Lethal(12)

He dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt, and slipped on an old pair of sneakers, reminding himself to check the trunk of his car for the rubber boots he used to wear whenever he went fishing.

He used to do a lot of things he no longer did.

When he walked into the kitchen, Janice’s back was to him. She was preoccupied with making his sandwich so he studied her for several seconds without her being aware of it.

She hadn’t retained the prettiness that she’d had when they first met. The thirteen years since Lanny’s birth had taken a visible toll. Her movements were no longer graceful and fluid, but efficient and brisk, as though if she didn’t hurry up and accomplish the task at hand, she would lose the wherewithal to do it.

The slender young body she’d boasted had been whittled away and now she could be described as gaunt. Work and worry had etched lines around her eyes, and the lips that had always been on the verge of smiling were perpetually drawn with disappointment.

Tom didn’t blame her for these changes in her appearance. The changes in him were just as disagreeable. Unhappiness and hopelessness were stamped indelibly onto their faces. Worse, the changes weren’t only physical. Their love for each other had been drastically altered by the ongoing tragedy that their life together had become. The love he felt for Janice now was based more on pity than passion.

When first married, they’d shared an interest in jazz, movies, and Tuscan cooking. They’d planned to spend a summer in Italy attending cooking classes and drinking the regional vintages during sun-drenched afternoons.

That was just one of their dreams that had been shattered.

Every single day Tom asked himself how long they could go on in their present state. Something must change. Tom knew it. He figured Janice did, too. But neither wanted to be the first to wave a white flag on their commitment to their helpless son. Neither wanted to be the first to say, “I can’t do this any longer,” and suggest doing what they had pledged never to do, which was to place him in a special care facility.

The good ones were private and therefore costly. But the exorbitant expense was only one obstacle. Tom wasn’t certain what Janice’s reaction would be if he suggested they amend their original policy regarding Lanny’s care. He was afraid she would talk him out of it. And equally afraid that she wouldn’t.

Sensing his presence, she glanced over her shoulder. “Ham and cheese with brown mustard?”

“Fine.”

She folded plastic wrap around the sandwich. “Do you plan to stay away overnight?”

“I can’t leave you alone with Lanny for that long.”

“I would manage.”

Tom shook his head. “I’ll come back. Fred Hawkins will share with me all his case notes.”

“You mean the oracle of the Tambour Police Department?”

Her sarcasm made him smile. She’d known the Hawkins twins from her last year of high school, when her father had decided to move “to the country” and had taken Janice out of the parochial academy in New Orleans and transferred her to the public school in Tambour. While the distance wasn’t that far, the two environments had been worlds apart.

Janice had experienced a reeling culture shock and had never quite forgiven her parents for uprooting her during that all-important senior year and transplanting her in “Bubbaville.” She considered everyone in Tambour a hick, starting with, and in particular, Fred Hawkins and his twin, Doral. It amazed her that one had become an officer of the law, the other a city official. Even by Tambour’s standards, the twins had exceeded her expectations of them.

“Everybody in Tambour wants the head of Sam Marset’s killer on a pike, and they’re breathing down Fred’s collar to get it,” Tom told her. “The coroner estimates time of death for all seven victims at around midnight, so Fred is”—he glanced at the clock on the microwave oven—“almost twelve hours into the investigation, and he doesn’t have any substantial leads.”

Janice winced. “The scene was described as a bloodbath.”

“The photos my men sent back weren’t pretty.”

“What was the owner of the company doing in the warehouse at that time of night?”

“That struck Fred as odd, too. Mrs. Marset was of no help because she was out of town. Fred’s thinking is that maybe this Coburn created some kind of problem, got into a fight with a coworker, something serious enough for the foreman to call Marset. They’ll check phone records, but a reason for Marset’s being there at that unusual hour hasn’t been established yet.”

“Is Lee Coburn a habitual troublemaker?”

“His employment record didn’t indicate that. But no one claims to know him well.”

“I gathered that by Fred’s press conference. Beyond a description and a police artist sketch, they don’t seem to have much.”

“He put false information on his job application.”

“They didn’t check it out before they hired him?”

“An oversight I’m sure the human resources staff is regretting.”

“Why did he lie on his application, I wonder. To hide a police record?”

“That was the general consensus. But so far his fingerprints haven’t turned up any prior arrests.”

Janice frowned. “He’s probably one of those wackos who slips through the cracks of society until he does something like this. Then everybody takes notice. What I don’t get is why these nutcases go after innocent people. If he bore a grudge against the company, why didn’t he just wreck one of the trucks? Why go on a killing spree?”