Lethal(83)

He explained about the tire tracks they had left near the boat. “No way they could have missed them. If these tires were put on this truck at the factory, they’ll be on the lookout for this make and model.”

“Which means we risk being stopped.”

“Until we get another set of wheels.”

“You plan to steal another car?”

“I do.”

“From?”

“The same family that supplied the truck.”

They drove for almost twenty minutes along back roads on which even natives to the region could have become lost. But Coburn had a photographic memory of places he’d been and a flawless sense of direction, so he was able to relocate the house from which he’d taken the pickup.

The house was half a mile away from its nearest neighbor. It sat roughly seventy yards off the road, and was screened by a dense grove of pine trees. The mailbox at the turnoff was the only giveaway that there was a house at all. The box was still bulging with uncollected mail.

As he slowly guided the pickup up the private drive, he was relieved to note that nothing had changed since he’d been there eighteen hours earlier. The owners hadn’t returned.

“How did you get here yesterday?” Honor asked. “How’d you find it?”

“I was driving around looking for a car that would be easy to steal. Noticed the mailbox. I went past, ditched the other car about two miles from here, then doubled back on foot.” He pulled the truck to its original spot behind the house and cut the engine.

“Nice place,” she remarked.

He shrugged. “I guess. It serves my purpose.”

Honor, looking thoughtfully at the shuttered windows on the back of the house, said, “I was married to a police officer sworn to safeguarding people and property. Do you ever feel guilty about stealing cars or trespassing?”

“No.”

She turned her head and looked at him with a combination of dismay and disappointment.

Both of which vexed him. “If you’re nursing qualms about trespassing and stealing cars, you should have gone with your friend. But, for Eddie’s sake, you wanted to see this through. If you want to see it through and stay alive, you’d better start thinking mean.”

“Like you.”

“Me? No. Mean like the bad guys who transport young girls from city to city to be sex slaves to degenerates. That’s mean. And your darling Eddie might have been part of it.”

He opened the door to the pickup and got out. He didn’t look back to see if Honor would follow. He knew she would. That had been a cheap shot, but it was calculated to snap her out of her conscientious slump.

Besides, he’d had it up to here with Saint Eddie. And who knew? Maybe Eddie had specialized in trafficking girls.

The garage was about twenty yards from the house. Stairs attached to the exterior wall led to quarters above it, but Coburn was interested only in the car he’d seen inside the garage yesterday when he peered through a window in the door. There was an old-fashioned hasp and padlock securing it, but he used a crowbar from the toolbox in the pickup, and within seconds was raising the garage door.

The sedan was at least a decade old, but, despite a layer of dust, the body was in good shape, and none of the tires was flat. The keys were dangling from the ignition. He climbed in, pumped the gas pedal a couple of times, cranked the key, and held his breath. It took a couple of tries and some sweet talk, but it started. The gauge indicated more than half a tank of gas. He drove the car out of the narrow garage far enough to clear the door, then put it in park and got out.

He pulled down the garage door and fixed the broken padlock to make it appear, from a distance anyway, to still be intact. Then he looked at Honor, who was silently fuming, and hitched his chin toward the passenger-side door. “Get in.”


“Has he got an alarm system?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the code?”

“Yes.”

“Is the backyard fenced?”

“Yes.”

“Can we get in without being seen?”

“Possibly. At the back corner of the house, there’s an exterior door going into the garage. It has a keypad, but I know the code. There’s access to the kitchen through the garage.”

They’d already driven past Stan Gillette’s house twice, but Coburn wanted to be damn certain that he wasn’t walking into a carefully laid ambush. He had no choice except to take the risk. He had to get into that house.

Befitting Gillette’s character, his was the neatest house on the street. Basic Acadian in style, its white paint was so fresh it hurt the eyes. Nary a blade of grass defied the perfect edging along the curb and front walkway. Old Glory hung from one of four square columns on the front porch, which provided support for the overhang of the red tin roof. It was so perfect, it could have been ordered already assembled from a catalog.

Coburn drove past it and circled the block again.

“He’s not there,” Honor said, emphasizing it now, since she’d already told him that several times.

“How do you know for sure?”

“Because he doesn’t put his car in the garage except at night. If he were in the house, his car would be in the front driveway.”

“Maybe this is a special occasion.”

Two blocks away from Gillette’s street was a green belt with a small playground. Two cars were parked in the lot. One must’ve belonged to the young mother shooting video of her daughter who was hanging upside down from a bar on the jungle gym, the other to the teenage boy who was hitting tennis balls against a backboard.