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.

He had a sudden thought. Donovan apparently knew the names of all or some of the lottery winners for the year Jackson had fixed the game. What if he attempted to contact some of the others? If he didn't get what he wanted from LuAnn, and Jackson felt reasonably sure he wouldn't, the next logical step would be to seek out the others. Jackson took out his electronic Rolodex and started making phone calls. After half an hour he had finished contacting the other eleven. Compared to LuAnn, they were sheep to be led around. What he told them to do, they did. He was their savior, the man who had led them to the Promised Land of wealth and leisure. Now, if Donovan bit, the trap would spring.

Jackson began to pace the room. He paused and opened his briefcase. He pulled out the photos. They had been taken on his first day in Charlottesville, even before meeting with Pemberton. The quality of the photos was good considering he had been using a long-range lens and the early morning light had not been the best. The faces stared back at him. Sally Beecham looked tired and bothered. In her forties, tall and slender, she was LuAnn's live-in housekeeper. Her suite was on the first floor on the north side of the mansion. He studied the next two photos. The two young Hispanic women constituted the cleaning staff. They came at nine and left at six. Finally came the photos of the groundspeople. Jackson studied each of their faces. When taking the photos, he had watched the people intently; how they moved, how they gestured. His handheld sound wand had picked up their voices perfectly. He had listened to their voices over and over as he had just listened to Riggs's. Yes, it was coming together nicely. Like pieces in a strategic battle plan, he was positioning his soldiers to optimal advantage. Possibly, none of the information he had painstakingly gathered about Catherine Savage's daily world would ever come into play. But, on the chance that it might, he would be more than ready. He put the photos away and closed the briefcase.

From a hidden compartment in his suitcase he drew out a short-handled throwing knife. Hand-crafted in China, the blade was so sharp it couldn't even be touched by a bare hand without drawing blood; it was thrown by means of the perfectly balanced teak handle. Jackson strolled around the room, as his mind was sidetracked for a moment. LuAnn was uncommonly fast, lithe, agile, words that could equally be applied to himself. Yes, she had certainly upgraded herself. What else had she learned? What other skills had she acquired? He wondered whether she had experienced the same premonition he had: that their paths would cross again one day like two trains colliding. And had she done her utmost to prepare for that eventuality? Twenty feet. Using the letter opener, she could have killed him from that distance. Fast as he was, the blade would have been imbedded in his heart before he had a chance to react.

On this last thought Jackson wheeled around and let the knife fly. It sailed across the room, splitting the duck's head completely in half upon impact and burrowing several inches into the wall. Jackson eyed the distance between himself and his target: At least thirty feet, he estimated. He smiled. LuAnn would have been far wiser to have killed him. She had, no doubt, been constrained by her conscience. That was her greatest weakness and Jackson's greatest advantage, for he had no such parallel compunction.

Ultimately, if it came down to it, he knew that would be the difference.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

LuAnn watched Riggs, who lay dozing next to her. She let out a small breath and stretched her neck. She had felt like a virgin while they made love. An incredibly energetic display of sex, she was surprised the bed hadn't caved in; they'd probably be sore tomorrow. A grin spread over her face. She stroked his shoulder and huddled next to him, putting one of her bare legs across both of his. With this movement he finally stirred and looked over at her.

A boyish smile cracked his face.

“What?” she asked, her eyes impish.

“I'm just trying to remember how many times I said ‘oh, baby.’ ”

She rubbed her hand across his chest, letting the nails bite in just enough to make him playfully grab her hand. LuAnn said, “I think it was more often than I screamed ‘yes, yes,’ but that was only because I couldn't catch my breath.”

He sat up and put a hand through her hair. “You make me feel young and old all at the same time.”

They kissed again and Riggs lay back while LuAnn nestled on his chest. She noticed a scar on his side.

“Let me guess, old war wound?”

He looked up surprised and then followed her gaze to the scar. “Oh, yeah, real exciting, appendicitis.”

“Really? I didn't think people came with two appendixes.”

“What?”

She pointed to another scar on his other side.

“Hey, can we just enjoy the moment here and stop with the observations and questions?” His tone was playful, but she noted the serious intent just below the surface.

“Well, you know, if you come over every day to work on the studio, we might make this a regular thing, sort of like breakfast.” LuAnn smiled and then almost immediately caught herself. What was the chance of that happening? The impact of this thought was crushing.

She quickly moved away from him and started to get up.

Riggs could hardly miss this dramatic transformation.

“Was it something I didn't say?”

She turned to find him looking at her. As if suddenly self-conscious about her nakedness, she pulled the bedspread off the bed and draped it around her. “I've got a lot to do today.”

Riggs sat up and grabbed at the bedspread. “Well, excuse the hell out of me. I didn't mean to get in the way of your schedule. I guess I had the six A.M. to seven A.M. slot. Who's up next? The Kiwanis Club?”

She jerked the bedspread free. “Hey, I don't deserve that.”

Riggs rubbed his neck and started to pull on his clothes. “Okay. It's just that I'm having trouble switching gears as fast as you. Going nonstop from the most intensive passion I can ever remember to discussing the day's workload sort of rubbed me the wrong way. I'm sorry as hell if I offended you.”

LuAnn looked down and then moved over and sat next to him. “That's how it was for me too, Matthew,” she said quietly. “I'm embarrassed to tell you how long it's been.” She paused and then said almost to herself, “Years.”

He looked at her incredulously. “You've gotta be kidding.” She didn't answer and he was reluctant to break the silence. The ringing phone did.

Hesitating for a moment, LuAnn picked it up. She hoped to God it was Charlie and not Jackson. “Hello?”

It turned out to be neither. “We're going to talk, Ms. Tyler, and we're going to do it today,” Thomas Donovan said.

“Who is this?” LuAnn demanded.

Riggs quickly looked over at her.

“We had a brief meeting the other day when you were out driving. The next time I saw you was when you were sneaking out of my place with your boyfriend.”

“How did you get this number? It's unlisted.”

Donovan silently laughed. “Ms. Tyler, no information is safe, if you know where to look. I'm assuming by now that you realize I know where to look.”

“What do you want?”

“Like I said, I want to talk.”

“I don't have anything to say to you.”

Riggs went over to the phone and held the receiver with her. At first LuAnn tried to push him off but Riggs held firm.

“Sure you do. And I have a lot to say to you. I can understand your reaction the other day. Maybe I should have approached you differently, but that's past. I know beyond a doubt that you're sitting on a story of immense importance, and I want to know what it is.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Donovan considered this for a moment. He ordinarily didn't like to take this tack, but right now he couldn't think of an alternative strategy. He made up his mind. “I'll give you this as an inducement. If you talk to me, I'll give you forty-eight hours to leave the country before I go public. If you don't talk to me then I go public with everything I have as soon as I get off the phone.” He struggled internally for a moment and then added quietly, “Murder doesn't have a statute of limitations, LuAnn.”

Riggs stared over at LuAnn, wide-eyed. She looked away from him.

“Where?” she asked.

Riggs was shaking his head fiercely but LuAnn ignored him.

“Let's make it a very public place,” Donovan said. “Michie's Tavern. I'm sure you know where that is. One o'clock. And don't bring anyone with you. I'm way too old for guns and speeding cars. I catch a whiff of your boyfriend or anyone else, the deal is off and I call the sheriff in Georgia. Do you understand?”

LuAnn ripped the phone free from Riggs and slammed it down.

Riggs faced her. “Would you like to fill me in on what's going on? Who are you supposed to have murdered? Somebody in Georgia?”

LuAnn stood up and pushed past him, her face crimson from the abrupt revealing of this secret. Riggs grabbed her arm and pulled her back roughly. “Dammit, you're going to tell me what's going on.”

She snapped around and, quick as a ferret, connected her right fist flush with his chin, causing his head to snap back and hit hard against the wall.

When he came to Riggs was lying on the bed. LuAnn sat next to him holding a cold compress to his bruised chin and then pressed it against the growing knot on his head.

“Damn!” he said as the cold went through his system.

“I'm sorry, Matthew. I didn't mean to do that. I just—”

He rubbed his head in disbelief. “I can't believe you knocked me out. I'm not a chauvinist, but I can't believe a woman just flattened my butt with one punch.”

She managed a feeble smile. “I had a lot of practice growing up, and I'm pretty strong.” She added kindly, “But I think your head hitting the wall had a lot to do with it.”

Riggs rubbed his jaw and sat up. “Next time we're having an argument and you're thinking about popping me, just let me know and I'll surrender on the spot. Deal?”

She touched his face gently and kissed him on the forehead. “I'm not going to hit you anymore.”

Riggs looked over at the phone. “Are you going to meet him?”

“I don't have a choice—that I can see.”

“I'm going with you.”

LuAnn shook her head. “You heard him.”

Riggs sighed. “I don't believe you murdered anyone.”

LuAnn took a deep breath and decided to tell him. “I didn't murder him. It was self-defense. The man I was living with ten years ago was involved in drugs. I guess he was skimming off the top and I walked right into the middle of it.”

“So you killed your boyfriend?”

“No, the man who killed my boyfriend.”

“And the police—”

“I didn't stay around long enough to find out what they were going to do.”

Riggs looked around the room. “The drugs. Is that where all this came from?”

LuAnn almost laughed. “No, he was a small-timer. Drug money didn't have anything to do with this.”

Riggs wanted desperately to ask what did, but refrained from doing so. He sensed that she had divulged enough of her past life for now. Instead he watched in silent frustration as LuAnn slowly got up and started to leave the room, the bedspread dragging behind her, the well-defined muscles in her bare back tensing with each stride.

“LuAnn? That's your real name?”

She turned to look at him and nodded faintly. “LuAnn Tyler. You were right about Georgia. Ten years ago I was a lot different. A lot.”

“I believe it, although I bet you've always had that right cross.” He attempted a smile, but neither of them was buying it.

She watched Riggs as he dug into his pants pocket. He tossed something to her. She caught the keys in the palm of her hand. “Thanks for letting me use your BMW; you might need the horsepower in case he starts chasing you again.”

She frowned, looked down, and then walked out of the room.

CHAPTER FORTY

Wearing a long black leather coat and a matching hat, her eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans, LuAnn stood outside the “Ordinary,” an aged wooden building that was part of Michie's Tavern, a historic structure originally built in the late 1700s and later moved to its current location down the road from Monticello in the late 1920s. It was lunchtime and the place was starting to fill up with tourists either lining their stomachs with the fried chicken buffet offered there after touring Jefferson's home and its neighbor Ash Lawn, or fueling up before setting out on the tour. Inside, a fire blazed in the hearth and LuAnn, who had arrived early to check things out, had soaked in the warmth from the flames before deciding to wait for him outside. She looked up when the man walked toward her. Even without his beard she recognized him.

“Let's go,” Donovan said.

LuAnn looked at him. “Go where?”

“You follow me in your car. I'll be checking my rearview mirror. If I see anyone who remotely looks like they're following us, then I pick up my cell phone and you go to prison.”

“I'm not following you anywhere.”

He leaned into her face and said quietly, “I think you might want to reconsider.”

“I don't know who you are or what you want. You said you wanted to meet. Well, I'm here.”

Donovan looked around at the line of people making their way into the tavern. “I had in mind a little more privacy than this.”

“You picked the place.”

“That I did.” Donovan jammed his hands in his pocket and stared at her in obvious discomfort.

LuAnn broke the silence. “I'll tell you what, we'll go for a drive in my car.” She stared at him ominously and spoke in low tones. “But don't try anything because if you do, I will hurt you.”

Donovan snorted for a moment and then just as quickly stopped as he stared into her eyes. An involuntary shiver swept over him. He followed her long strides to her car.

LuAnn got on Interstate 64 and put the big sedan on cruise control.

Donovan turned to her. “You know, you threatened me back there with bodily injury. Maybe you did kill that guy in the trailer.”

“I didn't murder anyone. I didn't do anything wrong in that trailer.”

Donovan studied her features and then looked away. When he spoke next, his tone was softer, calmer. “I didn't spend the last several months tracking you down, LuAnn, in order to destroy your life.”

She glanced over at him. “Then what did you track me down for?”

“Tell me what did happen in that trailer.”

LuAnn shook her head in frustration and remained silent.

“I've dug through a lot of dirt over the years, and I can read between the lines with the best of them. I don't believe you murdered anyone,” Donovan said. “Come on, I'm not a cop. You can check me for a wire if you want. I've read all the newspaper accounts. I'd like to hear your version.”

LuAnn let out a deep sigh and looked over at him. “Duane was dealing drugs. I didn't know anything about it. I just wanted to get out of that life. I went to the trailer to tell him so. Duane was cut up very badly. A man grabbed me, tried to cut my throat. We fought. I hit him with the telephone and he died.”

Donovan looked puzzled. “You just hit him with the telephone?”

“Really hard. I guess I cracked his skull.”

