parts. After years of being in the very center of millions of tense, increasingly aggressive people, he now found being able to feel like you were all alone in the world, for even a few minutes, was more soothing than he could have imagined. He was about to pull the property survey out of his jacket to study in more detail the dimensions of the property line when all thoughts of work amid the peaceful countryside abruptly disappeared from his mind.
He jerked his head around and whipped the binoculars up to his eyes to focus on what had suddenly destroyed the morning’s calm. He quickly located the origin of the explosion of sound. Through the trees he spied two cars hurtling down from the road where the country estate was situated, their respective engines at full throttle. The car in front was a big BMW sedan. The car behind it was a smaller vehicle. What the smaller car lacked in muscle power to the big Bimmer, it more than made up for in agility around the winding road. At the speeds the two were doing, Riggs thought it most likely they would both end up either wrapped around a tree or upside down in one of the steep ditches that bordered either side of the road.
The next two visuals he made through his binoculars made him turn and run as fast as he could back to his truck.
The look of raw fear on the woman’s face in the Bimmer, the way she looked behind to check her pursuer’s progress, and the grim countenance of the man apparently chasing her were all he needed to kick-start every instinct he had ever gained from his former life.
He gunned the engine, unsure exactly what his plan of action would be, not that he had much time to come up with one. He pulled onto the road, strapping his seat belt across him as he did so. He normally carried a shotgun in the truck to ward off snakes, but he had forgotten it this morning. He had some shovels and a crowbar in the truck bed, although he hoped it wasn’t going to come to that.
As he flew down the road, the two cars appeared in front of him on the main road. The Bimmer took the turn almost on two wheels before stabilizing, the other car right behind it. However, now on the straightaway, the three hundred plus horses of the BMW could be fully used, and the woman quickly opened a two-hundred-yard gap between herself and her pursuer, a gap that grew with every second. That wouldn’t last, Riggs knew, because a curve that would qualify for deadman’s status was fast approaching. He hoped to God the woman knew it; if she didn’t he would be watching the BMW turn into a fireball as it sailed off the road and crashed into an army of unyielding hardwoods. With that prospect nearly upon them, his plan finally came together. He punched the gas, the truck flew forward, and he gained on what he now saw was a black Honda. The man apparently had all of his attention focused on the BMW, because when Riggs passed him on the left, the man didn’t even look over. However, he took abrupt and angry notice when Riggs cut in front of him and immediately slowed down to twenty miles an hour. Up ahead, Riggs saw the woman glance back in her rearview mirror, her eyes riveted on Riggs and his fortuitous appearance on the scene as the truck and Honda fought a pitched battle for supremacy of the road. Riggs tried to motion to her to slow down, to make her understand what he was trying to do. Whether she got the message or not, he couldn’t tell. Like the coils of a sidewinder, the truck and the Honda swayed back and forth across the narrow roadway, coming dangerously close to the sheer drop on the right side. Once, the truck’s wheel partially skidded in the gravel shoulder and Riggs braced himself for the plunge over, before he barely managed to regain control. The driver of the Honda tried mightily to pass, leaning on the horn the whole time. But in his past career Riggs had done his share of dangerous, high-speed driving and he expertly matched the other man maneuver for maneuver. A minute later they rounded the almost V-shaped curve, a wall of sheer jutting rock on his left and an almost vertical drop to the right. Riggs anxiously looked down that steep slope for any sight of the Bimmer’s wreckage. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw none. He looked up the once again straight road. He saw the glint of a bumper far up ahead and then the big sedan was completely out of sight. Admiration was his first thought. The woman hadn’t slowed down much, if any, coming around that curve. Even at twenty miles an hour Riggs hadn’t felt all that safe. Damn.
