Lethal (Lee Coburn)

Deputy Sheriff Crawford was surprised to discover that their destination was a derelict shrimp boat that seemed not to be floating so much as squatting in the water.

As hiding places went, it was a sorry choice. First, it was an untrustworthy-looking vessel. Bad enough. But then it was also situated between miles of hostile terrain and a labyrinth of bayous in which one could easily become hopelessly lost before reaching the Gulf of Mexico, if that was indeed the planned escape route.

Maybe Coburn wasn’t as smart as he’d given him credit for. Maybe he was becoming desperate.

Using only hand signals to communicate to the men with him, they approached the craft on foot with stealth and extreme caution.

The team, working out of the temporary command center in the Tambour Police Department, consisted of himself, two other sheriff’s deputies, three Tambour policemen, two FBI agents, and one state trooper who’d just happened to be in the room chewing the fat with the others when a techie came in and announced that he was getting a signal from Honor Gillette’s cell phone.

His attempt to locate it using triangulation was successful.

It then took an agonizing hour of discussion to determine how best to get to the isolated location. By air, land, or water? Once it was decided that land was the best option in terms of a surprise, Crawford had yielded the floor to the closest thing that either the Tambour P.D. or the sheriff’s department had to a S.W.A.T officer, who had taken a few classes in his spare time and at his own expense.

He shared his limited knowledge and summarized by saying, “Don’t screw up and shoot the woman or kid,” which Crawford could have told the group himself in five seconds rather than thirty-five minutes.

They piled into three official SUVs, then drove through fog and mist for what seemed like hours, but was actually only forty minutes, until they could go no farther, not even in vehicles with four-wheel drive.

Besides, Crawford didn’t want their approach announced by engine noise. They’d proceeded on foot, and now were hunkered down among the trees, watching for signs of life aboard the boat, from which the phone’s cell signal was emanating. Crawford thought it a miracle that there was a cell tower anywhere near this place, but he wasn’t going to question either the benevolence of the gods or the foresight of the cell provider.

The sun was rising, but the eastern horizon was so heavily banked by clouds that daybreak did little to relieve the dim and gloomy atmosphere. The water in the bayou, which looked swollen after last night’s torrential rains, was absolutely still, as was the Spanish moss that hung from tree branches in saturated clumps. It was too early even for birds. The silence was as thick as cotton.

Crawford motioned the men forward. They had no choice but to risk exposure as they covered the distance between the tree line and the creek bank. When Crawford reached the boat, he crouched down against its hull, checked his weapon again, then climbed over and stepped lightly onto the deck. Others followed, but Crawford was the first inside the wheelhouse, the first to hear a vicious curse and movement coming from below, the first to aim at the man coming up the steps.

Stan Gillette stepped out of the passageway into the wheelhouse with his hands raised. In one of them, he was holding a cell phone. “Deputy Crawford. You’re late.”

He’d made the kid cry.

When he’d wrenched the cell phone from her hand, she’d let out a howl that could’ve raised the dead. It got her mother up off the bunk, all right.

He’d scooped up the bawling kid and practically slung her over his shoulder, freeing his other hand to get Elmo and bankie. He’d shoved them into her chubby arms, then grabbed Honor’s hand and dragged her—protesting—up the steps, through the wheelhouse, and onto the deck.

Alone, it would have taken him only minutes to abandon the boat, wade through the bayou, then sprint the half mile through sucking mire to where he’d left the pickup. Even in the semi-light of predawn, he’d have been away from there in a fraction of the time it had taken him just to get them off the boat. Honor had balked at stepping into the water, but he’d pushed her, and she’d managed to splash her way out of the shallows. Twice she’d stumbled during their mad dash to the pickup.

And all that time, the kid had kept a stranglehold on his neck, wailing in his ear over and over, “I didn’t mean to.”

When they reached the truck, she was still blubbering. He’d handed her over to Honor, who’d scrambled into the passenger sea

t. He’d slammed the door, run around the hood, vaulted into the driver’s seat, and crammed the key into the ignition. The tires had spun in the mud, but eventually gained traction, and the pickup had lurched forward.

They were well away from the shrimp boat now, but he didn’t let his guard down. Honor’s cell phone would have been as good as a damn beacon on a lighthouse, leading the police straight to them. As soon as it was discovered that they were no longer aboard the boat, the chase would resume.

He didn’t know at what time the kid had turned on her mother’s phone. Minutes before she woke him up? Hours? But he had to assume the worst, in which case he was surprised they’d escaped at all. At best, they couldn’t have got too much of a head start.

So he blocked out the presence of the sobbing kid and her mother and concentrated on putting as much distance as possible between them and the boat, in the shortest amount of time, without getting too lost, driving into a bayou, or hitting a tree.

Honor shushed Emily, crooning to her as she hugged her close to her chest and smoothed her hand over her hair. Eventually the kid stopped crying, although every time he glanced at them he was met with four reproachful eyes.

He finally came upon a main road. Not wanting to get stopped for speeding, he let up on the accelerator and asked Honor if she had any idea where they were.

“South and east of Tambour, I think. Where did you want to go?”

Where did he want to go?

Fuck if he knew.

Presently, all he was doing was burning precious gas, so he pulled into the parking lot of a busy truck stop, where the pickup wouldn’t be noticed among so many similar vehicles. By the looks of things, the combo fuel stop and convenience store was a gathering spot for day laborers who stoked themselves on coffee, cigarettes, and microwave breakfasts before going to work.

For easily thirty seconds after he cut the engine on the pickup, no one said anything. Finally he looked over at the two females who were sorely complicating his life. He intended to tell them as much in unmitigated terms, when the kid said in a trembling voice, “I’m sorry, Coburn. I didn’t mean to.”