The Winner, Page 23

  Other than that, he knew nothing about her. She watched the man for a minute and then took off her coat, lifted a second sledgehammer off the wall, squeezed a spare wedge between her fingers, testing its weight, set a log up on the block, tapped the wedge into its rough surface, stepped back, and swung cleanly. The wedge bit deep, but didn’t cleave the log in two. She hit it again, dead center, and then again. The log broke clean. The man glanced at her in surprise, then shrugged and kept splitting. They both pounded away, barely ten feet from each other. The man could split a log with one swing of the hammer, while it continued to take LuAnn two and sometimes three blows. He smiled over at her, the sweat showing on his brow. She kept pounding away, though, her arms and shoulders working in precise unity, and within five minutes she was cracking a log with one blow, and before he knew it she was doing it faster than he.

  The man picked up his pace, the sweat falling faster across his brow, his grin gone as his breaths became more painful. After twenty minutes, he was taking two and three strikes to crack a log as his big arms and shoulders started to tire rapidly, his chest heaving and his legs rubbery. He watched in growing amazement as LuAnn continued, her pace steady, the strength of her blows against the wood totally undiminished. In fact, she seemed to be hitting the wedge harder and harder. The sound of metal on metal rang out louder and louder. Finally, the man dropped the sledgehammer and leaned back against the wall, his gut heaving, his arms dead, his shirt drenched in perspiration despite the chilly weather. LuAnn finished her pile of logs and, barely missing a stroke, finished off his stack as well. Her work complete, she wiped her forehead and replaced the sledgehammer on the wall hook before glancing over at the puffing man as she shook out her arms.

  “You’re very strong,” she said, looking at the substantial pile of wood he had split as she put her coat back on.

  He looked at her in surprise and then started laughing. “I was thinking that too before you came along. Now I’ve half a mind to go work in the kitchen.”

  She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. She had chopped wood virtually every day of her life from the time she had started school until she was sixteen. She hadn’t done it for exercise, like now; back then she had done it to keep warm. “Don’t feel bad, I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  As she walked back up to the house she took a moment to admire the rear facade of the mansion. The purchase and renovation of this house had been, by far, her greatest extravagance. And she had done it for two reasons. First, because she was tired of traveling and wanted to settle down, although she would’ve been happy in something far less magnificent than what she was staring at. Second, and more important, she had done it for the same reason she had done most things over the years: for Lisa. To give her a real home with a sense of permanence where she could grow up, marry, and have children of her own. Home the last ten years had been hotels, rented villas, and chalets, not that LuAnn was complaining about existing in such luxury, but none of them were home. The tiny trailer in the middle of the woods all those years ago had had far deeper roots for her than the most extravagant residence in Europe. Now they had this. LuAnn smiled at the sight: big, beautiful, and safe. At the thought of the last word, LuAnn suddenly huddled in her coat as a wind broke through the stand of trees.

  Safe? When they had gone to bed last night they had been safe and secure, or as much as one could be living the kind of existence they all did. The face of the man in the Honda sprang up before her and she closed her eyes tightly until it finally went away. In its place came another image. The man’s face stared at her with many emotions passing across it. Matthew Riggs had risked his life for her and the best she could do was accuse him of lying. And with that response she had only served to make him more suspicious. She pondered a moment, and then sprinted toward the house.

  Charlie’s office was straight out of a men’s club in London, with a magnificent wet bar of polished walnut occupying one corner. The custom-built mahogany desk had neatly sorted piles of correspondence, bills, and other household matters. LuAnn quickly flipped through his card file until she found the one she wanted and plucked it out. She then took out a key Charlie kept high up on a shelf and used it to open a drawer in his desk. She took out the .38 revolver, loaded it, and carried it upstairs with her. The weight of the compact weapon restored some of her confidence. She showered, changed into a black skirt and sweater, threw on a full-length coat, and went down to the garage. As she drove down the private road, one hand tight around the pistol in her coat pocket, LuAnn anxiously looked around, for the Honda could be lurking. She breathed a sigh of relief when she hit the main road and was still all alone. She glanced at the address and phone number on the business card and wondered whether she should call first. Her hand hesitated over the car phone and then she decided just to chance it. If he wasn’t there, then maybe it was best. She didn’t know whether what she was planning would help or hurt matters. Ever one to choose action over passivity, she couldn’t change her ways now. Besides, it was her problem, not anyone else’s. She would have to deal with it eventually.