Riggs reached across to his glove box and pulled out his portable phone. He was just about to punch in 911 when the Honda now took the very aggressive tack of ramming his truck from behind. The phone flew out of his hand and smashed into several pieces against the dashboard. Riggs cursed, shook off the impact, clenched the wheel hard, shifted into low gear, and slowed down even more as the Honda repeatedly smashed into him. What he was hoping would happen eventually did, as the Honda’s front bumper and the truck’s heavy-duty rear one locked together. He could hear the gears grinding in the Honda as the driver tried to extricate his vehicle without success. Riggs peered into the rearview mirror and he saw the man’s hand slide over to his glove compartment. Riggs wasn’t going to wait around to see whether a weapon emerged from it or not. He jerked the truck to a stop, slammed the gear in reverse, and the two vehicles roared backward down the road. He watched with satisfaction as the man in the Honda jerked back upright and gripped the steering wheel in a panic. Riggs slowed as he came to the curve, cleared it and then shot forward again. As he came to a straightaway, he cut the wheel sharply to the left and slammed the Honda into the rocky side of the road. The force of that collision uncoupled the two vehicles. The driver appeared unhurt. Riggs slammed the truck into drive and quickly disappeared down the road in pursuit of the BMW. He continually looked back for several minutes but there was no sign of the Honda. Either it had been disabled upon impact, or the driver had decided not to pursue his reckless actions further.
The adrenaline continued to course through Riggs’s body for several minutes until it finally dissipated. Five years removed from the dangers of his former profession, Riggs was aware that this morning’s five-minute episode had reminded him vividly of how many close calls he had survived. He had neither expected nor ever wanted to rekindle that anxious feeling in the sleepy morning mists of central Virginia.
His damaged bumper clanking loudly, Riggs finally slowed down, as further pursuit of the BMW was hopeless. There were innumerable roads off the main track and the woman could have taken any one of them and be long gone by now. Riggs pulled off the road and stopped, plucked a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote the license plate numbers of the Honda and BMW down on the pad of paper he kept affixed to his dashboard. He ripped the paper off the pad and tucked it in his pocket. He had a pretty good idea who was in the Bimmer. Someone who lived in the big house. The same big house he had been hired to surround with a state-of-the-art security fence. Now the owner’s request started to make a whole lot more sense to Riggs. And the question he was most interested in now was why? He drove off, deep in thought, the morning’s peacefulness irretrievably shattered by the look of sheer terror on a woman’s face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The BMW had indeed pulled off on a side road several miles away from where Riggs and the Honda had tangled. The driver’s side door was open, the motor running. Arms clutched tightly around her sides, LuAnn walked in tight, frenetic circles in the middle of the road, shooting frosty breaths skyward in her agitation. Anger, confusion, and frustration raced across her features. All traces of fear were gone, however. The present emotions were actually far more damaging to her. Fear almost always passed; these other mental battering rams did not retreat so easily. She had learned this over the years, and had even managed to cope with it as best as she could.
Now thirty years old, LuAnn Tyler still carried the impulsive energy and sleek animal movements of her youth. The years had grafted onto her a more complete, mature beauty. However, the basic elements of that beauty had been discernibly altered. Her body was leaner, the waist even tighter. The effect was to make her appear even taller than she already was. Her hair had grown out and now was far more blond than auburn, and cut in a sophisticated manner that highlighted her more defined facial features, including the minor
nose job done for disguise rather than aesthetics. Her teeth were now perfect, having benefitted from years of expensive dentistry. There was, however, one imperfection.
She had not followed Jackson’s advice regarding the knife wound to her jaw. She had had it stitched, but let the scar remain. It wasn’t all that noticeable, but every time she looked in the mirror, it was a stark reminder of where she had come from, how she had gotten here. It was her most visible tie to the past, and not a pleasant one. That was the reason she would not cover it over with surgery. She wanted to be reminded of the unpleasantness, of the pain.
People she had grown up with would probably have recognized her; however, she never planned to see anyone like that here. She had resigned herself to wearing a big hat and sunglasses whenever she ventured out into public, which wasn’t very often. A lifetime of hiding from the world: that had come with her deal.
She went and sat back down on the front seat of the BMW, rubbing her hands back and forth across the padded steering wheel. She continually looked back down the road for any sign of her pursuer; however, the only sounds were her car’s engine and her own uneven breathing. Huddled in her leather jacket, she hitched up her jeans, swung her long legs inside the car, and closed the door and locked it.
