“Why wouldn’t he want safety and protection?”
“He doesn’t trust me—the bureau—to provide it. If he did, he would have called me in the first place, like you said. Frankly, he’d be crazy not to be cautious. If Marset was as dirty as alleged, God knows what kind of evidence Coburn has collected. Anyone who did illicit trade with Marset probably has a contract out on Coburn.
“And then there are the personal vendettas. I’m told Doral Hawkins is out for his blood. So is Mrs. Gillette’s father-in-law. The vigilante mindset has Hamilton worried.”
“He wants Coburn alive.”
“He wants the evidence Coburn obtained.” He glanced at his wristwatch and then reached for his suit jacket. “I need to get back. I’ve got to be on hand and ready for whatever happens.”
As he walked past her toward the door, she reached for his hand to detain him. “What if he doesn’t?”
“What if who doesn’t what?”
“What if Coburn doesn’t come in?”
“Status quo for me. I won’t be the hero, but I won’t have a chance to screw up, either.”
“Don’t talk about yourself that way, Tom.” She stood up and clasped his shoulders. “Don’t even think that way. This could be an opportunity for you to prove your mettle.”
Her confidence in him was misplaced, but he appreciated her loyalty. “I’m just pissed off enough to seize that opportunity.”
“Good! Show Hamilton your stuff. And Coburn. And everybody.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Her expression softened. “Whatever you do, be careful.”
“I will.”
“This man may be an FBI agent, but he’s dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
Before leaving, he stopped in Lanny’s room. The boy’s eyes were open, but he lay still, silent, staring, and Tom almost wished for the agitation he’d exhibited last night. At least that demonstrated that he felt something, that he shared some level of humanness with his father. Any connection would be better than none at all.
“I would do anything for you, Lanny,” he whispered. “Anything. I hope that… that on some level, you know that.” Tom touched his son’s hair, then leaned down and kissed his forehead.
He got as far as the front door before realizing that he’d left his keys in the den. He retraced his steps and was about to reenter the room when he drew up short.
Janice had returned to her seat on the sofa. She had her cell phone in hand, her thumbs furiously tapping the touch screen. In under a minute, he and his problems had been discarded and forgotten. She was totally engrossed in her own world, a world in which he had no part.
He remembered that just a few days ago—or was it yesterday?—he’d caught her similarly absorbed in her telephone.
“Janice?”
She jumped. “Jesus, Tom!” she gasped. “I thought you’d left.”
“Obviously.” He set his briefcase on the end table and walked toward her.
She came to her feet. “Did you forget something?” Her pitch was unnaturally high, her smile unusually bright.
He nodded down at the phone in her hand. “What are you doing?”
“Playing my word game.”
“Let me see.” He extended his hand.
“What? Why?”