He made a pile of his belongings in the center of the room, set a lighter to them, and waited to make certain that the fire would catch. When he turned his back on the room, flames were already licking at the covers on the bed, Isobel’s funeral bier.
Slowly, laboriously, he made his way up through the former factory to street level. He could already smell smoke, and reasoned that it wouldn’t take long for the blaze to eat the building whole.
The car was gone, of course. It didn’t matter. He struck off down the sidewalk, staying close to the buildings, keeping his right hand around the razor in his pants pocket, thinking that possibly The Bookkeeper wasn’t finished with him yet.
He for sure as hell wasn’t finished with The Bookkeeper.
Chapter 41
When Bonnell Wallace regained consciousness, he was lying face up on the floor of his bathroom. Someone was bending over him, shining a flashlight into his eye, which he held pried open with a gloved hand.
“Mr. Wallace, can you hear me?”
“Turn off that goddamn light.” It was driving splinters of pain through the top of Wallace’s skull from the inside. The EMT didn’t do as asked. Instead he pried open Wallace’s other eye and waved the flashlight an inch from his eyeball.
Wallace swatted at the hand wearing the blue glove. Or tried. He connected with nothing but air and realized that he was seeing double and that he had aimed for the wrong image.
“Mr. Wallace, lie still, please. You’ve got a concussion.”
“I’m all right. Did you catch him?”
“Who?”
“The bastard who did this to me.”
“The back door was standing open when we got here. Your assailant got away.”
Wallace was struggling to sit up while the pair of EMTs were trying to hold him down. “I need to talk to the cops.”
“They’re searching the property, Mr. Wallace.”
“Go get them.”
“You can talk with the officers later. They’ll want your statement. In the meantime, we’ll transport you to the ER and let them X-ray—”
“You’re not transporting me anywhere.” Wallace knocked aside the young man’s arm, and this time his aim was perfect. “Get off me. I’m all right. I’ve got to warn Tori. Bring me my phone. It’s on the bedroom chair.”
The two EMTs consulted each other with a look. One got up and disappeared through the doorway. Seconds later, he called back, “No phone on the chair.”
Wallace gave a low moan. “He took my phone. My phone has her number in it.”
“Whose number?”
“Jesus! Whose do you think? Tori’s.”
“Sir, please lie back and let us—”
He grabbed the young man by the front of his uniform shirt. “I told you, I’m fine. But if anything happens to Tori, I’m coming after you first, and I’ll make your life a living hell. So you had better get a cop in here now!”
Coburn had been trained to sleep as efficiently as he’d been trained to do everything else. He woke up after two hours, feeling revived if not completely rested.
Honor was still lying as though welded to him. His right arm had gone to sleep. It tingled, but he left it where it was, sandwiched between her breasts. He didn’t want to wake her up until he had to. Besides, his arm felt good there.
Her right hand was on his chest, and he was shocked to realize that, in sleep, he’d covered it with his left hand, keeping it there, directly over his heart.
He had to admit: She’d got to him. This demure second-grade schoolteacher, who’d been faithful to her husband, but who had fucked him with the same fervor with which she’d fought him two days ago, had crawled under his mean ol’ hide.
Her features were soft and feminine, but she was no creampuff where and when it mattered. Even those times when he’d been ready to strangle her for doing something reckless, he’d admired her courage. He believed she would have killed him, or died trying, if he’d harmed her kid.