entitled—above the laws made here for everyone else in the country to obey? Is that what had happened to Harlan, strong-arming Cameron Vaughn to cancel that hearing looking into Asher Investments now that Ian was dead?
What I couldn’t figure out was why Harlan was playing such a high-stakes game of chicken. Did he know something the police hadn’t yet figured out about Rebecca’s disappearance and Ian’s so-called accidental drowning? Was he covering up for his blood brother Tommy Asher—or himself?
I reached the Mini as a police officer strolling down A Street tucked parking tickets behind the windshield wipers of cars whose owners had violated the two-hour limit for nonresident parking. I pulled out of my space when he was still half a block away, aware that I’d been there more than two hours. I wondered if he’d chalked my tires.
He looked up as I drove away.
It took forty-five minutes to drive the twenty-odd blocks down Constitution Avenue and across the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge. The second-worst traffic in the country after L.A. Somewhere I’d read how many days per year Washingtonians wasted sitting in their cars in traffic. Days, not hours. A radio traffic reporter rattled off the daily litany of pileups and jammed roadways clogged with what he called “volume.” It would be a long trip home.
Just after seven o’clock I exited onto Route 15 in Leesburg, the traffic now settling into the thinned-out remnants of rush hour. At Gilbert’s Corner I put on my headlights as I turned west onto Mosby’s Highway, the home stretch. Another car turned off 15 and pulled up behind me. He was still there, too close for comfort, when I slowed for the twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit through the village of Aldie. At the Snickersville Turnpike, I sped up. The other car did, too. On this winding two-lane road, with a solid yellow line painted down the middle, I was stuck with him until we reached a stretch that allowed passing.
But even when the road opened up and I dropped below the speed limit hoping he’d take the hint and pass me, he didn’t budge. From what I could see in the rearview mirror, the other car was big and dark, like a Navigator or a Suburban. Maybe it was only kids clowning around or someone on a cell phone who wasn’t paying attention.
We were back to the no-passing zone so I sped up. The speed limit was fifty, but I pushed it to sixty, then sixty-five. He was like a shadow, right there behind me, just the two of us with no other cars on the road. My heart began rabbiting in my chest. This couldn’t be whoever had followed Ian, could it?
Mosby’s Highway was a dark ribbon of twists and turns the rest of the way to Middleburg, and that was five more miles on what was now a deserted country lane. Except for the occasional light from a farmhouse window and the wash of moonlight on treetops or the crest of a hill, the only other light came from his headlights. I checked my rearview mirror at the exact moment he flashed his brights. It was like looking into the flash of a camera or directly at the sun. I swerved. These were not kids fooling around.
Thank God I knew every hill and bend in this road. With any luck, whoever was following me wasn’t a local. I pushed the Mini to seventy and sped away from the big car. Seconds later he gunned his engine and caught up with me again. Now I’d provoked him. If he wanted to, he could sideswipe me, send me into the ditch, and drive on.
It looked like that was exactly what he had in mind. His headlights disappeared from my rearview mirror as he shifted left into the lane for oncoming traffic. As he did so, a deer leaped over a low stone wall on his side of the road. For a second the animal stopped on the shoulder, like a lawn ornament frozen in the glare of our headlights. The other car’s brakes screeched and the deer darted across Mosby’s Highway, disappearing into the brush. Where there’s one deer, there are usually two or even three. The second one emerged almost immediately from a pine grove beyond the wall. It was a buck with six, maybe eight points. I swerved once again, this time onto the right shoulder as the other car hit the deer head-on. I heard a crack, followed by a loud thump and breaking glass. Probably his windshield. I slalomed back onto the road and prayed there would be no third animal. When I finally dared to look in the mirror, his headlights were receding in the distance. The buck lay sprawled across his hood, and neither the car nor the animal was going anywhere.
I sped through Middleburg even though I knew the driver could no longer be following me, running the lone traffic light at the intersection of Washington and Madison. Businesses were shuttered for the night and the streets were dark and quiet. For the rest of the trip home, I had the road to myself. This time I’d been lucky. What about next time, or the one after that?
When I finally reached the entrance to the winery and turned onto Sycamore Lane, our private drive, I was thinking more clearly. What if he hadn’t been the only one pursuing me? What if a companion was waiting here, at my house? At the split by the trunk of the two-hundred-year-old sycamore tree that gave the road its name, I went left instead of right, turning into the cul-de-sac where Quinn’s and Antonio’s cottages were located. Even though it was only eight o’clock on a Wednesday night, Quinn’s place was dark. But lights burned from every one of Antonio’s windows.
I parked in his small gravel driveway and banged on the front door. When he finally opened it, his jet-black hair was wet like he’d just showered. He was barefoot and wearing an undershirt and faded jeans. The planes of his face were in shadow, backlit by the cheery lamplight inside, but I could see the alarm in his eyes when he realized who I was.
“Lucie! What are you doing here? You okay? Everything okay in the winery? What is it?”
Antonio was only the third farm manager to work at the vineyard since my parents founded the place, but he reminded me of Hector Cruz, who’d managed the crew and taken care of the equipment for most of the last twenty years. Antonio was a young double for Hector with his strong good looks and even-tempered personality. I’d hired him the day we met. The men liked and respected him; he had good instincts with the vines; and what he didn’t know about fixing broken equipment wasn’t worth knowing. It hadn’t taken long before he became as indispensable in the field as Frankie was in the winery.
“Are you okay?” he asked again. “Something’s wrong?”
“Someone was following me on Mosby’s Highway. They started back on Fifteen when I got off the Toll Road,” I said. “I lost whoever it was when he hit a deer. I’m sorry, Antonio … I feel stupid bothering you.”
“Don’t be silly. Come in.” He put a brotherly arm around my shoulder and pulled me inside.
His dining room table had been set for two and the place smelled of onions, garlic, and roasting meat. A man didn’t go to all this trouble if a guy was joining him for dinner. Antonio was expecting a woman.
“You have a guest coming.”
“It’s okay. Can I get you something? Wine? A beer?”
“Just water, please.”
He led me to a brown leather sofa with a colorful serape draped across the back. The rest of his living room was simply furnished—coffee table, armchair, and television—but it looked like someone’s home, unlike Quinn’s place, which reminded me of a combination locker room and monastic cell. Brick-and-board shelves held a collection of music and movies. Two primitive paintings that looked Mexican hung on the wall above the sofa.
He returned with a glass of water. I needed both hands to hold it.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
When I was done he said, “Do you want to stay here tonight? You could have the couch, if you wouldn’t mind? I, uh, might have, uh—”
The smell of something burning drifted into the living room.
“Your dinner,” I said. “I think you’d better rescue it.”
He muttered in Spanish and bolted for the kitchen. I followed and leaned against the doorjamb, watching him stir the contents of an ironstone casserole dish as he checked what was in the oven with the ease of a practiced chef.
“You’re welcome to stay and eat with us,” he said.
Before the near disaster with his dinner he’d been about to tell me that his guest probably planned to spend the night as well. Antonio kept his personal life to himself and I’d never pried, but I was glad to learn he had a girlfriend. As for me staying, three was a crowd.
“I nearly ruined your meal. I’m not about to ruin your evening. Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I feel better now, I’ve calmed down. When I get home I’ll lock all the doors and windows.”
He gave his casserole another stir. “You need a gun? You can take my hunting rifle.”
I’d never shot a weapon in my life, even though Leland had a gun cabinet that could outfit a small militia.
