by Gayle Lynds
She could see his gray eyes. There was some kind of tormented light behind them. Then he slowly stood up.
His voice was metallic. "A gun isn't a toy. And you don't know nearly enough for it to be a reliable defense. If you have a chance, run. If you don't, fire to kill. Just because you have the gun, you mustn't feel safe. Ever."
36
1:05 PM, SUNDAY
Upstairs in his parents' bedroom, Sam prepared to leave.
"I'm going with you," Julia announced.
He shook his head. "Not a good idea. What if I can't talk the DCI around? He'd have us both held, and then where would we be?"
"I hate not doing something."
It made her feel helpless. Like some stupid damsel in distress from a cartoon from the 1950s. Minnie Mouse. Olive Oyl. Even Lois Lane in those days. She knew Sam was right, but that didn't help much, and, unfortunately, he seemed to know he was right. He was standing there in his new brown hair like a lecturer at the front of a university classroom, making pronouncements, and yet there was that unmistakable maleness about him—the lean body, the rhythmic movements, the muscular face.
"You'll be here alone, and we have to prepare for that. The Company's like the Boy Scouts. Our motto is 'Be Prepared.'" He opened his mother's closet, where he found a long wool coat. He held it up. It was an off-the-rack navy blue with a wide collar and big buttons, probably from the 1980s. "Try it on."
"It fits pretty well." Too long, almost to her ankles, but the shoulders were right.
"Okay, rule number one: Don't go outside. Rule number two: If you have to, wear Mom's coat. That way I won't have to worry about your catching pneumonia, and it pretty well hides you."
She slid her hands into the pockets and found leather gloves. With her bandages, they'd never fit. Beneath the gloves was pepper spray. She held up the small canister. "I thought this might be a cologne atomizer."
"So much for the talent of the blind. My mother carries it because, as you may have noticed, this isn't Southampton. Crime here is simply a way to make a living."
"Relax. I'm not going anywhere. At least, not until I figure out a plan."
"Next rule: Discuss all plans with me. When I'm not here to discuss, you don't make plans." He pulled out his wallet, peeled off five twenties, and chose a Global platinum credit card. "A few more precautions. This is your allowance. One hundred dollars. Don't spend it all in one place. And this is your credit card. If you abuse the privilege, I'll take it away from you."
"Sam! Stop being a jerk!" But she took the cash and the credit card. Instantly she felt somehow sheltered. When money was as much a part of your life as the air you breathed, not having it—lots of it—was disconcerting at best. At worst it geometrically multiplied fear. "You could make yourself really useful if you'd show me all the doors so I'll know they're locked before you leave."
"Follow me." He pulled on his leather jacket and grabbed his suitcase. She followed him down to the lobby. The big glass doors that had once opened to happy neighborhood movie fans had been covered by sheets of plywood. The only working door was through the garage. He threw his suitcase into the Durango.
"I hope you're planning to come back. I'm not finished with you." She was surprised by her own voice. Light, bantering. Damn, was she flirting like a schoolgirl?
He turned beneath the naked bulbs in the garage. He looked almost startled, surprised at himself. "Austrian, I'm not going to leave you. We're in this together. I'll see the DCI, tell him everything we know, and be back as quickly as I can with Company protection. Once he's in the picture, your situation's going to improve vastly. He's got a reputation for independence, and he's savvy. Despite a very bad heart condition, he's stayed on the job. With his help, I think everything's going to be fine."
"And without his help?"
Their eyes locked, suddenly serious. "We're no worse off than we are now."
She nodded mutely, wishing she knew more about how to protect herself. She looked in the heavy, brown Chevrolet LTD. She could see it had an automatic transmission. "Are there keys?"
"You're a serious worrier, you know that?"
"I'm still alive. And I doubt many people in my situation could claim that."
"Okay. Okay." He had to get over the idea she was helpless. "The keys are in the ignition. An old friend from a few doors away comes in every week or so to run the motor, so it should work." He paused. "But for God's sakes, don't get some crazy idea and leave without me!"
"I'll wait. I'd miss your sweet disposition."
He finally laughed, the Sam she'd come to like. She realized in a rush that all his acting like a pompous, macho jerk came from worrying about her.
She said, "Thanks, Sam."
He blinked and nodded solemnly. He showed her how the garage door locked from the inside. They returned in silence through the lobby and up the marble stairs to the apartment. On the coffee table in the living room lay the Russian volume that had pictures and descriptions of the art and treasures from Königsberg Castle.
He said, "I might as well leave this with you. It's got a copy of the only surviving color photo of the Amber Room. And of course you can always watch TV. Do you want me to leave a newspaper?"
"I want you to get the hell out of here so you can bring me back good news."
As they continued to stand in the living room, he folded the papers under his arm. But as she looked at them, she had an idea. It'd been in the back of her brain since she'd read the papers, but somehow the threads hadn't quite woven together.
He saw the expression on her face. With her hair gray and piled high, it accented the seriousness of her otherwise lush features. "You have an idea?"
