The Winner (26 page)

She had not followed Jackson’s advice regarding the knife wound to her jaw. She had had it stitched, but let the scar remain. It wasn’t all that noticeable, but every time she looked in the mirror, it was a stark reminder of where she had come from, how she had gotten here. It was her most visible tie to the past, and not a pleasant one. That was the reason she would not cover it over with surgery. She wanted to be reminded of the unpleasantness, of the pain.

People she had grown up with would probably have recognized her; however, she never planned to see anyone like that here. She had resigned herself to wearing a big hat and sunglasses whenever she ventured out into public, which wasn’t very often. A lifetime of hiding from the world: that had come with her deal.

She went and sat back down on the front seat of the BMW, rubbing her hands back and forth across the padded steering wheel. She continually looked back down the road for any sign of her pursuer; however, the only sounds were her car’s engine and her own uneven breathing. Huddled in her leather jacket, she hitched up her jeans, swung her long legs inside the car, and closed the door and locked it.

She took off and for a few moments as she drove her thoughts centered on the man in the truck. He had obviously helped her. Was he just a good Samaritan who had happened along at the right time? Or was he something else, something more complex than that? She had lived with this paranoia for so long now that it was like an exterior coating of paint. All observations had to pass through its screening first, all conclusions were based in some way upon how she perceived the motivation of anyone colliding unexpectedly with her universe. It all came down to one grim fact: fear of discovery. She took one long, deep breath and wondered for the hundredth time if she had made a grievous mistake by returning to the United States.

Riggs drove his battered truck up the private road. He had kept a close eye out for the Honda on his return down the road, but the car and driver had not reappeared. Going up to the house, he figured, was the quickest way to find a telephone, and perhaps also seek an explanation of sorts for this morning’s events. Not that he deserved one, but his intervention had helped the woman and he felt that was worth something. In any event, he couldn’t exactly let it rest now. He was surprised that no one stopped him on the drive up. There was no private security, apparently. He had met with the owner’s representative in town; this was his first visit to the estate, which had been christened Wicken’s Hunt long ago. The home was one of the most beautiful in the area. It had been constructed in the early 1920s with craftsmanship that was simply nonexistent today. The Wall Street magnate who had had it built as a summer retreat had jumped off a New York skyscraper during the stock market crash of ’29. The home had passed through several hands, and had been on the market six years before being sold to the current owner. The place had required substantial renovation. Riggs had talked to some of the subcontractors employed to do that work. They had spoken with awe of the craftsmanship and beauty of the place.

Whatever moving trucks had hauled the owner’s possessions up the mountain road had apparently done so in the middle of the night, because Riggs could find no one who had seen them. No one had seen the owner, either. He had checked at the courthouse land records. The home was owned by a corporation that Riggs had never heard of. The usual channels of gossip had not yielded an answer to the mystery, although St. Anne’s-Belfield School had admitted a ten-year-old girl named Lisa Savage who had given Wicken’s Hunt as her home address. Riggs had heard that a tall young woman would occasionally drop off and pick up the child; although she had always worn sunglasses and a large hat. Most often picking up the little girl would be an elderly man who had been described to Riggs as built like a linebacker. A strange household. Riggs had several friends who worked at the school but none of them would talk about the young woman. If they knew her name, they wouldn’t say what it was.

When Riggs rounded a curve, the mansion suddenly appeared directly in front of him. His truck resembled a plain, squat tug bearing down on the
QEII.
The mansion stood three stories tall, with a double doorway spanning at least twenty feet.

He parked his truck in the wraparound drive that encircled a magnificent stone fountain that, on this cold morning, was not operating. The landscaping was as lush and as carefully planned as the house; and where annuals and even late-blooming perennials had died out, evergreens and other hardy foliage of all descriptions filled in the spaces.

He slid out of his seat, making sure he had the piece of paper with the license plate numbers still in his pocket. As he walked up to the front door, he wondered if a place like this would condescend to have a doorbell; or would a butler automatically open the door at his approach? Actually, neither happened, but as he cleared the top step, a voice did speak to him from a brand new–looking intercom built into the side of the wall next to the door.