  Eventually, she would have to deal with it all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Jackson had just arrived back from a cross-country trip and was in his makeup room divesting himself of his most recent disguise when the phone rang. It was not his residential phone. It was his business line, an untraceable communications linkage, and it almost never rang. Jackson called out on the line often during the business day to convey precise instructions to his associates across the globe. Almost no one ever called him, however; and that was the way he wanted it. He had a myriad of other ways to ascertain whether his instructions were being carried out. He snatched up the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “I think we might have a problem here, or it may be nothing,” the voice said.

  “I’m listening.” Jackson sat down and used a long piece of string to lift the putty off his nose. Then he removed the latex pieces adhering to his face by tugging gently on their edges.

  “As you know, two days ago we wired income from the last quarter to Catherine Savage’s account in the Caymans. To Banque Internacional. Just like always.”

  “So? Is she complaining about the rate of return?” Jackson said sarcastically. He tugged firmly on the back edges of his snow white wig and then pulled up and then forward. He next removed the latex skullcap and his own hair sprang free.

  “No, but I got a call from the wire department at Banque and they wanted to confirm something.”

  “What was that?” Jackson cleansed his face while he was listening, his eyes scanning the mirror as layer after layer of concealment was removed.

  “That they had wired all the monies from Savage’s accounts to Citibank in New York.”

  New York! As he absorbed this stunning news, Jackson opened his mouth wide and removed the acrylic caps. Instantly, dark, misshapen teeth became white and straight. His dark eyes glittered menacingly and he stopped removing his disguise. “First, why would they call you if it was her account?”

  “They shouldn’t have. I mean they never have before. I think the guy at the wire desk down there is new. He must have seen my name and phone number on some of the paperwork and figured I was a principal on the receiving account instead of being on the other end of the transaction, the sending account.”

  “What did you tell him? I hope you didn’t excite any suspicion.”

  “No, not at all,” the voice said nervously. “I simply thanked him and said that was correct. I hope I did the right thing, but of course I wanted to report it to you right away. It seemed unusual.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anything you want me to do on follow-up?”

  “I’ll handle it.” Jackson hung up the phone. He sat back and fiddled absently with the wig. None of LuAnn’s money was ever, ever supposed to end up in the United States. Money in the United States was traceable. Banks filed 1099s with the IRS, and other documents detailing income and accoun
t balances. Social Security numbers were communicated and kept as part of the official record; filings with the IRS on behalf of the taxpayer were required. None of that was ever supposed to happen in LuAnn’s case. LuAnn Tyler was a fugitive. Fugitives did not return to their homeland and start paying their taxes, even under assumed names.

  He picked up his phone and dialed a number.

  “Yes, sir?” the voice asked.

  Jackson said, “The taxpayer’s name is Catherine Savage.” Jackson provided her Social Security number and other pertinent information. “You will find out immediately whether she has filed a U.S. tax return or any other type of documents with the IRS. Use all the sources at your disposal, but I need this information within the hour.”

  He hung up again. For the next forty-five minutes, he walked around his apartment, wearing the portable phone and headset, a requirement when you liked to pace and your apartment was as large as Jackson’s was.

  Then the phone rang again.

  The voice was crisp. “Catherine Savage filed an income tax return last year. I couldn’t get full particulars in such a short time frame; however, according to my source, the income reported was substantial. She also recently filed a change of address form with the IRS.”

  “Give it to me.” Jackson wrote the Charlottesville, Virginia, address down on a piece of paper and put it in his pocket.

  “One more thing,” the voice said. “My source pulled up a very recent filing in connection with Savage’s tax account.”

  “By her?”

