The Winner

breasts burned invisible holes through his thick flannel shirt. Their mouths erupted against each other as he yanked the robe free and it fell to the floor. LuAnn moaned and closed her eyes, her head swaying drunkenly from side to side as Riggs attacked her neck. She pulled at his hair and then wrapped her arms around his head as he hoisted her up in the air, his face buried in her chest. She wrapped her legs around his torso.

Following her frantic, whispered directions, Riggs lunged blindly along the hallway to the small first-floor guest bedroom. Riggs pushed open the door. LuAnn jerked away from him and sprawled flat on her back on the bed, the muscles in her long legs tensing in anticipation. She reached up and pulled at him.

“Dammit, Matthew, hurry!” At his subconscious level Riggs noticed the abrupt return of the Georgia drawl but he was far too intoxicated with the passion of the moment to do anything about it.

Riggs’s heavy work boots hit the hardwood floor with a loud thump and his pants followed immediately. She jerked his shirt off, popping several buttons in the process, then slid his boxers down. They didn’t bother with the bed covers although Riggs did manage to back-kick the door closed before he plunged on top of her.





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT




Jackson sat at the table and studied the laptop’s small screen. His suite was large and airy and furnished with eighteenth-century reproductions. The aged hardwood floors were partially covered with area rugs stitched with early American colonial themes. A large wooden carving of a duck in flight hung on one wall. A set of framed prints, each depicting a Virginia native who had gone on to become president of his country long ago, was on another wall. The inn was located in close proximity to his areas of focus, was quiet, and allowed Jackson the greatest freedom of unobserved movement. The night before, he had checked out as Harry Conklin and checked back in under another name. He liked to do that. He became uncomfortable staying in one character too long. Besides, he had met with Pemberton in the Conklin role and he didn’t want to run into the man again. Now a baseball cap covered his head. Heavy latex eye pouches bracketed the fake nose. The hair was blondish-gray and tied in a ponytail that sprouted out the back of the cap. His neck was long and wrinkled and his build was stocky. He looked like an aging hippie. His luggage was stacked neatly in one corner. He had a practice of not unpacking when he traveled; his line of work sometimes necessitated rapid exits.

Two hours earlier he had scanned one set of the fingerprints lifted from the cottage into his hard drive and transmitted them via modem to one of his information contacts. He had already called this person and told him what was coming. This particular contact had access to a database that housed oceans of the most interesting facts, the sole reason that Jackson had enlisted his services many years ago. It wasn’t certain that the man who was pursuing LuAnn would have his fingerprints on file anywhere, but Jackson had nothing to lose by checking. If the man did, Jackson’s task of tracking him down would become far easier.

Jackson smiled as his computer screen started filling up with data. A digitized photo of the man had even accompanied the personal details.

Thomas J. Donovan. The photo was three years old, but Jackson reckoned that at this time of life, Donovan wouldn’t have changed all that much. He studied the nondescript features of the man carefully and then checked the contents of his portable makeup kit and various hairpieces he had brought with him. Yes, if it came down to it, he could impersonate the man. Donovan’s name was actually familiar to Jackson. Donovan was an award-winning journalist at the Washington Tribune. In fact, about a year ago he had done an in-depth piece on Jackson’s father’s career as a United States senator.

Jackson had read the story and quickly condemned it as a fluff piece that came nowhere near to addressing the personal side of his father and his monstrous behavior. The history books would smile upon the man; his son knew better.

Jackson’s hunch had proven correct. He had figured the man trailing LuAnn wasn’t your typical blackmailer. It had taken a lot to track her down and an investigative journalist or perhaps ex–law enforcement person would have the skills, knowledge, and more important, the informational resources to have successfully done so.

Jackson sat back and mused for a moment. Actually, a true blackmailer would have posed less of a difficulty for him. Donovan was undoubtedly onto a story, an enormous story, and he would not stop until he achieved his goal. Or until someone stopped him. It was an interesting challenge. Simply killing the man wouldn’t do any good, however. That might make people suspicious. Also, Donovan might have told others of his investigations, although most journalists of Donovan’s capabilities, Jackson was aware, kept their cards close to the vest until they broke the story, for a variety of reasons not the least of which was the fear of being scooped.

He had to determine how much Donovan knew and whether he had told anyone else. He picked up the phone, got the number for the Trib, and dialed it. He asked for Thomas Donovan. He was told that Donovan had taken a leave of absence. He slowly hung up the phone. He wouldn’t have talked to the man if he had come on the phone. He did want to hear his voice, though, in case that knowledge should become useful later. Jackson was also an accomplished mimic and impersonating someone’s voice was a wonderful way to manipulate others.

According to Pemberton, Donovan had been in the Charlottesville area for at least a month. Jackson focused briefly on one obvious question: Of all the lottery winners why had the man targeted LuAnn? Jackson almost immediately answered his own query. Because she was the only one running from a murder charge. The only one who had disappeared for ten years and then resurfaced. But how could Donovan possibly have picked up her trail? The cover had been deep and it had been buried even deeper with the passage of ten years, even though LuAnn had committed a tremendous blunder by coming back to the States.

