared up at him with an expression as closed as a storm shutter.

He pressed on. “I think we should revisit the possibility—just the possibility—of placing him in a facility.”

She looked away from him and rolled her lips inward. Giving her a moment, he cleared the remainder of the dishes and utensils from the table and carried them to the sink.

Finally she broke the tense silence. “We made promises to him, and to each other, Tom.”

“We did,” he said somberly. “But when we pledged to keep him with us always, I think we nursed a kernel of hope that he would develop to some extent, acquire some capabilities. True?”

She neither denied nor admitted having held out such a feeble hope.

“I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.” That was something both of them knew, but had never acknowledged out loud. Saying it had caused Tom’s voice to crack with emotion.

Tight-lipped, Janice said, “All the more reason why he needs the best of care.”

“That’s just it. I’m not sure we’re providing it.” She took immediate offense, but he spoke before she could. “That’s not a criticism of you. Your patience and endurance amaze me. Truly. But caring for him is killing you.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I? It’s shredding you, body and soul. I see evidence of it daily.”

“You can look into my soul?”

Her sarcasm was more effective than a flat-out rebuke would have been. He rubbed his eyes, the activities of the day catching up with him, and then some. “Please don’t make this subject even more difficult than it already is. It hurts me even to suggest moving him to a facility. Don’t you know that?”

“Then why bring it up?”

“Because one of us had to. We’re eroding as human beings, Janice. And I’m not just thinking about us. I’m thinking about Lanny. How do we know that we’re doing what’s best for him?”

“We’re his parents.”

“Loving parents, yes, but untrained in how to care for him. There are specialists for patients like Lanny.”

She stood up and wandered the kitchen as though looking for a means of escape. “This is a pointless conversation. Even if we agreed that it would be best, we can’t afford the private facilities. As for some modern-day Bedlam operated by the state, forget it. I would never put him in a place like that.”

The implied suggestion that he would bothered him, but he didn’t let himself be drawn into an argument. He stuck to the core of the matter. “We owe it to ourselves, and to him, to visit some of the better places and see what they’re like.” He hesitated, then asked, “Would you be open to doing that if finances weren’t a consideration?”

“But they are.”

“If they weren’t,” he said insistently.

“Are you planning on winning the lottery?”

Again, he felt the sting of her sarcasm, but he let it pass. He’d said enough for one night. He’d given her food for thought. He’d known that broaching this subject would automatically make him out to be the bad guy, but one of them had to be, and it wasn’t going to be Janice.

She’d been valedictorian of her high school class, an honor graduate from Vanderbilt, a rising star in an investments firm. Then fate cruelly interrupted not only her promising career path but the sum total of her life.

She’d had to sacrifice everything for Lanny, which made admitting defeat untenable to her. In her mind, placing Lanny in a facility was full-scale surrender, as good as an admission that—yet again—she had been denied the opportunity to finish something she’d started.

He sighed. “I’d better get to bed and sleep while I can. I won’t be surprised if I get a call in the middle of the night.”

“What for?”

“The agents I left in Tambour know to call me with any developments.” He paused at the door. “You look done in, too. Coming?”

“Not yet. I’m tired but not sleepy. I think I’ll stay up for a while.”

“Playing your word game with your cell phone friend in Japan?”

“Singapore.”

He smiled. Playing the games were her one form of recreation, and it had become almost an addiction. “I hope you win.”

“I’m leading by forty-three points, but I’ve got a j that’s challenging me.”

“You’ll come up with a word for it,” he said with confidence. “But don’t stay up too late.”

Two hours later, Tom was still alone in their bed. He got up and padded barefoot down the hall. After looking in on Lanny, he found Janice in the den, staring raptly into the screen of her cell phone, totally engrossed in a pastime that apparently was much more enjoyable to her than sleeping with him.

Without her ever knowing that he’d been watching her, he turned away and retraced his steps to their bedroom.

Chapter 12

Coburn gradually withdrew his hands from Honor’s shoulders. He got off her and retrieved the pistol, tucking it back into his waistband. She continued to lie there staring up at him.

