He and Fred had tried to persuade The Bookkeeper to rethink that mandate. They’d bargained for his life to be spared. Did Eddie, their boyhood friend, really have to die? Maybe just a stern warning or a threat either real or implied would work.

No loose ends. No mercy. The Bookkeeper hadn’t made an exception even for Eddie. He’d crossed a line. He had to go. The order had been issued in language that a one-year-old could understand, but for the sake of all concerned, he and Fred had made it as quick and painless as possible, while still making it look like an accident.

Doral hoped he could devise something that easy for Honor.

But if she died badly, she had only that friggin’ Coburn to blame, first for involving her—because Doral was convinced that she didn’t know Eddie’s secret—and then for stealing the quick death she should have had.

Of course before Doral could do anything, he had to find her.

With the mind-reading skills that often gave Doral gooseflesh, The Bookkeeper said, “Coburn’s dead, and he was the only person who knew where Honor is. How do you plan to find her?”

“Well, now that Coburn is ashes, she may come out of hiding.”

“You’re willing to wait on that?”

The implication being that waiting would be a bad idea. “No, of course not. I’m going to focus on Tori Shirah. Because I’m convinced that when we find her, we find Honor and Emily.”

“For your sake, I sincerely hope you’re right, Doral. For once.”

The Bookkeeper hung up without saying more. Doral closed his phone and realized as he started his pickup truck that his hand was shaking.

He hadn’t even been congratulated for getting Coburn, the asshole who was to blame for this whole fiasco. Instead, he’d received another veiled threat. He was still on The Bookkeeper’s shit list, where nobody wanted to be.

He drove his pickup out of the crowded parking lot of a tavern, where, even before calling The Bookkeeper, he’d stopped to toast his success with the car bomb. He joined the stream of vehicles that were homing in on the area near the train tracks where Tom VanAllen’s car had been blown to hell and back and was still smoldering. It was attracting gawkers like moths to a giant light bulb.

It did his smarting ego some good to know that he had caused all this commotion. Too bad he couldn’t crow about it.

Some of the curious had felt the impact of the blast, others had heard it, a few had actually seen the fireball that had lit up that side of town. Doral had to park two blocks from the tracks and go the rest of the way on foot… for the second time that night.

The area had been cordoned off by first responders. Uniformed police officers were still needed to keep the gathering crowd back and to make way for arriving emergency vehicles. The flashing strobes gave the whole scene a surreal aspect.

New arrivals asked questions of those already there.

Doral heard a dozen different versions of what had taken place and who was responsible, none of which were right. It was al Qaeda, it was dope dealers running a meth lab out of the trunk of their car, it was two lovesick teenagers with a suicide pact. Doral was amused by all the hypotheses.

He received condolences for the loss of his twin, who had been a victim of this crime wave. A mass murder on Sunday. A kidnapping on Tuesday. Now a car bomb. Concerned citizens wanted to know, what had happened to their peaceful little town?

Playing the role of city manager, Doral somberly pledged that the city government and local law enforcement were doing all they could to catch those responsible and put a stop to the series of violent crimes.

He’d been glad-handing for about an hour when he saw the coroner backing his van away from the burned-out car. Doral positioned himself to be on the driver’s side when the van stopped while officers cleared a path for it through the crowd.

Doral motioned for the coroner to lower his window. He obliged and said, “Hey, Doral. Had some excitement tonight, huh?”

Doral tilted his head in the direction of VanAllen’s car. “Any guess who it was?”

“The driver?” He shook his head. “No idea. Wasn’t enough to make a positive ID just by looking.” Lowering his voice, he said, “But don’t quote me on that. License plates were destroyed, too. They’re trying to get the car’s VIN number, but the metal is so hot—”

“What about the other one?”

“What other one?”

“The other person. On the passenger side.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “Somebody said there were two.”

“Then somebody said wrong. There was just the one.”

“What?”

“There wasn’t anybody on the passenger side.”

Doral reached through the open window and grabbed the man by the collar.

Stunned by the sudden move, the coroner pushed Doral’s hand aside. “Hey, what’s with you?”

“Are you sure? There was only one body?”

“Like I said, only one.”

The earth dropped out from under Doral.

Coburn had been partially beneath the train when the bomb detonated, which is what had saved him. Triggered when VanAllen answered his cell phone, the explosion had instantly vaporized most of VanAllen and demolished the car.

When Coburn crawled out from under the boxcar on the other side, burning debris showered him, scorching his skin, hair, and clothing. With no time to drop and roll, he batted out the most dangerous of the burning patches as he ran like hell the length of the train.

The man in the caboose had saved his life. Had it not been for his running away, Coburn would have been standing in the open passenger door when VanAllen answered his phone. He rounded the caboose and ran in a crouch along the weed-choked tracks, trying to keep a low profile against the fiery glow of the burning car.

He was almost on top of Honor before he saw her, and even then it took him a second to process that the huddled form on the tracks was a body, a woman, Honor.

With full-blown panic, he thought, Oh, Jesus, she’s hurt. She dead? No!

He bent over her and dug his fingers into her neck, looking for a pulse. She reacted by slapping at his hands and screaming bloody murder. He was glad she was alive, but at the same time furious with her for endangering herself. He hooked one arm around her waist, scooped her off the ground and up against him.

“Stop screaming! It’s me.”

Her legs gave way and she slumped.

“Are you hurt?”

He turned her and, holding her upright by her shoulders, looked her over. She didn’t have any wounds that he could see, nothing grisly like shards of glass protruding from her torso, or shattered bones poking through her skin, no deep gashes. Her eyes were open and staring at him, but unfocused.

“Honor!” He shook her slightly. “We’ve got to get away from here. Now come on!”

He jerked hard on her hand as he struck out running, trusting her to come along. She did, although she stumbled several times before gaining her footing. When they reached the garage, he opened the door, shoved her inside, then rolled the door shut. He didn’t even wait for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but guided her by feel to the car. He secured her in the passenger seat, then went around and got in on the driver’s side.

He pulled off his T-shirt and used it to wipe off the grease camouflaging his face and arms. The shirt came away blood-smeared. He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked exactly like what he was: a man who had barely escaped becoming a human Roman candle by clambering beneath a freight train.

He reached into the backseat and retrieved the ball cap that he’d found in the pickup truck. It helped some to conceal his face. But he figured that anyone on the streets of Tambour in the next half hour would be curious about the explosion, not about a man in a ball cap driving an old sedan.