Lethal(19)

She froze with fear. He didn’t move either, except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest against her back. Her clothing acted as a sponge to his wet skin. Water dripped off him and trickled down the backs of her bare legs. Soap bubbles dissolved into liquid on his hand that was still flattened against the door.

His breath was rapid and hot against her neck. He bent his head downward toward her shoulder even as his hips angled up. It was an oh-so-subtle adjustment of two body parts, perfectly synchronized and corresponding. But it was enough to cause Honor’s breath to catch in her throat.

“Jesus.” The word was spoken in a barely audible groan that came from deep within his chest and wasn’t in the least religiously inspired.

Honor didn’t dare shift her position, didn’t dare even breathe, afraid of what the slightest motion might provoke.

Half a minute ticked by. Gradually, the tension in his body ebbed, and he relaxed his hold, but only marginally. In a gravelly voice, he said, “We had a deal. You cooperate, you don’t get hurt.”

“I didn’t trust you to keep to the agreement.”

“Then we’re even, lady. You just lost all trust privileges.” He released her and backed away. “Sit down and stay there, or so help me God…”

He made his point so emphatically that he didn’t even bother locking the bathroom door again. Her knees gave way just as she reached the commode. She sat down on it heavily, grateful for the support.

He got back into the shower stall, and although she didn’t look in that direction, she sensed him picking up the bar of soap from off the floor, then washing and rinsing in cycles in order to get the filth off himself.

She smelled her shampoo when he uncapped the plastic bottle. Knowing he would have to duck his head beneath the spray in order to rinse it, she wondered if she dared try again to get through the door. But she didn’t trust her legs to support her, and she didn’t trust what he would do if she tried and failed again.

The room had become cloudy and warm with steam by the time he turned off the faucets. She sensed him reaching through the open shower door and whipping a towel off the rack. A few moments later, he picked up Eddie’s old jeans and pulled them on, then the faded purple T-shirt.

“My head is bleeding again.”

When she looked up, he was still working the T-shirt over his damp torso with one hand, and with the other was trying to stanch the bleeding from his scalp. Bright red blood was leaking through his fingers.

“Hold the towel against it. Press it hard.” She stood up and opened the medicine cabinet above the sink. “You’d better douse it with peroxide.”

She passed the bottle to him. He uncapped it and did as she suggested, liberally pouring the peroxide directly over the wound. She winced. “Is it deep? You may need stitches.”

“This’ll do for now.”

“How did it happen?”

“I was running with my head down, trying to see the ground. Ran into a low tree branch.” He tossed the bloody towel to the floor. “What do you care?”

She said nothing to that, but she didn’t believe he actually expected her to reply. He retrieved the items from the window ledge in the shower stall. He slid the pistol into the waistband of Eddie’s jeans. They were a bit short, Honor noted, and the waistband was a tad too large. The cell phones, money, and odd piece of paper went into the front pockets. Then, gathering up his socks and boots, he said, “You can open the door now.”

As they left the bathroom, Honor said, “While we were locked up in there, someone could have come along searching for you. You would have been trapped.”

“That had occurred to me, but I wasn’t too worried about it. Thanks to your father-in-law I know where they’re concentrating the search.”

“Where you stole the boat?”

“It’s miles from here. It’ll take them a while to pick up my scent again.”


“Are you shore?” Mrs. Arleeta Thibadoux squinted doubtfully. “ ’Cause they’re crazy, mean kids, always into trouble of one kind or another. I ’spect they do drugs.”

Tom VanAllen had yielded the floor to Fred Hawkins, letting the police officer interview the owner of the small boat that had gone missing in the approximate area where Lee Coburn had last been seen. Or was thought to have last been seen. That he was the man the motorist with the flat tire had spotted as he ran into the woods couldn’t be confirmed either, but it was all they had, so they were following it up as though it was a strong lead.

The trio of boys of questionable repute, who lived a quarter mile from Mrs. Thibadoux, had been interrogated and dismissed as the suspected boat thieves. Last night, they’d been in New Orleans with several friends prowling the French Quarter. They’d slept over—passed out, more accurately—in the van belonging to one of those friends and had just straggled home, hungover and bleary-eyed, just as Tambour police had arrived to question them.

This had been explained to Mrs. Thibadoux, who wasn’t quite ready to rule them out as the culprits. “I had to holler at them just a few days ago. Saw them down there at the dock messing around with my boat.”

“Their friends can vouch for their whereabouts since eight o’clock last night,” Fred told her.

“Hm. Well.” She sniffed. “That boat weren’t worth much, anyhow. I hadn’t took it out since my husband died. Thought many times about selling it but never got around to it.” She grinned, revealing a space where a critical tooth should have been. “It’ll be worth more money now if that killer got away in it. If you find it, don’t let nobody do nothing to it.”