He had a sudden thought. Donovan apparently knew the names of all or some of the lottery winners for the year Jackson had fixed the game. What if he attempted to contact some of the others? If he didn’t get what he wanted from LuAnn, and Jackson felt reasonably sure he wouldn’t, the next logical step would be to seek out the others. Jackson took out his electronic Rolodex and started making phone calls. After half an hour he had finished contacting the other eleven. Compared to LuAnn, they were sheep to be led around. What he told them to do, they did. He was their savior, the man who had led them to the Promised Land of wealth and leisure. Now, if Donovan bit, the trap would spring.

Jackson began to pace the room. He paused and opened his briefcase. He pulled out the photos. They had been taken on his first day in Charlottesville, even before meeting with Pemberton. The quality of the photos was good considering he had been using a long-range lens and the early morning light had not been the best. The faces stared back at him. Sally Beecham looked tired and bothered. In her forties, tall and slender, she was LuAnn’s live-in housekeeper. Her suite was on the first floor on the north side of the mansion. He studied the next two photos. The two young Hispanic women constituted the cleaning staff. They came at nine and left at six. Finally came the photos of the groundspeople. Jackson studied each of their faces. When taking the photos, he had watched the people intently; how they moved, how they gestured. His handheld sound wand had picked up their voices perfectly. He had listened to their voices over and over as he had just listened to Riggs’s. Yes, it was coming together nicely. Like pieces in a strategic battle plan, he was positioning his soldiers to optimal advantage. Possibly, none of the information he had painstakingly gathered about Catherine Savage’s daily world would ever come into play. But, on the chance that it might, he would be more than ready. He put the photos away and closed the briefcase.

From a hidden compartment in his suitcase he drew out a short-handled throwing knife. Hand-crafted in China, the blade was so sharp it couldn’t even be touched by a bare hand without drawing blood; it was thrown by means of the perfectly balanced teak handle. Jackson strolled around the room, as his mind was sidetracked for a moment. LuAnn was uncommonly fast, lithe, agile, words that could equally be applied to himself. Yes, she had certainly upgraded herself. What else had she learned? What other skills had she acquired? He wondered whether she had experienced the same premonition he had: that their paths would cross again one day like two trains colliding. And had she done her utmost to prepare for that eventuality? Twenty feet. Using the letter opener, she could have killed him from that distance. Fast as he was, the blade would have been imbedded in his heart before he had a chance to react.

On this last thought Jackson wheeled around and let the knife fly. It sailed across the room, splitting the duck’s head completely in half upon impact and burrowing several inches into the wall. Jackson eyed the distance between himself and his target: At least thirty feet, he estimated. He smiled. LuAnn would have been far wiser to have killed him. She had, no doubt, been constrained by her conscience. That was her greatest weakness and Jackson’s greatest advantage, for he had no such parallel compunction.

Ultimately, if it came down to it, he knew that would be the difference.





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE




LuAnn watched Riggs, who lay dozing next to her. She let out a small breath and stretched her neck. She had felt like a virgin while they made love. An incredibly energetic display of sex, she was surprised the bed hadn’t caved in; they’d probably be sore tomorrow. A grin spread over her face. She stroked his shoulder and huddled next to him, putting one of her bare legs across both of his. With this movement he finally stirred and looked over at her.

A boyish smile cracked his face.

“What?” she asked, her eyes impish.

“I’m just trying to remember how many times I said ‘oh, baby.’ ”

She rubbed her hand across his chest, letting the nails bite in just enough to make him playfully grab her hand. LuAnn said, “I think it was more often than I screamed ‘yes, yes,’ but that was only because I couldn’t catch my breath.”

He sat up and put a hand through her hair. “You make me feel young and old all at the same time.”

They kissed again and Riggs lay back while LuAnn nestled on his chest. She noticed a scar on his side.

“Let me guess, old war wound?”

He looked up surprised and then followed her gaze to the scar. “Oh, yeah, real exciting, appendicitis.”

“Really? I didn’t think people came with two appendixes.”

“What?”

She pointed to another scar on his other side.

“Hey, can we just enjoy the moment here and stop with the observations and questions?” His tone was playful, but she noted the serious intent just below the surface.

“Well, you know, if you come over every day to work on the studio, we might make this a regular thing, sort of like breakfast.” LuAnn smiled and then almost immediately caught herself. What was the chance of that happening? The impact of this thought was crushing.

She quickly moved away from him and started to get up.

Riggs could hardly miss this dramatic transformation.

“Was it something I didn’t say?”

She turned to find him looking at her. As if suddenly self-conscious about her nakedness, she pulled the bedspread off the bed and draped it around her. “I’ve got a lot to do today.”

Riggs sat up and grabbed at the bedspread. “Well, excuse the hell out of me. I didn’t mean to get in the way of your schedule. I guess I had the six A.M. to seven A.M. slot. Who’s up next? The Kiwanis Club?”