“Can I help you?” It was a man’s voice, big, solid, and, Riggs thought, slightly threatening.

“Matthew Riggs. My company was hired to build the privacy fence on the property’s perimeter.”

“Okay.”

The door didn’t budge, and the tone of the voice made clear that unless Riggs had more information to impart, this status was not going to change. He looked around, suddenly conscious that he was being observed. Sure enough, above his head, recessed within the back of one of the columns, was a video camera. That looked new as well. He waved.

“Can I help you?” the voice said again.

“I’d like to use a telephone.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not possible.”

“Well, I’d say it should be possible since I just crashed my truck into a car that was chasing a big charcoal gray BMW that I’m pretty sure came from this house. I just wanted to make sure that the woman driving the car was okay. She looked pretty scared the last time I saw her.”

The next sound Riggs heard was the front door being unbolted and thrown open. The elderly man facing him matched the six foot one Riggs in height, but was far broader across the shoulders and chest. However, Riggs noted that the man moved with a slight limp as though the legs and, perhaps, the knees in particular were beginning to go. The possessor of a very strong, athletic body himself, Riggs decided he would not want to have to take this guy on. Despite his advancing age and obvious infirmities, the man looked strong enough to break Riggs’s back with ease. This was obviously the guy seen at the school picking up Lisa Savage. The doting linebacker.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Riggs pointed toward the road. “About ten minutes ago, I was out doing a preliminary survey of the property line in advance of ordering up men and equipment when this BMW comes bolting down the road, a woman driving, blond from what I could see, and scared to death. Another car, a black Honda Accord, probably a 1992 or ’93 model, right on her butt. A guy was driving that one and he looked determined as hell.”

“The woman, is she all right?” The elderly man edged forward perceptibly. Riggs backed up a notch, unwilling to let the guy get too close until he had a better understanding of the situation. For all he knew, this guy could be in cahoots with the man in the Honda. Riggs’s internal radar was all over the place on this one.

“As far as I know. I got in between them and took the Honda out, banged the crap out of my truck in the process.” Riggs briefly rubbed his neck as the recollection of his collision brought several distinct painful twinges to that location. He would have to soak in the tub tonight.

“We’ll take care of the truck. Where’s the woman?”

“I didn’t come up here to complain about the truck, mister—”

“Charlie, call me Charlie.” The man extended his hand, which Riggs shook. He had not underestimated the strength the old guy possessed. As he took his hand back Riggs observed the indentations in his fingers caused by the other man’s vise-like grip. Whether he was merely anxious about the safety of the woman, or he mangled visitors’ fingers on a routine basis, Riggs didn’t know.

“I go by Matt. Like I said, she got away, and as far as I know, she’s fine. But I still wanted to call it in.”

“Call it in?”

“The police. The guy in the Honda was breaking at least several laws that I know of, including a couple of felonies. Too bad I didn’t get to read him his rights.”

“You sound like a cop.”

Had Charlie’s face darkened, or was that his imagination, Riggs wondered.

“Something like that. A long while back. I got the license plate number of both cars.” He looked at Charlie, studying the battered and grizzled face, trying to get beyond the stolid stare he was getting in return. “I’m assuming the BMW belongs to this house, and the woman.”

Charlie hesitated for a moment and then nodded. “She’s the owner.”

“And the Honda?”

“Never seen it before.”

Riggs turned and looked back down the road. “The guy could’ve been waiting partially down the entry road. There’s nothing stopping him from doing that.” Riggs turned and looked back at Charlie.

“That’s why we contracted with you to build the fence and gate.” A glint of anger rose in Charlie’s eyes.

“Now I can see why that might be a good idea, but I only got the signed contract yesterday. I work fast, but not that fast.”

Charlie relaxed at the obvious logic of Riggs’s words and looked down for a moment.

“What about using that phone, Charlie?” Riggs took a step forward. “Look, I know a kidnap attempt when I see one.” He looked up at the facade of the house. “It’s not hard to see why either, is it?”

