“Anyway, I made it out of the warehouse alive and got to an abandoned building. One of the twins searched it, but I hid in the crawl space until he left. Then I hightailed it toward the river, bent on eventually getting to you before they caught up to me.” He looked over at her. “You more or less know the rest.”

“So what now? Where are we going?”

“I have no idea.”

She turned her head so quickly, her neck popped. “What?”

“I didn’t plan that far ahead. Actually, I didn’t count on living through that first night. I figured I’d either be killed by an overanxious officer or by someone on The Bookkeeper’s payroll.” He glanced over his shoulder into the backseat. “I sure didn’t count on having a woman and kid in tow.”

“Well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience we’ve imposed,” Honor said. “You can drop us at Stan’s house and go on about your business.”

He gave a short laugh. “Don’t you get it? Haven’t you been listening? If Doral Hawkins or The Bookkeeper think you know something that could help convict them, your life’s not worth spit.”

“I do understand. Stan will protect us until—”

“Stan, the man in the one-for-all-and-all-for-one photo with your late husband and the Hawkins twins? That Stan?”

“Surely, you don’t think—”

“Why not?”

“Stan’s a former Marine.”

“So am I. Look how I turned out.”

He’d made his point. She hesitated, then said staunchly, “My father-in-law would protect Emily and me with his dying breath.”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet. Until I do, you stay with me and contact nobody.”

Before she could say more, they heard the wail of sirens. Within seconds, two police cars appeared where the road met the horizon. They were approaching and closing quickly.

“Doral must have found his brother’s corpse.”

Though his muscles contracted with tension and he gripped the steering wheel of the stolen car tighter, Coburn maintained his speed and kept his eyes straight ahead. The squad cars screamed past at a high rate of speed.

“Police car,” the kid chirped. “Mommy, police car.”

“I see it, sweetheart.” Honor threw a smile back at her, then came around to him again. “Emily will need food. A place to sleep. We can’t just keep driving around in a stolen car, dodging the police. What are you going to do with us?”

“I’m about to find out.”

He checked the clock in the car’s dashboard and saw that it would be past nine on the East Coast. He took the next turn off the main road. The blacktop soon gave way to gravel and gravel to rutted dirt, and the road finally came to a dead end at a stagnant creek covered with duckweed.

He had three phones. Fred’s. Beyond that one last call to his brother, the call log had been empty. But since Fred used that phone for illegal purposes, Coburn hadn’t expected to find The Bookkeeper’s number highlighted. All the same, he would keep the phone. For safe measure, he removed the battery.

They couldn’t use Honor’s cell because the authorities could locate it using triangulation. He took the battery from it too.

Which left Coburn’s burner, the disposable he’d bought months earlier but had never used until yesterday. He turned it on, saw that he was getting a cell signal, and punched in a number with the hope that today his call would be answered.

“Who are you calling?” Honor asked.

“You jump out of your skin every time I move.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Not really.”

He looked at her elbows and upper arms, which bore bruises. The backs of her hands were also bruised from her banging them against the headboard when he’d tied her to it. He regretted that he’d had to get physical, but he wouldn’t apologize for it. She would have been hurt much worse if he hadn’t.

“You don’t have to worry about me grabbing you anymore,” he told her. “Or waving a pistol at you. No more jitters, okay?”

“If I’m jittery it could be because I saw a man shot dead in my home this morning.”

He’d already said what he had to say about that, and he wasn’t going to justify it again. If you got a chance to take out a violent criminal like Fred Hawkins, you didn’t stop to reason why. You pulled the goddamn trigger. Otherwise, you’d be the one no longer breathing.

How many men had he seen die? How many had he seen die violently? Too many to count or even to remember. But he supposed that for a second-grade schoolteacher’s clear green eyes, it was a shocking thing to witness, which she would always associate with him. No help for that. However, this call would put an end to her flinching every time he moved.

He was about to disconnect and try again when a woman answered. “Deputy Director Hamilton’s office. How can I direct your call?”

“Who’re you? Put Hamilton on.”

“Whom may I say is calling?”

“Look, cut the bullshit. Give him the phone.”

“Whom may I say is calling?”

Damn bureaucrats. “Coburn.”

“I’m sorry, who did you say?”

“Coburn,” he repeated impatiently. “Lee Coburn.”

After a sustained pause, the woman at the other end said, “That’s impossible. Agent Coburn is deceased. He died more than a year ago.”

Chapter 17

Diego’s cell phone vibrated, but just to be ornery, he waited several seconds before answering it. “Who’s this?”

“Who were you expecting?” The Bookkeeper asked with matching snideness.

“Found your fugitive yet?”

“He’s proving to be more of a problem than originally thought.”

“You don’t say? Those couple of clowns really fucked up, didn’t they? Letting him get away like that.” He wanted to add, That’s what you get for not giving me the job, but decided not to press his luck. He didn’t rely solely on The Bookkeeper for income, but their business relationship—if you could even call it that—was lucrative.

For years after leaving the hair-braiding salon, he’d lived on the streets, finding shelter where he could, scavenging for food and clothing. He’d survived by a wily intellect that had come to him through some unknown contributor to his cloudy gene pool, and it hadn’t taken him long to figure out that barter, theft, and salvaging only got one so much. The only currency that mattered was money.

Diego had applied himself to earning it. He observed and learned and proved to be a quick study. The marketplace for his particular skills was limitless. His business thrived regardless of the economic climate for any other field of commerce. In fact, he was busiest whenever times got hard and the prevailing dog-eat-dog law of the jungle was more strictly enforced.

By his early teens he’d cultivated a reputation for sudden and explosive violence, so even the toughest of the tough respected his slight build and small stature and, for the most part, gave him a wide berth. He had no friends and few competitors because few were as good.

As far as the state of Louisiana was concerned, he didn’t exist. His birth had never been recorded, so he never had attended school. Although basically illiterate, he could read a smattering of English, enough to get by. He spoke fluent Spanish, which he’d picked up on the street. He couldn’t point out his hometown on a map, but he knew it like the back of his hand. He’d never even heard of long division or the multiplication tables, yet he could tabulate amounts of money in his head with lightning speed. Already he was calculating what he would charge for doing Coburn.

“So is the guy caught yet, or what?”

“No. He got Fred Hawkins.”

Diego was surprised by that, but withheld comment.