“That was a damn stupid thing to do,” he said. “If you’d accidentally pulled the trigger, one of us could be dead, and if it turned out to be you, I’d be stuck with your kid.”

It was a harsh thing to say, which is why he’d said it. Her daughter was the button to push when he wanted something from her, and right now he wanted her to stop gaping like a beached perch.

He knew she heard him, because she blinked. But she remained perfectly still, and for one panicked moment he wondered if she’d been seriously injured during their struggle.

He wondered why he cared.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded.

Relieved of that worry, he turned away and looked at the mess he’d made of her house. When he’d arrived this morning, everything had been in its place. Lived in, but tidy and neat. Homey. Smelling of fresh cake.

Now the place was in shambles, and he had nothing to show for his ransacking.

Dead end.

Which more or less summarized the life and times of Lee Coburn, who would leave the world with seven brutal murders as his only legacy. Seven victims who hadn’t been given a chance, who’d died before they knew what had hit them.

Swearing beneath his breath, he rubbed his temples. He was tired. No, more than tired. Weary. Weary of loading and unloading those goddamn trucks. Weary of the sad, one-room apartment that he’d been living in for the past thirteen months. Weary of life in general, and of his life in particular. As he’d told Gillette’s widow, if he died, which he probably would soon, he’d be dead, and none of it would matter.

But hell if it didn’t matter now. As he lowered his hands from his forehead, he realized he wasn’t quite ready to let the devil take him.

“Get up.”

She stirred, rolled to her side, and pushed herself into a sitting position. He reached down. She studied his hand for several seconds, then clasped it and let him pull her up.

“What did you mean?”

Her voice was breathless and shaky, but he knew what she was referring to. Instead of addressing the question, he propelled her toward the hallway and then into her bedroom, where he released her hand. Going to the bed, he whipped back the comforter, which had been spotless, but was now stained and grimy because of him.

“I gotta lie down, which means you gotta lie down.”

She stood where she was, looking at him as though she didn’t understand the language.

“Lie down,” he repeated.

She moved to the bed, but stood on the opposite side of it, staring across at him like he was an exotic animal she’d never seen before. She wasn’t acting right. All day long, he’d been studying her reactions to things he said and did, so that he would know what her weaknesses were and what fears he could tap into in order to manipulate her.

He’d seen her terrified, supplicant, desperate, and even pissed off. But this was a new expression, and he didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe she’d banged her head on the floor when she was fighting for control of the pistol.

“What you said about Eddie…” She paused to swallow. “What did you mean?”

“What did I say? I don’t remember.”

“You said that the thing you’re after had got him killed.”

“I never said that.”

“That’s exactly what you said.”

“You must’ve heard me wrong.”

“I didn’t hear you wrong!”

Well, good. She was acting normal again, not like a zombie had taken over her body. Her compact, shapely body that had felt real good against his.

“Eddie’s death was an accident,” she declared.

“If you say so.” He turned away and started rifling through the heap of clothes he’d removed from her bureau drawers earlier as he’d searched them.

He sensed her approach only a heartbeat before she grabbed him by the arm and brought him around to face her. He allowed it. She wasn’t going to stop with this until she got an explanation. Not unless he gagged her, and he really didn’t want to do that unless she forced him to.

“What did you come here to find?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me, damn you!

“I don’t know!”

He pulled his arm free and bent down to pick up a pair of stockings. Sheer, black stockings. When he turned back to her, she searched his eyes.

“You honestly don’t know?” she asked.

“What part of ‘I don’t know’ don’t you understand?”

He reached for her hand and began wrapping the stocking around her wrist. She didn’t resist. In fact, she seemed oblivious to what he was doing.

“If there’s anything about Eddie or how he died that you can tell me… Please,” she said. “Surely you can understand why I want to know.”

“Actually I don’t. He’ll stay dead. So what difference does it make?”

“It makes a huge difference. If his death wasn’t an accident, as you imply, I’d like to know why he died and who was responsible.” She placed her hand over his. He stopped winding the stocking around her wrist. “Please.”

Her eyes were various shades of green that were constantly changing. He’d noticed that the first thing, when they’d been out in the yard and he’d thrust the barrel of the pistol into her belly. Then her eyes had gone wide with fear. He’d seen them spark with anger. Now they glistened with unshed tears. And, always, those shifting hues.