She jerked the bedspread free. “Hey, I don’t deserve that.”

Riggs rubbed his neck and started to pull on his clothes. “Okay. It’s just that I’m having trouble switching gears as fast as you. Going nonstop from the most intensive passion I can ever remember to discussing the day’s workload sort of rubbed me the wrong way. I’m sorry as hell if I offended you.”

LuAnn looked down and then moved over and sat next to him. “That’s how it was for me too, Matthew,” she said quietly. “I’m embarrassed to tell you how long it’s been.” She paused and then said almost to herself, “Years.”

He looked at her incredulously. “You’ve gotta be kidding.” She didn’t answer and he was reluctant to break the silence. The ringing phone did.

Hesitating for a moment, LuAnn picked it up. She hoped to God it was Charlie and not Jackson. “Hello?”

It turned out to be neither. “We’re going to talk, Ms. Tyler, and we’re going to do it today,” Thomas Donovan said.

“Who is this?” LuAnn demanded.

Riggs quickly looked over at her.

“We had a brief meeting the other day when you were out driving. The next time I saw you was when you were sneaking out of my place with your boyfriend.”

“How did you get this number? It’s unlisted.”

Donovan silently laughed. “Ms. Tyler, no information is safe, if you know where to look. I’m assuming by now that you realize I know where to look.”

“What do you want?”

“Like I said, I want to talk.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

Riggs went over to the phone and held the receiver with her. At first LuAnn tried to push him off but Riggs held firm.

“Sure you do. And I have a lot to say to you. I can understand your reaction the other day. Maybe I should have approached you differently, but that’s past. I know beyond a doubt that you’re sitting on a story of immense importance, and I want to know what it is.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Donovan considered this for a moment. He ordinarily didn’t like to take this tack, but right now he couldn’t think of an alternative strategy. He made up his mind. “I’ll give you this as an inducement. If you talk to me, I’ll give you forty-eight hours to leave the country before I go public. If you don’t talk to me then I go public with everything I have as soon as I get off the phone.” He struggled internally for a moment and then added quietly, “Murder doesn’t have a statute of limitations, LuAnn.”

Riggs stared over at LuAnn, wide-eyed. She looked away from him.

“Where?” she asked.

Riggs was shaking his head fiercely but LuAnn ignored him.

“Let’s make it a very public place,” Donovan said. “Michie’s Tavern. I’m sure you know where that is. One o’clock. And don’t bring anyone with you. I’m way too old for guns and speeding cars. I catch a whiff of your boyfriend or anyone else, the deal is off and I call the sheriff in Georgia. Do you understand?”

LuAnn ripped the phone free from Riggs and slammed it down.

Riggs faced her. “Would you like to fill me in on what’s going on? Who are you supposed to have murdered? Somebody in Georgia?”

LuAnn stood up and pushed past him, her face crimson from the abrupt revealing of this secret. Riggs grabbed her arm and pulled her back roughly. “Dammit, you’re going to tell me what’s going on.”

She snapped around and, quick as a ferret, connected her right fist flush with his chin, causing his head to snap back and hit hard against the wall.

When he came to Riggs was lying on the bed. LuAnn sat next to him holding a cold compress to his bruised chin and then pressed it against the growing knot on his head.

“Damn!” he said as the cold went through his system.

“I’m sorry, Matthew. I didn’t mean to do that. I just—”

He rubbed his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you knocked me out. I’m not a chauvinist, but I can’t believe a woman just flattened my butt with one punch.”

She managed a feeble smile. “I had a lot of practice growing up, and I’m pretty strong.” She added kindly, “But I think your head hitting the wall had a lot to do with it.”

Riggs rubbed his jaw and sat up. “Next time we’re having an argument and you’re thinking about popping me, just let me know and I’ll surrender on the spot. Deal?”

She touched his face gently and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m not going to hit you anymore.”

Riggs looked over at the phone. “Are you going to meet him?”

“I don’t have a choice — that I can see.”

“I’m going with you.”

LuAnn shook her head. “You heard him.”

Riggs sighed. “I don’t believe you murdered anyone.”

LuAnn took a deep breath and decided to tell him. “I didn’t murder him. It was self-defense. The man I was living with ten years ago was involved in drugs. I guess he was skimming off the top and I walked right into the middle of it.”

“So you killed your boyfriend?”

“No, the man who killed my boyfriend.”

“And the police—”

“I didn’t stay around long enough to find out what they were going to do.”

Riggs looked around the room. “The drugs. Is that where all this came from?”

LuAnn almost laughed. “No, he was a small-timer. Drug money didn’t have anything to do with this.”

Riggs wanted desperately to ask what did, but refrained from doing so. He sensed that she had divulged enough of her past life for now. Instead he watched in silent frustration as LuAnn slowly got up and started to leave the room, the bedspread dragging behind her, the well-defined muscles in her bare back tensing with each stride.

“LuAnn? That’s your real name?”