Lethal

Chapter 16

This isn’t my car.”

Coburn took his eyes off the rearview mirror to glance over at Honor. “I ditched yours.”

“Where?”

“A few miles from your house where I picked up this one.”

“It’s stolen?”

“No, I knocked on the door and asked if I could borrow it.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “The owners will report it.”

“I switched the plates with another car.”

“You did all this between leaving my house and coming back to head off Fred?”

“I work fast.”

She absorbed all that information, then remarked, “You said you saw Fred in a boat.”

“The road follows the bayou. I was driving without headlights. I saw the light on his boat, pulled off the road to check it out. Saw him and recognized him instantly. Figured what he would do if you repeated to him anything of what I’d told you. Went back. Lucky for you I did.”

She still didn’t look convinced of that, and he couldn’t say he blamed her for doubting him. Yesterday when he’d barged into her life, she’d been icing cupcakes for a birthday party. Since then he’d threatened her and her kid at gunpoint. He’d manhandled and wrestled with her. He’d wrecked her house and tied her to her bed.

Now he was supposed to be the good guy who’d talked her into fleeing her home because men she’d known and trusted for years were in fact mass murderers with designs on killing her. Naturally, she’d be more than a little skeptical.

She was nervously running her hands up and down her thighs, now clothed in jeans instead of yesterday’s denim shorts. Occasionally she would glance over her shoulder at the little girl, who was in the backseat playing with that red thing. It and the ratty quilt that she called her bankie, along with Honor’s handbag, were all that he’d allowed them to bring with them. He’d hustled them away literally with nothing except the clothes on their backs.

At least their clothes belonged to them. He was wearing those of a dead man.

Not for the first time.

In a whisper, Honor asked, “Do you think she saw?”

“No.”

On their race through the house, Honor had created a game requiring Emily to keep her eyes shut until they were outside. For expediency, Coburn had carried her from her pink bedroom to the car. He’d kept his hand on the back of her head, her face pressed into his neck, just in case she cheated at the game and opened her eyes, in which case she would have seen Fred Hawkins’s body on the living room floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday that you were an FBI agent? Why run roughshod over me?”

“I didn’t trust you.”

She looked at him with a bewilderment that seemed genuine.

“You’re Gillette’s widow,” he explained. “Reason enough for me to harbor some doubts about you. Then when I saw that photo, saw him and his dad being chummy with the two guys I’d seen kill those seven in the warehouse, heard you extol them as dearest friends, what was I supposed to think? In any case, I was and am convinced that whatever Eddie had, you have now.”

“But I don’t.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you do have it and just don’t know that you do. Anyway, I no longer think you’re holding out on me.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Even if you’d been crooked, I think you’d have given me anything I wanted if I didn’t hurt your little girl.”

“You’re right.”

“I came to that conclusion just before dawn this morning. I figured I’d leave you in peace. Then I saw Hawkins on his way to your house. Sudden change of plan.”

“Am I truly to believe that Fred killed Sam Marset?”

“I witnessed it.” He glanced at her; her expression invited him to elaborate. “There was a meeting scheduled for Sunday midnight at the warehouse.”

“A meeting between Marset and Fred?”

“Between Marset and The Bookkeeper.”

She rubbed her forehead. “What are you talking about?”

He took a breath, collected his thoughts. “Interstate Highway 10 cuts through Louisiana, north of Tambour.”

“It goes through Lafayette and New Orleans.”

“Right. I-10 is the southernmost coast-to-coast interstate, and its proximity to Mexico and the Gulf make it a pipeline for drug dealers, gun runners, human traffickers. Big markets are the key cities it passes through—Phoenix, El Paso, San Antonio, Houston, New Orleans—all of which also have major north/south routes that intersect it.”

“Essentially—”

“Connecting I-10 to every major city in the continental U.S.”

Again she nodded. “Okay.”

“Any vehicle you pass on it—everything from a semi, to a pickup, to a family van—might be transporting street drugs, pharmaceuticals, weapons, girls and boys destined for forced prostitution.” He looked over at her. “You still following me?”

“Sam Marset owned Royale Trucking Company.”

“You get a gold star.”

“You’re actually saying that Sam Marset’s drivers were dabbling in this illegal transport?”

“Not his drivers. Sam Marset, your church elder and historical society whatever. And not dabbling. He’s big-time. Was. Sunday night put an end to his life of crime.”

She thought that over, checked to see that the kid was still distracted by her toy, then asked, “Where do you factor in?”

“I was assigned to get inside Marset’s operation, find out who he did business with, so the hotshots could set up a series of stings. It took me months just to gain the foreman’s trust. Then, only after Marset gave his approval, I was entrusted with the manifests. His company ships a lot of legal goods, but I also saw plenty of contraband.”