He looked down at their joined hands. She lifted hers off his, but didn’t break eye contact. “You don’t think Eddie’s car crash was an accident?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

She breathed through her lips. “You think someone caused the crash and made it look like an accident?”

He didn’t say anything.

Her tongue swept across her lips. “He was killed because of something he had?”

He nodded. “That someone else wanted.”

“Something valuable?”

“The people who wanted it thought so.”

He watched the play of emotions in her face as she digested that. Then her gaze refocused on him. “Valuable to you?”

He gave a brusque nod.

“Like cash?”

“Possibly. But I don’t think so. More like the combination to a lock. Account number in a Cayman Islands bank. Something like that.”

She shook her head with perplexity. “Eddie wouldn’t have had anything like that. Unless he was holding it for evidence.”

“Or…”

His insinuation finally sank in and she recoiled from it. “Eddie wasn’t party to any criminal activity. Surely that’s not what you’re suggesting.”

He snuffled a laugh. “No, of course not.”

“Eddie was as honest as the day is long.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But he got crosswise with the wrong person.”

“Who?”

“The Bookkeeper.”

“Who?”

“Did Eddie know Sam Marset?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“Before we got married, Eddie moonlighted by working as a security guard for Mr. Marset.”

“At the warehouse?”

“The whole compound.”

“For how long?”

“Several months. They’d had a few break-ins, minor vandalism, so Mr. Marset hired Eddie to patrol at night. The break-ins stopped. Nevertheless, Mr. Marset liked the peace of mind that having a guard provided. But Eddie declined his offer of a permanent position.” She smiled faintly. “He wanted to be a cop.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Sam Marset? Only casually. He was an elder at our church. He and I served one term together on the Historical Preservation Society.”

“Church elder, historical society, my ass,” he snorted. “He was a greedy, unscrupulous son of a bitch.”

“Who deserved to be shot in the head.”

He raised one shoulder. “Quick and painless.”

The statement and his matter-of-fact tone seemed to repel her. She tried to back away from him, only then realizing that her wrist was bound.

Honor’s head began to swim as she clawed at the stocking around her wrist. “Take this off me. Take it off!”

He grabbed the hand frantically trying to unwind the stocking and began wrapping the other stocking around that wrist. “No. No!” She batted at his hands, then at his face with her free hand.

He dodged her flailing hand. Swearing, he pushed her back onto the bed and was on her in a heartbeat. His knee held down her left arm while he quickly tied her right hand to the iron headboard.

Only the fear of awakening Emily kept her from screaming bloody murder. “Let me go!”

He didn’t. He hauled her left hand up and wrapped the end of the stocking around one of the curved iron rails, ruthlessly knotting it. Frantically she tugged on the bindings. Panic had her gasping. “Please. I’m claustrophobic.”

“I don’t give a shit.” He came off the bed and stood looking down at her, breathing hard from exertion.

“Untie me!”

He not only ignored the demand, he left the room.

She bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from screaming. He’d left about six inches of give on each hand, permitting the backs of her hands to lie against the pillow beside her head, but the slack didn’t lessen her feeling of entrapment. Overwhelmed by panic, she renewed her effort to get free.

But soon it became apparent that her attempts were futile and that she was only wasting her strength. She forced herself to stop struggling and to take deep, calming breaths. But reason had never succeeded in ridding her of claustrophobia, and it didn’t now. It only ameliorated it enough for her to slow down her heart rate and respiration to levels that weren’t life-threatening.

She could hear Coburn moving through the house. She supposed he was checking the locks on doors and windows. The irony of that caused a bubble of hysterical laughter to escape her before she could catch it.

The hallway light went out. Coburn reentered the bedroom.

She made herself lie still and to speak as evenly as possible. “I’ll go crazy. Really. I will. I can’t stand it.”

“You don’t have a choice. Besides, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

“Just untie me and I promise—”

“No. I’ve got to sleep. You’ve got to lie here beside me.”

“I will.”

He shot her a skeptical look.

“I swear.”

