Lethal(85)

“What’s the matter?”

Her head came up. Tears spilled from her eyes. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter? This is the matter, Coburn. This!” She dropped the medal that she’d been rubbing between her fingers and shoved the box away from her with such force that it slid off the edge of the bed and landed bottom side up on the floor. “I feel like a grave robber.”

What did she want him to say? I’m sorry, you’re right, let’s leave. Well, he wasn’t going to say that, was he? So he didn’t say anything. A moment passed while they just looked at one another.

Eventually she made a resigned sound and wiped the tears off her cheeks. “Never mind. I don’t expect you to understand.”

She was right. He didn’t understand why this was so upsetting to her. Because he had robbed a grave once. After thoroughly searching for survivors in the decimated village, where even the pathetic livestock hadn’t been spared, he’d plunged down into a pit where body was heaped upon body.

He’d plowed through the rotting corpses of dead babies and naked old ladies, strong men and pregnant women, looking for clues as to which of the warring tribes was responsible for this particular massacre. He’d been under orders to find out. Not that the answer mattered all that much, because the guilty faction soon would be subjected to retaliation that was just as horrific.

He’d failed to gather any intel. All his search had produced was a canteen of water that miraculously had escaped the hail of bullets fired into the pit from automatic weapons. His own canteen had been running low, so he’d slid the strap of the canteen off the shoulder of a dead man, a boy really, no more than twelve or thirteen by the looks of him, and had slipped the strap onto his own shoulder as he climbed out of the mass grave.

That had been a lot worse than this. But Honor didn’t need to know about it.

“Where’s Stan’s room?”


Two hours later, Stan Gillette’s house was in a state similar to Honor’s when Coburn had finished with it. The yield was also the same. Nothing.

He’d thought perhaps Stan’s computer would contain incriminating information, but getting into it didn’t even require a password. Coburn had searched through his documents file and found little beyond letters to the editor, which Stan had composed either in support of or opposition to political editorials.

His emails were mostly exchanges with former Marines, relating to upcoming or past reunions. There was a progress report on one former comrade’s prostate cancer, the death notice of another.

Likewise the websites Gillette routinely visited were devoted to the Corps, veterans’ organizations, and world news, certainly nothing pornographic or relating to the trafficking of illegal substances.

The hoped-for treasure trove turned out to be a big fat bust.

Finally, the only place that hadn’t been searched was the garage. Coburn had never lived in a place with a garage, but he knew what they were supposed to look like, and this one was fairly typical, except for one major difference: its extraordinary organization.

In the extra bay, a spick-and-span bass fishing boat sat on its trailer. Hunting and fishing gear was so nicely arranged it looked like a store display. Along the back of a work table, carefully labeled paint cans had been perfectly lined up. Hand tools were neatly arrayed on a pegboard wall. A power lawnmower and edger, along with a red gas can, were sitting on a pallet of bricks.

“Shit,” Coburn said under his breath.

“What?”

“It would take days to go through all this.” He nodded toward the small loft that was mounted just under the ceiling in one corner. “What’s up there?”

“Mostly Eddie’s sporting gear.”

A ladder constructed of two-by-fours had been built into the wall. Coburn climbed it and stepped onto the loft. “Hand me a knife.” Honor got one from the work table and passed it up to him. He used it to slice through the packing tape on a large box. Inside, he found an archery target, baseball, basketball, soccer ball, and football.

“Watch out.”

One by one, he tossed them down. A bowling ball was in the bottom of the box. The finger holes were empty. Coburn opened a second box to find uniforms for each of the sports, a baseball glove, a football helmet, shoulder pads. He searched them all. Found nothing.

When he came down, Honor was holding the football, turning it over in her hands. She ran her finger along the leather lacing. Smiling, she said, “Eddie was quarterback of the high school team. His senior year, they went to district. That’s when we started dating. That season. He was too small to play college ball, but he still loved the game and would go out and throw passes whenever he could get somebody to catch them.”

Coburn held out his hand. Honor gave him the football. He plunged the blade of the knife into it.

She cried out and reflexively reached out to take the football back, but he worked the knife to increase the size of the hole, then shook it so that anything inside it would fall out. Nothing did. He tossed the deflated ball onto the work table.

When he came back around, she slapped him. Hard.

“You’re a horrible person,” she said. “The coldest, most heartless, cruelest creature I can imagine.” She stopped on a sob. “I hate you. I really do.”

At that moment, he pretty much hated himself. He was angry and didn’t know why. He was acting like a complete jerk and didn’t know why. He didn’t understand his compulsion to want to hurt and rile her, but he seemed incapable of stopping himself.