Donovan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The man didn't die from that. He was stabbed to death.”

The BMW almost ran off the road before LuAnn regained control. LuAnn stared over at him, her eyes wide. “What?” she gasped.

“I've seen the autopsy reports. He did have a wound to the head, but it wasn't fatal. He died from multiple stab wounds to his chest. No doubt about it.”

It didn't take LuAnn long to realize the truth. Rainbow. Rainbow had killed him. And then lied to her. She shook her head. Why should that be such a big surprise, she thought. “All these years, I believed that I had killed him.”

“That's a horrible thing to carry around inside. I'm glad I could clear your conscience on it.”

“The police can't still be interested in all this. It's been ten years,” LuAnn said.

“That's where you've run into some incredibly bad luck. Duane Harvey's uncle is the sheriff in Rikersville now.”

“Billy Harvey is sheriff?” LuAnn said in astonishment. “He's one of the biggest crooks down there. He had an auto chop shop. He ran gambling in the back rooms of the bars; he was into everything you could earn a buck from illegally. Duane kept trying to get in on it, but Billy knew Duane was too stupid and unreliable. That's probably why he ended up selling drugs over in Gwinnett.”

“I don't doubt it. But the fact is he's sheriff. Probably figured the best way to avoid trouble with the police was to become the police.”

“So you talked to him?”

Donovan nodded. “According to him, the whole family has never gotten over poor Duane and his hasty exit from the living. He said the drug dealing sort of besmirched the whole family. And the money you sent? Instead of salving over those wounds, they took it as pouring salt on them, like you were trying to buy them off somehow. I mean they spent it and all, but they still didn't like it, at least according to the illustrious Billy Harvey. Bottom line is, he told me that the investigation is still active and he's not going to rest until LuAnn Tyler is brought in for trial. From what I can tell his theory is that you're the one who was involved in the drug dealing because you wanted to escape Duane and the boring life. Duane died trying to protect you and then you murdered the other guy, who allegedly was your partner.”

“That's a bunch of lies.”

Donovan shrugged. “You know it is, I know it is. But the people deciding that will be a jury of your peers down in Rikersville, Georgia.” He took a moment to appraise her expensive clothing. “Or a jury of whom your peers used to be. I wouldn't recommend that you wear that outfit to the trial. It might rub people the wrong way. Duane being flower food and all these last ten years while you were living the high life and doing a pretty good impersonation of Jackie O, it just wouldn't sit well with the good folks down there.”

“Tell me something I don't know.” She paused for a moment. “So is that your deal? If I don't talk, you're going to throw me to Billy Harvey?”

Donovan patted the dashboard. “It may surprise you to know that I don't give a damn about all that stuff. If you hit that man, you did it in self-defense. That I believe.”

LuAnn lifted her sunglasses and stared across at him. “Then what do you care about?”

He leaned toward her. “The lottery.” His eyebrows arched.

LuAnn spoke evenly. “What about it?”

“You won it ten years ago. One hundred million dollars.”

“So?”

“So, how'd you do it?”

“I bought a ticket that turned out to be the winning number, how else do you do it?”

“I don't mean that. Let me fill you in on something. Without getting too technical, I went back through years' worth of lottery winners. There's a constant rate of bankruptcy declared by all those winners. Nine out of twelve every year. Bang, bang, you can set your clock by it. Then I run across twelve consecutive winners who somehow managed to avoid the big B and you were smack in the middle of that unique group. Now how is that possible?”

She glanced over at him. “How should I know? I've got good money managers. Maybe they do too.”

“You haven't paid taxes on your income nine out of the last ten years; I guess that helps.”

“How do you know that?”

“Again, all sorts of information is available. You just have to know where to look. I know where to look.”

“You'd have to talk to my financial people about that. I was in other parts of the world during that time, maybe the income wasn't taxable in the U.S.”

“I doubt that. I've written enough financial stories to know that there's almost nothing Uncle Sam won't tax, if he can find it, that is.”

“So call up the IRS and report me.”

“That's not the story I'm looking for.”

“Story?”

“That's right. I forgot to fill you in on the reason I came to visit you. My name's Thomas Donovan. You probably haven't heard of me, but I'm a journalist for the Washington Trib going on thirty years now and a damned good one even if I am blowing my own horn. A while back I decided to do a story on the national lottery. Personally, I think the whole thing is a travesty. Our own government doing that to the poorest among us. Dangling carrots like that, all the catchy ads, enticing people to cash in their Social Security checks to play something with odds at millions to one. Excuse the soapbox, but I only write about things I feel passionate about. Anyway, my original angle was the rich sucking it back out of the poor after they hit the jackpot. You know, investment shysters, people peddling one scheme after another, and the government just letting them go right ahead and do it, and then when the winners' finances are so screwed up, they haven't paid enough tax or what-not, the IRS comes in and takes every last dime, leaving them poorer than before they won. A good story, and one I feel needs to be told. Well, while I'm researching the story, I find out this interesting coincidence about all the lottery winners from your year: They didn't lose a dime of their money. In fact, using their tax returns as a gauge, they're all richer now. A lot richer. So I track you down and here I am. What I want is simple: the truth.”

“And if I don't tell you, I end up in a Georgia prison, is that it? That's what you implied over the phone.”

Donovan stared across at her angrily. “I won two Pulitzers before I was thirty-five. I've covered Vietnam, Korea, China, Bosnia, South Africa. Gotten my ass shot up twice. I've spent my life chasing every hot spot in the world. I'm as legit as they come. I'm not going to blackmail you, because I don't operate that way. I told you that over the phone just to get you to meet with me. If Sheriff Billy catches up to you it's not going to be with my help. Personally, I hope he never does.”

“Thank you.”

“But if you don't tell me the truth, I'll find it out someplace else. And then I'm going to write that story. And if you don't tell me your side of things, I can't guarantee how flatteringly I can portray you. I report the facts, guilt will fall where it may. If you're willing to talk to me, I can guarantee only one thing: that your side of the story will be heard. But if you've broken the law somehow, there's nothing I can do about that. I'm not a cop, and I'm not a judge.” He paused and looked at her. “So what's it going to be?”

She didn't speak for several minutes, her eyes staring down the road. He could see the conflict going on inside her.

Finally she looked over at him. “I want to tell you the truth. God, I want to tell somebody the truth.” She took a deep breath that almost turned into a shudder. “But I can't.”

“Why not?”

“You're already in a great deal of danger. If I were to talk to you, that danger would turn to an absolute certainty that you're going to die.”

“Come on, LuAnn, I've been in dangerous spots before. It comes with the territory. What is it, and who's behind it?”

“I want you to leave the country.”

“Excuse me?”

“I'll pay. You pick a place, I'll make all the arrangements. I'll set up an account for you.”

“Is that your way of dealing with problems? Send them off to Europe? Sorry, but I've got a life right here.”

“That's just it. If you stay you're not going to have a life.”

“You're really going to have to do better than that. If you'd work with me, we could really accomplish something here. Just talk to me. Trust me. I didn't come down here to shake you down. But I also didn't come down here to be thrown a bunch of bullshit.”

“I'm telling you the truth. You are in serious danger!”

Donovan wasn't listening now. He rubbed his chin as he thought out loud. “Similar backgrounds. All poor, desperate. It made for great stories, really picked up the numbers of players.” He looked at her, clutched her arm. “Come on, LuAnn, you had help leaving the country ten years ago. You've gotten a whole lot richer. I can smell the story here, if you'd just give me the right angle. This could rank right up there with the Lindbergh baby and who shot JFK. I've got to know the truth. Is the government behind this, whatever this is? They're making billions off this thing every month, sucking it out of the rest of us. Taxation without representation.” Donovan rubbed eager hands together. “Are we talking all the way to the White House? Please tell me we are.”

“I'm not telling you anything. And I'm doing it to keep you as safe as I can.”

“If you work with me, we both win.”

“I don't consider being murdered winning. Do you?”

“Last chance.”

“Will you please believe me?”

“Believe what? You haven't told me anything,” he bellowed.

“If I tell you what I know, it's like I'm putting a pistol against your head and pulling the trigger myself.”

Donovan sighed. “Then why don't you take me back to my car. I don't know, LuAnn, I guess I expected more from you. You grew up dirt-poor, raised a kid by yourself, and then got this incredible break. I thought you might give a crap.”

LuAnn put the car in gear and they started off again. She glanced once or twice at him and then started speaking in a very low voice, as though she were afraid of being overheard. “Mr. Donovan, the person who is looking for you right this very minute is not someone you want to mess around with. He told me he's going to kill you because you might know too much. And he will. Unless you leave right now, he'll find you for sure and when he does it won't be pretty. This person can do anything. Anything.”

Donovan snorted and then his face froze. He slowly turned and looked at her as the answer finally hit him. “Including making a poor woman from Georgia rich?”

Donovan saw LuAnn jerk slightly as he said the words. His eyes widened. “Jesus, that's it, isn't it? You said this man can do anything. He made you the lottery winner, didn't he? A woman barely out of her teens running from the police after believing she committed a murder—”

“Mr. Donovan, please.”

“She stops to buy a lottery ticket and then just happens to travel to New York where the lottery drawing is being held. And what do you know, she wins a hundred million bucks.” Donovan slapped the dashboard with the palm of his hand. “Good God, the national lottery was fixed.”

“Mr. Donovan, you have got to let it drop.”

Donovan's face flushed crimson. “No way, LuAnn. No way am I letting this drop. Like I said, you couldn't have eluded the NYPD and the FBI all by yourself. You had help, a lot of help. This elaborate cover story you had in Europe. Your ‘perfect’ money managers. This guy set all of it up. All of it, didn't he? Didn't he?” LuAnn didn't answer. “God, I can't believe I didn't see it all before. Sitting here talking to you, it just all fell into place. I've been drifting in circles for months and now—” He turned sideways in his seat. “You're not the only one either, are you? The other eleven nonbankrupts? Maybe more. Am I right?”

LuAnn was shaking her head hard. “Please stop.”

“He didn't do it for free. He must've gotten some of your winnings. But, Christ, how did he fix it? Why? What's he doing with all that money? It can't be just one guy.” Donovan fired questions left and right. “Who, what, when, why, how?” He gripped her shoulder. “Okay, I'll accept your statement that whoever is behind this is one very dangerous individual. But don't discount the power of the press, LuAnn. It's toppled crooks bigger than this guy. We can do it, if we work together.” When LuAnn didn't respond, Donovan let go of her shoulder. “All I'm asking is that you think about it, LuAnn. But we don't have a lot of time.”

When they returned to his car Donovan got out and then poked his head back in the door. “This number will reach me.” He handed across a card. LuAnn didn't take it.

“I don't want to know how to reach you. You'll be safer that way.” LuAnn suddenly reached across and grabbed his hand. Donovan winced from the pressure of her fingers.

“Will you please take this?” She reached in her purse and took out an envelope. “There's ten thousand dollars in here. Pack your bags, go to the airport, get on a plane, and get the hell out of here. Call me when you get to wherever you're going and I'll send enough money to keep you in hotels and restaurants for as long as you want.”

“I don't want money, LuAnn. I want the truth.”

LuAnn pushed back the urge to scream. “Dammit I'm trying my best to save your life.”

He dropped the card onto her front seat. “You warned me and I appreciate that. But if you won't help me, I'll get it from somewhere else. One way or another, this story is being told.” He looked at her ominously. “If this person is half as dangerous as you say he is, you might want to think about getting the hell out of here. My butt may be in the crosshairs now, but it's only my butt. You've got a kid.” He paused again and right before he turned to leave he said, “I hope we both make it through this, LuAnn. I mean that.”

He walked across the parking lot to his car, got in, and drove off. LuAnn watched him go. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her shaken nerves. Jackson was going to kill the man unless she did something. But what could she do? For one thing, she wasn't going to tell Jackson about her meeting with Donovan. She looked around the parking lot for any sign of him. But what was the use? He could be anyone. Her heart took another jolt. He could've tapped her phone lines. If so he would know about Donovan's phone call, that they had planned to meet. If he knew that, it was highly likely that he had followed her. Then Jackson would already be tracking Donovan. She looked down the road. Donovan's car was already out of sight. She slammed her fists into the steering wheel.

Although LuAnn didn't know it, Jackson had not tapped her phone line. However, as she drove off, she also had no inkling that directly beneath her seat a small transmitter had been affixed to the floorboard. Her entire conversation with Donovan had just been heard by someone else.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Riggs turned off the receiving unit and the sounds of LuAnn's BMW coming through his earphones vanished. He slowly took off the headphones, sat back in his desk chair, and let out a long breath. He had anticipated obtaining some information about LuAnn Tyler and her discussions with the man he now knew to be Thomas Donovan, a newspaper reporter. The name was familiar to Riggs; he had seen the guy's byline in past years. However, Riggs hadn't anticipated stumbling across something that had all the earmarks of a major conspiracy.

