The Winner (37 page)

“I just thought—”

Conklin abruptly got up. “You’ll hear from me very soon, John. I appreciate the insight, I really do.”

“And if they won’t move, there are at least a dozen other estates I can show you. They would serve your purposes equally well, I’m sure.”

“This fellow in the cottage intrigues me. You wouldn’t happen to have an exact address and directions, would you?”

Pemberton was startled at the question. “You certainly don’t want to talk to him, do you? He might be dangerous.”

“I can take care of myself. And I’ve learned in my business that you never know where you might find an ally.” Conklin looked at him keenly until understanding spread across Pemberton’s face. He wrote the information down on a piece of paper and handed it to the other man.

Conklin took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Pemberton, motioning for him to open it.

“Oh my God.” Pemberton sat there gaping at the wad of cash that spilled out. “What’s this for? I haven’t done anything yet.”

Conklin eyed Pemberton steadily. “You’ve given me information, John. Information is always worth a great deal to me. I’ll be in touch.” The men shook hands and Conklin took his leave.

Back at the country inn where he was staying, Harry Conklin walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the water. Fifteen minutes later the door opened and Jackson emerged, the remnants of Harry Conklin bundled in a plastic bag which Jackson deposited in a side pouch of his luggage. His conversation with Pemberton had been very enlightening. His encounter with the man had not been by chance. Upon arriving in Charlottesville, Jackson had made discreet inquiries around town that had quickly identified Pemberton as the selling agent for Wicken’s Hunt. He sat on the bed and opened a large, detailed map of the Charlottesville area, noting and committing to memory the places he and Pemberton had discussed and the written directions to the cottage. Before talking to Pemberton he had educated himself on some of the history of Wicken’s Hunt, which had been nicely detailed in a book on local area estates and their original owners at the county library. It had given him enough background information to form his cover story and draw out Pemberton on the subject.

Jackson closed his eyes, deep in thought. Right now he was planning how best to begin his campaign against LuAnn Tyler and the man who was pursuing her.

R
iggs had given it a day before he had attempted to retrieve his Jeep. Just in case the guy was still around, he went armed and he went at night. The Cherokee looked undamaged. Riggs made a quick check of it before heading toward the cottage. The Chrysler was nowhere to be seen. He shone his flashlight in the window of the shed. The Honda was still there. Riggs went up to the front door and wondered for the hundredth time if he should just leave this business alone. Dangerous things seemed to happen around Catherine Savage. He had had his fill of such events and he had come to Charlottesville in search of other things. Still, he could not stop his hand from carefully turning the doorknob. The door swung open.

The flashlight in one hand, his pistol in the other, Riggs moved forward slowly. He was reasonably certain that the place was empty, but assumptions like that could earn you an unwanted trip to the morgue with a tag around your big toe. He could see most of the first floor from where he was standing. He shone his flashlight slowly around the room. There was a light switch on the wall, but he wasn’t about to use it. In what had been the dining room, he discerned dust patterns on the floor that showed certain objects had been removed. He ran his fingers over these areas and then moved on. He moved into the kitchen where he lifted the phone. There was no dial tone. He moved back into the dining room.

As Riggs’s eyes swept the room, they passed right over the figure dressed all in black standing just inside the half-opened closet door next to the stairs.

Jackson closed his eyes the second before the light moved across his hiding place so that his pupils would not reflect off it. When the arc of illumination had passed, Jackson reopened his eyes and gripped the handle of the knife tightly. He had heard Riggs before he had ever set foot on the porch. It was not the man who had leased the cottage. He was long gone; Jackson had already searched the place thoroughly. This man had come to reconnoiter the place as well. Riggs, it must be, Jackson concluded. In fact, Jackson found Riggs almost as interesting as the man he had come to kill tonight. Ten years ago Jackson had predicted that LuAnn would be a problem, and now that prediction was coming true. He had done some preliminary checking on Riggs’s background after his discussion with Pemberton. The fact that there was little to find out had intrigued him greatly.