“We had a deal. You welshed on it. Twice. And almost shot one of us in the process.”

“I’ll lie here and not move. I promise I won’t do anything. Okay?”

Their recent tussle had reopened his scalp wound. A thin trickle of blood slid down his temple. He swiped at it, then looked at the red streaks on his fingers before wiping them on the leg of his jeans. Eddie’s jeans.

“Did you hear me?”

“I’m not deaf.”

“I won’t try to get away. I swear. Just untie my hands.”

“Sorry, lady. You blew what trust I had in you, and I didn’t have any to start with. Now lie still and be quiet or I’ll stuff something into your mouth and then you really will feel claustrophobic.”

He set the pistol on the nightstand, then switched off the lamp.

“We have to keep a light on,” she said, keeping her voice low. The thought of a gag terrified her. “Emily is afraid of the dark. If she wakes up and the light isn’t on, she’ll get scared and start crying. She’ll come looking for me. Please. I don’t want her to see me like this.”

He hesitated, then turned away. Her eyes followed his dark form as he went into the hallway and switched on the overhead light. His silhouette showed up large and menacing as he came back into the bedroom.

He seemed even more menacing when he lay down on his back inches from her. She hadn’t been in bed with anyone since Eddie. Emily, of course. But Emily’s forty pounds hardly made an impression in the mattress. She didn’t rock the bed when she climbed onto it or create a decline, which caused Honor to focus on keeping to her side rather than rolling against him.

The motions and sounds of his settling down beside her harkened back to the familiar, yet it felt strange. This man lying close to her wasn’t Eddie. His breathing was different. His sheer presence felt different from Eddie’s.

And somehow not touching seemed more intimate than if they were.

Once he was settled comfortably, he didn’t stir. From the corner of her eye, she looked over to see that he’d closed his eyes. His fingers were loosely clasped and resting on his abdomen.

She lay as straight, still, and stiff as a plank, trying to talk herself out of having a full-blown panic attack. She was bound and unable to get free, true. But, she told herself sternly, she wasn’t in mortal danger. She counted her heartbeats in order to keep the rate of them under control. She made each breath long and deep.

But these exercises worked no better than reason.

Her anxiety continued to mount until she began pulling against the bindings, straining against them with as much effort as she could muster.

“You’re only making them tighter,” he said.

“Undo them.”

“Go to sleep.”

A sob burbled out of her and she started jerking at the bindings until the headboard banged rhythmically against the wall.

“Stop that!”

“I can’t. I told you I couldn’t stand it, and I can’t.”

She began to pull so viciously against the stockings that the recoil caused the backs of her hands to rap painfully against the iron rails of the headboard. The pain caused her panic to rise until she was bucking like someone demented. Her legs bicycled as though trying to outrun the feeling of suffocation. Her heels pushed hard against the mattress. Her head thrashed from side to side on the pillow.

“Shh, shh. Calm down. You’re okay. Shh.”

Realization came to her gradually. Coburn was leaning over her. He was holding one of her hands in each of his, his thumbs planted solidly in her palms. His voice was a soothing whisper.

“Shh.” His thumbs began massaging small circles into her palms. “Take deep breaths. You’ll be fine.”

But she didn’t breathe deeply. Following one stuttering exhale, she didn’t breathe at all. And when he angled his head back to look down into her face, he stopped breathing too.

His face was close to hers, close enough that she could see his eyes as they looked down at her mouth, then at her chest, making her achingly aware of her breasts. Not even the semi-darkness could dim the blue intensity of his eyes when they reconnected with hers.

In order to stop her convulsing, he’d placed his leg across her thighs. His lap was pressed against her hip. His arousal was unmistakable. And Honor knew that her perfect stillness was a giveaway that she felt it.

It seemed like an eternity that they lay there, frozen in that position, but it was probably only a few seconds. Then he swore viciously as he released her hands and rolled off her. He lay as before on his back, close but not touching. Only now he placed one forearm across his eyes.

“Don’t pull another stunt like that.”

It hadn’t been a stunt, but she didn’t refute him. He hadn’t specified what her punishment would be if she freaked out again. But the gruffness in his voice warned her against testing him.