“Damn.” Riggs stood up and looked out the window of his home office. The trees were stunning, the sky a pale blue that was both dazzling and soothing. To the right a squirrel scampered up a tree, a chestnut secured between its jaws. Farther back, through the thickness of the trees, Riggs could make out a slender procession of deer headed by a six-point buck as they made their way cautiously toward the small spring-fed pond situated on Riggs's property. So peaceful, so serene, all that he had hoped for. He looked back at the receiving device he had used to listen in on LuAnn and Donovan's conversation. “LuAnn Tyler,” Riggs said out loud. Not Catherine Savage, not even close, she had said. New identity, new life, far, far away. That was something Riggs could certainly relate to. He eyed the phone, hesitated, then picked it up. The number he was calling had been given to him five years ago, for emergencies, just as, unknown to Riggs, Jackson had provided one to LuAnn ten years ago. Just for emergencies. Well, Riggs decided as he punched in the numbers, he supposed this qualified as such.

An automated voice came on the line. Riggs left a series of numbers and then his name. He spoke slowly in order to let the computer verify the authenticity of his voice patterns. He put down the phone. One minute later it rang. He picked it up.

“That was fast,” Riggs said, sitting back down.

“That number gets our attention. What's the situation? You in trouble?”

“Not directly. But I've come across something I need to check up on.”

“Person, place, or thing?”

“Person.”

“I'm ready, who is it?”

Riggs took a silent breath and hoped to God he was doing the right thing. He would at least hedge his bets until he understood matters a little better. “I need to find out about someone named LuAnn Tyler.”

LuAnn's car phone buzzed as she was driving back home.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the line made her breathe easier.

“Don't tell me where you are, Charlie, we can't be sure this line is safe.” She checked where she was on the road. “Give me twenty minutes and then call me at the prearranged spot.” She hung up. When they had come to the area, they had identified a pay phone at a McDonald's that would receive incoming calls. That was their safe phone.

Twenty minutes later she was standing at the pay phone, snatching it up on the first ring.

“How's Lisa?”

Charlie's tone was low. “Fine, we're both okay. She's still bumming, but who can blame the kid.”

“I know. Did she talk to you at all?”

“A little. Although, I think we're both the enemy as far as she's concerned right now. That little girl's playing it close to the vest. Chip off the old block, right?”

“Where is she?”

“Crashed on the bed. We drove all night, and she didn't sleep much, just stared out the car window.”

“Where are you?”

“Right now we're at a motel on the outskirts of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, just across the Maryland state line. We had to stop, I was falling asleep at the wheel.”

“You didn't use a credit card, did you? Jackson can trace that.”

“You think I'm a novice at being on the run? All cash.”

“Any sign that you've been followed?”

“I've varied my route, gone the interstate, back roads, lots of stops in very public places. I've checked every car that even looks remotely familiar. No one's onto us. How's it on your end? You hook up with Riggs?”

LuAnn blushed at the question. “You could say that.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I met up with Donovan.”

“Who?”

“The guy from the cottage. His name is Donovan. He's a reporter.”

“Aw, crap!”

“He knows about the twelve lottery winners.”

“How?”

“It gets complicated, but basically because none of us declared bankruptcy. In fact we all became a lot richer through shrewd investment advice. I guess that's pretty unusual with lottery winners.”

“Damn, I guess Jackson isn't infallible.”

“That's a comforting thought. I've got to go. Give me the number there.” Charlie did so.

“I brought the portable cell phone too, LuAnn. You've got the number, right?”

“Memorized.”

“I don't like it that you're all alone in this. I really don't.”

“I'm holding my own. I've just got to think things through a little. When Jackson shows up again, I want to be ready.”

“I'm not sure that's possible. The guy's not human.”

LuAnn hung up the phone and walked back to her car. As unobtrusively as she could, she scanned the parking lot for anyone looking remotely suspicious. But that was the problem: Jackson never looked suspicious.

Charlie hung up the phone, checked on Lisa, and then went to the window of the ground-floor motel room. The building was constructed in the shape of a horseshoe so that Charlie was looking out not only at the parking lot but also at the motel units on the other side of the parking lot. He had a habit of checking the parking lots every thirty minutes to see who had pulled in after them. He had selected fairly isolated places that would make it easier to flush out someone who was following them. Despite his sharp scrutiny he could not have seen the pair of binoculars focused on him from the dark recesses of the motel room directly across from his. This person's car was not in the parking lot because he was not a paying guest of the motel. He had broken into the room when Charlie and Lisa had gone out to eat. The man put down the binoculars and jotted some words down in a notebook before taking up his sentry once again.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The BMW pulled into the front drive. LuAnn sat in the car and stared up at the house. She had not gone home. After driving around for a while, she had decided to come here. The Jeep was there, so he must be as well. She got out of the sedan and walked up the wide steps of the Victorian.

Riggs heard her coming. He was just finishing up his phone call, the paper in front of him covered with notes, more information than he had ever wanted to know. His gut was cramping up just thinking about it all.

He opened the door to her knock and she passed through the doorway without looking at him.

“How'd it go?” he asked.

LuAnn drifted around the room before settling down on the couch and looking up at him with a shrug. “Not all that well, really.” Her voice was listless. Riggs rubbed his eyes and sat down in the chair opposite her.

“Tell me about it.”

“Why? Why in the hell would I want to get you involved in all this?”

He paused and briefly considered what he was about to say. He could walk away from this. She was obviously giving him the opportunity to do so. He could just say you're right and escort her to the door and out of his life. As he looked at her, so tired, so alone, he spoke quietly and intensely.

“I want to help you.”

“That's nice, but I really wouldn't know where to begin.”

“How about ten years ago, Georgia, and you're running from the cops for a murder you didn't commit.”

She stared over at him, biting her lip. She wanted desperately to trust the man; it was an almost physiologically compelling need. And yet, as she stared down the hallway to where his study was, where she had previously seen the information he had obtained on her so easily, so quickly, the doubts came flooding back to her. Jackson was suspicious of the man. Who was he? Where had he come from? What had he done in his past life?

When she looked back over at him, he was watching her closely. He read the uncertainty, the suspicions there.

“LuAnn, I know you really don't know me. Yet. But you can trust me.”

“I want to, Matthew. I really do. It's just—” She stood up and started her ritualistic pacing. “It's just that I've made a habit the last ten years of never trusting anyone. Anyone other than Charlie.”

“Well, Charlie's not here, and from the looks of things, you're not going to be able to handle this alone.”

She stiffened at the words. “You'd be surprised at what I can handle.”

“I don't doubt that. Not at all,” he said in a sincere, if disarming, manner.

“And getting you involved means, ultimately, placing you in danger. That's not something I want on my conscience.”

“You'd be surprised at how accustomed I am to dangerous things. And people.”

She stared at him, a glimmer of a smile on her lips. Her deep hazel eyes were intoxicating to him, calling up the fresh memory of their lovemaking.

“I still don't want you to get hurt.”

“Then why are you here? In spite of how terrific this morning was, I doubt if you're here for a nooner. You've got other things on your mind, I can tell.”

She sat back down and clasped her hands together. After thinking the matter over a minute she started speaking earnestly. “The man's name was Thomas Donovan. He's a reporter of some kind. He started investigating me.”

“Why? Why you? The murder?”

LuAnn hesitated before answering. “That was part of it.”

“What was the other part?”

LuAnn didn't answer now; she looked at the floor. Imparting personal information to anyone other than Charlie went against every instinct she possessed.

Riggs decided to take a shot. “Did it have to do with the lottery?”

She slowly looked up, the astonishment starkly on her face.

“I knew your real name; something clicked. You won a hundred million dollars ten years ago, a lot of stories about you back then. Then you disappeared.”

She studied him warily, alarm bells ringing. His face, though, was one of complete sincerity, and finally that look subdued her suspicions, at least temporarily.

“Yes, I won that money.”

“So what did Donovan want? Your story on the killing?”

“Partly.”

“What was the other part?” he asked persistently.

Now the alarm bells started ringing again, and this time Riggs's honest features did not silence them. LuAnn rose. “I've got to be going.”

“Come on, LuAnn. Talk to me.”

“I think I've said more than I should have.”

Riggs knew far more than she had already told him, but he had wanted to hear it from her. His source for the information on LuAnn had naturally desired to know why he wanted it. He had lied, or gotten close to it. He wasn't going to give LuAnn Tyler away, at least not yet. He had no reason to trust her, and many reasons not to. But he did trust her. He did believe in her.

As her hand closed over the doorknob he called to her.

“LuAnn, if you change your mind, I'll be here.”

She didn't look at him, fearful of what might happen if she did. She wanted to tell him everything. She wanted his help, she wanted to make love to him again. After all these years of fabrication, of lies, deceit, and constant fear of exposure, she just wanted to be held; to be loved for herself, not for the enormous wealth she possessed.

Riggs watched the BMW pull out of his driveway. When it had disappeared from view he turned and went back to his study. Because of his inquiries into LuAnn Tyler, Riggs knew the Feds would undoubtedly get around to dispatching some agents to Charlottesville to talk to him or at least get the local FBI office involved. But because of his special status, they would have to jump through some bureaucratic hoops before that could be accomplished. He had some time, but not much. And once the Bureau boys showed up, it was over for LuAnn Tyler. All of her diligent work over the last ten years to remain hidden Riggs could blow up in the next few days. A very strong emotion told Riggs he could not allow that to happen, despite what he knew about the woman. In the course of his past career, deception had become a way of life. So also had reading people, telling the good ones from the bad, to the extent you could. LuAnn was a good person, Riggs had long ago concluded. Even if she didn't want his help, she was going to get it. But she was obviously involved with some very dangerous people. And now, Riggs thought to himself, so was he.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

When LuAnn arrived home it was late; the household staff had gone, and Sally Beecham would not return until tomorrow. She went in the house through the garage, punched in the alarm code, and threw her coat and purse down on the kitchen island. She went upstairs to shower and change. She had a lot of things to think through right now.

In the shrubs bordering the edge of the expansive lawn by the garage side of the house, Jackson knelt in the mulch and smiled to himself. He lowered the small piece of equipment he was holding in his hand. On its digital face were the six numbers constituting LuAnn's pass code for the home's alarm system. The scanner had picked up the electrical impulses thrown off when LuAnn inputted her pass code and then it had unscrambled them. With the pass code Jackson could come and go freely.

When he got back to his rental car, his cell phone buzzed. He spoke for a few minutes and then hung up. Charlie and Lisa were at a motel outside of Gettysburg. They would probably be on the move again soon. LuAnn had tried to get them away from him, or rather Lisa away from him. Charlie could take care of himself, Jackson well knew. If it came to it, Lisa was the Achilles' heel of her mother.

LuAnn had watched out the window as the figure made its way down the tree line toward the main road. The steps had been animal-like in their stealth and precision, much as hers would have been. She didn't know what had drawn her to the window at that precise instant. She felt no fear or even apprehension as she watched Jackson move down the hillside. She had expected him to be there. For what specific reason or for how long Jackson had been watching the house, she wasn't sure; but it was completely logical that he should be. She was now his main focus, she knew. And to be the main focus of the man was akin to treading on the very edge of the grave. She drew the curtains shut and sat on her bed. The enormous house felt cold and threatening, as though she were all alone in a mausoleum of immense proportion, just waiting for something unspeakably horrible to happen to her.

Was Lisa truly safe, beyond the reach of the man? The answer to that question was so obvious that it hit her like a hard slap in the face.

I can do anything, LuAnn.

The mocking words came back to her after all these years and sent a shiver through her. Riggs was right, she couldn't get through this alone. He had offered help, and this time she needed it. Whether she was making the right decision or not, she didn't care. Right now, she just needed to do something. She jumped up, grabbed her car keys, unlocked a box in her closet, and placed the loaded nickel-plated .44 Magnum in her purse. She ran down the stairs and into the garage. A minute later the BMW was flying down the road.

Riggs was in the room over his barn when he heard the car drive up and park next to the garage. He watched out the window as LuAnn came into view. She started toward the house but then, as if sensing his presence, she turned to stare at him. Their eyes stayed locked for a long moment as each silently probed the other. A minute later she was sitting across from him, warming her hands from the heat of the stove.

This time Riggs felt no compunction to mince words.

“The lottery was fixed, wasn't it? You knew you were going to win, didn't you?”

LuAnn jolted upright for an instant, but then let out an almost simultaneous breath of relief.

“Yes.” With that one word she felt as though the last ten years of her life had suddenly evaporated. It was a cleansing feeling. “How'd you figure it out?”

“I had some help.”

LuAnn tensed and slowly rose. Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life?

Riggs sensed her sudden change and put up a hand. As calmly as he could, he said, “Nobody else knows right now. I pulled some pieces of information from different sources and then took a wild stab.” He hesitated and then added, “I also bugged your car. I heard your entire conversation with Donovan.”

