Lethal (Lee Coburn)

“We just got a breakthrough, actually.” He shared with her the recent discovery. “Good news, it’s likely that we’ve picked up his trail. Bad news, it leads into the bayou. That’s a hell of a lot of swampy territory to cover.”

“How long will you be?”

“I was about to head back. Don’t hold supper on me, though. I’ve got to stop at the office before coming home. How’s Lanny?”

“You always ask that.”

“I always want to know.”

She sighed. “He’s fine.”

Tom was about to thank her for the update when he bit back the words. It was offensive to him, this feeling that he should thank her for answering a question about their son’s well-being. “I’ll see you in a while,” he said and immediately disconnected.

Finding the footprint and blood had galvanized the flagging officers involved in the manhunt. Fresh search dogs had been sent for. Mrs. Thibadoux was yelling from her back porch that somebody would have to pay for any damages done to her yard or dock. Fred and Doral ignored her as they reorganized and divided responsibilities among the various agencies.

Tom figured this would be a good time for him to slip away. His departure would go unnoticed, and he wouldn’t be missed.

Chapter 10

Darkness would impede the search for Coburn.

Which made The Bookkeeper unhappy to see that the sun was going down.

Sam Marset’s execution had required an entire week of thought and planning, and The Bookkeeper had braced for its repercussions. A backlash was to be expected, even hoped for, because the louder the communal gasp over such a bloody deed, the stronger the impact was on those who had to be taught a lesson.

Case in point, the state trooper. His funeral procession had stretched for miles. Uniformed officers from numerous states had turned out for it, little knowing, or perhaps not caring, that he was an amoral bastard who took graft for looking the other way whenever trucks bearing drugs, or weapons, or even human beings traveled along the stretch of Interstate 10 that he patrolled.

It had also been reported to The Bookkeeper that on occasion the trooper would avail himself of one of the girls before returning her to the hellish cargo hold of whatever vehicle was transporting her. It was said that he preferred virgins and that he didn’t return her in the condition in which he’d found her.

When his body was discovered behind the left rear wheel of his patrol car, his head nearly severed, newspaper editorialists and television pundits had decried the violence and demanded that the decorated trooper’s killer be captured and made to pay the ultimate penalty for the brutal slaying. But within days the public outrage had been shifted to the breaking news of a Hollywood starlet’s premature release from rehab.

Such was modern society’s moral decay. If one couldn’t beat it, one might just as well wallow in it. Having reached that conclusion several years ago, The Bookkeeper had set out to build an empire. Not one of industry or art, nor of finance or real estate, but of corruption. That was The Bookkeeper’s stock-in-trade. Dealing solely in that commodity, the business had flourished.

In order to succeed in any endeavor, one had to be ruthless. One acted boldly and decisively, left no loose ends, and extended no mercy to competitors or traitors. The last person to have learned The Bookkeeper’s policy the hard way was Sam Marset. But Marset had been the township of Tambour’s favorite son.

So as the sun slid below the horizon and darkness encroached, The Bookkeeper acknowledged that the ripples of killing him had taken on the proportion of a tidal wave.

All because of Lee Coburn.

Who must be found. Silenced. Exterminated.

The Bookkeeper was confident of that happening. No matter how clever the man believed himself to be, he couldn’t escape The Bookkeeper’s widespread and inescapable net. It was likely that he would be killed by his eager but clumsy pursuers. If not, if he was brought into custody, then Diego would be called upon to eliminate the problem. Diego was excellent at stealth. He would find a way to get to Coburn in an unguarded moment. He would apply his razor deftly and feel the hot gush of Coburn’s blood on his hands.

The Bookkeeper envied him that.

By sundown, Honor’s house looked like storm damage.

Emily had awakened from her nap on schedule. A juice box, a package of Teddy Grahams, and unlimited TV viewing had kept her pacified. But even her favorite Disney DVDs didn’t altogether distract her from their visitor.

She tried to maintain a running dialogue with Coburn, pestering him with questions until Honor shushed her with uncharacteristic harshness. “Leave him alone, Emily.” She was afraid her daughter’s chatter, to say nothing of Elmo’s singing, would irritate him to the point of taking drastic measures to stop it.

While he was tearing through every book in the living room shelves, Honor told Emily that he was on a treasure hunt, and that he didn’t want to be bothered. Emily looked doubtful of the explanation, but returned to her animated movie without argument.

The afternoon wore on. It was the longest of Honor’s life, longer even than the days immediately following Eddie’s death, which had taken on the aspects of a dreadful dream from which she couldn’t awaken. Time ceased to be relevant. One hour bled into the next. While she’d been in a benumbed state, days had passed with hardly any notice from her.

But today, time was extremely relevant. Each second mattered. Because eventually they would run out.

And then he would kill them.