Lethal (2 page)

Her bedroom looked ironically, almost mockingly, serene. Sunlight coming through the shutters painted stripes on the hardwood floor, the white quilted comforter,
the pale gray walls. The ceiling fan caused dust motes to dance in the slanted beams of light.

He shoved her toward the closet and ordered her to open the door. He relaxed only marginally when he glanced into the connecting bathroom and discovered it also empty.

He faced her squarely. “Where’s your gun?”

“Gun?”

“You have one somewhere.”

“No I don’t.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I swear,” she said.

“Which side of the bed do you sleep on?”

“What? Why?”

He didn’t repeat the question, just continued to stare at her until she pointed. “The right.”

Backing away from her, he moved to the nightstand on the right side of the bed and checked the drawer. Inside were a flashlight and a paperback novel but no lethal weapon. Then to her shock, he shoved the mattress, linens and all, off the bed far enough for him to search beneath it, finding nothing except the box spring.

He motioned with his chin for her to lead him from the room. They returned to the living room and went from there into the kitchen, where his eyes darted from point to point, taking it all in. His gaze lit on the wall hook with her car keys hanging from it.

When she saw his notice, she said, “Take the car. Just go.”

Ignoring that, he asked, “What’s in there?”

“Laundry room.”

He went to that door and opened it. Washing machine and clothes dryer. Ironing board folded into a recession in the wall. A rack on which she dried her delicates, some of
which were hanging there now. An array of lace in pastels. One black bra.

When he came back around, those Nordic eyes moved over her in a way that made her face turn hot even as her torso became cold and clammy with dread.

He took a step toward her; she took a corresponding step back, a normal response to mortal danger, which is what he posed to her. She didn’t delude herself into believing otherwise.

His entire aspect was menacing, starting with his chilling eyes and the pronounced bone structure of his face. He was tall and lean, but the skin on his arms was stretched over muscles that looked as taut as whipcord. The backs of his hands were bumpy with strong veins. His clothes and hair had snagged natural debris—twigs, sprigs of moss, small leaves. He seemed indifferent to all that, just as he did to the mud caked on his boots and the legs of his jeans. He smelled of the swamp, of sweat, of danger.

In the silence, she could hear his breathing. She could hear her own heartbeat. She was his sole focus, and that terrified her.

Overpowering him would be impossible, especially since one jerk of his index finger would fire a bullet straight into her. He stood between her and the drawer where butcher knives were stored. On the counter was the coffee pot, still half filled with this morning’s brew, still hot enough to scald him. But in order to reach either it or the knives, she would have to get past him, and that didn’t seem likely. She doubted she could outrun him, but even if she could make it beyond the door and escape, she wouldn’t leave Emily behind.

Reason or persuasion seemed the only options open to her.

“I’ve answered all your questions truthfully, haven’t I?” she said, her voice low and tremulous. “I’ve offered to give you my money and whatever valuables—”

“I don’t want your money.”

She motioned toward the bleeding scratches on his arms. “You’re hurt. Your head has been bleeding. I’ll… I’ll help you.”

“First aid?” He made a scoffing sound. “I don’t think so.”

“Then what… what do you want?”

“Your cooperation.”

“With what?”

“Put your hands behind your back.”

“Why?”

He took a couple of measured steps toward her.

She backed away. “Listen.” She licked her lips. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Put your hands behind your back,” he repeated, softly but with emphasis on each word.

“Please.” The word was spoken on a sob. “My little girl—”

“I’m not going to ask you again.” He took another step closer.

She backed away and came up against the wall behind her.

One last step brought him to within inches of her. “Do it.”

Her instinct was to fight him, to scratch and claw and kick in an effort to prevent, or at least to delay, what seemed to be the inevitable. But because she feared Emily’s fate if she didn’t comply with him, she did as ordered and clasped her hands together at the small of her back, sandwiching them between her and the wall.

He leaned in close. She turned her head aside, but
he placed his hand beneath her chin and brought it back around.

Speaking in a whisper, he said, “You see how easy it would be for me to hurt you?”

She looked into his eyes and nodded numbly.

“Well, I
won’t
hurt you. I promise not to hurt you or your kid. But you gotta do everything I say. Okay? Have we got a deal?”

She might have derived some level of comfort from the promise, even if she didn’t believe it. But she suddenly realized who he was, and that sent a bolt of terror through her.

Breathlessly, she rasped, “You’re… You’re the man who shot all those people last night.”

C
oburn. C-o-b-u-r-n. First name Lee, no known middle initial.”

Sergeant Fred Hawkins of the Tambour Police Department removed his hat and wiped sweat off his forehead. It had already gone greasy in the heat, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet. Mentally he cursed the heat index of coastal Louisiana. He’d lived here all his life, but one never got used to the sultry heat, and the older he got the more he minded it.

He was in a cell phone conversation with the sheriff of neighboring Terrebonne Parish, giving him the lowdown of last night’s mass murder. “Chances are that’s an alias, but it’s the name on his employee records and all that we have to go on at present. We lifted prints off his car… Yeah, that’s the damnedest thing. You’d think he would’ve sped away from the scene, but his car is still parked in the employee lot. Maybe he thought it would be spotted too easily. Or, I guess if you go and kill seven people in cold blood, you’re
not thinking logically. Best we can tell, he fled the scene on foot.”

