Lethal(32)

Coburn was gone.

Perhaps the cranking motor of her car was what had awakened her. But the house had a still quality, indicating to her that his departure might have been earlier than that.

“Thank God, thank God,” she whispered as she rubbed her hands over her chilled upper arms. They were covered with gooseflesh, but that was evidence that she was alive. She hadn’t believed that he would go, leaving her and Emily unscathed. But miraculously they had survived an excruciatingly long day and night spent with a mass murderer.

Relief made her weak.

But only for a moment. She must alert the authorities to what had happened. They could pick up his trail from here. She could call them, give them her car tag number. They—

The surge of thought was rudely interrupted by a new realization. How would she call anyone? Her cell phone was last in Coburn’s possession, and she no longer had a landline. Stan had tried to dissuade her from having it disconnected, but she’d argued that it was a monthly expense for something that had become superfluous.

That argument came back to haunt her now.

She quickly went back through the house looking for her phone. But she didn’t find it, nor had she expected to. Coburn was too clever to have left it behind. Taking it would delay her from notifying the authorities and give him crucial time in which to get farther away.

Without a phone, car, or boat—

Boat.

That’s what had awakened her! Not her car coming to life, but a boat motor idling down. Now that she was fully awake, she recognized the difference, because she’d been around boats all her life.

She ran to her front door, unbolted it, and practically leaped across the porch and clambered down the steps, landing hard on the ground and pitching forward. She broke her fall with her hands, then scrambled down the slope, her sneakers slipping on the dewy grass. She managed to keep on her feet the rest of the way to the dock.

Her footfalls thudded hollowly on the weathered boards, startling a pelican on the opposite bank. With a noisy flapping of wings, he took flight. She shaded her eyes against the rising sun as she looked in both directions of the bayou for signs of a boat.

“Honor!”

Her heart lurched and she spun in the direction of the shout. Fred Hawkins steered a small fishing boat from beneath the leafy cover of a willow.

“Fred! Thank God!”

He goosed the motor and reached the dock within seconds. Honor was so glad to see him, she almost missed the rope he tossed her. She knelt down and wound it around a metal cleat.

Fred had barely got his footing on the dock when Honor flung herself against him. His arms went around her. “Honor, Christ, what’s wrong?”

She gave his large torso a hard squeeze, then let him go and stepped back. There would be time later for gratitude. “He’s been here. The man you’re after. Coburn.”

“Son of a—I got this weird premonition about thirty minutes ago when we found… Are you okay? Emily?”

“We’re fine. Fine. He… he didn’t hurt us, but he—” She paused to gulp air. “He took my car. My phone. That’s why I was running down to the dock. I thought I’d heard a boat. I—”

“You’re sure it was Coburn who stole—”

“Yes, yes. He showed up here yesterday.”

“He’s been here all that time?”

She nodded furiously. “All day yesterday. All night. I woke up just a few minutes ago. He was gone. I don’t know what time he left.”

Her chest was hurting from breathing so hard. She pressed her fist against it.

Sensing her distress, Fred placed his hand on her shoulder. “All right, slow down. Catch your breath and tell me everything that happened.”

She swallowed, took several deep breaths. “Yesterday morning…” In stops and starts, she described Coburn’s arrival and the daylong ordeal. “Two sheriff’s deputies came by last night.” Breathlessly she recounted what had happened. “Maybe I should have tried to communicate to them that he was inside, but so was Emily. I was afraid he would—”

“You did the right thing,” he said, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Is he injured? We found blood on the trail.”

She explained about his head wound. “It was a fairly deep gash, I think. He was scraped and scratched from going through brush, but otherwise he wasn’t hurt.”

“Armed?”

“He had a pistol. He threatened me with it. At one point last night, we fought over it. I had it, but he got it back.”

He dragged his hand down his weary face. “Jesus, you could have been killed.”

“I was so afraid, Fred. You have no idea.”

“I can guess. But the important thing is that he took shelter and then moved on without hurting you.”

“He didn’t come here for shelter. He knew who I was. He knew Eddie. At least he knew of Eddie. He came here for a reason.”

“What the hell? Was he somebody Eddie had arrested?”

“I don’t think so. He said he’d never met him. He said… He… he…” She couldn’t control her stuttering, and Fred sensed that.

“Okay. You’re all right now.” He muttered words of concern that were liberally sprinkled with profanities. He placed his arm around her shoulders and turned her toward the house. “I’ve got to call this in. Let’s go inside.”