  “No. It was a Form 2848. It gives a third party a power of attorney to represent the taxpayer with respect to just about anything having to do with their tax matters.”

  “Who was the requesting party?”

  “A fellow named Thomas Jones. According to the file, he’s already received information on her account, including her change of address and last year’s income tax return. I was able to get a facsimile of the 2848 form he filed. I can send it to you right now.”

  “Do so.”

  Jackson hung up and a minute later had the fax in his hands. He looked at Catherine Savage’s signature on the form. He pulled out the originals of the documents LuAnn had signed ten years earlier in connection with their agreement for the lottery winnings. The signatures weren’t even close, not that the IRS, cumbersome institution that it was, would ever have taken the time to compare signatures. A forgery. Whoever the man was, he had filed this document without the woman’s knowledge. Jackson studied the address and phone number that Tom Jones had given for himself. Jackson called the number. It was no longer in service. The address was a P.O. box. Jackson was certain that would also be another dead end. The man was privy to Catherine Savage’s tax situation and her new address and his background was a complete sham.

  That startling fact was not what annoyed Jackson the most, troubling as it was. He sat down in a chair and studied the wall as his mind moved in ever expanding circles of thought. LuAnn had come back to the United States, despite his explicit instructions to the contrary. She had disobeyed him. That was bad enough. The problem was compounded by the fact that someone else was now interested in her. For what reason? Where was this person now? Probably the same place Jackson was just about to head to: Charlottesville, Virginia.

  The lights of the two trains were becoming clearer. The possibility of that collision with LuAnn Tyler crept closer and closer to reality. Jackson went back to his makeup room. It was time for another creation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  After dropping Lisa off at St. Anne’s, taking care to walk her directly into the classroom, as was his and LuAnn’s practice, Charlie had wheeled the Range Rover out of the parking lot and headed into town. Over the last few months while LuAnn had remained reclusive inside their mountainside fortress, Charlie had been the point man, meeting with prominent townsfolk, making the rounds of businesses and charities and university officials. He and LuAnn had decided that they could not keep secret her wealth and presence in this small, albeit cosmopolitan town and any attempt to do so would invite more suspicion rather than less. Thus, Charlie’s task was to lay the groundwork with the town’s leaders for the eventual emergence of LuAnn into their society. However, it would only be a very limited emergence. Everyone could understand the need for privacy of the extremely wealthy. And there were many organizations very eager to receive donations from LuAnn, so that maximum cooperation and understanding would likely be forthcoming. That pipeline had already been opened, as LuAnn had donated over a hundred thousand dollars to several local causes. As he headed down the road Charlie shook his head wearily. All these plans, strategies, and what-not. Being phenomenally wealthy was a big pain in the ass. Sometimes he yearned for the old days. A few bucks in his pocket, a beer nearby, and a pack of smokes when he wanted it; a fight on the tube. He smiled wryly. LuAnn had finally gotten him to stop smoking about eight years ago and he knew that had prolonged his life considerably. But he was allowed an occasional cigar. She wasn’t about to mother him to death.

  Charlie’s earlier forays into Charlottesville society had produced one contact in an extremely useful position, a contact that he now intended to pump for information that would allow him and LuAnn to check out her pursuer and, if possible, forestall any real problem. If the man wanted money, that was one thing. Money was not an issue. LuAnn’s pocketbook was more than sufficient to satisfy even the most outrageous blackmailer. But what if the issue wasn’t simply money? The problem was, Charlie was unsure exactly what the man knew or didn’t know. He had mentioned LuAnn’s real name. Did he also know about Duane Harvey’s murder and LuAnn’s relationship to the dead man? The warrant that had been issued for LuAnn’s arrest ten years ago? And how had he tracked LuAnn down after all these years? The next issue was even more critical: Did the man know about the lottery fix? LuAnn had told Charlie all about the man calling himself Rainbow. Rainbow might have figured it out. He had followed her, watched her buy a lottery ticket, leave immediately for New York, and win a fortune. Had the man known it was rigged? And had he told anyone? LuAnn had not been sure.

