Tail Spin

Savich said, “Would there be anyone who would report you missing?”

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 cliched. 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.