Charlie took a deep breath, his loyalties sharply divided. He was sick with worry about LuAnn—
Catherine,
he corrected himself mentally; despite the passage of ten years, he had never been comfortable with her new name. He was finding it close to impossible to allow the police to be called in.

“I take it you’re her friend or family—”

“Both actually,” Charlie said with renewed vigor as he stared over Riggs’s shoulder, a smile breaking across his face.

The reason for that change in attitude reached Riggs’s ears a second later. He turned and watched the BMW pull up behind his truck.

LuAnn got out of the car, glanced at the truck for a moment, until her eyes riveted on the damaged bumper; then she strode up the steps, passing over Riggs to focus on Charlie.

“This guy said you ran into some trouble,” said Charlie, pointing at Riggs.

“Matt Riggs.” Riggs extended his hand. In her boots, the woman wasn’t much shorter than he. The impression of exceptional beauty he had gotten through his binoculars was considerably magnified up close. The hair was long and full, with golden highlights that seemed to catch every streak of the sun’s rays as it slowly rose over them. The face and complexion were flawless to the point of seeming impossible to achieve naturally, yet the woman was young so the cut of the plastic surgeon’s knife could not have beckoned to her yet. Riggs reasoned the beauty must be all her own. Then he spotted the scar that ran along her jawline. That surprised him, it seemed so out of place with the rest of her. The scar also intrigued Riggs because, to his experienced eye, the wound seemed to have been made by a knife with a serrated edge. Most women, he figured, especially those who had the kind of money she obviously did, would have paid any amount to cover up that blemish.

The pair of calm, hazel eyes that stared into Riggs made him conclude that this woman was different. The person he was looking at was one of those rare creations: a very lovely woman who cared little about her looks. As his eyes continued to sweep over her, he noted the lean, elegant, body; but from the smallish hips and waist there grew a breadth of shoulders that suggested exceptional physical strength. When her hand closed around his, he almost gasped. The grip was almost indistinguishable from Charlie’s.

“I hope you’re okay,” said Riggs. “I got the plate number of the Honda. I was going to call it in to the cops, but my cell phone got broken when the guy hit me. The car’s probably stolen anyway. I got a good look at the guy. This is a pretty isolated place. We should be able to nail him, if we act fast enough.”

LuAnn looked at him, confusion on her face. “What are you talking about?”

Riggs blinked and stepped back. “The car that was chasing you.”

LuAnn looked over at Charlie. Riggs watched closely but he saw no discernible signals passing between them. Then LuAnn pointed over at Riggs’s truck. “I saw that truck and another car driving erratically, but I didn’t stop to ask any questions. It was none of my business.”

Riggs gaped for a moment before he responded. “The reason I was doing the two-step with the Honda was because he was trying his best to run you off the road. In fact, I almost took your place as the wreck of the week.”

“Again, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t you think I would know if someone were trying to run me off the road?”

“So you’re saying that you always drive eighty miles an hour around curvy, mountainous roads just for the fun of it?” Riggs asked heatedly.

“I don’t think my driving methods are any of your concern,” she snapped back. “However, since you happen to be on my property, I think it is my concern to know why you’re here.”

Charlie piped in. “He’s the guy who’s building the security fence.”

LuAnn eyed Riggs steadily. “Then I would strongly suggest you concentrate on that task rather than come up here with some outrageous account of my being chased.”

Riggs’s face flushed and he started to say something, but then decided against it. “Have a good day, ma’am.” He turned and headed back to his truck.

LuAnn didn’t look back. She passed by Charlie without a glance and walked quickly into the house. Charlie stared after Riggs for a moment before shutting the door.

As Riggs climbed back in his truck another car pulled up the drive. An older woman was driving. The back seat of the car was stacked with groceries. The woman was Sally Beecham, LuAnn’s live-in housekeeper, just back from early-morning grocery shopping. She glanced over at Riggs in a cursory fashion. Though his features were laced with anger, he curtly nodded at her and she returned the gesture. As was her custom, she pulled around to the side-load garage and hit the garage door opener clipped to the car’s visor. The door in from the garage led directly to the kitchen, and Beecham was an efficient person who detested wasted effort.