She took off and for a few moments as she drove her thoughts centered on the man in the truck. He had obviously helped her. Was he just a good Samaritan who had happened along at the right time? Or was he something else, something more complex than that? She had lived with this paranoia for so long now that it was like an exterior coating of paint. All observations had to pass through its screening first, all conclusions were based in some way upon how she perceived the motivation of anyone colliding unexpectedly with her universe. It all came down to one grim fact: fear of discovery. She took one long, deep breath and wondered for the hundredth time if she had made a grievous mistake by returning to the United States.
Riggs drove his battered truck up the private road. He had kept a close eye out for the Honda on his return down the road, but the car and driver had not reappeared. Going up to the house, he figured, was the quickest way to find a telephone, and perhaps also seek an explanation of sorts for this morning’s events. Not that he deserved one, but his intervention had helped the woman and he felt that was worth something. In any event, he couldn’t exactly let it rest now. He was surprised that no one stopped him on the drive up. There was no private security, apparently. He had met with the owner’s representative in town; this was his first visit to the estate, which had been christened Wicken’s Hunt long ago. The home was one of the most beautiful in the area. It had been constructed in the early 1920s with craftsmanship that was simply nonexistent today. The Wall Street magnate who had had it built as a summer retreat had jumped off a New York skyscraper during the stock market crash of ’29. The home had passed through several hands, and had been on the market six years before being sold to the current owner. The place had required substantial renovation. Riggs had talked to some of the subcontractors employed to do that work. They had spoken with awe of the craftsmanship and beauty of the place.
Whatever moving trucks had hauled the owner’s possessions up the mountain road had apparently done so in the middle of the night, because Riggs could find no one who had seen them. No one had seen the owner, either. He had checked at the courthouse land records. The home was owned by a corporation that Riggs had never heard of. The usual channels of gossip had not yielded an answer to the mystery, although St. Anne’s-Belfield School had admitted a ten-year-old girl named Lisa Savage who had given Wicken’s Hunt as her home address. Riggs had heard that a tall young woman would occasionally drop off and pick up the child; although she had always worn sunglasses and a large hat. Most often picking up the little girl would be an elderly man who had been described to Riggs as built like a linebacker. A strange household. Riggs had several friends who worked at the school but none of them would talk about the young woman. If they knew her name, they wouldn’t say what it was.
When Riggs rounded a curve, the mansion suddenly appeared directly in front of him. His truck resembled a plain, squat tug bearing down on the QEII. The mansion stood three stories tall, with a double doorway spanning at least twenty feet.
He parked his truck in the wraparound drive that encircled a magnificent stone fountain that, on this cold morning, was not operating. The landscaping was as lush and as carefully planned as the house; and where annuals and even late-blooming perennials had died out, evergreens and other hardy foliage of all descriptions filled in the spaces.
He slid out of his seat, making sure he had the piece of paper with the license plate numbers still in his pocket. As he walked up to the front door, he wondered if a place like this would condescend to have a doorbell; or would a butler automatically open the door at his approach? Actually, neither happened, but as he cleared the top step, a voice did speak to him from a brand new–looking intercom built into the side of the wall next to the door.
“Can I help you?” It was a man’s voice, big, solid, and, Riggs thought, slightly threatening.
“Matthew Riggs. My company was hired to build the privacy fence on the property’s perimeter.”
“Okay.”
The door didn’t budge, and the tone of the voice made clear that unless Riggs had more information to impart, this status was not going to change. He looked around, suddenly conscious that he was being observed. Sure enough, above his head, recessed within the back of one of the columns, was a video camera. That looked new as well. He waved.
“Can I help you?” the voice said again.
“I’d like to use a telephone.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not possible.”
“Well, I’d say it should be possible since I just crashed my truck into a car that was chasing a big charcoal gray BMW that I’m pretty sure came from this house. I just wanted to make sure that the woman driving the car was okay. She looked pretty scared the last time I saw her.”
