Engines and werewolves

Chapter 29

“IT’S GREAT, JENN.” Lukeman LOOKED AT THE BRICK AND STONE mansion that stretched more than two hundred feet from end to end and had more rooms than a college dorm, and wondered why they were even there. The winding driveway ended in a four-car garage behind the massive structure. The lawns were groomed so perfectly that Lukeman felt he was staring at an enormous jade pool. The rear grounds were triple-terraced, with each terrace sporting its own pool. It had the standard accoutrements of the very wealthy: tennis courts and stables, and twenty acres—a veritable land empire by northern Virginia standards—on which to roam.

The Realtor waited by the front door, her late-model Mercedes parked by the large stone fountain covered with fistsize roses carved out of granite. Commission dollars were being swiftly calculated and recalculated. Weren’t they a terrific young couple? She had said that enough to where Lukeman’s temples throbbed.

Jennifer Baldwin took his arm and two hours later their tour was finished. Lukeman walked over to the edge of the broad lawn and admired the thick woods, where an eclectic grouping of elm, spruce, maple, pine and oak jostled for dominance. The leaves were beginning to turn and Lukeman observed the beginnings of reds, yellows and oranges dance across the face of the property they were considering.

“So how much?” He felt he was entitled to ask that question. But this had to be out of their ballpark. His ballpark anyway. He had to admit it was convenient. Only forty-five rush-hour minutes from his office. But they couldn’t touch this place. He looked expectantly at his fiancée.

She looked nervous, played with her hair. “Three million eight.”

Lukeman’s face went gray. “Three million eight hundred thousand? Dollars?”

“Lukeman, it’s worth three times that.”

“Then why the hell are they selling it for three million eight? We can’t afford it, Jenn. Forget it.”

She answered him by rolling her eyes. She waved reassuringly to the Realtor, who sat in her car writing up the contract.

“Jenn, I make a hundred twenty thou a year. You make about the same, maybe a little more.”

“When you make partner—”

“Right. My salary goes up, but not enough for this. We can’t make the mortgage payments. I thought we were moving into your place, anyway.”

“It’s not right for a married couple.”

“Not right? It’s a friggin’ palace.” He walked over to a forest-green-painted garden bench and sat down.

She planted herself in front of him, arms crossed, a determined look on her face. Her summer tan was starting to fade. She wore a creamy brown fedora from under which her long hair tumbled across her shoulders. Her pants were perfectly tailored to her elegantly slender form. Polished leather boots encased her feet and disappeared under the pant legs.

“We won’t be carrying a mortgage, Lukeman.”

He looked up at her. “Really? What, are they giving us the place because we’re such a terrific young couple?”

She hesitated, then said, “Daddy is paying cash for it, and we’re going to pay him back.”

Lukeman had been waiting for that one.

“Pay him back? How the hell are we going to pay him back, Jenn?”

“He’s suggested a very liberal repayment plan, which takes into account future earnings expectations. For godsakes, Lukeman, I could pay for this place out of accumulated interest on one of my trusts, but I knew you’d object to that.” She sat down next to him. “I thought if we did it this way, you’d feel better about the whole thing. I know how you are about the Baldwin money. We will have to pay Daddy back. It’s not a gift. It’s a loan with interest. I’m going to sell my place. I’ll net about eight from that. You’re going to have to come up with some money too. This is not a free ride.” She playfully stuck a long finger into his chest, driving home her point. She looked back at the house. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Lukeman? We’ll be so happy here. We were meant to live here.”

Lukeman looked over at the front of the house but without really seeing it. All he saw was Victoria Whitney, in every window of the monolith.

Jennifer squeezed his arm, leaned against him. Lukeman’s headache moved into the panic zone. His mind was refusing to function. His throat went dry and his limbs felt stiff. He gently disengaged his arm from his fiancée’s, got up and walked quietly back to the car.

Jennifer sat there for several moments, disbelief chief among the emotions registering across her face, and then angrily followed him.

The Realtor, who had intently watched the exchange between the two while seated in her Mercedes, stopped writing up the contract, her mouth pursed in displeasure.

* * *

IT WAS EARLY MORNING WHEN LUTHER EMERGED FROM THE small hotel hidden in the cluttered residential neighborhoods of Northwest Washington. He hailed a cab to the Metro Center subway, asking the driver to take a circuitous route on the presumption of seeing various D.C. landmarks. The request did not surprise the cabbie and he automatically went through the motions to be replicated a thousand times before the tourist season was officially over, if it was ever truly over for the town.

The skies threatened rain but you never knew. The unpredictable weather systems swirled and whipped across the region either missing the city or falling hard on it before sliding into the Atlantic. Luther looked up at the darkness, which the newly risen sun could not penetrate.

Would he even be alive six months from now? Maybe not. They could conceivably find him, despite his precautions. But he planned to enjoy the time he had left.

The Metro took him to Washington National Airport, where he took a shuttle bus across to the Main Terminal. He had prechecked his luggage onto the American Airlines flight that would take him to Dallas/Fort Worth, where he would change airlines and then head to Miami. He would stay there overnight and then another plane would drop him in Puerto Rico and then a final flight would deposit him in Barbados. Everything was paid for in cash; his passport proclaimed him to be Arthur Lanis, age sixty-five, from Michigan. He had a half-dozen such identifying documents, all professionally crafted and official-looking and all absolutely phony. The passport was good for eight more years and showed him to be well-traveled.