“As you can imagine, Sheriff Hollyfield, this is not good since many of his patients are very famous and very powerful. And since he’s in Washington, we’re talking lots of politicians, some corporate bigwigs.”
Sherlock said, “Dr. MacLean has a huge reputation, he’s known for his bone-deep discretion before this disease struck him.”
Sheriff Hollyfield said, frowning at a dustpan propped against the wall in the corner of the cafeteria, “Thank you for filling in the blanks. That makes it all very straightforward. Someone decided to take him out to protect himself.”
Savich nodded. “Depending on what Dr. MacLean divulged, and to whom, it could ruin patients’ reputations and careers, even send them to prison.
“One person we know for certain Dr. MacLean talked to was, as I already told you, his longtime tennis partner, Arthur Dolan, who died two Fridays ago, after driving off the road and over a cliff near Morristown, New Jersey. The case is still open, but the local cops are leaning toward an accident. The FBI began questioning MacLean’s family and friends. He did indeed speak to several friends, revealed juicy tidbits. However, he didn’t give out any patient names to those particular people.”
Sherlock said, “But still, whoever is behind this was worried Arthur Dolan would spill out names sooner or later, so he or she killed him.”
“A preemptive strike,” said the sheriff, “and that bespeaks a powerful motive, doesn’t it?”
“I’d say so,” said Savich.
The sheriff said, “Did Dr. MacLean remember enough of what he’d said to his tennis partner to be frightened?”
Savich said, “No, but Dr. MacLean’s wife Molly doesn’t believe for a minute it was an accident. She knew, you see, what Timothy was doing, and was frantic. She called his family, in Lexington, told them what was going on. Then someone tried to run him down in Washington, near their house. They flew him back to Lexington, then traveled to Durham to get him diagnosed by a physician at Duke University. After an attempt on his life in Lexington, Mrs. MacLean called Jack to ask for help. The FBI cleared it, and Jack flew out to get him. Then this happened.”
Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Is Dr. MacLean now on any medication? Something to control the symptoms?”
Sherlock said, “Unfortunately, there isn’t any treatment for this disease. It will continue to progress until he dies.”
Sheriff Hollyfield’s beeper went off. He looked down at the number, excused himself, and went off to find a hospital phone to use.
He was back in five minutes. “That was Jack. He said Rachael is threatening to go down to Roy Bob’s and steal one of his cars. He said he’s not really feeling up to chasing her down and tying her to a chair so he wants you guys to come back and talk her into telling us the truth.”
Sheriff Hollyfield looked from one face to the other. “I don’t think you guys are going to sleep for a good while yet. Let’s go back to Parlow and have Rachael tell us why someone walked into Roy Bob’s garage and tried to shoot her.” He paused for a moment. “Why wouldn’t she want to level with you? I mean, she’s Jack’s girlfriend, isn’t she?” TWELVE
Jack said to Sherlock as she walked into the sheriff’s office, Savich and the sheriff following her, “I think she wants to hotwire a car. I’ve threatened to lock her in a cell, but I really don’t want to since she saved my neck. I need reinforcements.”
Savich said, “If she hotwires a car, that’d be okay, then we could arrest her.”
Sheriff Hollyfield took the chair behind his desk, motioned for them to sit down. He looked at each of them, shaking his head. “I never knew the feds could be so much fun.”
Rachael was wringing her hands. She noticed it and wanted to kick herself. How had she fallen so low so quickly? She looked at the expectant faces surrounding her. “I don’t know how to hotwire a car,” she said.
Sheriff Hollyfield said, “I’m the sheriff of Parlow, Ms. Abercrombie. I would like you to tell me why this yahoo who is currently residing in the Franklin County Hospital tried to kill you.”
Rachael knew anyone in this office could run her license plate, find out who she was in a flash. What with the shooting, she had no doubt that now they’d do it if she didn’t level with them. Well, obviously Quincy and Laurel already knew she was alive, since they’d already tried to kill her again.
She supposed if she had to trust someone, it might as well be three FBI agents and a sheriff.
