“Later. Listen, I found what I’ve been after. Turned out to be a USB key loaded with incriminating information.”
“On who?”
“Lots of people. Locals. Some not. A shitload of stuff.”
“You’ve actually seen it?”
“I’m holding it in my hand.”
“To swap for Emily.”
“If it comes to that. I don’t think it will.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I don’t think it will come to that.”
“No more fucking riddles, Coburn. Tell me where you are, I’ll get—”
“I emailed you the file a few minutes ago.”
“Nothing’s come in from you on my phone.”
“I didn’t send it to your regular email address. You know where to look.”
“So it’s good stuff?”
“Yes.”
“But it doesn’t ID The Bookkeeper.”
“How’d you know?”
“If it had, you’d have told me that first.”
“You’re right. We weren’t that lucky. But this will make him traceable. I’m almost positive.”
“Good work, Coburn. Now tell me—”
“No time. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait! You can’t do this without backup. You could be walking into another trap.”
“That’s a chance I gotta take.”
“No way. And I’m not going to argue with you over this. I spoke with Deputy Crawford. I think I can safely vouch for him. Call him and—”
“Not until Emily is back with Honor. Then she’ll notify the authorities.”
“You can’t confront these people alone.”
“That’s the condition of the swap.”
“That’s the condition of every swap!” Hamilton shouted. “Nobody sticks to the conditions.”
“I do. This time I do.”
“You could get that little girl killed!”
“Maybe. But it’s a sure thing she’ll die if cops and feds swarm the scene.”
“Doesn’t have to be that way. We can—”
Coburn disconnected, then turned off the phone. “Bet he had some choice words for me,” he said to Honor as he tossed the phone onto the backseat.
“He thinks you should call in reinforcements.”
“Just like in the movies. Give him his head, he’d have S.W.A.T. guys, choppers, every badge within fifty miles converging on the scene, an army of Stallones who’d only fuck it up.”
After a moment, she said quietly, “I was very angry at you.”
He glanced over at her with silent inquiry.
“When you ruined Eddie’s football.”
“Yeah, I know. My cheek still stings where you slapped it.”
“I thought you were being unreasonably cruel. But actually your intuition was right. You just picked the wrong sport.”
It hadn’t been intuition that had caused him to plunge the knife into that football. It had been jealousy. Raw, fierce, animalistic jealousy over her facial expression as she’d stroked the football’s lacing and lovingly reminisced about her late husband. But they’d both be better off if he didn’t correct her misconception. Let her think he was an intuitive jerk rather than a jealous wannabe lover.
She was rubbing her upper arms, a sign of her anxiety. “Honor.” When she turned her head toward him, he said, “I can call Hamilton back. Have him send in the cavalry.”
“Two days ago, you wouldn’t have given me an option,” she said, her tone throaty and intimate. “Coburn, I—”
“Don’t. Whatever else you were about to say, don’t.” Her misty expression alarmed him more than if she’d launched an RPG at him. “Don’t look at me all calf-eyed. Don’t nurse any romantic notions about me just because I told you that you’re pretty or related a sob story about some old horse.
“The sex? Mind-blowing. I wanted you, and you wanted me back, and I think even before we kissed on the boat we both knew it was a sure thing, only a matter of time. And it felt terrific. But don’t delude yourself into thinking that I’m a different person than I was when I crawled up into your yard. I’m still mean. Still me.”
He made himself sound harsh, because it was important that she understand this. In an hour, possibly less, one way or another, he would exit her life as swiftly as he’d entered it. He wanted to make that exit painless for her, even if it meant wounding her now. “I haven’t changed, Honor.”
She gave him a wan smile. “I have.”
Tori’s eyes refused to open, but she received intermittent impressions of motion and light and noise, all of which were magnified to an excruciating level, followed then by a darkness so absolute it swallowed every stimulus until she was jarred into awareness again.
“Ms. Shirah, stay with us. You’ve been seriously injured, but you’re on your way to the trauma center. Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand?”
What a stupid request. But she obliged and was congratulated by a voice that then said, “She’s responding, Doctor. We’re two minutes out.”
She tried to lick her lips, but her tongue felt thick and uncooperative. “Emily.”
“Emily? She’s asking for Emily. Anybody know who Emily is?”
“There was nobody else in the house.”
The blackness descended again, causing the disconnected voices to waft in and out.
“No, Ms. Shirah, don’t try to move. We’ve had to secure you to the gurney. You sustained a gunshot wound to your head.”
Gunshot wound? Doral wearing a stupid ski mask. A fight with him over—
Emily! She had to get to Emily.
She tried to sit up but couldn’t. She tried to remain conscious but couldn’t. Oh, Jesus, here comes that blackness again.
When next she emerged from it, the lights were bright against her closed eyelids and there was a lot of racket and activity surrounding her. Oddly, she had the sensation of floating above it all, watching from a distance.
And was that Bonnell? Why was he wearing that silly bandage on his forehead? And were his ears bloody?
He was clutching her hand. “Sweetheart, whoever hurt you…”
Was he crying? Bonnell Wallace? The Bonnell Wallace she knew was crying?
“Everything will be all right. I swear to you, I’ll make it all right. You’ll get through this. You have to. I can’t lose you.”
“Mr. Wallace, we have to get her to the OR.”
She felt Bonnell’s lips brush hers. “I love you, honey. I love you.”
“Mr. Wallace, please step aside.”
“Will she survive?”
“We’ll do our best.”
She was being pulled away from him, but he kept hold of her hand until he was forced to let go. “I love you, Tori.”
She tried to outrun the encroaching oblivion, but as it enveloped her, her mind cried out, I love you, too.
Since Coburn was bent on staging a one-man show, Hamilton had to find a way to stop him before he had a total disaster on his hands. Tom VanAllen’s death hadn’t convinced Coburn of the agent’s innocence, so it was more vital than ever that Hamilton talk to his recent widow to gauge what she knew, if anything.
But when he and his team arrived at the VanAllen home, as Hamilton had predicted, there were no other vehicles there. The widow was passing the night alone. But she wasn’t sleeping. Lights were on inside the house.
Hamilton alighted from the Suburban, strode up the walk, rang the doorbell, and waited. When she didn’t respond, he wondered if maybe she was asleep after all. Perhaps, because the son needed around-the-clock care, the lights in the VanAllen household never went out.
He rang the bell again, then knocked. “Mrs. VanAllen? It’s Clint Hamilton,” he called through the wood door. “I know this is an extremely difficult time for you, but it’s important that I speak to you right away.”
Still getting no response, he tried the latch. It was locked. He reached for his cell phone, scrolled through his contacts, and found the house phone number. He called it and heard the phone ringing deep inside the house.