  And what had happened to Rainbow? Charlie licked his lips nervously. He had never really known Jackson, never even seen him. But while he had worked for him, he had talked to the man often. The tones of Jackson’s voice had been unremarkable: even, calm, direct, supremely confident. Charlie had known people just like that. These men weren’t the blusterers, the ones who always said a hell of a lot more than they ever had the courage or ability to back up in reality. They were the ones who looked you dead in the eye, said precisely what they intended to do with little fanfare or hyperbole, and then simply did it. These types would efficiently disembowel you and not lose any sleep over it. Jackson, Charlie had long ago decided, was one of those. Despite his own toughness and strength, Charlie shivered slightly. Wherever Rainbow was, it wasn’t among the living, that was for damn sure. Charlie drove on, lost in thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  LuAnn pulled her car into the driveway and stopped in front of the house. She didn’t see the pickup truck anywhere. He probably was off at another job. She was about to leave, but the simple beauty of Matt Riggs’s home made her stop, get out of the BMW, and go up the plank steps. The graceful lines of the old structure, the obvious care and skill which had gone into rehabbing it, made her eager to explore the place, even if its owner was absent.

  She moved around the broad porch, running her hand along its intricate wooden scrollwork. She opened the screen door and knocked at the front door, but there was no answer. She hesitated and then tried the doorknob. It turned easily in her hand. People had not locked their doors where she had grown up either. As security conscious as she was now, it was good to know there were still places like that left in the world. She hesitated again. Entering the man’s home without his knowledge might only compound matters. However, if he never found out? She might be able to obtain some useful information about him, something she could use to help extrica
te herself from this potential disaster.

  She pushed open the front door and then closed it softly behind her. The living room had random-width oak flooring splotched and mottled with age. The furnishings were simple but carefully arranged and each was of excellent quality. LuAnn wondered whether Matt Riggs bought the pieces in broken condition and then worked on them. She moved through the rooms, stopping to admire the man’s handiwork here and there. The slight smell of varnish hovered over various pieces of furniture. The place was neat and clean. There were no pictures of family: no wife, no kids. She didn’t know why but this struck her as odd. She reached his office and peered inside. Quietly moving over to his desk, she stopped for a moment as she thought she heard a sound come from somewhere within the house. Her heart started to race and she briefly contemplated fleeing. The sound wasn’t repeated, however, and she calmed down and seated herself behind the desk. The first thing that caught her eye was the paper on which Riggs had jotted down the notes. Her name and other information about her. Then she glanced at the information on the Honda. She looked at her watch. Riggs was clearly not a man who believed in idleness. And he was able to get information from sources that were obviously more than a little sophisticated. That was troubling. LuAnn jerked her head up as she looked out the broad window into the backyard. There was a barn-like structure there. The door was open slightly. LuAnn had thought she had noted movement there. As she got up to go outside, her hand dipped into her jacket pocket and closed around the .38.

  When she exited the house she started to head back to her car. Then her curiosity got the better of her and she crept over to the barn door and peered inside. An overhead light illuminated the area well. It was set up as a workshop and storage facility. In front of two entire walls were sturdy work benches and tables and more tools than LuAnn had ever before seen in one place. The two other walls had shelving where wood supplies and other materials were stacked in precise configurations. As LuAnn moved inside she eyed the staircase at the rear of the structure. In former times she was certain it would have led to a hayloft. Riggs, however, had no animals in need of hay, at least that she could see. She wondered what it housed now.

  She took the steps slowly. When she reached the top, she stared in amazement. The place was set up as a small study and observation area. Two bookcases, a beat-up leather chair and ottoman, and an ancient potbellied stove stared back at her. In one corner, an old-fashioned telescope was set up to look out a huge window in the rear of the barn. As LuAnn climbed up and looked through the window, her heart started to pound. Riggs’s truck was parked behind the barn.

  As she turned to run down the stairs, she found herself staring down the barrel of a twelve-gauge shotgun.

  When Riggs saw who it was he slowly lowered the weapon. “What the hell are you doing here?” She tried to move past him, but Riggs grabbed her arm. She just as quickly pulled it free.