Fred paused to take a breath. “I’ve already put his prints into the national pipeline. I’m betting something will turn up. A guy like this has gotta have priors. Whatever we get on him will be passed along, but I’m not waiting on further info, so you shouldn’t either. Start looking for him A.S.A.P. You got my fax?… Good. Make copies and pass them out to your deputies for distribution.”

While the sheriff was assuring Fred of his department’s capacity for finding men at large, Fred nodded a greeting to his twin brother, Doral, who joined him where he was standing outside his patrol car.

It was parked on the shoulder of the two-lane state highway in a sliver of shade cast by a billboard sign advertising a gentleman’s club that was located near the New Orleans airport. Sixty-five miles to the exit. The coldest drinks. The hottest women. Totally nude.

All sounded good to Fred, but he forecast that it would be a while before he could seek entertainment. Not until Lee Coburn was accounted for.

“You heard right, Sheriff. Bloodiest crime scene I’ve ever had the misfortune of investigating. Full-scale execution. Sam Marset was shot in the back of the head at close range.”

The sheriff expressed his disgust over the viciousness of the crime, then signed off with his pledge to be in touch if the murderous psycho was spotted in his parish.

“Windbag could talk the horns off a billy goat,” Fred complained to his brother as he disconnected.

Doral extended him a Styrofoam cup. “You look like you could use a coffee.”

“No time.”

“Take time.”

Impatiently Fred removed the lid from the cup and took a sip. His head jerked back in surprise.

Doral laughed. “Thought you could use a little pick-me-up, too.”

“We ain’t twins for nothing. Thanks.”

As Fred drank the liberally spiked coffee, he surveyed the line of patrol cars parked along the edge of the road. Dozens of uniformed officers from various agencies were milling around nearby, some talking on cell phones, others studying maps, most looking befuddled and intimidated by the job at hand.

“What a mess,” Doral said under his breath.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“As city manager, I came out to offer any help that I or the City of Tambour can provide.”

“As lead investigator on the case, I appreciate the city’s support,” Fred said drolly. “Now that the official bullshit is out of the way, tell me where you think he ran to.”

“You’re the cop, not me.”

“But you’re the best tracker for miles around.”

“Since Eddie was killed, maybe.”

“Well, Eddie ain’t here, so you’re it. You’re part bloodhound, too. You could find a flea on a pissant.”

“Yeah, but fleas ain’t as slippery as this guy.”

Doral had arrived dressed not as a city official, but as a hunter, fully expecting that his twin would recruit him to join the manhunt. He took off his dozer cap and fanned his face with it as he gazed toward the edge of the woods where those involved in the search were gathering.

“That slipperiness of his has got me worried.” Fred would admit that only to his brother. “We gotta catch this son of a bitch, Doral.”

“Like right effing now.”

Fred chugged the rest of his bourbon-laced coffee and tossed the empty cup onto the driver’s seat of his car. “You ready?”

“If you’re waiting on me, you’re backing up.”

The two joined the rest of the search party. As its appointed organizer, Fred gave the command. Officers fanned out and began picking their way through the tall grass toward the tree line that demarcated the dense forest. Trainers unleashed their search dogs.

They were commencing the search here because a motorist who’d been changing a flat on the side of the road late last night had seen a man running into the woods. He hadn’t thought anything about it until the mass slaying at the Royale Trucking Company warehouse was reported on the local news this morning. The estimated time of the shooting had roughly corresponded with the time he’d seen an individual—whom he couldn’t describe because he’d been too far away—disappearing into the woods on foot and in a hurry. He’d called the Tambour Police Department.

It wasn’t much for Fred and the others to go on, but since they didn’t have any other leads, here they were, trying to pick up a trail that would lead them to the alleged mass murderer, one Lee Coburn.

Doral kept his head down, studying the ground. “Is Coburn familiar with this territory?”

“Don’t know. Could know it as good as he knows the back of his hand, or could be he’s never even seen a swamp.”

“Let’s hope.”

“His employee application said his residence before Tambour was Orange, Texas. But I checked the address and it’s bogus.”

“So nobody knows for sure where he came from.”

“Nobody to ask,” Fred said dryly. “His coworkers on the loading dock are dead.”

“But he’s been in Tambour for thirteen months. He had to know somebody.”

“Nobody’s come forward.”

“Nobody would, though, would they?”

“Guess not. After last night, who’d want to claim him as a friend?”

“Bartender? Waitress? Somebody he traded with?”

“Officers are canvassing. A checker at Rouse’s who’d rung up his groceries a few times said he was pleasant enough, but definitely not a friendly sort. Said he always paid in cash. We ran his Social Security number through. No credit cards came up, no debts. No account in any town bank. He cashed his paychecks at one of those places that do that for a percentage.”

“The man didn’t want to leave a paper trail.”

“And he didn’t.”

Doral asked if Coburn’s neighbors had been interviewed.