“Look, LuAnn, it’s not like I owe those guys anything.”
“But if I’m caught and you’re with me?”
“Well, we just won’t get caught.” He grinned.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was just thinking how bored I’d been the last few years. I guess I’m not really happy unless I’m doing something where I have a reasonable shot at getting my head blown off. I might as well own up to it.”
“Well, you picked the right person to hang with then.” She looked up ahead. “The motel’s probably out of the question.”
“Yep, they’ll cover every place like that. Besides, riding up on a horse might make the motel manager suspicious.”
“I’ve got another car back at the house, fat lot of good that’ll do us.”
“Wait a minute. We do have a car.”
“Where?”
“We’ve got to get to the cottage, pronto.”
When they arrived at the cottage, Riggs said, “Keep a sharp eye out in case you know who decided to come back.” He opened up the doors to the rear shed and went inside. In the darkness, LuAnn couldn’t see what he was doing. Then she heard a motor turn over and then die. Then it kicked over again and this time it kept running. A moment later, Donovan’s black Honda, torn-up front bumper and all, appeared in the doorway. Riggs pulled it to a stop outside the shed doors and climbed out.
“What do you want to do with the horse?”
LuAnn looked around. “I could send her back up the trail. She’d probably go back to the horse barn on her own, but in the dark like this, she might miss the trail or wander off and fall in a hole or maybe the creek.”
“How about we put her in the shed and then you can call somebody to come get her?” he offered.
“Good idea.” She swung down and led Joy inside the shed.
She looked around and noted the watering trough, tack wall, and two small bales of hay stored in the back of the shed.
“It’s perfect. The tenant before Donovan must have kept a horse and used this as a stable.”
Lifting off the saddle and slipping off the horse’s bridle, LuAnn tethered Joy to a hook on the wall with a piece of rope she found. LuAnn scrounged up a bucket and, using water from the outside tap, she filled up the watering trough, and laid out the hay in front of Joy. The horse immediately dipped her head to the trough and then started to munch on the hay. LuAnn shut the doors and climbed in the driver’s seat of the Honda while Riggs eased in the other side.
There was no key in the ignition. LuAnn glanced under the steering column and saw a bundle of exposed wires hanging down. “They teach hot wiring at the FBI?”
“You learn a lot of things going through life.”
She put the car in gear. “Tell me about it.”
They were silent and still for a moment and then Riggs stirred. “We may only have one shot at getting out of this relatively intact.”
“And what’s that?”
“The FBI can be accommodating to people who cooperate.”
“But, Matthew—”
He broke in, “But they can be absolutely forgiving to people who give them what they really want.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
“All we need to do is deliver Jackson to them.”
“That’s good to hear. For a minute there I thought it might be something difficult.”
They drove off in the Honda.
Chapter forty-eight
It was ten o’clock in the morning. Donovan stared through a pair of binoculars at the large Southern colonial home set amid mature trees. He was in McLean, Virginia, one of the most affluent locales in the United States. Million-dollar properties were the norm here and that was typically only on an acre of land or less. The home he was staring at rested on five secluded acres. You had to have substantial wealth for a place like this. As he looked at the columned portico, Donovan knew without a doubt that the current owner had more than enough.
As he watched, a brand new Mercedes drove down the street from the opposite direction and approached the massive gates to the property. As the Mercedes nosed toward the entrance, the gates parted and the car entered the private drive. Through the binoculars, Donovan eyed the woman driving. In her forties now, she still matched her lottery photo from ten years ago pretty well. Lots of money could slow down the aging process, Donovan figured.
He checked his watch. He had gotten here early just to scope things out. He had checked his answering machine and had listened to LuAnn Tyler’s warning. He wasn’t going to run yet, but he had taken her advice quite seriously. He would’ve been a fool to think there weren’t some serious forces behind all this. He took out the gun from his pocket and checked to make sure it was fully loaded. He scanned the area intently once more. He waited a few more minutes to give her time to get settled, then tossed his cigarette out the window, rolled it up, and drove toward the house.
He pulled up to the gates and spoke into an intercom. The voice answering him sounded nervous, agitated. The gates opened and a minute later he was standing inside the foyer that rose a full three stories above his head.
“Ms. Reynolds?”
Bobbie Jo Reynolds was trying her best not to meet his eye. She didn’t speak, but simply nodded. She was dressed in a way Donovan would describe as very put together. You wouldn’t have suspected that barely ten years ago she had been a starving actress wannabe hustling tables. She had been back in the country for almost five years now after a lengthy sojourn in France. During his investigation into the lottery winners, Donovan had checked her out thoroughly. She was now a very respected member of the Washington social community. He suddenly wondered if Alicia Crane and she knew each other.
After failing to get anywhere with LuAnn, Donovan had contacted the eleven other lottery winners. They had been far easier to track down than LuAnn; none of them were fugitives from the law. Yet.
Reynolds was the only one who had agreed to speak with him. Five of the winners had hung up on him. Herman Rudy had threatened bodily harm and used language Donovan hadn’t heard since his Navy days. The others hadn’t called back after he had left messages.
Reynolds escorted him into what Donovan figured was the living room — large, airy, and filled, presumably under an interior designer’s tasteful eye, with contemporary furnishings, sprinkled here and there with costly antiques.
Reynolds sat down in a wingback chair and motioned Donovan to the settee across from her. “Would you like some tea or coffee?” She still didn’t look at him, her hands nervously clasping and unclasping.
“I’m fine.” He hunched forward, took out his notebook, and slipped a tape recorder from his pocket. “You mind if I record this conversation?”
“Why is that necessary?” Reynolds was suddenly showing a little backbone now, he thought. Donovan quickly decided to squelch that tendency before it gained any further strength.
“Ms. Reynolds, I assumed when you called me back that you were prepared to talk about things. I’m a reporter. I don’t want to put words in your mouth, I want to get the facts exactly straight, can you understand that?”
“Yes,” she said nervously, “I suppose I can. That’s why I called you back. I don’t want my name besmirched. I want you to know that I’ve been a very respectable member of this community for years. I’ve given generously to numerous charities, I sit on several local boards—”
“Ms. Reynolds,” Donovan interrupted, “do you mind if I call you Bobbie Jo?”
There was a perceptible wince on Reynolds’s face. “I go by Roberta,” she said primly.
Reynolds reminded Donovan so much of Alicia he was tempted to ask if they knew each other. He decided to pass on that impulse.