She nodded slowly, looking at each of them. “There’s no reason to keep my mouth shut now. I don’t know what you can do, but maybe you can help me. If there are FBI leaks, well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? They know I’m not dead. I’m sort of like Dr. MacLean, I guess you could say. The people after me aren’t about to stop until I am.”
“Well then, Rachael Whatever Your Name Is, tell us everything,” Jack said.
“Last Friday night when I got home I found a bottle of red wine on the kitchen table. To be honest here, I was depressed, tired, and I think I would have downed the whole bottle if I hadn’t had a roaring headache. Lucky for me I only had one drink, because the wine was drugged.
“The effects of the drug were wearing off while they were carrying me out on a dock. There were two of them, one carrying me under my arms, the other, my feet. They hadn’t tied my wrists together, simply tied my arms down to my sides. But they had tied my ankles together. I guess right before they threw me into the lake, they must have attached the rope to a block of concrete, though I don’t remember that specifically.
“They threw me into the water as far as they could. When the block hit, it dragged me down to the bottom.” Her voice started shaking, her whole body was shaking. “I’m sorry.”
Sherlock stuck a cup of water in her hand. “Drink, take deep breaths.”
Rachael drank. “I’m okay, sorry. I had the brains to keep quiet so they didn’t realize I’d woken up. I sucked in a lot of air before going under, instinct, I guess. I didn’t want to die. They obviously didn’t know I’d been a big-time swimmer in college, and I had great breath control. I managed to get my arms free, then get my ankles untied and swim to the surface.”
She heard Jack curse and looked at him. She didn’t think she’d ever seen naked rage before, but now she did and she recognized it for what it was. It warmed her, gave her balance.
Savich said matter-of-factly, “You’re quite amazing, Rachael, I hope you realize that. You didn’t panic and drown. No, you got yourself free. You survived.”
“I was terrified, truth be told, but I didn’t want to die. I made it back up, yes, managed to clear the surface because I knew they’d still be standing on the dock, looking down for any sign that I was still alive, you know, bubbles. I swam underwater to the pilings and hid there. I heard them talking, but I couldn’t tell you if they were male, female, or both. I heard them leave. I saw the taillights drive off into the distance. I walked to a little diner in Oranack, Maryland, and from there got a taxi home.
“I got out of there as fast as I could. I drove only at night, took two and a half days to get here because ... Well, truth is I was scared. I wanted to get lost on the back roads. I wanted to know in my gut that it was over, that they believed me dead and weren’t like some bogeyman ready to jump out and kill me.
“I was wrong. They found out—how, I don’t know.”
Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “Someone saw you. Did you see anybody at all when you arrived back at your house, or when you left?”
Rachael shook her head. “No, but I was focused on packing my stuff and getting out of there. You’re right, Sherlock, that makes more sense than diving into the lake to see if the block and I were still together. Whatever happened, they found out I was still breathing and figured out where I was heading. They moved very fast.”
She paused, looked at each of them now. “Do you believe me?”
“Oh yes,” Sherlock said, “oh yes.”
Savich said, “Would there be anyone who would report you missing?”
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Rachael shook her head. “The man who tried to kill me in Roy Bob’s garage, do you know who he is yet?”
Sherlock pulled a small notebook out of her jacket pocket, glanced at it and said, “Our shooter’s name is Roderick Lloyd, thirty-nine years old, a supposed freelance journalist—har har—not married, lives in an apartment in Falls Church. He started his bad ways early—juvenile record for ag assaults, multiple car thefts, robbing a convenience store, you get the idea. His mother cut him loose at sixteen. She remarried and moved to Oregon, smart woman.
“It was the attempted murder of a DEA agent during a drug bust that finally nailed him. He spent a measly eight years in our fine facility outside Detroit—not enough, but the prosecutors cut him a deal, netted two bigger drug dealers.
“Mr. Maitland is getting a warrant as we speak and our people will go over his apartment with tweezers. Dillon has MAX checking on possible employers, property tax records, offshore accounts, whatever.
