The Winner

  times there, didn’t we?” He tightened his grip on the pillow. “Didn’t we?” he asked again.

  “Yes we did.” Her eyes dipped to follow his movements and she tried to swallow but her throat was too dry. “Perhaps I could travel there first and then on to New Zealand.”

  “And not a word to the police? You promise?” He lifted up the pillow.

  Her chin trembled uncontrollably as she watched the pillow come toward her. “Peter. Please. Please don’t.”

  His words were stated very precisely. “My name is Jackson, Alicia. Peter Crane doesn’t live here anymore.”

  With a sudden pounce, he pushed her flat against the couch, the pillow completely covering her face. She fought hard, kicking, scratching, gyrating her body, but she was so small, so weak; he barely felt her fighting for her life. He had spent so many years making his body hard as rock; she had spent that time waiting for a precise replica of her father to stride gallantly into her life, her muscles and her mind growing soft in the process.

  Soon, it was over. As he watched, the violent movements diminished quickly and then stopped altogether. Her pale right arm slid down to her side and then dangled off the couch. He removed the pillow and forced himself to look down at her. She at least deserved that. The mouth was partially open, the eyes wide and staring. He quickly closed them and sat there with her, patting her hand gently. He did not try to hold back his own tears. That would’ve done no good. He struggled to remember the last time he had cried but couldn’t. How healthy was it when you couldn’t even recall?

  He placed her arms across her chest but then decided to have them clasped at her waist instead. He carefully lifted her legs up on the sofa and put the pillow he had used to kill her under her head, arranging her pretty hair so that it swept out evenly over the pillow. He thought she was very lovely in death despite the utter stillness. There was a peace there, a serenity that was at least heartening to him, as though what he had just done wasn’t all that terrible.

  He hesitated for a moment and then went ahead: He checked her pulse and laid her hand back down. If she’d still been alive, then he would’ve left the room, fled the country, and left it at that. He wouldn’t have touched her like that again. She was family after all. But she was dead. He rose and looked down at her one last time.

  It needn’t have ended this way. Now all the family he had left was the useless Roger. He should go kill his brother right now. It should have been him lying there, not his cherished Alicia. However, Roger wasn’t worth the effort. He froze for an instant as an idea occurred to him. Perhaps his brother could play a supporting role in this production. He would call Roger and make him an offer. An offer he knew his younger brother would be unable to resist as it would be all cash; the most potent drug in existence.

  He gathered up the elements of his disguise, and methodically reapplied them, all the time making little darting glances at his dead sister. He had coated his hands with a lacquer-like substance, so he wasn’t concerned about leaving fingerprints. He left by the back door. They would find her soon enough. Alicia had said her housekeeper had gone out to run an errand. It was a better than even chance that the police would think Thomas Donovan had continued his homicidal rampage by murdering his lady friend, Alicia Morgan Crane. Her obituary would be extensive, her family had been very important; there would be much to write about. And at some point, Jackson would have to come back, as himself once more, to bury her. Roger could hardly be trusted to do that. I am sorry, Alicia. It shouldn’t have come to this. This unexpected turn of events had come closer than anything he could remember to completely immobilizing him. Above all else he cherished complete control and it suddenly had been stripped from him. He looked down at his hands, the instruments of his sister’s death. His sister. Even now his legs felt rubbery, his body not in sync with his mind.

  As he walked down the street, still reeling from what he had just done, Jackson’s mental energies finally were able to focus on the one person he clearly saw as responsible for all of it.

  LuAnn Tyler would experience the brunt of everything he was now feeling. The pain that slashed so viciously through him would be multiplied a hundredfold upon her until she would beg him to just finish her, make her stop breathing because every breath would be a hell, would be beyond what any person could endure. Even her.

  And the grand part of it all was that he would not have to go looking for her. She would come to him. She would run to him with all the speed and strength her extraordinary physical specimen of a body could inspire. For he would have something that LuAnn would go anywhere, do anything for. He would hold something that LuAnn Tyler would die for. And so you will LuAnn Tyler slash Catherine Savage. As he disappeared down the street he swore this, over the mental image of a still-warm body whose dear face strongly resembled his own.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  For the tenth time Riggs looked around the Mall and then checked his watch. In cutting his deal with the FBI, he had just shimmied out onto the most fragile limb in the world and LuAnn was three hours late. If she never showed up, where did that leave him? Jackson was still out there, and Riggs doubted if the knife would miss its mark a second time. If he didn’t produce Jackson, fulfill his deal with his former employer, and have his cover reestablished, the cartel members who had sworn to kill him five years ago would soon learn that he was alive and they would surely try again. He couldn’t return to his house. His business was probably already going to hell, and to top it off, he had five bucks in his pocket and no car. If he could have screwed up his life to any greater degree he was at a loss as to how.