The next sound Riggs heard was the front door being unbolted and thrown open. The elderly man facing him matched the six foot one Riggs in height, but was far broader across the shoulders and chest. However, Riggs noted that the man moved with a slight limp as though the legs and, perhaps, the knees in particular were beginning to go. The possessor of a very strong, athletic body himself, Riggs decided he would not want to have to take this guy on. Despite his advancing age and obvious infirmities, the man looked strong enough to break Riggs’s back with ease. This was obviously the guy seen at the school picking up Lisa Savage. The doting linebacker.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Riggs pointed toward the road. “About ten minutes ago, I was out doing a preliminary survey of the property line in advance of ordering up men and equipment when this BMW comes bolting down the road, a woman driving, blond from what I could see, and scared to death. Another car, a black Honda Accord, probably a 1992 or ’93 model, right on her butt. A guy was driving that one and he looked determined as hell.”
“The woman, is she all right?” The elderly man edged forward perceptibly. Riggs backed up a notch, unwilling to let the guy get too close until he had a better understanding of the situation. For all he knew, this guy could be in cahoots with the man in the Honda. Riggs’s internal radar was all over the place on this one.
“As far as I know. I got in between them and took the Honda out, banged the crap out of my truck in the process.” Riggs briefly rubbed his neck as the recollection of his collision brought several distinct painful twinges to that location. He would have to soak in the tub tonight.
“We’ll take care of the truck. Where’s the woman?”
“I didn’t come up here to complain about the truck, mister—”
“Charlie, call me Charlie.” The man extended his hand, which Riggs shook. He had not underestimated the strength the old guy possessed. As he took his hand back Riggs observed the indentations in his fingers caused by the other man’s vise-li
ke grip. Whether he was merely anxious about the safety of the woman, or he mangled visitors’ fingers on a routine basis, Riggs didn’t know.
“I go by Matt. Like I said, she got away, and as far as I know, she’s fine. But I still wanted to call it in.”
“Call it in?”
“The police. The guy in the Honda was breaking at least several laws that I know of, including a couple of felonies. Too bad I didn’t get to read him his rights.”
“You sound like a cop.”
Had Charlie’s face darkened, or was that his imagination, Riggs wondered.
“Something like that. A long while back. I got the license plate number of both cars.” He looked at Charlie, studying the battered and grizzled face, trying to get beyond the stolid stare he was getting in return. “I’m assuming the BMW belongs to this house, and the woman.”
Charlie hesitated for a moment and then nodded. “She’s the owner.”
“And the Honda?”
“Never seen it before.”
Riggs turned and looked back down the road. “The guy could’ve been waiting partially down the entry road. There’s nothing stopping him from doing that.” Riggs turned and looked back at Charlie.
“That’s why we contracted with you to build the fence and gate.” A glint of anger rose in Charlie’s eyes.
“Now I can see why that might be a good idea, but I only got the signed contract yesterday. I work fast, but not that fast.”
Charlie relaxed at the obvious logic of Riggs’s words and looked down for a moment.
“What about using that phone, Charlie?” Riggs took a step forward. “Look, I know a kidnap attempt when I see one.” He looked up at the facade of the house. “It’s not hard to see why either, is it?”
Charlie took a deep breath, his loyalties sharply divided. He was sick with worry about LuAnn — Catherine, he corrected himself mentally; despite the passage of ten years, he had never been comfortable with her new name. He was finding it close to impossible to allow the police to be called in.
“I take it you’re her friend or family—”
“Both actually,” Charlie said with renewed vigor as he stared over Riggs’s shoulder, a smile breaking across his face.
The reason for that change in attitude reached Riggs’s ears a second later. He turned and watched the BMW pull up behind his truck.
LuAnn got out of the car, glanced at the truck for a moment, until her eyes riveted on the damaged bumper; then she strode up the steps, passing over Riggs to focus on Charlie.
“This guy said you ran into some trouble,” said Charlie, pointing at Riggs.
“Matt Riggs.” Riggs extended his hand. In her boots, the woman wasn’t much shorter than he. The impression of exceptional beauty he had gotten through his binoculars was considerably magnified up close. The hair was long and full, with golden highlights that seemed to catch every streak of the sun’s rays as it slowly rose over them. The face and complexion were flawless to the point of seeming impossible to achieve naturally, yet the woman was young so the cut of the plastic surgeon’s knife could not have beckoned to her yet. Riggs reasoned the beauty must be all her own. Then he spotted the scar that ran along her jawline. That surprised him, it