Sandra Brown - Lethal

“We could spend the night in the truck.”

“ I could,” he said. “ We couldn’t.”

Eventually she stopped wasting energy on trying to change his mind. She lacked his stamina and skills, but she applied herself to helping and did whatever he asked of her.

Emily awakened from her nap. She was chatty and excited by the activity. She got in the way, but Coburn worked around her with surprising patience. She stood on deck and called down encouragement to them as, together, they put their backs to the prow and pushed the unfettered craft off the bank into the water.

Coburn checked for leakage and, finding none, joined Honor at the controls. Her dad had taught her how to start the engine and to steer. But it had been years. Miraculously, she remembered the steps, and when the engine belched to life, she didn’t know who was the more astonished, her or Coburn.

He asked about fuel. She checked the gauge. “We’re okay. Dad was preparing for a hurricane. But the other gauges…” She looked at them dubiously. “I don’t know what all of them are for.”

He spread a yellowed nautical map over the control panel. “Do you know where we are?”

She pointed out their location. “Somewhere along here. If we head south toward the coast, we’ll become more exposed. On the other hand, one shrimp boat in a marina lined with them won’t be as obvious. Further inland, the bayous are narrower. There’s more tree coverage. Waters are also shallower.”

“Since we’ll probably have to bail out, I vote for shallow water. Just get us as far as you can.”

He traced their progress on the map. They chugged for about five miles through the winding waterways before the engine began to cough. The waters became thick with vegetation. Several times, Honor narrowly missed running over cypress knees that poked up through the opaque surface.

Coburn nudged her elbow. “Over there. It’s as good a place as any.”

Honor steered the boat closer to the marshy shore, where a dense cypress grove would provide partial concealment. Coburn dropped anchor. She cut the engine and looked at him for further instruction.

“Make yourselves comfortable.”

“What?” she exclaimed.

He folded the map and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans, then checked his pistol and set it on the control panel, well out of Emily’s reach. “I’ll take Hawkins’s.357. You keep this one. It’s ready to fire. All you have to do is point and pull the trigger.”

“What are you doing?”

Before she’d even finished asking, he was out of the wheelhouse. When she reached the deck, he was lowering himself over the side of the boat into the knee-deep water. “Coburn!”

“Can’t leave the truck back there.” He hesitated, then, swearing under his breath, pulled her cell phone and its battery from his pocket. “I guess I should leave you a phone. Just in case something happens to me. But I’m trusting you not to use it. If you have to call someone, call 911 and only 911.” He passed her the two components.

“How do you…”

“Lucky for us, yours is an older phone. It’s easier to do than with the newer models.” He removed the back of her phone and demonstrated how to replace the battery. “Line up the gold bars, snap it into place. Emily could do it.” His eyes met hers. “But-”

“I promise I won’t unless you don’t come back.”

He bobbed his head once, then turned away from the boat.

He slogged his way to solid ground, then disappeared into the undergrowth.

Diego was shopping in a Mexican supermarket when his cell phone vibrated again. He stepped outside the store to answer. “You ready for me?”

“Yes,” The Bookkeeper said. “I want you to watch someone for the next couple of days.”

“What? Watch someone?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“What about Coburn?”

“Just do as I tell you, Diego. The man’s name is Bonnell Wallace.”

Who cared what the hell his name was? It wasn’t Coburn. Before he could voice his objections, he was given two addresses, one for a bank on Canal Street, the other a residence in the Garden District. It wasn’t explained to him why this man needed watching, and actually, Diego didn’t give a flip. It was a bullshit job.

With exaggerated boredom, he asked, “Do you want him to know he’s being watched?”

“Not yet. I’ll let you know when another move is called for. If one is called for.”

“Okay.” His cavalier tone didn’t escape The Bookkeeper.

“Am I keeping you from something, Diego?”

Yeah , he thought. You’re keeping me from a high-paying hit . Instead he put The Bookkeeper on the defensive. “I haven’t been paid for the massage parlor girl.”

“I don’t have proof that she’s dead.”

“What, you want me to send you her head in a box like those vultures in Mexico do?”

“No need to go that far. But I haven’t seen anything on the news about a body being found.”

“It won’t be. I saw to that.”

“But you didn’t give me any details.”

“Like what?”

“When you tracked her down, was anyone with her?”

“No. She was soliciting conventioneers there where the riverboats dock.”

“The Moonwalk.”

“Whatever.”

“She was alone? No pimp? Somebody helped her get away. She wouldn’t have had the courage to leave on her own.”

“All I know is that she was alone when I found her. No pimp, or she would have been doing more business,” he said, putting a chuckle behind it. “She was easy pickings. I negotiated a ten-dollar blowjob, then when I got her under some pilings, I slit her throat. For good measure, I opened up her belly, filled it with rocks, and sank her in the river. If her body ever pops up, it won’t look like her no more.”

Referring to Isobel in these terms made him wince, but he had to keep up appearances. The laugh, the cockiness was fake, but he must make himself believed.

The Bookkeeper kept him waiting an interminably long time before speaking. “All right. You can pick up your money tomorrow. Where do you want it left?”

Paydays came in the form of an envelope of cash, left for him in a designated spot that changed each time. He gave The Bookkeeper the location of a dry cleaning establishment that had been abandoned since Katrina.

“There’s an old cash register on the counter. Have it left in the drawer.”

“It will be there. In the meantime, keep me posted on Bonnell Wallace. I want to know anything he does that’s not part of his daily routine.”

“Oh, like that’s a big fucking deal.” Before The Bookkeeper could respond to that, Diego clicked off and returned to the store. He got another cart and started over. He never left anything unattended, fearing a transponder or something worse being planted on it.

And, as nice as an envelope containing five hundred dollars would be, he wouldn’t pick it up for several days. First, he would watch the dry cleaner’s building to make certain that a trap wasn’t being laid for him. The Bookkeeper might not trust him entirely. But he trusted The Bookkeeper not at all.

It was raining by the time he left the store with his purchases and one shoplifted canned ham. Regardless of the weather, he took a long, rambling route home, checking over his shoulder frequently and approaching blind corners with his razor in hand.

Isobel greeted him with a sweet smile and a dry towel. Her shyness toward him lessened a little each day. She was coming to trust him, starting to believe that he wasn’t going to harm her or sell her services.

He had stopped touching her. He no longer trusted himself even to stroke her cheek, not when the sight of her melted his heart but made his cock swell with desire.