Lethal(125)

She looked across at her father-in-law, laid her hand on his forearm, and pressed it. Then she motioned toward the recorder. “How long after recording that was Mrs. VanAllen…”

“Killed?” Hamilton asked.

Honor nodded.

“Minutes. Her lawyer had insisted that her statement be taken in a private office at the rehab center where she was getting therapy for the ankle injury. There were two federal marshals posted at the door. She was in a wheelchair. I and another agent were flanking her. Her attorney was pushing her chair.

“As we emerged from the office to take her back to her room, the young man seemed to come out of nowhere. He lashed at the marshal with a straight razor and sliced open his cheek. The other FBI agent was trying to draw his weapon when the young man slashed his throat. That agent died a few minutes later.

“Mrs. VanAllen was cut swiftly, but viciously. The razor went through her neck, almost to her spinal column, and from ear to ear. It was a gruesome death. She had time to realize she was dying. The young man, however, died instantly from a fatal gunshot wound.”

It had been reported on the news that Hamilton had shot him twice in the chest, once in the head.

“It was a suicide mission,” Hamilton said. “He had to know there was no possible means of escape. He gave me no choice.”

“And he hasn’t been identified?”

“No. No ID, no information on him at all. No one has come forward to claim his body. We don’t know his connection to The Bookkeeper. All we have is his straight razor and a silver crucifix on a chain.”

After a silent moment, Hamilton stood up, signaling that the meeting was adjourned. He shook hands with Stan. Then he clasped Honor’s hand between both of his. “How’s your daughter?”

“Doing well. She doesn’t remember anything of that night, thank God. She talks about Coburn constantly and wants to know where he went.” After an awkward silence, she continued. “And Tori has been released from the hospital. We’ve been to see her twice. She’s being cared for by private nurses in Mr. Wallace’s home.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s giving them hell,” Stan said dryly.

“She is,” Honor said, laughing. “She’s going to be fine, which is a miracle. For once in his life, Doral didn’t hit his target with precision.”

“I’m glad to know that both have recovered,” Hamilton said. “And I commend you for the numerous times you showed incredible courage and fortitude, Mrs. Gillette.”

“Thank you.”

“Take care of yourself and your little girl.”

“I will.”

“Thank you for coming today.”

“We appreciate the invitation,” Stan said. He turned and started for the door.

Honor hung back, her eyes holding Hamilton’s. “I’ll be right there, Stan. Give us a minute please.”

He left the office and when she heard the door close behind him, she said, “Where is he?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t play dumb, Mr. Hamilton. Where is Coburn?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Like hell you don’t.”

“Do you want to know where he’s buried? He isn’t. His body was cremated.”

“You’re lying. He didn’t die.”

He sighed. “Mrs. Gillette, I know how distressing—”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m no older than Emily. Even she would see through your crap. Where is he?” she repeated, stressing each word.

He vacillated for several moments, then motioned her back into her chair and sat down behind his desk. “He told me that if you should ever ask—”

“He knew I would ask.”

“He ordered me not to tell you that he’d survived. In fact, he threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t tell you that he was dead. But he also made me swear that if you ever questioned it, I was to give you this.”

Opening his lap drawer, he withdrew a plain white envelope. He hesitated for what seemed to Honor like an eternity before sliding it across the desk toward her. Her heart was beating so hard and fast she could barely breathe. Her hands had turned icy and damp, so she had butterfingers as she worked her thumb beneath the flap and opened the envelope. Inside was a single folded sheet of paper with one line handwritten on it in a bold scrawl.

It meant something.

A puff of air escaped her lips. She closed her eyes tightly and pressed the sheet of paper against her chest. When she opened her eyes, they were damp with tears. “Where is he?”

“Mrs. Gillette, heed this warning, and understand that I extend it out of genuine concern for you and your daughter. Coburn—”

“Tell me where he is.”

“You went through a terrible ordeal together. It’s only natural that you formed an emotional attachment to him, but you and he could never work.”

“Where is he?”

“You’ll only be letting yourself in for heartbreak.”

She stood up, planted her palms flat on his desk, and leaned to within inches of him. “Where. Is. He?”


He’d been coming to the airport every day for the past two weeks, ever since he’d been able to leave his bed for more than a few minutes at a time. The third time he’d been noticed loitering in the baggage claim area, a TSA agent had cornered him and asked him what he was up to.