“Who the hell are you?” LuAnn hissed, her hand feeling for her purse catch and the gun inside even as she stared at him.

Riggs just sat there and stared back at her. “I'm someone very much like you,” was his surprising reply. Those words stopped her cold. Riggs stood and put his hands in his pockets, leaned up against the bookcase, and eyed the gently swaying trees through the window. “My past is a secret, my present is all made up.” He looked over at her. “A lie. But for a good reason.” He raised his eyebrows. “Like you.”

LuAnn trembled for an instant. Her legs felt weak and she abruptly sat down on the floor. Riggs swiftly knelt beside her, taking her hand in his. “We don't have a lot of time so I'm not going to sugarcoat things. I made some inquiries about you. I did it discreetly, but it's going to have ripple effects nonetheless.” He looked at her intently. “Are you ready to hear this?”

LuAnn swallowed hard and nodded; the fear passed from her eyes and was replaced with an inexplicable calmness.

“The FBI has been interested in you ever since you fled the country. The case has been dormant for a while, but that's not going to last. They know something is up with you, and maybe with how you won the money, but they don't know what, and they haven't been able to prove anything.”

“If you bugged the car, you know how Donovan got onto it.”

Riggs nodded and helped her up. They both sat on the couch. “Bankruptcy. Pretty clever. I know the Feds haven't latched on to that angle yet. Do you know how it was rigged?”

LuAnn shook her head.

“Is it a group, an organization behind it? Donovan thought it was the government. Please don't tell me it is. That gets way too complicated.”

“It's not.” LuAnn was speaking clearly now, although traces of fear, the effect of the sudden exposure of long-held secrets, flitted over her features. “It's one person, as far as I know.”

Riggs sat back with an amazed look. “One person. That isn't possible.”

“He had some people working for him, at least two that I know of, but I'm pretty sure he was the boss.” That was an understatement. LuAnn could not imagine Jackson taking orders from anyone.

“Was Charlie one of those people?”

LuAnn started again. “What makes you say that?”

Riggs shrugged. “The uncle story was a little lame. And you two seemed to be sharing a secret. There wasn't any mention in all my research about you of any uncle, so I assumed he came into the picture after the lottery scam.”

“I'm not going to answer that.” The last thing she was going to do was incriminate Charlie.

“Fair enough. What about this person behind it? What can you tell me about him?”

“He calls himself Jackson.” LuAnn stopped suddenly, astonished that she was telling anyone this. As the name passed over her lips, she closed her eyes and imagined for an instant what Jackson would do to her, to all of them, if he had any idea what she was revealing. She instinctively looked over her shoulder.

Riggs gripped her arm. “LuAnn, you're not alone anymore. He can't hurt you now.”

She almost laughed out loud. “Matthew, if we're the luckiest people in the world, he'll kill us quick instead of making us suffer.”

Riggs felt her arm shaking. As strong and resourceful as he knew her to be, she was clearly afraid.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “I've dealt with some pretty bad people in my time, and I'm still here. Everyone has weaknesses.”

“Sure, right.” LuAnn's voice was hushed, her words lifeless.

Riggs's tone was harsh. “Well, if you want to roll over for him and play dead, go ahead. I don't see how that's going to help Lisa, though. If this guy's as scary as you say, you think he's going to let her walk?”

“I haven't told her about any of this.”

“Jackson's not going to assume that. He's going to assume that she knows everything, and that she's going to have to be eliminated if things turn against him.”

“I know,” she finally said. She rubbed her face and glanced wearily at him. “I don't understand. Why do you want to help me? You don't even know me. And I just told you I did something illegal.”

“Like I said, I checked you out. I know your background. Jackson took advantage of you. Hell, if it had been me in your same position, I would've jumped at the chance to be rich too.”

“That's just it, I didn't. I had decided not to go along, but then I walked into Duane's drug deal, and the next thing I know two men are dead and I'm running as fast as I can with a baby in my arms. I . . . I didn't think I had any choice left. I just wanted to get away.”

“I can understand that, LuAnn. I really can.”

“I've been running ever since, scared of my shadow, afraid somebody would find everything out. It's been ten years, but it's felt like a hundred.” She shook her head and gripped her hands together.

“So I take it Jackson's in the area.”

“He was in my garden about forty-five minutes ago.”

“What?”

“I'm not sure what he was up to, but I'm assuming he's laying the groundwork for whatever plan he's about to implement.”

“What sort of plan?”

“He's going to kill Donovan for starters.”

“So I heard you tell Donovan.”

“And then Jackson will probably come after us.” LuAnn put her face in her hands.

“Well, you won't be seeing him again.”

“You're wrong there, Matthew. I have to meet with him. And very soon.”

He looked at her in absolute shock. “Are you crazy?”

“Jackson suddenly appeared in my bedroom last night. We had quite a lengthy discussion. I told him I was going to get to know you better. I don't think he had sex in mind, it just worked out that way.”

“LuAnn, you don't—”

“He was going to kill you. In the cottage last night. I guess you went back for your truck. He said he was two feet from you. You're lucky to be alive. Very lucky.”

Riggs sat back. His instincts had been right. That was a little heartening, despite the close call he had unwittingly experienced.

“He was going to check you out. He was concerned about your background, it was fuzzy. He was going to look into your background, and if he found anything worrisome, he was going to kill you.”

“But?”

“But I told him I'd check you out instead.”

“You took a risk there.”

“Not as many as you've taken for me. I owed you. And I didn't want anything to happen to you. Not because of me.”

Riggs spread his hands wide. “So why? Why the lottery fix? Did you give him some of your winnings?”

“All of it.” Riggs looked blankly at her. LuAnn said, “He had control of the money for ten years; that period just ended. He invested the money and paid me some of the income from those investments.”

“He had a hundred million to invest. How much did you earn each year?”

“Around forty million on the initial principal. He also invested any amounts I didn't spend. I earned tens of millions more on that each year.”

Riggs gaped at her. “That's a forty percent return on your lottery money alone.”

“I know. And Jackson made a lot more than that, I'm certain. He wasn't in this out of the goodness of his heart. It was a business transaction, plain and simple.”

“So if you made forty percent, he probably made at least that and maybe more. That's a minimum of eighty percent return on your money. He could only have done that through illegal channels.”

“I don't know about that.”

“And at the end of ten years?”

“I got the hundred million back.”

Riggs rubbed at his brow. “And if there were twelve of you at, say, an average of seventy million dollars each, this guy had almost one billion dollars to invest.”

“He's got a lot more than that now, I'm sure.” She looked at him, saw the worry lines. “What, what are you thinking?”

He looked at her steadily. “Another thing that's had the FBI's dander up.” She looked puzzled. Riggs started to explain. “I know for a fact that for years now the FBI, Interpol, and a few other foreign law enforcement agencies have been aware of something: Tremendous amounts of money have been funneled into lots of activities across the globe, some legit, others not. At first the Feds thought it was drug cartel money, either from South America or Asia, partly to launder it. That didn't turn out to be the case. They picked up threads here and there, but the leads always fizzled. Someone with that much money can cover himself really well. Maybe that someone is Jackson.” Riggs fell silent.

“You're sure the Feds don't know about the lottery?”

Riggs looked uneasy. “I can tell you, if they do, they didn't learn it from me. But they do know of my inquiries about you. There was no getting around that.”

“And if they've figured it out for themselves? Then we have Jackson and the federal government coming for us. Right?”

Riggs looked away for a moment and then stared her directly in the eye. “Right.”

“And to tell you the truth, I'm not sure which one frightens me more.”

They looked at each other, similar thoughts running through their minds. Two people against all of this.

“I need to go now,” LuAnn said.

“Go where?”

“I'm pretty certain that Jackson's been following my movements closely. He'll know we've seen each other several times. He may know I've met with Donovan. If I don't report back to him right away”—here she took a painful swallow—“well, it won't be pretty.”

Riggs gripped her shoulders tightly. “LuAnn, this guy is a psycho, but he must be brilliant as well. That makes him even more dangerous. You walk in there, the guy gets the least bit suspicious . . .”

She gently rubbed his arms with her hands. “Well, I just have to make sure he doesn't get suspicious.”

“How in the hell are you going to do that? He already must be. I say we bring in the troops, set the guy up and take him.”

“And me, what about me?”

Riggs stared at her. “I'm sure you could probably work a deal with the authorities,” he said lamely.

“And the folks down in Georgia? You heard Donovan, they want to lynch me.”

“The Feds could talk to them, they . . .” Riggs broke off as he realized absolutely none of what he was saying could be guaranteed.

“And maybe I work a deal with all of them. I give back the money. It might surprise you, but I really don't care about that. And then maybe I get a sympathetic judge, or judges, and they give me a break. Cumulatively what could I be looking at? Twenty years?”

“Maybe not that much.”

“How much then?”

“I can't tell you that. I don't know.”

“I'd make a real sympathetic defendant, wouldn't I? I can see the headlines now: Drug dealer-turned-murderess-turned-dream-stealer-turned-fugitive LuAnn Tyler living like a queen while people blow their Social Security checks on the lottery. Maybe they'd give me a prize instead of throwing away the key. What do you think?”

Riggs didn't answer and he couldn't manage to look at her either.

“And let's say we set Jackson up. What if we miss and he gets away? Or what if we nail him? Do you think with all his money, all his power, he might beat the rap? Or maybe he just might pay someone to carry out his revenge for him. Given that, what do you think my life is worth? And my daughter's life?”

Riggs did answer this time. “Nothing. Okay, I hear where you're coming from. But listen, why can't you report back to the guy over the phone? You don't need to see him in person.”

LuAnn considered this for a minute. “I'll try,” was all she could promise.

LuAnn stood up to her full height and gazed down at him. She looked twenty again, strong, rangy, confident. “Despite having zillions of dollars and traveling all over the world, I'm not the FBI. I'm still just a dumb girl from Georgia, but you might be a little surprised at what I can do when I set my mind to it.” Lisa's face was conjured up in her thoughts. “And I've got a lot to lose. Too much.” Her eyes seemed to look right through his, seeing something far, far down the road. When she spoke, her voice carried the full measure of her deep Southern roots. “So I'm not going to lose.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

George Masters stared down at the file intently. He was sitting in his office at the Hoover Building in Washington. Masters had been with the FBI for over twenty-five years. Ten of those years had been spent in the FBI's New York office. And now Masters was staring down at a name that he had become intimately familiar with ten years ago: LuAnn Tyler. Masters had been part of the federal investigation of Tyler's flight from the United States, and although the investigation had been officially closed years ago due to basic inertia, Masters had never lost interest mainly because none of it made sense. Things that didn't make sense bothered the veteran FBI agent greatly. Even after transferring to Washington, he had kept the case in the back of his mind. Now there were recent events that had ignited that spark of interest into a full flame. Matthew Riggs had made inquiries about LuAnn Tyler. Riggs, Masters knew, was in Charlottesville, Virginia. Masters knew Riggs, or who Riggs used to be, very well. If someone like Riggs was interested in Tyler, so was Masters.

After failing to prevent LuAnn Tyler's escape from New York, Masters and his team had spent considerable time trying to reconstruct the last several days leading up to her disappearance. He had figured that she would have either driven up from Georgia to New York or taken the train. She didn't have a driver's license or a car. The big convertible she had been spotted in had been found in front of the trailer, so she hadn't used that vehicle. Masters had then focused on the trains. At the station in Atlanta, Masters had hit the jackpot. LuAnn Tyler had taken the Amtrak Crescent to New York City on the day the authorities believed the murders were committed. But that wasn't all she had done. LuAnn had made a phone call from Otis Burns's car phone. Burns was the other dead man in the trailer. The FBI had traced the phone call. The number was an eight hundred number, but it had already been disconnected. Investigations into who had leased the phone number had run into a complete dead-end. That had gotten Masters's curiosity up even more.

Now that he was once again focused on LuAnn Tyler, Masters had instructed his men to go over NYPD records looking for any unusual events occurring around the time of LuAnn's disappearance. One item his men had just discovered had interested Masters greatly. A man named Anthony Romanello had been found dead in his New York apartment the night before the press conference announcing LuAnn as the lottery winner. The discovery of a dead body in New York City was hardly news; however, the police had been suspicious of Romanello's death because he had a long arrest record and was suspected of hiring himself out as an assassin. The police had probed into the details of what he had done on his last day among the living. Romanello and a woman had been seen at a restaurant shortly before Romanello had died; they had been observed having a serious argument. Barely two hours later, Romanello was dead. The official cause of death had been ruled cardiac arrest; however, the autopsy had revealed no sign of heart trouble in the youthful and strongly built man. None of those details had gotten Masters excited. What had gotten his adrenaline going was the description of the woman: It matched LuAnn Tyler precisely.