“The staff at Franklin County Hospital said when he came out of recovery, all he did was moan and demand a lawyer. So that was it.
“He’ll leave the hospital in two or three days—and be accompanied by our people back to Washington. His photo should be coming through your fax, Sheriff, any minute.”
Sheriff Hollyfield nodded. “Good work. For what it’s worth, I checked on Roy Bob because of his gambling issues. Nothing there. Dr. Post stitched up his arm. He’s okay.”
Rachael said, “This man, Roderick Lloyd, I have no idea who he is. I don’t know his name, I never saw him before in my life. For heaven’s sake, sit down before you fall over, Jack. You should have stayed in bed, you idiot.”
“Me? An idiot?”
“Yes, you. Your head’s beginning to hammer again, I can tell. You need another pain pill.” Jack wasn’t overly surprised when Sherlock tapped his arm and handed him a cup of water, but he didn’t want any more pain meds. They fuzzed his brain.
“Pay attention, Jack,” Rachael said. “Pain isn’t good for the healing process, so quit being so macho.”
“That’s right, Jack,” Sherlock said, “down the hatch.”
He kept his eyes on Rachael as he swallowed the pill. “You didn’t want to tell us anything because you were so afraid this man, woman, whatever, would hear about your being alive and come after you again? Well, you kept quiet and they still found you. I agree with Sherlock. It makes more sense that someone saw you; probably one of your would-be killers was at your house or arrived as you were leaving.”
“Or,” Savich said, “there was something they wanted to get from the house, saw you, and probably freaked.”
“Really, I didn’t see anyone when I drove back to my house, not a soul. And I was in and out so fast.”
Sheriff Hollyfield said, “They knew you were headed this way. You said you weren’t from around here. Where do you live?”
“I lied. I did grow up here—well, not right in town. They must have known about Parlow, Kentucky. But this wasn’t my final destination. I was going to hide out in Slipper Hollow until I figured out how I could get them.”
Sheriff Hollyfield sat back, crossed his arms over his chest. “Well now, even the folks who live here don’t know much of anything about Slipper Hollow. I don’t even know where it is exactly. I never had a call to go there.”
“Slipper Hollow?” Savich’s eyebrow went up.
“It’s where I grew up. It’s hidden, only my uncle Gillette lives there. I’d be safe there, with him, figure out what to do.”
Jack perked up. “You want revenge, do you?”
“Oh yes. I want to nail them. I just have to figure out how. Now it’s a different ball game again.”
Savich said, “You keep referring to them. You know who tried to kill you?”
“Oh yes.”
“Who?”
Rachael drew in a big breath, ready to shake her head. Then she grinned. “No more secrets on my part. I think it’s the Abbotts.”
“Abbotts?” Jack repeated, eyebrow up in question.
Sherlock said, “Are you referring to Senator John James Abbott of Maryland? Are you referring to the Abbott family?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you, Rachael?” Jack asked, sitting forward in his chair.
“Well, the fact is, I’m a bastard.”
They heard Mort the dispatcher hiccup a laugh from just outside the sheriff’s door. Sheriff Hollyfield frowned toward the door, but didn’t say anything.
Sherlock said, “And who is John James Abbott to you?”
“He’s my father.”
After a moment of stunned silence, Jack said, “I, for one, am glad it’s not some Mafia don, that’s just too clichéd. Or a wild-eyed terrorist, a jihad wouldn’t make anybody’s day. That would have made me wonder why Timothy and I couldn’t have been saved by a local soccer mom. You’re a senior senator’s bastard daughter?”
“Yep, that’s me. I didn’t know anything about my dad or who he was until about two months ago, when my mother finally told me.”
Savich said, “And you’re saying Senator Abbott’s family is trying to kill you?” THIRTEEN
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Whoa,” Sherlock said. “Let’s back up a minute. Where’s your mom?”
“She lives in Richmond with her husband and my half brother, Ben. Like I said, my uncle Gillette’s the only one who lives in Slipper Hollow now. Actually, I was raised there, with Parlow the closest town, until I was twelve and my mom and I moved to Richmond.”
