The deed done, Emily opened the passenger-side door and grinned across at him. “I did it!”

“Congratulations.”

“Can I ride in front?” she asked.

“No, you cannot.” Honor guided her into the backseat.

“But I don’t have my car seat.”

“No, you don’t.” Honor shot a condemning glance at Coburn for abandoning the kid seat along with her car. “We’ll break the rule just this once,” she told Emily as she helped her to buckle up.

When Honor was once again in the passenger seat, Coburn asked, “Do you know of someplace we can go?”

“You mean to hide?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. We’ve gotta stay out of sight until I can get through to Hamilton.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I know where we can go.”

Tom VanAllen was awakened early that morning with the startling news that Fred Hawkins was dead and that Honor Gillette and her child were missing from their home. Both the murder and the kidnapping were attributed to Lee Coburn.

When Tom shared this news with Janice, she registered total disbelief, and then remorse. “I feel terrible about the unflattering things I said about Fred yesterday.”

“If it’s any comfort to you, he would have died instantly. He probably didn’t feel a thing.” He told her about Doral’s finding the body.

“That’s horrible. They were so close.” After a moment of silence, she asked, “What were they doing at Honor Gillette’s house?”

He told her about the discovery of the boat. “It was a few miles from her house, but near enough to worry them, so Fred went to check on her. According to Doral, when Fred arrived he found that the house had been tossed.”

“Tossed?”

He described the condition of the house as it had been described to him by Deputy Sheriff Crawford. “Fred’s body was lying just inside the front door. Coburn apparently came up behind him.”

“Just like he shot Sam Marset.”

“Looks like. Anyway, I need to go, see it for myself.”

He hated having to leave the house before helping her with the arduous morning routine of getting Lanny cleaned, dressed, and fed. Because he couldn’t chew or swallow, Lanny got his nourishment through a feeding tube. Mealtimes weren’t pleasant.

Janice, however, was understanding about duty taking him away. She told him she could handle things at the house and for him not to worry. “This is a crisis situation. You’re needed.” As she saw him off, she whispered in his ear, “Be careful,” and even went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

Most of his work was done sitting behind a desk. He supposed that the exciting elements of this case represented to Janice more of what she’d had in mind when he told her he wanted to become an agent for the FBI. He surprised and pleased her by kissing her back.

He got lost twice on the back roads but finally found the Gillette place, arriving just as Crawford was about to leave. The two introduced themselves and shook hands. Crawford brought him up to speed.

“I’ve turned it over to our CSU. They’ve got their hands full with this one. Your agents have come and gone. They’re meeting me back in town, where we’ll set up phone lines, organize a task force, divide the labor. Tambour P.D. has offered us space for a command center on their top floor.”

“Yes, I talked to my men on my drive down. I emphasized that cooperation is key, and that priority one is to find Mrs. Gillette and the child before they come to harm.”

Crawford looked at him with an implied Duh, which Tom tried to disregard. “Anything enlightening come from Doral Hawkins?”

“Not much. He says he received an excited call from his brother just as dawn was breaking. Got here as fast as he could. Fred’s boat was tied up at the dock. First sign that something was out of joint, the front door of the house was standing open.”

“What did he make of the mess inside?” Tom asked.

“You mean in addition to his brother’s body? Made the same thing I did of it. Somebody—we gotta presume Coburn—was searching for something.”

“Like what?”

“Anybody’s guess.”

“Was it found?”

“Anybody’s guess. Nobody seems to know what Coburn was after. Not Doral, not Mrs. Gillette’s father-in-law.”

He told Tom about Stan Gillette’s untimely arrival at the crime scene and described the former Marine down to his spit-and-polished shoes. “He’s a real hard-ass, but in his present situation, I probably wouldn’t be a nice guy either,” the deputy admitted.

The investigator took his leave, but gave Tom permission to walk through the house. He was conscientious to stay out of the way of the technicians who were painstakingly picking through the mess, trying to gather evidence. He was in and out in a matter of minutes.

His drive back to Lafayette from the Gillette place took over an hour, and when he walked into his office, he did so relieved that the obligatory errand was behind him.

But no sooner had he sat down at his desk than the office line rang. He depressed the blinking intercom button. “Yes?”

“Deputy Director Hamilton is calling from Washington.”

Tom’s stomach dropped like a plunging elevator. He cleared his throat, swallowed, thanked the receptionist, and depressed the other blinking button. “Agent VanAllen.”

“Hi, Tom. How are you?”

“Fine, sir. You?”

Clint Hamilton, with customary brusqueness, cut straight to the reason for the call. “You’ve got a dung heap of trouble down there.”

Tom, wondering how in hell Hamilton had gotten wind of it, hedged. “It’s been a busy couple of days.”

“Fill me in.”

Tom talked for the next five minutes without interruption. Several times, he paused to make sure that they hadn’t been accidentally disconnected. During those pauses, Hamilton didn’t speak, but Tom could hear him breathing, so he kept talking.

When he finished, Hamilton remained quiet for several moments, long enough for Tom to dab at his damp upper lip with his pocket handkerchief. Hamilton had placed a lot of confidence in him. That faith in his abilities was now being tested, and he didn’t want Hamilton to find him lacking.

When Hamilton finally spoke, he stunned Tom with a question. “Was he one of your agents?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This man Coburn. Was he an agent working undercover for you to investigate Sam Marset’s trucking interests?”

“No, sir. I never heard of him until I went to the crime scene at the warehouse and learned from Fred Hawkins the name of the suspect.”

“Fred Hawkins who’s now dead.”

“Correct.”

After another noticeable pause, Hamilton said, “Okay, continue.”

“I… uh… I forgot—”

“You were telling me that agents from your office are working hand in glove with the Tambour P.D.”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t want to sweep in there and piss them off. The warehouse murders are their jurisdiction. The sheriff’s office has Fred Hawkins’s homicide. But once it’s determined that Mrs. Gillette has indeed been kidnapped—”

Hamilton rudely interrupted him. “I know about jurisdiction, Tom. Let’s go back to Sam Marset. He would have been in a perfect position to engage in illegal interstate trafficking.”

Tom cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“Has any such connection been drawn?”

“No, nothing so far.” He told Hamilton about the search of every truck in the fleet, the questioning of each driver and other employees. “I’ve assigned agents to track down and interview anyone that we can place in and around that warehouse in the last thirty days, but so far no illegal contraband has been discovered.”

“What motive did the suspect have for killing his boss and fellow employees?”

“We’re trying to ascertain that, sir. But Coburn’s lifestyle is making it difficult.”

“In what way?”

“He’s been described as a loner. No friends, family, little interaction with coworkers. Nobody knew him well. The people—”