Masters shifted uncomfortably in his chair and lit up a cigarette. And then came the kicker: Found on Romanello's person was a receipt for a train ticket. Romanello had been in Georgia and returned to New York on the very same train with LuAnn, although they had been seated in separate compartments. Was there a connection? Drawing on information that had been long buried in his mind, the veteran FBI agent was beginning to piece things together from a clearer perspective. Maybe being away from the case all these years had been a good thing.

He had finished poring over the files he had accumulated on LuAnn Tyler, including records from the lottery. The winning ticket had been purchased at a 7-Eleven in Rikersville, Georgia, on the day of the trailer murders, presumably by LuAnn Tyler. Pretty nervy for her to stop and buy a ticket after a double homicide, Masters thought. The winning ticket had been announced on the following Wednesday at the drawing in New York. The woman fitting LuAnn's description had been seen with Romanello on Friday evening. And the press conference announcing LuAnn as the winner had been held on Saturday. But the thing was, according to Amtrak records and the ticket found on Romanello, both Tyler and Romanello had taken the Crescent train on the previous Sunday getting them into New York on Monday. If so, that meant LuAnn had left for New York City before she had known she had even won the lottery. Was she just running from a possible murder charge and coincidentally chose New York in which to hide, and then just happened to win a hundred million bucks? If so, she must be the luckiest person in the world. George Masters did not believe that anyone could be that lucky. He ticked off the points on his hand. Murders. Telephone call. Purchase of lottery ticket. Train to New York before winning ticket announced. LuAnn Tyler wins the lottery. Romanello and Tyler argue. Romanello dies. LuAnn Tyler, a twenty-year-old with a seventh-grade education and a baby, walks right through a massive police net and successfully disappears. She could not, Masters decided, have done that alone. All of this had been planned well in advance. And that meant one thing. Masters suddenly gripped the arms of his chair tightly as the conclusion hit him.

LuAnn Tyler knew that she was going to win the lottery.

The implications of that last thought sent a deep shudder through the grim-faced agent. He couldn't believe he hadn't seen that possibility ten years ago, but he had to admit it had never even occurred to him. He was looking for a potential murderer and nothing else. He drew solace from the fact that ten years ago he didn't have the Romanello angle to chew on.

Masters obviously wasn't old enough to remember all the lottery corruption from the last century, but he certainly remembered the game show scandals in the 1950s. Those would seem laughable by comparison to what the country might be now facing.

Ten years ago someone may have corrupted the United States Lottery. At least once, possibly more. The ramifications were truly terrifying to think about. The federal government depended on the revenue from that lottery to fund a myriad of programs, programs that were now so entrenched politically that it would be impossible to repeal them. But if the source of those funds was contaminated? If the American People ever discovered that fact?

Masters's mouth went dry with the thought. He swallowed some water from a carafe on his desk and downed a couple of aspirin to combat the beginnings of what would still become a torturous headache. He composed himself and picked up his phone. “Get me the director,” he instructed. While he waited for the call to go through, Masters sat back in his chair. He knew this eventually would have to go up to the White House. But he'd let the director talk to the attorney general and the A.G. could talk to the president. If his conclusions were right, so much shit would hit the fan that everyone would eventually be covered in it.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Jackson was again in his suite and was again staring at his laptop. LuAnn had met with Riggs several times now. Jackson would give her another few hours to call. He was disappointed in her nonetheless. He had not tapped LuAnn's phone line, an oversight that he had decided was not worth remedying at this point. She had caught him a little off-guard by sending Lisa away so quickly. The associate he had retained to track LuAnn's movements had been compelled to follow Charlie and Lisa, thereby depriving Jackson of a valuable pair of eyes. Thus, he did not know that LuAnn and Donovan had already met.

He had contemplated sending for more people so that all bases would be covered, but too many strangers lurking around town would probably raise suspicion. He wanted to avoid that if possible. Particularly because there was a wild card out there he was unsure of: Matt Riggs. He had transmitted Riggs's fingerprints to the same information source and was awaiting a reply.

Jackson's mouth sagged as the information spread over the screen. The name that appeared as the owner of the fingerprints was not Matthew Riggs. For a moment Jackson wondered if he could have lifted someone else's prints in the cottage by mistake. But that was impossible; he had seen the exact area the man calling himself Matt Riggs had touched. There could have been no mistake there. He quickly decided to check the other source of a possible mistake. He dialed the number and spoke at length to the person on the other end.

“This one was tricky,” the voice said. “We went through normal channels initially to avoid any suspicions. We believe the request was kicked to senior level and we received back a ‘no-fingerprint-found’ reply.”

“But a person was identified,” Jackson said.

“Right, but only after we went back through other channels.” Jackson knew that meant hacking into a database. “That's when we pulled up the information we transmitted to you.”

“But it's a different name than the one he's using now and it lists him as being deceased.”

“Right, but the thing is, when a criminal dies, the standard procedure is to fingerprint the corpse and transmit the prints to the FBI for verification. When that's completed, the pointer—the linkage used to retrieve the print from the database—is deleted. The result is that there are, technically, no prints of deceased criminals on the database.”

“So how do you explain what you just sent me? Why would they want to have this person listed as deceased but under another name?”

“Well, that tells me that the name listed on the database is his real one and the one he's using now is phony. The fact that he's listed as dead tells me that the Feds want people to believe he's dead, including anyone who might try to get access to their database to check. I've seen the Feds do that before.”

“Why?”

The answer the man gave him caused Jackson to slowly hang up the phone. Now it all made sense. He stared at the screen.

Daniel Buckman: Deceased.

It was less than three minutes after LuAnn left that Riggs received a telephone call. The message was terse, but still managed to chill Riggs to the bone.

“Someone just made an unauthorized access of your fingerprint file through the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. And it was somebody who knew what he was doing because we didn't realize it happened until after the fact. Exercise extreme care, we're checking it out right now.”

Riggs slammed down the phone and grabbed his receiving unit. He took a moment to unlock a drawer of his desk. He pulled out two pistols, two ammo clips, and an ankle holster. The larger pistol he put in his pocket and the smaller one he inserted in the holster he belted around his ankle. Then he ran for his Jeep. He hoped to God LuAnn hadn't found and removed the transmitter from her car.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

From the car phone LuAnn called the number Jackson had given her. He buzzed her back less than a minute later.

“I'm on the move too,” he said. “We need to talk.”

“I'm reporting back to you, like you said.”

“I'm sure you are. I trust you have a good deal to tell me.”

“I don't think we have a serious problem on our hands.”

“Oh, really, I'm so very glad to hear it.”

LuAnn responded testily. “Do you want to hear it or not?”

“Yes, but in person.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” he fired back. “And I have some information that might be of interest to you.”

“About what?”

“No, about whom. Matt Riggs. Like his real name, his real background, and why you should take every caution in dealing with him.”

“You can tell me all that over the phone.”

“LuAnn, perhaps you didn't hear me. I said you're going to meet me in person.”

“Why should I?”

“I'll give you a wonderful reason. If you don't I'll find Riggs and kill him in the next half hour. I'll cut off his head and mail it to you. If you call to warn him, then I'll go to your home and kill everyone there from the maids to the gardeners and then I'll burn it to the ground. Then I'll go to your precious daughter's exclusive school and slaughter everyone there. You can keep calling, trying to warn the whole town, and I'll just start killing people at random. Is that a good enough reason, LuAnn, or do you want to hear more?”

LuAnn, pale and trembling at this verbal onslaught, had to force her next breath out. She knew that he meant every insane word. “Where and when?”

“Just like old times. Speaking of old times, why don't you ask Charlie to join us. This applies to him as well.”

LuAnn held the phone away from her, staring at it as though she wanted to melt it down along with the man on the other end. “He's not around right now.”

“My, my. And I thought he never left your side, the faithful sidekick.”

Something in his tone touched a chord in LuAnn's memory. She couldn't think of what it was. “We're not exactly joined at the hip. He's got a life to live.”

For now, Jackson thought. For now, just like you. I'm having my doubts, though, I really am.

“Let's meet at the cottage where our inquisitive friend was nesting. Thirty minutes, can you manage it?”

“I'll be at the cottage in thirty minutes.”

Jackson hung up the car phone and with an automatic motion felt for the knife hidden in his jacket.

Ten miles away LuAnn almost mirrored that movement, slipping off the safety on her .44.

Dusk was gathering as LuAnn drove down the treelined, leaf-strewn dirt road. The area was very dark. It had rained heavily the night before and a spray of water kicked up on her windshield as she drove through a deep puddle; she was momentarily startled. The cottage was up ahead. She slowed down and swept the terrain with her eyes. She saw no car, no person. She knew that meant nothing. Jackson seemed to appear and disappear whenever he damn well pleased with less rippling than a pebble flung across the ocean. She pulled the BMW to a stop in front of the ramshackle structure and climbed out. She knelt down for a moment and eyed the dirt. There were no other tire tracks and the mud would have shown any very clearly.

LuAnn studied the exterior of the cottage. He was already there, she was certain. It was as though the man carried a scent that was detectable only to her. It smelled like the grave, moldy and dank. She took one last deep breath and started toward the door.

Upon entering the cottage, LuAnn surveyed the small area.

“You're early.” Jackson stepped from the shadows. His face was the same one from each of their face-to-face encounters. He liked to be consistent. He wore a leather jacket and jeans. A black ski cap covered the top of his head. Dark hiking boots were on his feet. “But at least you came alone,” he added.

“I hope the same can be said of you.” LuAnn shifted slightly so that her back was against a wall rather than the door.

Jackson interpreted her movements and smiled slightly. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall, his lips pursed. “You can start delivering your report,” he ordered.

LuAnn kept her hands in her jacket, one fist closed around her pistol; she managed to point the muzzle at Jackson through the pocket.

Her movements were slight but Jackson cocked his head and smiled. “Now I distinctly remember you saying you wouldn't kill in cold blood.”

“There are exceptions to everything.”

“Fascinating, but we don't have time for games. The report?”

LuAnn started speaking in short bursts. “I met with Donovan. He's the man who was following me, Thomas Donovan.” LuAnn assumed that Jackson had already run down Donovan's identity. She had decided on the drive over that the best approach was to tell Jackson mostly the truth and to only lie at critical junctures. Half truths were a wonderful way to inspire credibility, and right now she needed all she could muster. “He's a reporter with the Washington Tribune.”

Jackson squatted on his haunches, his hands pressed together in front of him. His eyes remained keenly on her. “Go on.”

“He was doing a story on the lottery. Twelve of the winners from ten years ago.” She nodded toward Jackson. “You know the ones; they've all flourished financially.”

“So?”

“So, Donovan wanted to know how, since so many of the other winners have gone belly-up. A very consistent percentage, he said. So your twelve sort of stuck out.”

Jackson hid his chagrin well. He didn't like having loose ends, and this one had been glaring. LuAnn studied him closely. She read the smallest of self-doubts in his features. That was enormously comforting to her, but this was not the time to dwell on it.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I had been referred to an excellent investment firm by someone from the lottery. I gave him the name of the investment firm you used. I'm assuming they're legitimate.”

“Very,” Jackson replied. “At least on the surface. And the others?”

“I told Donovan I didn't know about them, but that they could have been referred to the same firm for all I knew.”

“And he bought that?”

“Let's just say that he was disappointed. He wanted to write a story about the wealthy screwing the poor—you know, they win the lottery and then parasitic investment firms churn their accounts, earn their pieces of the pie, and leave the winner with nothing but attorney fees for filing bankruptcy. I told him that I certainly didn't support that conclusion. I had done just fine.”

“And he knew about your situation in Georgia?”

“That's what drew him to me initially, I would imagine.” LuAnn drew in a small breath of relief as she saw Jackson nod slightly at this remark. He apparently had arrived at the same conclusion. “He thought I would confess to some big conspiracy, I guess.”

Jackson's eyes glittered darkly. “Did he mention any other theories, like the lottery being fixed?”

To hesitate now would be disastrous, LuAnn knew, so she plunged ahead. “No. Although he thought he had a big story. I told him to talk directly to the investment firm, that I had nothing to hide. That seemed to take the wind out of his sails. I told him if he wanted to contact the Georgia police he could go ahead. Maybe it was time to get things out in the open.”

“You weren't being serious.”

“I wanted him to believe I was. I figured if I made a big deal out of resisting or wanting to hide anything, he'd get even more suspicious. As it was, everything sort of fizzled for him.”

“How did you leave it?”

“He thanked me for meeting with him, even apologized for troubling me. He said he might contact me later, but kind of doubted it.” Once again LuAnn saw Jackson incline his head slightly. This was working out better than she could have expected. “He got out of my car and into his. That's the last I saw of him.”

Jackson was silent for several moments and then he slowly rose, silently clapping his hands together. “I love a good performance and I think you handled the situation very well, LuAnn.”

“I had a good teacher.”

“What?”

