“In any case, the superintendent sanctioned it, but when Eddie was killed, he didn’t connect the car wreck to Eddie’s secret investigation, which to his knowledge had never produced any evidence. Eddie had given it to you,” he said directly to Honor.
She looked across at her father-in-law, laid her hand on his forearm, and pressed it. Then she motioned toward the recorder. “How long after recording that was Mrs. VanAllen…”
“Killed?” Hamilton asked.
Honor nodded.
“Minutes. Her lawyer had insisted that her statement be taken in a private office at the rehab center where she was getting therapy for the ankle injury. There were two federal marshals posted at the door. She was in a wheelchair. I and another agent were flanking her. Her attorney was pushing her chair.
“As we emerged from the office to take her back to her room, the young man seemed to come out of nowhere. He lashed at the marshal with a straight razor and sliced open his cheek. The other FBI agent was trying to draw his weapon when the young man slashed his throat. That agent died a few minutes later.
“Mrs. VanAllen was cut swiftly, but viciously. The razor went through her neck, almost to her spinal column, and from ear to ear. It was a gruesome death. She had time to realize she was dying. The young man, however, died instantly from a fatal gunshot wound.”
It had been reported on the news that Hamilton had shot him twice in the chest, once in the head.
“It was a suicide mission,” Hamilton said. “He had to know there was no possible means of escape. He gave me no choice.”
“And he hasn’t been identified?”
“No. No ID, no information on him at all. No one has come forward to claim his body. We don’t know his connection to The Bookkeeper. All we have is his straight razor and a silver crucifix on a chain.”
After a silent moment, Hamilton stood up, signaling that the meeting was adjourned. He shook hands with Stan. Then he clasped Honor’s hand between both of his. “How’s your daughter?”
“Doing well. She doesn’t remember anything of that night, thank God. She talks about Coburn constantly and wants to know where he went.” After an awkward silence, she continued. “And Tori has been released from the hospital. We’ve been to see her twice. She’s being cared for by private nurses in Mr. Wallace’s home.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s giving them hell,” Stan said dryly.
“She is,” Honor said, laughing. “She’s going to be fine, which is a miracle. For once in his life, Doral didn’t hit his target with precision.”
“I’m glad to know that both have recovered,” Hamilton said. “And I commend you for the numerous times you showed incredible courage and fortitude, Mrs. Gillette.”
“Thank you.”
“Take care of yourself and your little girl.”
“I will.”
“Thank you for coming today.”
“We appreciate the invitation,” Stan said. He turned and started for the door.
Honor hung back, her eyes holding Hamilton’s. “I’ll be right there, Stan. Give us a minute please.”
He left the office and when she heard the door close behind him, she said, “Where is he?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t play dumb, Mr. Hamilton. Where is Coburn?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Like hell you don’t.”
“Do you want to know where he’s buried? He isn’t. His body was cremated.”
“You’re lying. He didn’t die.”
He sighed. “Mrs. Gillette, I know how distressing—”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m no older than Emily. Even she would see through your crap. Where is he?” she repeated, stressing each word.
He vacillated for several moments, then motioned her back into her chair and sat down behind his desk. “He told me that if you should ever ask—”
“He knew I would ask.”
“He ordered me not to tell you that he’d survived. In fact, he threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t tell you that he was dead. But he also made me swear that if you ever questioned it, I was to give you this.”
Opening his lap drawer, he withdrew a plain white envelope. He hesitated for what seemed to Honor like an eternity before sliding it across the desk toward her. Her heart was beating so hard and fast she could barely breathe. Her hands had turned icy and damp, so she had butterfingers as she worked her thumb beneath the flap and opened the envelope. Inside was a single folded sheet of paper with one line handwritten on it in a bold scrawl.
It meant something.
A puff of air escaped her lips. She closed her eyes tightly and pressed the sheet of paper against her chest. When she opened her eyes, they were damp with tears. “Where is he?”
“Mrs. Gillette, heed this warning, and understand that I extend it out of genuine concern for you and your daughter. Coburn—”
“Tell me where he is.”
“You went through a terrible ordeal together. It’s only natural that you formed an emotional attachment to him, but you and he could never work.”
“Where is he?”
“You’ll only be letting yourself in for heartbreak.”
She stood up, planted her palms flat on his desk, and leaned to within inches of him. “Where. Is. He?”
He’d been coming to the airport every day for the past two weeks, ever since he’d been able to leave his bed for more than a few minutes at a time. The third time he’d been noticed loitering in the baggage claim area, a TSA agent had cornered him and asked him what he was up to.
He’d shown the guy his badge. Although he didn’t look much like the photograph anymore—he was shades paler, almost twenty pounds lighter, and his hair was longer and shaggier—the guy could tell it was him. He’d made up some bullshit story about working a case undercover, and said that if the guy didn’t get away from him and leave him alone, his cover was going to be blown, and then the guy would catch the flak for screwing up the op.
From then on, they’d left him alone.
He still had to use a cane, but he figured that, with luck, he could toss the damn thing in another week or so. He’d made it all the way from his bedroom to the kitchen without it this morning. But he didn’t trust himself to navigate the busy baggage claim area where people were notorious for grabbing suitcases and making a dash for the rental car counters, boisterously hugging arriving relatives, or simply not watching where they were going. After all he’d been through, he didn’t want to be mowed down by a civilian.
Even with the cane, he was sweating by the time he reached the bench on which he customarily sat to await the arrival of the inbound plane from Dallas, because if you were traveling from New Orleans to Jackson Hole, in all likelihood, you took the route through DFW.
The bench afforded him a view of every passenger exiting the concourse. He cursed himself for being a fool. She probably had bought Hamilton’s lie; the man could be convincing. Lee Coburn was dead to her. End of story.
One day far into the future, she would bounce her grandkids on her knee and tell them about the adventure she’d had one time with an FBI agent. Emily might have a vague memory of it, but that was doubtful. How much did a four-year-old retain? She’d probably already forgotten about him.
While telling the tale to her grandchildren, Honor would probably leave out the part about the lovemaking. She might or might not show them her tattoo… if she hadn’t had it removed by then.
And even if she had questioned his demise and received his note, maybe she hadn’t caught on to the message. Maybe she didn’t even remember that during their lovemaking, he’d said, “Put your hands on me. Let’s pretend this means something.”
If he ever had it to do over, he would say more. He would make it clearer to her that it had meant something or he wouldn’t have cared whether or not her hands were on him. If given another opportunity, he would tell her…