male around six feet three inches tall, average weight, athletic build, black hair, blue eyes, thirty-four years of age according to his employee records.
Fred had concluded the press conference by filling television screens with the drawing and warning locals that Coburn was believed still to be in the area and should be considered armed and dangerous.
“You laid it on pretty thick,” Doral said now, referring to Fred’s closing remarks. “No matter how slippery Lee Coburn is, everybody’s going to be after his hide. I don’t think he has a prayer of escaping the area.”
Fred looked at his brother and raised one eyebrow. “You mean that honestly, or is that wishful thinking?”
Before Doral could reply, Fred’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and smiled across at his brother. “Tom VanAllen. FBI to the rescue.”
Chapter 3
Coburn gradually backed away from the woman, but even then, her fear of him was palpable. Good. He needed her to be afraid. Fear would inspire cooperation. “They’re searching for you,” she said.
“Behind every tree.”
“Police, state troopers, volunteers. Dogs.”
“I heard them yelping early this morning.”
“They’ll catch you.”
“They haven’t yet.”
“You should keep running.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Gillette?”
Her expression became even more stark with fear, so the significance of his knowing her name hadn’t escaped her. He hadn’t randomly selected her house in which to take refuge. It—she—had been a destination.
“Mommy, the kitty went into the bushes and won’t come out.”
Coburn’s back was to the door, but he’d heard the little girl come in from outside, had heard the soles of her sandals slapping against the hardwood floor as she approached the kitchen. But he didn’t turn toward her. His gaze remained fixed on the kid’s mother.
Her face had turned as white as chalk. Her lips looked practically bloodless as her eyes sawed back and forth between him and the kid. But Coburn gave her credit for keeping her voice light and cheerful. “That’s what kitties do, Em. They hide.”
“How come?”
“The kitty doesn’t know you, so maybe he’s afraid.”
“That’s silly.”
“Yes, it is. Very silly.” She shifted her gaze back to Coburn and added meaningfully, “He should know you won’t do anything.”
Okay, he wasn’t dense. He got the message. “If you do,” he said softly, “he’ll scratch, and it will hurt.” Holding her frightened stare, he slid the pistol into the waistband of his jeans and tugged the hem of his T-shirt over it, then turned around. The kid was staring up at him with blatant curiosity.
“Does your boo-boo hurt?”
“My what?”
She pointed to his head. He reached up and touched congealed blood. “No, it doesn’t hurt.”
He stepped around her as he crossed to the table. Ever since coming into the kitchen, his mouth had been watering from the aroma of freshly baked cake. He stripped away the paper cup of a cupcake and bit off half of it, then ravenously crammed the rest of it into his mouth and reached for another. He hadn’t eaten since noon yesterday, and he’d been slogging through the swamp all night. He was starving.
“You didn’t wash,” the kid said.
He swallowed the cupcake practically whole. “What?”
“You’re supposed to wash your hands before you eat.”