“In your experience?”
“See, I’m showering you with secrets.”
“Maybe he was trying to frighten me before he actually made the kidnap attempt.”
“Don’t think so. Why put you on your guard? Kidnappers kind of like the element of surprise.”
“If he’s not a kidnapper, what then?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. Charlie went into the cottage and so did you. What did you find?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
LuAnn stood up and glared at him. “I don’t appreciate being called a liar.”
“Then stop lying.”
Her lips trembled and she abruptly turned away from him.
“Catherine, I’m trying to help you here. Okay, in my past life I did deal with the criminal class quite a bit. I’ve got some insights and some skills that might prove useful if you’d just tell me the truth.”
He rose and put a hand on her shoulder. He turned her around to face him. “I know you’re scared. And I also know you’ve got stronger nerves and more spirit than just about anybody I’ve ever run across, so I’m assuming whatever you’re facing is pretty bad. And I want to help you. I will help you, if you’ll just let me.” He cupped her chin with his hand. “I’m playing straight with you, Catherine. I really am.”
She winced slightly as he said her name again. Her fake name. She finally reached up and lightly caressed his fingers with her own. “I know you are, Matthew. I know.” She looked up at him and her lips parted slightly. Their eyes did not budge from each other as their fingers exchanged touches that were suddenly electrifying both their bodies. The spontaneity of the sensation absolutely immobilized them. But not for long.
Riggs swallowed hard, dropped his hands to her bottom, and abruptly pulled LuAnn against him. The warmth and softness of her breasts burned invisible holes through his thick flannel shirt. Their mouths erupted against each other as he yanked the robe free and it fell to the floor. LuAnn moaned and closed her eyes, her head swaying drunkenly from side to side as Riggs attacked her neck. She pulled at his hair and then wrapped her arms around his head as he hoisted her up in the air, his face buried in her chest. She wrapped her legs around his torso.
Following her frantic, whispered directions, Riggs lunged blindly along the hallway to the small first-floor guest bedroom. Riggs pushed open the door. LuAnn jerked away from him and sprawled flat on her back on the bed, the muscles in her long legs tensing in anticipation. She reached up and pulled at him.
“Dammit, Matthew, hurry!” At his subconscious level Riggs noticed the abrupt return of the Georgia drawl but he was far too intoxicated with the passion of the moment to do anything about it.
Riggs’s heavy work boots hit the hardwood floor with a loud thump and his pants followed immediately. She jerked his shirt off, popping several buttons in the process, then slid his boxers down. They didn’t bother with the bed covers although Riggs did manage to back-kick the door closed before he plunged on top of her.
Chapter thirty-eight
Jackson sat at the table and studied the laptop’s small screen. His suite was large and airy and furnished with eighteenth-century reproductions. The aged hardwood floors were partially covered with area rugs stitched with early American colonial themes. A large wooden carving of a duck in flight hung on one wall. A set of framed prints, each depicting a Virginia native who had gone on to become president of his country long ago, was on another wall. The inn was located in close proximity to his areas of focus, was quiet, and allowed Jackson the greatest freedom of unobserved movement. The night before, he had checked out as Harry Conklin and checked back in under another name. He liked to do that. He became uncomfortable staying in one character too long. Besides, he had met with Pemberton in the Conklin role and he didn’t want to run into the man again. Now a baseball cap covered his head. Heavy latex eye pouches bracketed the fake nose. The hair was blondish-gray and tied in a ponytail that sprouted out the back of the cap. His neck was long and wrinkled and his build was stocky. He looked like an aging hippie. His luggage was stacked neatly in one corner. He had a practice of not unpacking when he traveled; his line of work sometimes necessitated rapid exits.
Two hours earlier he had scanned one set of the fingerprints lifted from the cottage into his hard drive and transmitted them via modem to one of his information contacts. He had already called this person and told him what was coming. This particular contact had access to a database that housed oceans of the most interesting facts, the sole reason that Jackson had enlisted his services many years ago. It wasn’t certain that the man who was pursuing LuAnn would have his fingerprints on file anywhere, but Jackson had nothing to lose by checking. If the man did, Jackson’s task of tracking him down would become far easier.
Jackson smiled as his computer screen started filling up with data. A digitized photo of the man had even accompanied the personal details.
Thomas J. Donovan. The photo was three years old, but Jackson reckoned that at this time of life, Donovan wouldn’t have changed all that much. He studied the nondescript features of the man carefully and then checked the contents of his portable makeup kit and various hairpieces he had brought with him. Yes, if it came down to it, he could impersonate the man. Donovan’s name was actually familiar to Jackson. Donovan was an award-winning journalist at the Washington Tribune. In fact, about a year ago he had done an in-depth piece on Jackson’s father’s career as a United States senator.
Jackson had read the story and quickly condemned it as a fluff piece that came nowhere near to addressing the personal side of his father and his monstrous behavior. The history books would smile upon the man; his son knew better.
Jackson’s hunch had proven correct. He had figured the man trailing LuAnn wasn’t your typical blackmailer. It had taken a lot to track her down and an investigative journalist or perhaps ex — law enforcement person would have the skills, knowledge, and more important, the informational resources to have successfully done so.
Jackson sat back and mused for a moment. Actually, a true blackmailer would have posed less of a difficulty for him. Donovan was undoubtedly onto a story, an enormous story, and he would not stop until he achieved his goal. Or until someone stopped him. It was an interesting challenge. Simply killing the man wouldn’t do any good, however. That might make people suspicious. Also, Donovan might have told others of his investigations, although most journalists of Donovan’s capabilities, Jackson was aware, kept their cards close to the vest until they broke the story, for a variety of reasons not the least of which was the fear of being scooped.
He had to determine how much Donovan knew and whether he had told anyone else. He picked up the phone, got the number for the Trib, and dialed it. He asked for Thomas Donovan. He was told that Donovan had taken a leave of absence. He slowly hung up the phone. He wouldn’t have talked to the man if he had come on the phone. He did want to hear his voice, though, in case that knowledge should become useful later. Jackson was also an accomplished mimic and impersonating someone’s voice was a wonderful way to manipulate others.
According to Pemberton, Donovan had been in the Charlottesville area for at least a month. Jackson focused briefly on one obvious question: Of all the lottery winners why had the man targeted LuAnn? Jackson almost immediately answered his own query. Because she was the only one running from a murder charge. The only one who had disappeared for ten years and then resurfaced. But how could Donovan possibly have picked up her trail? The cover had been deep and it had been buried even deeper with the passage of ten years, even though LuAnn had committed a tremendous blunder by coming back to the States.