  He slumped on a bench and stared up at the Washington Monument while the cold wind whipped up and down the flat, open space that stretched from the Lincoln Memorial to the United States Capitol. The sky was overcast; it would be raining again soon. You could smell it in the air. Just wonderful. And you’re right between a rock and a hard place, Mr. Riggs, he said to himself. His emotional barometer had dropped to its lowest point since finding out his wife had perished in the gang attack five years ago. Had it really been less than one week ago that he had been leading a relatively normal life? Building things for wealthy people, reading books by his woodstove, attending a few night classes at the university, thinking seriously about taking a real vacation for a change?

  He blew on his cold fingers and stuffed them in his pockets. His injured shoulder ached. He was just about to leave when the hand touched his neck.

  “I’m sorry.”

  As he turned his head, his spirits soared with such swiftness that he felt dizzy. But he couldn’t help smiling. He needed desperately to smile.

  “Sorry for what?”

  He watched as LuAnn settled in beside him, slipping her arm through his. She didn’t answer right away. After staring off for a minute and then taking a heavy breath, she turned to him, stroked his hand with hers.

  “I had some misgivings.”

  “About me?”

  “I shouldn’t have. After all you’ve done, I shouldn’t have any doubts left.”

  He looked at her kindly. “Sure you should. Everybody has doubts. After the last ten years, you should have more than most.” He patted her hand, looked into her eyes, noted their moist edges, and then said, “But you’re here now. You came. So it must be okay, right? I passed the test?”

  She simply nodded her head, unable to speak.

  “I vote for finding a warm place where I can fill you in on developments and we can discuss our plan of attack. Sound good?”

  “I’m all yours.” Her grip tightened on his hand as though she would never let go. And right now, that was just fine with him.

  They ditched the Honda, which was acting up, and rented a sedan. Riggs was getting tired of hot-wiring the car anyway.

  They drove to the outskirts of western Fairfax County and stopped for lunch at a nearly empty restaurant. On the drive out Riggs filled her in on the meeting at the Hoover Building. They walked past the bar area and
sat at a table in the corner. LuAnn absently watched the bartender tinker with the TV to better the reception of a daytime soap he was watching. He slouched against the bar and pried between his teeth with a swizzle stick as he watched the small screen. It would be wonderful, she thought, to be that relaxed, that laid back.

  They ordered their food and then Riggs pulled out the newspaper. He didn’t say a word until LuAnn had read the entire story.

  “Good Lord.”

  “Donovan should have listened to you.”

  “You think Jackson killed him?”

  Riggs nodded grimly. “Probably set him up. Had Reynolds call him, say she was gonna spill her guts. Jackson is there and pops them both with the result that Donovan gets blamed for it all.”

  LuAnn let her head rest in her hands.

  Riggs gently touched her head. “Hey, LuAnn, you tried to warn the guy. There was nothing else you could do.”

  “I could have said no to Jackson ten years ago. Then none of this would’ve happened.”

  “Yeah, but I bet if you had, he would’ve done you right then and there.”

  LuAnn wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “So now I’ve got this great deal with the FBI you negotiated for me, and in order to finalize it all we need to do is drop a net over Lucifer.” She sipped on her coffee. “Would you care to tell me how we’re going to do that?”

  Riggs put away the paper. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought as you might have guessed. The problem is we can’t be too simplistic or too complicated. Either way, he’ll smell a trap.”

  “I don’t think he’ll take another meeting with me.”

  “No, I wasn’t going to suggest that. He wouldn’t show, but he’d send somebody to kill you. That’s way too dangerous.”

  “Didn’t you know, I like danger, Matthew. If I wasn’t constantly smothered in the stuff, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Okay, no meeting, what else?”

  “Like I said before, if we can find out who he really is, track him down, then we might be in business.” Riggs paused as their food came. After the waitress left he picked up his sandwich and started talking in between bites. “You don’t remember anything about the guy? I mean anything that could start us in the right direction to finding out who he really is?”

  “He was always disguised.”

  “The financial documents he sent you?”

  “They were from a firm in Switzerland. I’ve got some back at the house, which I guess I can’t get to. Even with our deal?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “I wouldn’t advise that, LuAnn. The Feds run across you now, they might forget all about out little deal.”

  “I’ve got some other documents at my bank in New York.”

  “Still too risky.”

  “I could write the firm in Switzerland, but I don’t think they’re going to know anything. And if they do, I don’t think they’re going to talk. I mean, that’s why people bank in Switzerland, right?”

  “Okay, okay. Anything else? There’s gotta be something you remember about the guy. The way he dressed, smelled, talked, walked. Any particular interests? How about Charlie? Would he have any ideas?”