“Human beings?”

“Everything except that. Which is good, because I’d have had to stop that shipment, and that would have entailed blowing my cover. As it was, I had to let a lot of illegal contraband go through. But my bosses aren’t interested in one truck of dry goods concealing one box of automatic handguns. The bureau wants the people sending and receiving them. I didn’t have enough proof yet to catch the big fish.”

“Like Marset.”

“Him and bigger. But the real prize would be The Bookkeeper.”

“Who is that?”

“Good question. The bureau didn’t even know about him until I got down here and realized that somebody is greasing the skids.”

“You just lost me.”

“The Bookkeeper is a facilitator. He goes to the people who’re supposed to be preventing all this illegal trafficking, then bribes or strong-arms them into looking the other way.”

“He bribes policemen?”

“Police, state troopers, agents at the state weigh stations, the man guarding impounded vehicles, anybody who has the potential of impeding the trafficking.”

“The Bookkeeper pays off the official…”

“Then takes a hefty commission from the smuggler for guaranteeing him and his cargo safe passage through the state of Louisiana.”

She ruminated on that, then said, “But you didn’t learn his identity.”

“No. I’m missing a key element.” He stopped at a crossroads and turned his head, giving her a hard look.

“Which you came to my house in search of.”

“Right.” He took his foot off the brake and accelerated through the intersection. “The DOJ isn’t—Department of Justice,” he said to clarify—“isn’t going to make a case until it knows it can’t lose in court. We might make a deal with someone to testify against The Bookkeeper in exchange for clemency, but we also need hard evidence. Files, bank records, phone records, canceled checks, deposit slips, names, dates. Documentation. Proof. I think that’s what your late husband had.”

“You think Eddie was involved in this?” she asked. “Drugs? Guns? Human trafficking? You are so wrong, Mr. Coburn.”

“Truth is, I don’t know what side of the business your husband was working. But he was blood brothers with the twins, and in my book that makes him damn suspicious. And being a cop would be an asset, just like it was to Fred.”

“Eddie was an honest cop.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? You’re his widow. But I saw his bosom buddies mow down seven people in cold blood. I would have been victim number eight if I hadn’t gotten away.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I was expecting something to happen. The meeting was supposed to be peaceful, no weapons. But I was on high alert because The Bookkeeper is reputed to be a ruthless son of a bitch. Do you remember a few weeks ago—it was on the news—about a Latino kid found in a ditch up near Lafayette with his throat cut?”

“There was no identification on him. Do you know who he was?”

“Not his name. I know he was being transported by one of The Bookkeeper’s ‘clients’ to a place in New Orleans that caters to…” He glanced into the rearview mirror. The kid was singing along with Elmo. “Caters to clients with lots of money and a taste for kinky sex. This kid knew what awaited him. He escaped during a refueling stop.

“Most of these kids are too scared to go to the authorities, but one might get brave. Apparently The Bookkeeper feared as much. His people caught up to this kid before he could do any damage.” He looked at her and muttered, “He’s probably better off dead. Shortly after the kid’s body turned up, a state trooper was found with his throat slit. I have an inkling the two murders are connected.”

“Do you think this Bookkeeper is a public official?”

“Could be. Maybe not. I was hoping to learn his identity on Sunday night,” he said tightly. “Because something big is brewing. I’ve just caught whiffs of it, but I think The Bookkeeper is courting a new client. Scary people with zero tolerance for screw-ups.”

Again she massaged her forehead. “I refuse to believe that Eddie was involved in anything relating to this. I can’t believe it of Sam Marset, either.”

“Marset was in it strictly for the money. He was a fat cat who profited off vices, but he wasn’t violent. If somebody crossed him, he ruined them. Usually financially. Or caught them with their pants down in a hotel room and blackmailed them. Like that. He was of the mind that the flyblown body of a thirteen-year-old boy being found in a ditch was bad for business.

“And that was only one of the grievances Marset was holding against The Bookkeeper. He demanded that they sit down together, hash out their differences, clear the air. The Bookkeeper agreed.”

“But pulled a double-cross.”

“To put it mildly. Instead of The Bookkeeper, it was the Hawkins twins who showed up. Before Marset could even voice his outrage over the switcheroo, Fred popped him. Doral had an automatic rifle. He opened fire on the others, taking out my foreman first. The instant I saw them at the door, I smelled a rat and slipped behind some crates, but I knew they’d seen me. When the others were down, they came after me.”