“Ten years ago. The airport, where you impersonated an impersonation. You told me the best way to hide is to stick out, because it runs counterintuitive to human nature. I used the same principle. Be overly open, cooperative, and honest, and even suspicious people tend to rethink things.”

“I am honored that you remembered all that.”

A little ego-stroking went a long way with most men, LuAnn knew, and Jackson, exceptional though he was in many ways, was no exception in that regard. In an understatement of mammoth proportions, LuAnn said, “You're a little hard to forget. So you don't have to do anything with Donovan, he's harmless. Now tell me about Riggs.”

A smile formed on the man's lips. “I witnessed your impromptu meeting with Riggs on the rear grounds this morning. It was rather picturesque. From your state of undress, I imagine he had quite a pleasant morning.”

LuAnn hid her anger at this barb. Right now she needed information. She replied, “All the more reason why I should know all about him.”

“Well, let's start with his real name: Daniel Buckman.”

“Buckman? Why would he have a different name?”

“Funny question coming from you. Why do people change their names, LuAnn?”

Perspiration sprouted on her forehead. “Because they have something to hide.”

“Precisely.”

“Was he a spy?”

Jackson laughed. “Not quite. Actually, he's not anything.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that dead men, technically, can't be anything other than dead, correct?”

“Dead?” LuAnn's entire body froze. Had Jackson killed Matthew? It couldn't be. She fought with all her might not to plunge to the floor. Luckily, Jackson continued.

“I obtained his fingerprints, had them run through a database and the computer told me that he's dead.”

“The computer's wrong.”

“The computer only relays what it's been told. Someone wanted it to appear that Riggs was dead in case anyone came looking.”

“Came looking? Like who?”

“His enemies.” When LuAnn didn't respond, Jackson said, “Have you ever heard of the Witness Protection and Relocation Program?”

“No. Should I?”

“You've lived abroad for so long, I suppose not. It's run by the federal government, more particularly by the United States Marshal's Service. It's to protect persons testifying against dangerous criminals or organizations. They get new identities, new lives. Officially, Riggs is dead. Shows up in a small town, starts a new life under a new identity. Maybe his features have been altered somewhat. I don't know for certain, but it's an educated guess on my part that Riggs is a member of that select group.”

“Riggs—Buckman—was a witness? To what?”

Jackson shrugged. “Who knows? Who cares? What I'm telling you is that Riggs is a criminal. Or was a criminal. Probably drugs or something like that. Maybe Mafia informant. Witness Protection isn't used for purse snatchers.”

LuAnn settled back against the wall to keep herself from falling. Riggs was a criminal.

“I hope you haven't confided anything to him. There's no telling what his agenda might be.”

“I haven't,” LuAnn managed to say.

“So what can you tell me about the man?”

“Not as much as you just told me. He doesn't know any more than he did before. He's not pushing the issue. He thinks Donovan was a potential kidnapper. From what you just said, I'm sure he doesn't want to draw any attention to himself.”

“True, that's very good for us. And I'm sure your little rendezvous this morning didn't hurt at all.”

“That's really none of your business,” she retorted hotly. With their exchange of information at an end, she wasn't going to let that remark pass.

“Ah, your first mistake this session. You just can't make it through without committing some blunder, can you?” He pointed a slender finger at her. “Everything about you is my business. I made you. And in a real sense I feel responsible for your well-being. I don't take that responsibility lightly.”

LuAnn blurted out, “Look, the ten years is up. You've made your money. I've made mine. I say we call it a day, forever. In thirty-six hours I'll be on the other side of the world. You go your way, I'll go mine, because I'm more than real tired of all this.”

“You disobeyed me.”

“Right, well I spent ten damn years in twenty different countries, constantly looking over my shoulder, obeying your instructions. And I guess now I'll spend the rest of my life doing the same thing. So let me get to it.” The two engaged in a stare-down of prolonged duration.

“You'll leave right away?”

“Just give me time to pack my bags. We'll be gone by tomorrow morning.”

Jackson rubbed his chin as he considered this proposal. “Tell me something, LuAnn, tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now.”

She had been prepared for that question. “Because Donovan might find it a little peculiar that right after he talks to me I end up a corpse. He's not suspicious now. I think I can guarantee you that would get his radar going. You really want that kind of trouble?”

Jackson pursed his lips for a moment and then motioned to the door. “Go pack.”

LuAnn looked at him and motioned to the door. “You first.”

“Let's leave together, LuAnn. That way, we'll each have a reasonable chance at reciprocating in kind in the event one of us tries something violent.”

They went to the door together, their gazes glued to each other.

Right when Jackson put his hand on the doorknob, the door burst open, almost knocking him down.

Riggs stood there, his gun leveled on Jackson. Before he could fire, Jackson pulled LuAnn in front of him, his hand edging downward.

“Matthew, don't,” LuAnn cried out.

Riggs shot her a glance. “LuAnn—”

LuAnn sensed rather than saw Jackson cock his arm. He was using an underhanded throwing method to hurl the knife, but it wouldn't be any less deadly that way.

Her hand shot out, partially colliding with Jackson's forearm. The next instant Riggs was grunting in pain, the knife sticking out of his arm. He dropped to the floor, clutching at the blade's handle. LuAnn pulled her gun out of her pocket and whipped around, trying to draw a bead on Jackson. At the very same time, Jackson pulled her backward against him.

Their combined momentum sent Jackson and LuAnn crashing through the glass window. LuAnn landed on top of him as they hit the porch, hard. LuAnn's pistol squirted free from her hand and slid across the porch. Each felt the subtle but undeniable strength of the other as they wrestled amid the thick, slippery shards of glass, trying to gain some footage. He clutched at her neck, she kicked at his groin, one of her elbows levered against his chin. Locked tightly together, they both rose slowly, each seeking an advantage. She noted the blood pouring from the grisly wound on Jackson's hand; he must have cut it going through the window. His grip couldn't be a hundred percent, she thought. With a sudden burst of strength that seemed to astonish even Jackson, LuAnn tore free from him, seized him by his belt and shirt front, and threw him face first against the side of the cottage where he slumped down, momentarily stunned from the impact. Without wasting an instant or any unnecessary motion, LuAnn propelled herself forward, straddled his back, gripped his chin with both hands, and pulled it backward, trying her best to crack his spine. Jackson screamed in pain as she pulled harder and harder. Another inch and he was a dead man. Her hands, however, suddenly slipped and she fell backward, landing in the glass. She exploded up and then froze as she looked down. In her hands was Jackson's face.

Jackson staggered up. For one terrible instant their eyes locked on each other. And for the first time, LuAnn was staring at Jackson's real face.

Jackson looked down at her hands. He touched his face, felt his own skin, his own hair, his breath coming in great gasps. Now she could identify him. Now she had to die.

The same thought occurred to LuAnn. She dove for the gun at the same time Jackson pounced on her; they slid together along the porch, both straining for the gun.

“Get off her, you bastard!” Riggs screamed. LuAnn turned to see the man, deathly pale, standing at the window, his shirt entirely red, the gun in his shaky hands. With an enviable bit of speed Jackson leapt over the porch railing. Riggs fired an instant too late, the bullets striking the porch instead of flesh.

“Shit!” Riggs groaned and dropped to his knees, disappearing from LuAnn's line of sight.

“Matthew!” LuAnn sprung to the window. Meanwhile, Jackson had disappeared into the woods.

LuAnn raced through the door, pulling off her jacket as she did so. She was next to Riggs in an instant. “Wait, don't pull it out, Matthew.” Using her teeth, she tore her jacket sleeve apart and into strips. Next, she ripped open his shirtsleeve and exposed the wound. At first she tried to staunch the bleeding with the cloths, but she couldn't. She searched under Riggs's armpit and applied pressure with her finger at a certain spot. The flow of blood finally stopped. As gently as she could LuAnn pulled the knife free while Riggs's fingers dug into her arm, his teeth almost biting through his lip. She tossed the blade down.

“Matthew, hold your finger right here, don't push too hard, you need to allow a little blood to flow through.” She guided his finger to the pressure point under his arm that she had been pressing against.

“I've got a first-aid kit in my car. I'll dress it as best as I can. Then we need to get you to a doctor.”

LuAnn retrieved her gun from the porch and they hustled out to the BMW, where LuAnn cleaned and dressed the wound using the first-aid kit from her glove compartment. As she cut the last piece of tape off with her teeth and wound it around the gauze, Riggs looked at her. “Where did you learn to do this stuff?”

LuAnn grunted. “Hell, the first time I ever saw a doctor was when Lisa was born. And even then it was only for about twenty minutes. You live in the boonies with no money, you have to learn how to do this just to survive.”

When they got to an urgent care center off Route 29, LuAnn started to get out of the car to help Riggs in. He stopped her.

“Look, I think it'll be better if I go in alone. I've been to this place before, they know me. General contractors get hurt a lot. I'll tell 'em I slipped and stuck a hunting knife in my arm.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah, I think I made a big enough mess for you already.”

He struggled out of the car.

“I'll be here when you get out, I promise,” she said.

He smiled weakly, and holding his injured arm, he went inside.

LuAnn pulled the BMW around and backed into the parking space so she could see anyone coming in. She locked the doors and then swore under her breath. Riggs had come to her rescue, for that she could hardly fault him. But right before that she had Jackson convinced that everything was okay. Another minute and they would've been home free. God, the timing. She slumped against the seat. It was possible that she could explain Riggs's sudden and armed presence away. Riggs had been concerned for her safety, followed her, thinking maybe that the man she was meeting was Donovan. But Riggs had done something else, something that she couldn't explain away. She let out a loud groan as she watched the traffic pass by on Route 29.

In front of Jackson, Riggs had called her LuAnn. That one word had destroyed everything. There was no way he would've missed that. Now, Jackson knew she had lied to him about what Riggs knew. She had no doubt what the punishment for that would be. Her spirits had been so high barely thirty minutes ago. Now all bets were off.

She glanced down at the seat and saw the white piece of paper there. She picked up Donovan's card and looked at the phone number. She thought for a moment and then picked up the phone. She silently cursed when she only got the answering machine. She left a lengthy message telling Donovan what had happened. She implored him once again to go underground, that she would pay for everything. He was a good man looking for the truth. She didn't want him to die. She didn't want anyone else to die because of her. She hoped to God he would live to get the message.

Jackson pressed the cloth against his palm. He had indeed badly cut his hand going through the glass. Damn the woman. Riggs would've been dead if she hadn't hit Jackson's arm a millisecond before he released the knife.

He gingerly touched his real skin. A small lump had appeared thanks to one of her blows. He had finally felt her raw strength and he had to admit, it exceeded his own. Who would have thought it? The big muscle-bound types never possessed genuine God-given strength like that; that kind you couldn't manufacture in a health spa. It was a combination of both inner and outer phenomena, working in precise, albeit spontaneous, bursts when called upon. One couldn't measure it or quantify it, because it came and went upon demand by its owner and varied in its intensity depending on the situation, rising to the occasion and mustering just enough reserve so that failure was never a possibility. Either you had that type of power or you didn't. LuAnn Tyler clearly did. He would not forget that. He would not seek to conquer her that way, but, as always, he would adapt around it. And the stakes were as high as they were ever likely to climb, for one specific reason.

The irony was he had believed her. He had been prepared to let her walk away. LuAnn had confided in Riggs, that was clear. Riggs knew her real name. There were few actions that angered Jackson more than prevarication by his own people. Disloyalty could not and would not be tolerated. If she had lied about Riggs, it was more than probable that she had lied about Donovan. Jackson had to assume that the Trib reporter was closing in on the truth. Thus, he had to be stopped as well.

As these thoughts were going around in Jackson's mind, his portable phone rang. He picked it up. He listened, asked a few questions, conveyed some clear instructions, and when he hung up, a deep look of satisfaction graced his true features. The timing couldn't have been better: His trap had just been sprung.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The Bell Ranger helicopter landed in a grassy field where three black sedans bearing government license plates were waiting. George Masters alighted from the chopper, another agent, Lou Berman, right at his elbow. They climbed in one of the cars and started off. Riggs had seriously underestimated the quickness of the response time from Washington.

Twenty minutes later the procession made its way down the gravel road and stopped in front of Riggs's home. Car doors swung open and serious-looking men, weapons out and ready, swarmed the front and back of the house and barn.

Masters strode up to the front door. When his knocks were not answered, he motioned to one of his men. The burly agent planted one foot directly against the lock and the door flew open, crashing against the interior wall. After they searched the house thoroughly, they finally converged in Riggs's office.

Masters sat down at the desk and quickly rustled through the papers, his eyes alighting on one set of notes. Masters leaned back in the chair and intently studied Riggs's scribbles on LuAnn Tyler and someone named Catherine Savage. He looked up at Berman. “Tyler disappears and Catherine Savage reappears. That's the cover.”

“We can check the airports, see if Catherine Savage flew out ten years ago,” Berman said.