When Riggs passed within a few feet of him, Jackson contemplated killing him. It would take just a flick of the razor-sharp blade against his throat. But as quickly as the homicidal impulse flared through his system, it passed. Killing Riggs would further no purpose, at least not at present. Jackson’s hand gripping the knife relaxed. Riggs would live another day. If there was a next time, Jackson decided, the outcome might be far different. He didn’t like people meddling in his business. If nothing else, he would now check into Riggs’s background with far greater intensity.

Riggs left the cottage and headed toward his Cherokee. He glanced back at the cottage. A sensation had just come over him, as though he had just survived a close call. He shrugged it off. He had once lived by his instincts; however, he assumed they had rusted somewhat since his occupation had changed. It was an empty house and nothing more.

Watching from the window, Jackson picked up on Riggs’s slight hesitation, and with it his curiosity grew even more. Riggs would possibly make an interesting project, but he would have to wait. Jackson had something more pressing to take care of. From the floor of the closet Jackson picked up what looked like a doctor’s bag. He moved to the dining room, crouched down, and unpacked the contents of a first-rate fingerprint kit. Jackson then moved over to the light switch and hit it from various angles with a handheld laser carried in his jacket pocket. Several latent prints sprang to life under the beam. Jackson dusted the area with a fiberglass brush dipped in black powder and gently brushed around the area of the light switch, outlining the latent prints. The kitchen counter, telephone, and doorknobs were subjected to the same process. The telephone, especially, evidenced very clear fingerprints. Jackson smiled. Riggs’s real identity would not be a mystery much longer. Using pressure-wound tape, he then lifted the prints from each of the areas and transferred them to separate index cards. Humming quietly to himself, Jackson marked the cards with special identification hieroglyphics and placed them in separate plastic-lined containers. He then carefully removed all evidence of the fingerprint powder from each of the surfaces. He loved the methodology of it all. Precise steps that reached a precise conclusion. It took him only a few minutes to repack his kit and then he left the cottage. He took a side trail to his waiting car and drove off. It was not often that one captured two birds with one stone. Tonight’s work was beginning to look like precisely that.

I
like Mr. Riggs, Mom.”

“Well, you don’t really know him, do you?”

LuAnn sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed and fingered the bed covers absentmindedly.

“I have good instincts about these things.”

Mother and daughter exchanged smiles. “Really? Well, maybe you can share some of your insights with me.”

“Seriously, is he going to come back soon?”

LuAnn took a deep breath. “Lisa, we may have to go away soon.”

Lisa’s hopeful smile faded away at this abrupt change of subjects. “Go away? Where?”

“I’m not sure just yet. And it’s not for certain. Uncle Charlie and I haven’t finished talking about it yet.”

“Were you going to include me in those discussions?”

The unfamiliar tone in her daughter’s voice startled LuAnn. “What are you talking about?”

“How many times have we moved in the last six years? Eight? And that’s just as far back as I can remember. God knows how many times we did when I was really little. It’s not fair.” Lisa’s face colored and her voice shook.

LuAnn swept an arm around her shoulders. “Sweetie, I didn’t say it was for certain. I just said maybe.”

“That’s not the point. Okay, so it’s maybe now. Or maybe next month. But then one day it’ll be ‘we’re moving’ and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

LuAnn put her face in Lisa’s long hair. “I know it’s hard on you, baby.”

“I’m not a baby, Mom, not anymore. And I’d really like to know what we’re running from.”

LuAnn stiffened and raised her head back up, her eyes searching out Lisa’s.

“We’re not running from anything. What would we possibly be running from?”

“I was hoping you would tell me. I like it here, I don’t want to leave, and unless you can give me a really good explanation why we have to, I’m not going.”

“Lisa, you’re ten years old and even though you’re a very intelligent and mature ten-year-old, you’re still only a child. So where I go, you go.”

Lisa turned her face away. “Do I have a big trust fund?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because when I turn eighteen I’m going to have my own home and I’m going to stay there until I die. And I don’t want you to ever visit me.”

