Fred shrugged as though to say it was the federal government’s time and manpower that were being wasted. Sardonically he said, “You can question Coburn about that when we catch him.”
“If it’s us.”
“It’ll be us,” Fred growled with resolve. “He’s still in the area or I’m not three-quarters Coonass.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I can feel him like hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.”
Tom didn’t argue. Some law enforcement officers had innate crime-solving skills that had inspired their career choice. Tom wasn’t one of them. He’d always wanted to be an FBI agent, to work in that environment, but he’d never deluded himself into believing that he possessed extraordinary powers of detection or deduction. He relied strictly on training and procedure.
He knew he didn’t call to mind the sexy, glamorous image of an FBI agent that Hollywood portrayed—steely-eyed, iron-jawed men defying machine-gun bullets as they chased gangsters in fast cars.
The perils Tom faced were of another kind altogether.
He cleared his throat to shake off that disturbing thought. “So you think Coburn is out there somewhere.” He shaded his eyes against the sun, which hadn’t yet slipped below the tree line. He could hear the search helicopter hovering not too far away but couldn’t see it in the glare. “Chopper might spot the boat.”
“Might. But probably won’t.”
“No?”
Fred relocated his gum to the other side of his mouth. “It’s been up there going on two hours. I’m thinking Coburn’s too smart to let himself be sighted that easily. It’s not like that chopper can sneak up on him. Meanwhile we’ve got police boats trolling miles—”
A sharp whistle drew their attention to the ramshackle boat dock fifty yards from Mrs. Thibadoux’s dwelling. Doral Hawkins was waving his arms high above his head. VanAllen and Fred jogged down the grassy slope that was littered with junk, relics from salvage yards and garage sales that had been purchased, then left to the mercy of salt air.
They joined Doral and several uniformed officers who were grouped around an area on the bank of the bayou. “What have you got, brother?” Fred asked.
“Partial footprint. Even better, blood.” Doral proudly pointed out what was obviously spatters of blood near a distinct depression in the cool mud.
“Hot damn!” Fred went down on his haunches to better examine the first real clue they’d found.
“Don’t get too excited,” Doral said. “Looks like the heel of a cowboy boot. Could belong to one of those idiot teenagers the old lady was ranting about.”
“She said they were down here at her dock only a few days ago,” Tom remarked.
“We’ll check out their footwear,” Fred said. “But one of the ladies who works in the Royale offices sounded like she had the hots for Coburn. Described him in detail. Right down to his boots.” He grinned up at the other two men. “She said she never saw him in anything except cowboy boots.”
“What do you make of the blood?” Tom asked.
“It’s a few drips, not a puddle, so he couldn’t be hurt too bad.” Fred slapped his thighs as he stood up and called back to one of the other officers, “Get the lab boys from the sheriff’s office down here.”
He put another pair of officers in charge of cordoning off the area. “Twenty feet wide. From the house down to the water. And tell Mrs. Thibadoux to keep her damn dogs away from here.”
“They might pick up his scent,” Tom said hopefully.
Fred scoffed. “Not that sorry pack. Where were they when Coburn was stealing her boat?”
Good question. Strangers were milling all over the property and none of the dogs had even growled.
Doral, who’d been staring out over the sluggish water of the bayou, used his thumb to push his dozer cap farther back on his head. “I hate to throw a wet blanket over this, but if Coburn put into the bayou here—”
“We’re screwed,” Fred said, catching his twin’s meaning.
“What I was thinking,” Doral said unhappily.
Tom hated to show his ignorance, but he had to ask. “What were you thinking?”
“Well,” Doral said, “from here, Coburn could’ve gone in any one of five directions.” He pointed out the tributaries that converged into the widest section of the bayou behind the Thibadoux property.
“All five of those channels branch off into others, and those into others. It’s a network. Leaving us with miles of waterways and swamp to cover.” Fred’s elation had rapidly dissipated. Looking out over the watery view, he placed his hands on his hips. “Shit. We should have had this son of a bitch in custody by now.”
“Won’t argue with you there,” Doral said.
“He worked on the loading dock, for crissake,” Fred grumbled. “How smart can he be?”
Tom refrained from pointing out the obvious, but he did say, “It’s like he chose this point on purpose, isn’t it? Like he knew that these creeks came together at this spot.”
“How could he know that if he’s not from around here?” Doral asked.
Fred took the wad of chewing gum from his mouth and pitched it overhand into the dark, murky waters of the bayou. “It means he had an escape route all planned out.”
Tom’s cell phone vibrated. He took it from his pocket. “My wife,” he told the two men.
“You’d better take it,” Fred said.
Tom didn’t talk to anyone about his circumstances at home, but he was certain people talked about them behind his back. Lanny was never mentioned, but everybody acquainted with the VanAllens, even by name, knew about their son. Someone as disabled as Lanny aroused pity and curiosity, which is why Tom and Janice had never taken him out in public. They wanted to spare not only themselves but their helpless son the humiliation of having people gawk.
Even their friends—former friends—had revealed a morbid curiosity that got so uncomfortable that he and Janice had severed all connections. They no longer socialized with anyone. Besides, their friends had borne normal, healthy children. It was painful to listen to their talk about school plays, birthday parties, and soccer games.
He turned his back and answered the call. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” she replied. “I’m just calling to check on you. How’s it going?”
“We just got a breakthrough, actually.” He shared with her the recent discovery. “Good news, it’s likely that we’ve picked up his trail. Bad news, it leads into the bayou. That’s a hell of a lot of swampy territory to cover.”
“How long will you be?”
“I was about to head back. Don’t hold supper on me, though. I’ve got to stop at the office before coming home. How’s Lanny?”
“You always ask that.”
“I always want to know.”
She sighed. “He’s fine.”
Tom was about to thank her for the update when he bit back the words. It was offensive to him, this feeling that he should thank her for answering a question about their son’s well-being. “I’ll see you in a while,” he said and immediately disconnected.
Finding the footprint and blood had galvanized the flagging officers involved in the manhunt. Fresh search dogs had been sent for. Mrs. Thibadoux was yelling from her back porch that somebody would have to pay for any damages done to her yard or dock. Fred and Doral ignored her as they reorganized and divided responsibilities among the various agencies.
Tom figured this would be a good time for him to slip away. His departure would go unnoticed, and he wouldn’t be missed.
Chapter 10
Darkness would impede the search for Coburn.
Which made The Bookkeeper unhappy to see that the sun was going down.