Masters shook his head. “We don't need to do that. They're one and the same. Tyler is here. Find out Savage's address pronto. Call up some of the high-end real estate agents around here. I don't think her highness will be living in another trailer.”

Berman nodded, pulled out a portable phone, and went to confer with the local FBI agents who had accompanied them here.

Masters ran his eyes around Riggs's office. He was wondering how Riggs fit into all this. He had it nice here, new life, new career, peaceful, lot of good years left to live. But now? Masters had been at the White House meeting with the president, the attorney general, and the director of the FBI. As Masters had outlined his theory, he had watched each of their faces go sickly pale. A scandal of horrific proportions. The government lottery, fixed. The American people would believe that their own government had done it to them. How could they not? The president had publicly announced his support for the lottery, even appeared in a TV commercial touting it. So long as the billions flowed in, and a few lucky people were elevated to millionaire status, who cared?

The concept of the lottery had received attacks claiming that what it spent on furthering the public welfare was largely negated by what it cost in others: breakup of families, gambling addiction, making poor people even poorer, causing people to eschew hard work and industriousness for the unrealistic dream of winning the lottery. One critic had said it was much like inner city kids striving for the NBA instead of an MBA. However, the lottery had remained bulletproof from those attacks.

If it came out, however, that the game was fixed, then the bullets would rapidly shatter that bubble. There would be a tremendous blood-letting and everyone from the president on down was going to take a major hit. As Masters had sat in the Oval Office he saw that clearly in all their features: the FBI director, the nation's top lawman; the attorney general, the nation's top lawyer; the president, the number one of all. The responsibility would fall there and it would fall heavily. So Masters had been given explicit instructions: Bring in LuAnn Tyler, at any cost and by any means possible. And he intended to do just that.

“How's it feel?”

Riggs climbed slowly into the car. His right arm was in a sling. “Well, they gave me enough painkillers to where I'm not sure I can feel anything.”

LuAnn put the car in gear and they sped out onto the highway.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“McDonald's. I'm starving and I can't remember the last time I had a Big Mac and fries. Sound good?”

“Sounds good.”

She pulled into the drive-through of a McDonald's, ordering some burgers, fries, and two coffees.

They ate as they drove. Riggs put down his coffee, wiped his mouth, and nervously fingered the dashboard with his good arm. “So tell me, how badly did I screw things up for you?”

“Matthew, I'm not blaming you.”

“I know,” he said sheepishly. He slapped the seat. “I thought you were walking into a trap.”

She stared over at him. “And why's that?”

Riggs looked out the window for a long moment before answering. “Right after you left I got a call.”

“Is that right. Who from, and what did it have to do with me?”

He sighed deeply. “Well, for starters, my name's not Matthew Riggs. I mean it's been my name for the last five years, but it's not my real name.”

“Well, at least we're even on that score.”

He said with a forced grin, “Daniel Buckman.” He held out his hand. “My friends call me Dan.”

LuAnn didn't take it. “You're Matthew to me. Do your friends also know that technically you're dead and that you're in the Witness Protection Program?”

Riggs slowly withdrew his hand.

She flipped him an impatient look. “I told you that Jackson can do anything. I wish you'd start believing me.”

“I was betting he was the one who tapped into my file. That's why I followed you. If he knew about me, I didn't know how he'd react. I thought he might kill you.”

“That's always a possibility with the man.”

“I got a good look at him.”

LuAnn was exasperated. “That wasn't his real face. Dammit, it's never his real face.” She thought of the rubbery flesh she had held. She had seen his real face. His real face. She knew what that meant. Jackson would now do everything in his power to kill her.

She slid her hands nervously over the steering wheel. “Jackson said you were a criminal. So what'd you do?”

“Are you telling me you believe everything that guy says to you? Just in case you didn't notice, he's a psycho. I haven't seen eyes like that since they executed Ted Bundy.”

“Are you saying you're not in Witness Protection?”

“No. But the program isn't just for the bad guys.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “What does that mean?”

“Do you think criminals can pick up the phone and get the sort of info I got on you?”

“I don't know, why can't they?”

“Pull over.”

“What?”

“Just pull the damn car over!”

LuAnn turned into a parking lot and stopped the car.

Riggs leaned over and pulled out the listening device from under LuAnn's seat. “I told you I had bugged your car.” He held up the sophisticated device. “Let me tell you, they almost never give out equipment like this to felons.”

LuAnn looked at him, her eyes wide.

Riggs took a deep breath. “Up until five years ago, I was a special agent with the FBI. I'd like to think a very special agent. I worked undercover infiltrating gangs operating both in Mexico and along the Texas border. These guys were into everything from extortion to drugs to murder for hire; you name it, they were doing it. I lived and breathed with that scum for a year. When we busted the case open, I was the lead witness for the prosecution. We knocked out the entire operation, sent a bunch of them to prison for life. But the big bosses in Colombia didn't take all that kindly to my depriving them of about four hundred million a year in disposable income from the drug operation component. I knew how badly they'd want me. So I did the brave, honorable thing. I asked to disappear.”

“And?”

“And the Bureau turned me down. They said I was too valuable in the field. Too experienced. They did have the courtesy to set me up in another town, in another gig. A desk job for a while.”

“So there was no wife. That was all made up.”

Riggs rubbed his injured arm again. “No, I was married. After I relocated. Her name was Julie.”

LuAnn said very quietly, “Was?”

Riggs shook his head slowly and took a weary sip on his coffee. The steam from the liquid fogged the window and he traced his real initials in it, forming the D and the B for Dan Buckman with great care as though doing it for the very first time. “Ambush on the Pacific Coast Highway. Car went over the cliff with about a hundred bullet holes in it. Julie was killed by the gunfire. I took two slugs; somehow neither of them hit any vitals. I was thrown clear of the car, landed on a ledge. Those were the scars you saw.”

“Oh, God. I'm so sorry, Matthew.”

“Guys like me, we probably shouldn't get married. It wasn't something I was looking for. It just happened. You know, you meet, you fall in love, you want to get married. You expect everything to sort of click after that. Things that you know might come up to ruin it, you sort of will them away. If I had resisted that impulse, Julie would still be alive and teaching first grade.” He looked down at his hands as he spoke. “Anyway, that was when the brilliant higher-ups at the Bureau decided I just might want to retire and change my identity. Officially, I died in the ambush. Julie's six feet under in Pasadena and I'm a general contractor in safe, pastoral Charlottesville.” He finished his coffee. “Or at least it used to be safe.”

LuAnn slid her hand across the front seat and took his in a firm grip.

He squeezed back and said, “It's tough wiping out so many years of your life. Trying not to think about it, forgetting people and places, things that were so important to you for so long. Always afraid you're going to slip up.” He stared at her. “It's damn tough,” he said wearily.

She raised her hand up and stroked his face. “I never realized how much we had in common,” she said.

“Well, here's another one.” He paused for a second as their eyes locked. “I hadn't been with a woman since Julie.”

They kissed tenderly and slowly.

“I want you to know,” Riggs said, “that that wasn't the reason this morning happened. I've had other opportunities over the years. I just never felt like doing anything about them.” He added quietly, “Until you.”

She traced his jaw line with her index finger and then her finger curled up to his lips. “I've had other chances too,” she said. They kissed again and then their bodies instinctively embraced and held tightly like two pieces from a mold, joined at last. They sat and rocked together for several minutes.

When they finally pulled away, Riggs checked the parking lot, refocusing on the present situation.

“Let's get to your house, pack some clothes, and whatever else you need. Then we'll go to my house and I'll do the same. I left the notes I made from my phone calls about you on my desk. I don't want to leave a trail for anyone.”

“There's a motel off twenty-nine about four miles north of here.”

“That's a start.”

“So, what do you think Jackson's going to do now?”

“He knows I lied about you. He has to assume I lied about Donovan. Since I have every reason not to reveal the truth and Donovan is trying his best to do that, Jackson will go after him first and me second. I called Donovan and left a message warning him.”

“Boy, that's real encouraging, being number two on Master Psycho's hit list,” Riggs said, tapping his hand against the gun in his pocket.

A few minutes later they pulled up the private drive to Wicken's Hunt. The house was dark. LuAnn parked in front and she and Riggs got out. LuAnn punched in the home's security code and they went inside.

Riggs sat alertly on the bed while LuAnn stuffed some things in a small travel bag.

“You're sure Lisa and Charlie are okay?”

“As sure as I can be. They're far away from here. And him. That can only be a good thing.”

Riggs went over to the window that overlooked the front drive. What he saw coming up the driveway made his knees buckle for an instant. Then he snatched LuAnn by the hand and they were racing down the stairs and out the rear entrance.

The black sedans stopped in front of the house and the men quickly scrambled out. George Masters laid a hand on the BMW's hood and immediately scanned the area. “It's warm. She's here somewhere. Find her.” The men fanned out and surrounded the house.

LuAnn and Riggs were racing past the horse barn and were headed into the deep woods when LuAnn pulled up.

Riggs stopped too, clutching at his arm, sucking in air. They were both trembling.

“What are you doing?” he gasped.

She motioned toward the horse barn. “You can't run with that arm. And we can't just go floundering around in the woods.”

They entered the horse barn. Joy immediately started to make some noise and LuAnn quickly darted over and soothed the animal. While LuAnn readied their mount, Riggs pulled a pair of binoculars off the wall and went outside. Setting up in some thick bushes that hid the horse barn from the house, Riggs focused the binoculars. He automatically jerked back as he saw, under the floodlights that fully illuminated the entire rear lawn, the man moving across the back of the house, rifle in hand and the letters “FBI” emblazoned across his jacket. The next sight made Riggs mutter under his breath. It was five years since he had seen the man. George Masters hadn't changed much. The next instant the men disappeared from view as they entered the house.

Riggs hustled back to the horse barn where LuAnn was checking the cinches on the saddle. She patted Joy's neck, whispering calming words to the horse as she slid on the bridle.

“You ready?” she asked Riggs.

“Better be. As soon as they find the house empty, they're going to check the grounds. They know we're around somewhere—the car's engine would've still been warm.”

LuAnn planted a wooden crate next to Joy, swung up, and reached out a hand for Riggs. “Step on the crate and hold on tight to me.”

Riggs managed to struggle up in this fashion, clutching his arm as he did so. He planted his good arm around LuAnn's waist.

“I'll go as slow as I can, but it's going to jostle you a lot regardless. Horseback riding does that.”

“Don't worry about me. I'll take a little pain to having to try and explain everything to the FBI.”

As they started off on the trail LuAnn said, “So that's who it was? Your old friends?” Riggs nodded.

“At least one old friend in fact. Used to be a friend anyway. George Masters. He's the one at the Bureau who said I was too valuable in the field, who wouldn't let me enter Witness Protection until my wife was dead.”

“Matthew, it's not worth it. There's no reason you should be running from them, you haven't done anything wrong.”

“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.

“All right, Roberta, I know you've done a ton of good for the community. A real pillar. But I'm not interested in the present. I want to talk about the past, specifically ten years ago.”

“You mentioned that on the phone. The lottery.” She swept a shaky hand through her hair.

“That's right. The source of all this.” He looked around at the opulence.

“I won the lottery ten years ago, that's hardly news now, Mr. Donovan.”

“Call me Tom.”

“I would prefer not.”

“Fine. Roberta, do you know someone named LuAnn Tyler?”

Reynolds thought a moment and then shook her head. “It doesn't seem familiar. Should I know her?”

“Probably not. She won the lottery too, in fact two months after you did.”

“Good for her.”

“She was a lot like you. Poor, not a lot to look forward to. No way out, really.”

She laughed nervously. “You make it sound like I was destitute. I was hardly that.”

“But you weren't exactly rolling in dough, were you? I mean that's why you played the lottery, right?”

“I suppose. It's not like I expected to win.”

“Didn't you, Roberta?”

She looked startled. “What are you talking about?”

“Who manages your investments?”

“That's none of your business.”

“Well, my guess is it's the same person who manages the money of eleven other lottery winners, including LuAnn Tyler.”

“So?”

“Come on, Roberta, talk to me. Something's up. You know all about it and I want to find out all about it. In fact, you knew you were going to win the lottery.”

“You're crazy.” Her voice was trembling badly.

“Am I? I don't think so. I've interviewed lots of liars, Roberta, some very accomplished. You're not one of them.”

Reynolds stood up. “I don't have to listen to this.”

Donovan persisted. “The story's going to come out, Roberta. I'm close to breaking through on a variety of fronts. It's only a matter of time. The question is: Do you want to cooperate and maybe get out of this whole thing relatively unscathed or do you want to go down with everybody?”

“I . . .I . . .”

