“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.