Lethal(51)

Coburn guessed that the boat hadn’t been afloat for years. Vines had overtaken the hull. The wheelhouse paint, what was left of it, was curled and peeling. Windowpanes that weren’t missing altogether were cracked and so coated with grime they barely resembled glass. The metal frame supporting the butterfly net on the port side was bent practically at a forty-five-degree angle, making it look like the broken wing of a great bird.

But for all those reasons, it had been abandoned, probably forgotten, and that worked in their favor.

“Who knows it’s here?” he asked.

“No one. Dad brought it here to ride out Katrina, then decided to stay. He lived here till he got sick and went downhill fast. I moved him into a hospice house. He was there less than a week when he died.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Only a few months before Eddie’s accident. Which made Eddie’s dying all the more difficult for me.” She smiled ruefully. “But I was glad Dad didn’t live to see me widowed. That would have been very upsetting to him.”

“Your mother?”

“Died years before that. That’s when Dad sold the house, moved onto the boat.”

“Does your father-in-law know it’s here?”

She shook her head. “Stan didn’t exactly approve of my dad’s way of life, which was rather… bohemian. Stan discouraged visits with him. He especially didn’t like Emily being exposed to him.”

“Exposed? Bohemianism is contagious?”

“Stan seemed to think so.”

“You know,” he said, “the more I hear about this father-in-law of yours, the less I like him.”

“He’s probably thinking the same of you.”

“I won’t lose sleep over it.”

“I’m sure you won’t.” She pushed back her hair and, after a moment of staring at the boat, said, “Stan means well.”

“Does he?”

That touched a sore spot. She came around to him quickly. “What business is it of yours?”

“Right now, it’s my business to know if he’ll look for us on this damn heap.”

“No.”

“Thank you.”

He opened his door and got out. A snake slithered past his boot. He swore under his breath. He wasn’t especially afraid of snakes, but he’d just as soon avoid them.

He opened the door to the backseat and reached in for Emily, who’d already unbuckled her seat belt and was holding her arms up to him. He lifted her out, then carried her around to the other side and passed her to Honor.

“Don’t set her down. I saw a…” He stopped himself, then spelled out the word.

Honor’s eyes went wide with fear as she inspected the ground. “A water moccasin?”

“I didn’t ask.”

He slipped the pistol from his waistband, but palmed it quickly when Emily turned to him. “Coburn?”

“What?”

“Are we still on a ’venture?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

“Mommy said.”

“Then, yeah, we’re on an adventure.”

“Can we be on it for a long time?” she chirped. “It’s fun.”

Oh, yeah, this is a blast, he thought as he went ahead of them, cautiously picking his way to the boat. The name of it was barely legible because of the peeling paint, but he could make it out. He gave Honor a significant look from over his shoulder. A look she ignored.

By design, the sides of the hull were shallow. He stepped aboard easily, but his boot settled into a nest of Spanish moss and other natural debris. His trained eyes looked around for signs that someone had been there recently, but cobwebs and forest detritus were evidence that the deck hadn’t been disturbed for some time, probably not since the day that Honor’s dad had been moved to a hospice house to die.

Satisfied that they were alone, he kicked aside the clump of moss to clear a spot for Emily when Honor passed her up to him. He set her down on the deck. “Don’t move.”

“Okay, Coburn, I won’t.”

Once she’d broken the barrier of using his name, it seemed she welcomed every opportunity to do so.

He leaned down, extended his hand to Honor, and helped her up and over. Once aboard, she surveyed the littered deck. Coburn noticed a sadness in her expression before she shook it off and said briskly, “This way.”

She took Emily’s hand and told her to be careful where she stepped, then led them around the wheelhouse to the door, where she halted and looked back at Coburn. “Maybe you should go first.”

He stepped around her and pushed open the door, which resisted until he put his shoulder to it. The interior of the wheelhouse was in no better condition than the deck. The control panel was covered with a littered tarp that had collected small lakes of scummy rainwater. A tree branch had broken through one of the windows so long ago that a good crop of lichen had had time to grow on its bark.

Honor surveyed it with evident despondency. But all she said was, “Below,” and pointed to a narrow passage with steps leading down.

He descended carefully, and had to duck to keep from hitting his head when he squeezed through an oval opening into a low-ceilinged cabin. It smelled of mildew and rot, brine and dead fish, motor oil and marijuana.