Jack said, “Rachael, you’re almost thirty years old! Why did your mom wait so long to tell you John James Abbott was your father? You said she only told you two months ago?”
“She said she wanted to wait until his father died—that’s Carter Blaine Abbott—which he did finally, four months ago.”
“The Carter Blaine Abbott?” Sheriff Hollyfield said, his jaw dropping. “That’s right, I forgot Senator Abbott was his son.”
Savich said slowly, never looking away from Rachael’s face, “The old man was a legend. Word was he had ropes of power around the throats of many world leaders, both in business and in government. I think the president heaved a sigh of relief when the old robber baron finally died.”
Sherlock nodded. “I read he ruled his family like he ruled his empire—you got out of line, he crushed you.”
“He didn’t crush Jimmy—my father.”
“No, he didn’t, did he? I wonder why?”
“Jimmy said his father actually came to believe his eldest son would make a fine president, but only if dear old dad—Carter Blaine Abbott—was still alive to tell him how to run things. Jimmy said that was the only time he could remember his father ever changing his mind about anything.”
“Damn, Rachael,” Jack said, “my hair’s standing on end. You’re really related to these people? Their blood runs in your veins?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Rachael said.
Sherlock said, “You said your mother wanted to wait to tell you until after the old man died. Why?”
“She told me she hated to admit it, but she was still afraid of the old bastard. She said that even though she knew intellectually all that was left of him was a moldering carcass, she would swear she could still sense him—a malevolence that gave her nightmares.”
“Tell us what happened,” Savich said.
Rachael stared at the big tough federal agent who looked like he ate nails for breakfast. All his attention was focused on her, and it was formidable. Then he leaned over, patted her hand. “Stop worrying. Everything will be all right.” It broke her. She leaned against the wall, looked at each of them in turn, pausing a moment longer on Jack’s face. He looked too pale, she thought. She said, “Needless to say, my mom was afraid of Carter Blaine Abbott. When he found out his eldest son—his ticket to immortality—was dating my mother, a small-town girl with no pedigree, no money, a backwoods hick, in his mind, he wasn’t happy. He was big into b
loodlines.”
“What was your father doing here anyway?” Sherlock asked.
“My mom told me the local mill owner’s son was one of Jimmy’s good friends. That’s when there was a mill here. Mr. Abbott swooped into town and took them both off to vacation in Spain. As you would expect, the mill owner’s family didn’t object to that.”
Jack nodded. “All right. So your mom was pregnant. She never told your father?”
“No, she didn’t tell anyone. Well, she had to tell Uncle Gillette, her brother. By this time, her folks, my grandparents, were both dead. She told me she was bitter, for a very long time, bitter and very angry. And scared. She was shocked when she got a letter from Carter Blaine Abbott some five months later, telling her he’d heard she was pregnant and there was no way he was going to let her blame it on his son, no way he was going to let her drag his family into it. If he ever heard a word out of her, if she ever tried to contact his son, he’d see that both she and her brat were taken care of. What did he mean by that?” Rachael shrugged. “Mom was sure he meant he would kill her and her baby. He enclosed a check for five thousand dollars.” Rachael added, “Mom tore the check up, gave birth to me, and, as it turned out, I didn’t look like either of them until I was a teenager. By the time I was eighteen, though, I was the spitting image of Senator John James Abbott, although no one ever seemed to notice the resemblance. I guess you wouldn’t, if you didn’t know the history. But I think that until two months after old man Abbott died, she was still afraid of him.
“So Jimmy never knew about me until I showed up on his office doorstep at the Capitol, a couple of weeks after my mom finally told me about him.
“I’ll tell you, at first I didn’t want to go. I guess I was angry at him, too, even though Mom swore he never knew about me. I remember way back when I was maybe five or so, I asked her about my father, if he died, if he ran out on us. She wouldn’t tell me anything, but I saw her crying in her room, and so I never brought it up again.
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