Donovan continued in a steady voice. “I'm not looking to wipe out your life, Roberta. But if you participated in a conspiracy to fix the lottery, in whatever manner, you're going to take some lumps. But I'll offer you the same deal I offered Tyler. Tell me all you know, I go and write my story and you do whatever you want to do until the story hits. Like disappear. Consider the alternative. It's not nearly as pretty.”

Reynolds sat back down and looked around her home for a moment. She took a deep breath. “What do you want to know?”

Donovan turned on the recorder. “Was the lottery fixed?” She nodded. “I need an audible response, Roberta.” He nodded toward the recorder.

“Yes.”

“How?” Donovan was almost shaking as he waited for the answer.

“Would you mind pouring me a glass of water from that carafe over there?”

Donovan jumped up, poured the water, and set the glass down in front of her. He sat back down.

“How?” he repeated.

“It had to do with chemicals.”

Donovan cocked his head. “Chemicals?”

Reynolds pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped at a sudden cluster of tears in her eyes.

As Donovan watched her, he figured she was near the breaking point. Ironic that the one to call him back would be the nervous Nellie type.

“I'm no scientist, Roberta, give it to me as simply as you can.”

Reynolds gripped the handkerchief tightly. “All but one ball, the one with the winning number, was sprayed with some chemical. And the passageway through which the ball traveled was sprayed with something. I can't explain it exactly, but it made certain that only the one ball that wasn't sprayed with anything went through. It was the same for all the other ball bins.”

“Damn!” Donovan stared at her in amazement. “Okay, Roberta, I got a million questions. Do the other winners know about this? How was it done? And by whom?” He thought back to LuAnn Tyler. She knew, that was for damned sure.

“No. None of the winners knew how it was done. Only the people who did it knew.” She pointed to his tape recorder. “Your recorder's stopped.” She added bitterly, “I'm sure you don't want to miss one word of this.”

Donovan picked up the recorder and studied it as he reflected on her words. “But that's not exactly right, because you knew how the lottery was fixed, Roberta, you just told me. Come on, give me the whole truth.”

The crunching blow to his upper torso sent Donovan over the top of the settee. He landed hard on the oak floor, his breath painfully gone. He could feel shattered ribs floating inside him.

Reynolds hovered over him. “No, the truth is only the person who came up with the whole scheme knew how it was done.” The feminine hair and face came off and Jackson stared down at the injured man.

Donovan tried desperately to get up. “Christ.”

Jackson's foot slammed into his chest, knocking him back against the wall. Jackson stood erect. “Kick-boxing is a particularly deadly art form. You can literally kill someone without using your hands.”

Donovan's hand slipped down to his pocket, fumbling for his gun. His limbs would barely respond, his broken ribs were prodding internal organs they weren't meant to touch. He couldn't seem to catch his breath.

“Really, you're obviously not feeling well. Let me help you.” Jackson knelt down and, using the handkerchief, pulled the gun out of Donovan's pocket. “This actually is perfect. Thank you.”

He kicked Donovan viciously in the head and the reporter's eyes finally closed. Jackson pulled plastic locking binds from his pocket and within a minute had Donovan secured.

He pulled off the rest of the disguise, packed it carefully in his bag pulled from under the couch, and went up the stairs two at a time. He raced down the hallway and opened the bedroom door at the far end.

Bobbie Jo Reynolds lay spread-eagled on the bed, her arms and legs tied to the bedposts, tape over her mouth. She looked wildly up at Jackson, her body twitching in uncontrollable fear.

Jackson sat down next to her. “I want to thank you for following my directions so precisely. You gave the staff the day off and made the appointment with Mr. Donovan just as I requested.” He patted her hand. “I knew that I could count on you, the most faithful of my little flock.” He looked at her with soft, comforting eyes until her trembling subsided. He unloosened her straps and gently removed the tape.

He stood up. “I have to attend to Mr. Donovan downstairs. We'll be gone very soon and won't trouble you anymore. You will stay here until we're gone, do you understand?”

She nodded in a jerky motion, rubbing her wrists.

Jackson stood up, pointed Donovan's gun at her, and squeezed the trigger until the firing pin had no bullets left to ignite.

He watched for a moment as blood spread over the sheets. Jackson shook his head sadly. He did not enjoy killing lambs. But that was how the world worked. Lambs were made for sacrifice. They never put up a fight.

He went back downstairs, pulled out his makeup kit and mirror, and spent the next thirty minutes hovering over Donovan.

When the reporter finally came to his head was splitting; he could feel the internal bleeding but at least he was still alive.

His heart almost stopped when he found himself staring up at . . . Thomas Donovan. The person even had his coat and hat on. Donovan refocused his eyes. His initial impression had been one of staring at his twin. Now he could see subtle differences, things that weren't exactly right. However, the impersonation was still remarkable.

Jackson knelt down. “You look surprised, but I assure you I'm very adept at this. Powders, creams, latex, hairpieces, spirit gum, putty. It really is amazing what one can do, even if it is all an illusion of sorts. Besides, in your case it wasn't all that difficult. I don't mean this in a negative way, but you have quite an ordinary face. I didn't have to do anything special and I've been studying your features for several days now. You did surprise me by shaving off your beard, though. However, instead of beard we have beard stubble courtesy of crepe hair and adhesive.”

He grabbed Donovan under his armpits and lifted him up to the couch and sat down across from him. The groggy journalist listed to one side. Jackson gently propped him up with a pillow.

“It certainly wouldn't pass the closest of scrutiny; however, the result isn't bad for a half hour's work.”

“I need to get to a doctor.” Donovan managed to get the words out through blood-caked lips.

“I'm afraid that's not going to happen. But I will take a couple of minutes to explain some things to you. For what it's worth, I believe that I owe you that. You were quite ingenious in figuring out the bankruptcy angle. That, I admit, had never occurred to me. My main concern was to ensure that none of my winners would want for money. Any shortage of funds might give them motivation to tell all. Fat and happy people rarely double-cross their benefactor. You found the hole in that plan.”

Donovan coughed and, with a sudden motion, managed to sit up straight. “How'd you pick up my trail?”

“I knew LuAnn would tell you basically nothing. What would you do next? Ferret out another source. I phoned all my other winners and alerted them that you might call. Ten of them I instructed to blow you off. I told Bobbie Jo—excuse me, Roberta—to meet with you.”

“Why her?”

“Simple enough. Geographically, she was the closest one to me. As it is, I had to drive through the night to get here and set everything up. That was me in the Mercedes, by the way. I had a description of you. I thought that was you in the car watching the house.”

“Where's Bobbie Jo?”

“Not relevant.” Jackson smiled both in his eagerness to explain and in his triumph and total control over the veteran reporter. “Now, to continue. The substance applied to nine of the ten balls was a clear light acrylic. If you care for precise details, it was a diluted solution of polydimethyl siloxane that I made a few modifications to, a turbocharged version if you will. It builds up a powerful static charge and also increases the size of the ball by approximately one thousandth of an inch without, however, a measurable change in weight or appearance or even smell. They do weigh the balls, you know, to ensure that all are of equal weight. In each bin the ball with the winning number on it had no chemicals applied to it. Each passageway through which the winning ball must travel was given a small trace of the modified polydimethyl siloxane solution as well. Under those precisely controlled conditions, the nine balls with the static charge could not enter a passageway coated with the same substance; indeed, they repelled each other, much like a force field. Thus they could not be part of the winning combination. Only the uncoated ball would be able to do so.”

The awe was clear on Donovan's face, but then his features clouded. “Wait a minute: If the nine balls were coated with the same charge, why wouldn't they be repelling each other in the bin? Wouldn't that make people suspicious?”

“Wonderful question. I thrive on the details. I further modified the chemical so that it would be instantly activated by the heat given off by the air flow into the machines to make the balls gyrate. Until then, the balls would remain motionless.”

Jackson paused, his eyes shining. “Inferior minds seek convoluted scenarios; it takes a brilliant one to achieve simplicity. And I'm sure your background research revealed that all of my winners were poor, desperate, searching for a little hope, a little help. And I gave it to them. To all of you. The lottery loved it. The government looked like saints helping the impoverished like that. You people in the media got to write your teary-eyed stories. Everybody won. Including me.” Donovan half expected the man to take a bow.

“And you did this all by your lonesome?” Donovan sneered.

Jackson's retort was sharp. “I didn't need anyone else, other than my winners. Human beings are infinitely fallible, completely unreliable. Science is not. Science is absolute. Under strict principles, if you do A and B, then C will occur. That rarely happens if you inject the inefficiencies of humanity into the process.”

“How'd you get the access?” Donovan was starting to slur his words as his injuries took their toll.

Jackson's smile broadened. “I was able to gain employment as a technician at the company that provided and maintained the ball machines. I was drastically overqualified for the position, which was one reason I got it. No one really cared about the geeky little techie, it was like I wasn't even there. But I had complete and unrestricted access to the machines. I even bought one of the ball machines so that I could experiment in private as to the right combinations of chemicals. So there I am, mister technician, spraying the balls with what everyone thought was a cleansing solution to get rid of dust and other grime that might have gotten into the bins. And all I had to do was hold the winning ball in my hand while I did so. The solution dries almost immediately. I surreptitiously drop the winning ball back into the bin and I'm all set.”

Jackson laughed. “People really should respect the technicians of the world more, Mr. Donovan. They control everything because they control the machines that control the flow of information. In fact, I use many of them in my work. I didn't need to buy off the leaders. They're useless because they're incompetent showpieces. Give me the worker bees any day.”

Jackson stood up and put on a pair of thick gloves. “I think that covers everything,” he said. “Now, after I finish with you, I'm going to visit LuAnn.”

Damn me for a fool for not listening to you, LuAnn,

Donovan thought to himself.

Through the glove Jackson rubbed his injured hand where the glass had cut him. He had many paybacks planned for LuAnn.

“Piece of advice, A-hole,” Donovan sputtered, “tangle with that woman and she'll cut your balls off.”

“Thank you for your point of view.” Jackson gripped Donovan tightly by the shoulders.

“Why're you keeping me alive, you son of a bitch?” Donovan tried to pull back from him, but was far too weak.

“Actually, I'm not.” Jackson suddenly placed both hands around the sides of Donovan's head and gave it an abrupt twist. The sound of bone cracking was slight but unmistakable. Jackson lifted the dead man up and over his shoulder. Carrying him down to the garage, Jackson opened the front door of the Mercedes and pressed Donovan's fingers against the steering wheel, dash, clock, and several other surfaces that would leave good prints. Finally, Jackson clinched the dead man's hand around the gun he had used to kill Bobbie Jo Reynolds. Wrapping the body in a blanket, Jackson loaded it in the trunk of the Mercedes. He raced back into the house, retrieved his bag and Donovan's recorder, then returned to the garage and climbed behind the wheel of the Mercedes. In a few minutes the car had left the very quiet neighborhood behind. Jackson stopped by the side of the road, rolled down the window, and hurled the gun into the woods before pulling off again. Jackson would wait until nightfall and then a certain local incinerator he had found on an earlier reconnaissance would prove to be Thomas Donovan's final resting place.

As he drove on, Jackson thought briefly of how he would deal with LuAnn Tyler and her new ally, Riggs. Her disloyalty was now firmly established and there would be no more reprieves. He would focus his undivided attention on that matter shortly. But first he had something else to take care of.

Jackson entered Donovan's apartment, closed the door, and took a moment to survey the premises. He was still wearing the dead man's face. Thus, even if he had been spotted, it was of no concern to him. Donovan's body had been incinerated, but Jackson had a limited amount of time to complete his search of the late reporter's apartment. A journalist kept records, and those records were what Jackson had come for. Very soon the housekeeper would discover Bobbie Jo Reynolds's body and would call the police. Their search would very quickly, largely through Jackson's efforts, lead to Thomas Donovan.

He searched the apartment rapidly but methodically and soon found what he was looking for. He stacked the record boxes in the middle of the small foyer. They were the same ones Donovan had kept at the cottage in Charlottesville, filled with the results of his investigation into the lottery. Next he logged on to Donovan's computer and did a search of the hard drive. Thankfully, Donovan had not bothered to employ any passwords. The hard drive was clear. He probably kept everything on disk for portability. He looked at the back of the computer and then behind the desk. No phone modem. Just to be sure, Jackson again checked the icon screen. No computer services like America Online were present. Thus there was no e-mail to search. How old-fashioned of Donovan, he thought. Next he checked a stack of floppies in the desk drawer and piled them all in one of the boxes. He would look at them later.

He was preparing to leave when he noted the phone answering machine in the living room. The red light was blinking. He went over to the phone and hit the playback button. The first three messages were innocuous. The voice on the fourth message made Jackson jerk around and bend his head low to catch every single word.

Alicia Crane sounded nervous and scared. Where were you, Thomas, she implored. You haven't called. What you were working on was too dangerous. Please, please call me, the message said.

Jackson rewound the tape and listened to Alicia's voice again. He hit another button on the machine. Finally, he picked up the boxes and left the apartment.