Lethal

Which more or less summarized the life and times of Lee Coburn, who would leave the world with seven brutal murders as his only legacy. Seven victims who hadn’t been given a chance, who’d died before they knew what had hit them.

Swearing beneath his breath, he rubbed his temples. He was tired. No, more than tired. Weary. Weary of loading and unloading those goddamn trucks. Weary of the sad, one-room apartment that he’d been living in for the past thirteen months. Weary of life in general, and of his life in particular. As he’d told Gillette’s widow, if he died, which he probably would soon, he’d be dead, and none of it would matter.

But hell if it didn’t matter now. As he lowered his hands from his forehead, he realized he wasn’t quite ready to let the devil take him.

“Get up.”

She stirred, rolled to her side, and pushed herself into a sitting position. He reached down. She studied his hand for several seconds, then clasped it and let him pull her up.

“What did you mean?”

Her voice was breathless and shaky, but he knew what she was referring to. Instead of addressing the question, he propelled her toward the hallway and then into her bedroom, where he released her hand. Going to the bed, he whipped back the comforter, which had been spotless, but was now stained and grimy because of him.

“I gotta lie down, which means you gotta lie down.”

She stood where she was, looking at him as though she didn’t understand the language.

“Lie down,” he repeated.

She moved to the bed, but stood on the opposite side of it, staring across at him like he was an exotic animal she’d never seen before. She wasn’t acting right. All day long, he’d been studying her reactions to things he said and did, so that he would know what her weaknesses were and what fears he could tap into in order to manipulate her.

He’d seen her terrified, supplicant, desperate, and even pissed off. But this was a new expression, and he didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe she’d banged her head on the floor when she was fighting for control of the pistol.

“What you said about Eddie…” She paused to swallow. “What did you mean?”

“What did I say? I don’t remember.”

“You said that the thing you’re after had got him killed.”

“I never said that.”

“That’s exactly what you said.”

“You must’ve heard me wrong.”

“I didn’t hear you wrong!”

Well, good. She was acting normal again, not like a zombie had taken over her body. Her compact, shapely body that had felt real good against his.

“Eddie’s death was an accident,” she declared.

“If you say so.” He turned away and started rifling through the heap of clothes he’d removed from her bureau drawers earlier as he’d searched them.

He sensed her approach only a heartbeat before she grabbed him by the arm and brought him around to face her. He allowed it. She wasn’t going to stop with this until she got an explanation. Not unless he gagged her, and he really didn’t want to do that unless she forced him to.

“What did you come here to find?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me, damn you!

“I don’t know!”

He pulled his arm free and bent down to pick up a pair of stockings. Sheer, black stockings. When he turned back to her, she searched his eyes.

“You honestly don’t know?” she asked.

“What part of ‘I don’t know’ don’t you understand?”

He reached for her hand and began wrapping the stocking around her wrist. She didn’t resist. In fact, she seemed oblivious to what he was doing.

“If there’s anything about Eddie or how he died that you can tell me… Please,” she said. “Surely you can understand why I want to know.”

“Actually I don’t. He’ll stay dead. So what difference does it make?”

“It makes a huge difference. If his death wasn’t an accident, as you imply, I’d like to know why he died and who was responsible.” She placed her hand over his. He stopped winding the stocking around her wrist. “Please.”

Her eyes were various shades of green that were constantly changing. He’d noticed that the first thing, when they’d been out in the yard and he’d thrust the barrel of the pistol into her belly. Then her eyes had gone wide with fear. He’d seen them spark with anger. Now they glistened with unshed tears. And, always, those shifting hues.

He looked down at their joined hands. She lifted hers off his, but didn’t break eye contact. “You don’t think Eddie’s car crash was an accident?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

She breathed through her lips. “You think someone caused the crash and made it look like an accident?”

He didn’t say anything.

Her tongue swept across her lips. “He was killed because of something he had?”

He nodded. “That someone else wanted.”

“Something valuable?”

“The people who wanted it thought so.”

He watched the play of emotions in her face as she digested that. Then her gaze refocused on him. “Valuable to you?”

He gave a brusque nod.

“Like cash?”

“Possibly. But I don’t think so. More like the combination to a lock. Account number in a Cayman Islands bank. Something like that.”