LuAnn’s cheeks reddened. “Lisa!”

“I mean it. And then maybe I’ll have friends and can do the things I want to do.”

“Lisa Marie Savage, you’ve been all over the world. You’ve done things most people will never get a chance to do their entire lives.”

“Well, you know what?”

“What?” LuAnn shot back.

“Right now, I’d trade with them in a heartbeat.”

Lisa lay down in the bed and put the covers up almost over her head. “And right now, I’d like to be alone.”

LuAnn started to say something and then thought better of it. Biting her lip hard, she raced down the hallway to her room, where she collapsed on the bed.

It was unraveling. She could feel it, like a big ball of twine someone had tossed down a long set of stairs. She rose, went into the bathroom, and started the shower. She pulled off her clothes and stepped under the steaming water. Leaning up against the wall she closed her eyes and tried to tell herself that it would be okay, that in the morning Lisa would be all right, that her love for her mother remained undiminished. This was not the first serious argument mother and daughter had had over the years. Lisa did not just share her mother’s physical attributes; LuAnn’s independence and stubborn streak had been replicated in her daughter. After a few minutes LuAnn finally calmed down and let the soothing water envelop her.

When she opened her eyes another image invaded her thoughts. Matthew Riggs must believe her to be insane by now. Insane and dishonest as hell. Quite a combination if you were trying to make an impression. But she wasn’t. If anything, she felt sorry for him, for having risked his life twice and gotten kicked in the gut both times for his trouble. He was a very attractive man, but she wasn’t looking for a relationship. How could she? How could she even contemplate partnering with someone? She’d be afraid to speak for fear of letting a secret scurry free. With all that, the image of Matt Riggs remained fixed in her head. A very handsome man. Strong, honest, courageous. And there was secrecy in his background too. And hurt. She suddenly cursed out loud that her life wasn’t normal. That she couldn’t attempt even a friendship with him.

She moved her hands fiercely along her limbs as she soaped up and released her frustrations at the same time. The harsh movements against her skin rekindled a disturbing revelation. The last man she had slept with was Duane Harvey over ten years ago. As her fingers moved over her breasts, Riggs’s face appeared again in her thoughts. She shook her head angrily, closed her eyes again, and laid her face against the wall of the shower. The costly imported tile was wet and warm. She remained in that position despite danger signs flashing in her mind. So wet. So warm. So safe. Almost unconsciously her hands dipped to her waist and then over her buttocks and all the while Matthew Riggs resided in her thoughts. She kept her eyes scrunched tight. The fingers of her right hand slithered around to her navel. Her breaths became heavier. Under the sounds of the water, a low moan passed over her lips. A large tear made its way down her face before it was washed away. Ten years. Ten damned years. The fingers of her two hands were touching now, intermeshed in a way, like the gears of a clock. Slow, methodical, reliable. Back and forth . . . She jerked straight up so quickly she almost smashed her skull against the showerhead.

“Good Lord, LuAnn!” She exclaimed this to herself. She cut off the water and stepped out of the shower. She sat down on the lid of the toilet and hung her head between her knees; the light-headedness was already passing. Her wet hair sprawled across her long, bare legs. The floor became sopping wet as the water poured off her body. She glanced over at the shower, a guilty look on her face. The muscles in her back bunched together, the veins in her arms swelled large. It wasn’t easy. It just wasn’t easy at all.

She rose on unsteady legs, toweled off, and went into the bedroom.

Among the costly furnishings of her bedroom was a very familiar object. The clock her mother had given her ticked away, and as LuAnn listened, her nerves began to reassemble themselves. Thank God she had stuffed it in her bag right before almost being killed in that trailer so many years ago. Even now she would lie awake at night listening to its clunkiness. It skipped every third beat and at around five o’clock in the afternoon it would make a noise like someone had lightly smacked a cymbal. The gears and wires, the guts of the contraption, were tired; but it was like listening to an old friend strum on a weathered guitar, the notes not what they should be, ideally, but holding comfort for her, some peace.