  LuAnn hesitated. “We could ask him,” she said, wiping her hands on her napkin, “but I wouldn’t bet on it. Charlie told me he’d never even met Jackson face-to-face. It was always over the phone.”

  Riggs slumped back and touched his injured arm.

  “I just don’t see any way to get to him, Matthew.”

  “There is a way, LuAnn. In fact I had already concluded it was the only way. I was just going through the motions with all those questions.”

  “How?”

  “You have a phone number where you can reach him?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “We set up a meeting.”

  “But you just said—”

  “The meeting will be with me, not you.”

  LuAnn half stood up in her anger. “No way, Matthew, there is no way in hell I’m going to let you near that guy. Look what he did to you.” She pointed at his arm. “The next time will be worse. A lot worse.”

  “It would’ve been a lot worse if you hadn’t messed up his aim.” He smiled tenderly at her. “Look, I’ll call him. I tell him that you’re leaving the country and all these problems behind. You know Donovan is dead, so Jackson doesn’t have that issue anymore. Everybody’s home free.” LuAnn was vigorously shaking her head as she sat back down.

  “Then I’ll tell him,” Riggs continued, “that I’m not such a happy camper. I’ve got it all figured out: I’m a little tired of construction work, and I want my payoff.”

  “No, Matthew, no!”

  “Jackson figures I’m a criminal anyway. Trying to extort him wouldn’t seem out of line at all. I’ll tell him I bugged your bedroom, that I’ve got a recording of a conversation he had with you, that night at your house, where you both talked a lot about things.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “I want money. Lots of it. Then he gets the tape.”

  “He will kill you.”

  Now Riggs’s face darkened. “He’ll do that anyway. I don’t like sitting around waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’d rather go on the offensive. Make him sweat for a change. And I may not be the killing machine he is, but I’m no slouch either. I’m a veteran FBI agent. I’ve killed before, in the line of duty, and if you think I’d hesitate one second before blowing his brains out, then you really don’t know me.”

  Riggs looked down for a moment, trying to make himself calm down. His plan was risky, but what plan wouldn’t be? When he looked back up at LuAnn, he was about to say something else but the look on her face froze the words in his mouth.

  “LuAnn?”

  “Oh, no!” Her voice was filled with panic.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” Riggs grabbed her shoulder, which was quivering. She didn’t answer him. She was looking at something over his shoulder. He whirled around, expecting to see Jackson coming for them, foot-long knives in either hand. He scanned the nearly empty restaurant and then his eyes settled on the TV where a special news report was being broadcast.

  A woman’s face spread across the screen. Two hours ago, Alicia Crane, prominent Washingtonian, had been found dead in her home by her housekeeper. The evidence collected so far suggested that she had been murdered. Riggs’s eyes widened as he listened to the broadcaster mention that Thomas Donovan, prime suspect in the Roberta Reynolds murder, apparently had been dating Alicia Crane.

  LuAnn could not pull her eyes away from that face. She had seen those features, those eyes staring at her from the front porch of the cottage. Jackson’s eyes bored into her.

  His real face.

  She had shuddered when she had actually seen it, or realized what she was seeing. She had hoped to never lay eyes on those features again. Now she was staring at them. They were planted on the TV.

  When Riggs looked back at her, she raised a shaky finger toward the screen. “That’s Jackson,” she said, her voice breaking. “Dressed up like a woman.”

  Riggs looked back at the screen. That couldn’t be Jackson, he thought. He turned back to LuAnn. “How do you know? You said he was always in disguise.”

  LuAnn could barely take her eyes away from the face on the screen. “At the cottage, when he and I went through the window. We fought and his face, plastic, rubber, whatever, came off. I saw his real face. That face.” She pointed to the screen.

  Riggs’s first thought was the correct one. Family? God, could it be? The connection to Donovan couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? He raced to the phone.

  “Sorry I lost your boys, George. Hope that didn’t cost you any brownie points with the top brass.”

  “Where the hell are you?” Masters demanded.

  “Just listen.” Riggs recounted the news story he had just heard.

  “You think he’s related to Alicia Crane?” Masters asked, the excitement echoing in his voice, his anger at Riggs completely gone, for now.

>   “Could be. Ages are about right. Older or younger brother maybe, I don’t know.”

  “Thank God for strong genes.”

  “What’s your game plan?”

  “We check her family. Shouldn’t be too hard to do. Her father was a U.S. senator for years. Very prominent lineage. If she has brothers, cousins, whatever, we hit ’em fast. Bring them in for questioning. Hell, it can’t hurt.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to be waiting for you to knock on the front door.”

  “They never do, do they?”

  “If he is around, be careful, George.”