He approached a railroad crossing, but didn’t let it slow him down. The car bounced over it. “I’d taken the precaution of carrying a pistol to work that night, along with my extra cell phone. I left one phone behind on purpose. That’ll throw them off. They’ll chase their tails tracking down the calls on it.

“Anyway, I made it out of the warehouse alive and got to an abandoned building. One of the twins searched it, but I hid in the crawl space until he left. Then I hightailed it toward the river, bent on eventually getting to you before they caught up to me.” He looked over at her. “You more or less know the rest.”

“So what now? Where are we going?”

“I have no idea.”

She turned her head so quickly, her neck popped. “What?”

“I didn’t plan that far ahead. Actually, I didn’t count on living through that first night. I figured I’d either be killed by an overanxious officer or by someone on The Bookkeeper’s payroll.” He glanced over his shoulder into the backseat. “I sure didn’t count on having a woman and kid in tow.”

“Well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience we’ve imposed,” Honor said. “You can drop us at Stan’s house and go on about your business.”

He gave a short laugh. “Don’t you get it? Haven’t you been listening? If Doral Hawkins or The Bookkeeper think you know something that could help convict them, your life’s not worth spit.”

“I do understand. Stan will protect us until—”

“Stan, the man in the one-for-all-and-all-for-one photo with your late husband and the Hawkins twins? That Stan?”

“Surely, you don’t think—”

“Why not?”

“Stan’s a former Marine.”

“So am I. Look how I turned out.”

He’d made his point. She hesitated, then said staunchly, “My father-in-law would protect Emily and me with his dying breath.”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet. Until I do, you stay with me and contact nobody.”

Before she could say more, they heard the wail of sirens. Within seconds, two police cars appeared where the road met the horizon. They were approaching and closing quickly.

“Doral must have found his brother’s corpse.”

Though his muscles contracted with tension and he gripped the steering wheel of the stolen car tighter, Coburn maintained his speed and kept his eyes straight ahead. The squad cars screamed past at a high rate of speed.

“Police car,” the kid chirped. “Mommy, police car.”

“I see it, sweetheart.” Honor threw a smile back at her, then came around to him again. “Emily will need food. A place to sleep. We can’t just keep driving around in a stolen car, dodging the police. What are you going to do with us?”

“I’m about to find out.”

He checked the clock in the car’s dashboard and saw that it would be past nine on the East Coast. He took the next turn off the main road. The blacktop soon gave way to gravel and gravel to rutted dirt, and the road finally came to a dead end at a stagnant creek covered with duckweed.

He had three phones. Fred’s. Beyond that one last call to his brother, the call log had been empty. But since Fred used that phone for illegal purposes, Coburn hadn’t expected to find The Bookkeeper’s number highlighted. All the same, he would keep the phone. For safe measure, he removed the battery.

They couldn’t use Honor’s cell because the authorities could locate it using triangulation. He took the battery from it too.

Which left Coburn’s burner, the disposable he’d bought months earlier but had never used until yesterday. He turned it on, saw that he was getting a cell signal, and punched in a number with the hope that today his call would be answered.

“Who are you calling?” Honor asked.

“You jump out of your skin every time I move.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Not really.”

He looked at her elbows and upper arms, which bore bruises. The backs of her hands were also bruised from her banging them against the headboard when he’d tied her to it. He regretted that he’d had to get physical, but he wouldn’t apologize for it. She would have been hurt much worse if he hadn’t.

“You don’t have to worry about me grabbing you anymore,” he told her. “Or waving a pistol at you. No more jitters, okay?”

“If I’m jittery it could be because I saw a man shot dead in my home this morning.”

He’d already said what he had to say about that, and he wasn’t going to justify it again. If you got a chance to take out a violent criminal like Fred Hawkins, you didn’t stop to reason why. You pulled the goddamn trigger. Otherwise, you’d be the one no longer breathing.

How many men had he seen die? How many had he seen die violently? Too many to count or even to remember. But he supposed that for a second-grade schoolteacher’s clear green eyes, it was a shocking thing to witness, which she would always associate with him. No help for that. However, this call would put an end to her flinching every time he moved.

He was about to disconnect and try again when a woman answered. “Deputy Director Hamilton’s office. How can I direct your call?”

“Who’re you? Put Hamilton on.”

“Whom may I say is calling?”

“Look, cut the bullshit. Give him the phone.”

“Whom may I say is calling?”

Damn bureaucrats. “Coburn.”

“I’m sorry, who did you say?”

“Coburn,” he repeated impatiently. “Lee Coburn.”

After a sustained pause, the woman at the other end said, “That’s impossible. Agent Coburn is deceased. He died more than a year ago.”