She nodded. "Orion Grapolis told me that hypnosis had been the treatment of choice for conversion disorder since the days of Freud, and that the blind can be hypnotized just like anyone else. Obviously that was true, because he hypnotized me. So why did my first therapist, Walter Dupuy, do standard talk therapy? Why did he tell me the blind can't be hypnotized?"
"We already know he was likely working for your uncle."
"Right. Let's go back to the common denominator between you and me—the packets. If my grandfather Redmond sent them—"
"You said he was senile."
"That's what my uncles' medical experts said in court. They convinced the judge, and he made my uncles the conservator of Grandfather Redmond and his estate. It's true my grandfather didn't know Mom and me when we visited at the rest home—"
"But now you wonder if there was another reason for him to seem senile."
"Exactly. Maybe Grandpa simply stepped too hard on my uncles' toes when he tried to set up a foundation."
"He wanted to give away his money?"
"A lot of it, yes. He'd started funding charities heavily, giving buildings to peace universities, that sort of thing. Then he decided to start a foundation and give half his holdings to it. Almost ten billion dollars, my mother told me. She didn't care, but she thought her brothers did, especially Creighton, who isn't all that rich in his own right."
"Why didn't she do something to stop your uncles?"
Julia grimaced. "We were away on tour most of the time, and she'd deliberately absented herself from family business probably twenty years ago. Creighton showed her the doctor's report and the judge's written decision. Then we visited Grandpa. He seemed to be hallucinating and almost a little crazy. And that substantiated what Mother read—that he had Alzheimer's and could be a danger to himself and the family." Her troubled blue eyes fixed on Sam. "But now I wonder. If my uncles controlled the psychiatrist who treated me and can lie about me the way they're doing now, then they certainly could've found doctors to testify to Grandpa's senility, and a judge who'd turn his care and money over to my uncles."
Sam pondered. "What you're saying is that if your grandfather's not senile, he might know things Creighton doesn't want to get out. Like about the Amber Room."
Julia nodded. "That's where the packets come in again. Bot
h were from Armonk. You've got to know Grandpa to understand he could've sent them. He can be absolutely charming, or a roughneck. Whatever suits him. And when he sets his mind on something, he's unstoppable. Or at least he used to be. The few times we saw him before he went to the rest home, he was completely preoccupied by his charity work." She smiled, remembering. Then sadness riveted her as she recalled how debilitated he'd seemed at the nursing home. "Until he got sick, he was always wonderful to me and Mom. I'm going to phone him. If he won't—or can't—talk to me, we should drive up there as soon as possible. He's at Rolling Hills Retirement Home between Armonk and Mount Kisco. That should be our next stop. Agreed?"
"Sounds like a good idea." Sam zipped his jacket. "I'd better get going. The quicker I get back, the better."
She walked with him downstairs into the theater's lobby. As he stepped ahead to look into the garage, she found herself staring at his back and at the wide shoulders in the black leather jacket that tapered down to the tight waist. He had a hard, round ass, and as she watched him move with lanky grace she had an urge to reach out and pull him back to her. To hold him, to—
He opened the garage door a crack and peered out into the afternoon shadows. She watched his shoulders relax. He swung open the doors.
"You'll be careful?" She stood next to him as he unlocked his car door.
"No. I'm going to go out and get myself killed." He turned just in time to see her stricken look. "Did I ever tell you I love your music?"
"I think you mentioned that you might like it."
"Believe me, Julia. I don't intend to let either of us die." He got in, rolled down the window, and started the motor. "I'll phone as soon as I know anything. Close the garage door after me and lock it."
She bristled. "I can't believe how bossy you are. You think I'm going to leave it wide open?"
"Oops." He grinned. "Sorry. See you soon."
Through his open window he stared directly at her, and something new and sensuous passed between them. She was powerfully attracted to him. So what if nothing came of it? But she shook her head. She looked away. Not now. Not yet.
He watched her for another moment, then frowned. With a final reluctant nod, he nosed the Durango into the alley. Again his dark head rotated, looking all around. He turned the wheel right and rolled smartly out toward the street.
She stood in the purple shadows and watched until the big red car disappeared. He'd called her Julia. He'd used her first name.
She returned inside, and the ornate lobby suddenly seemed bleak and lonely. Without Sam's presence, the echoes of her footsteps rang dully in her ears. She had a horrible feeling of being watched and hunted, but no reason for it—no one knew she was here. With determination she shook the fear off. She had work to do.
Behind the cash register, she picked up the phone. In front of her were the glass cases that she imagined had once contained rainbow stacks of candy. Against the wall stood an old-fashioned popcorn machine. This had been a place of magic, and now she hoped some of that would rub off on her. She dialed information and got the phone number for the Rolling Hills Retirement Home in Westchester County, New York.
An operator with a dry, bored voice answered.
Julia said, "This is Lyle Redmond's granddaughter. I'd like to speak to him, please."
A hesitation. "Sure, miss. Just a moment." The phone reverberated with silence. She'd been put on hold. She tried to wait patiently, but suddenly her pulse was beating fast. Did her grandfather know what was behind all that was happening? Or was he truly the shaky shell she remembered?
"Who's calling?" It was a man this time, and there was nothing bored about him. He had the hard, no-nonsense voice of someone accustomed to being in charge.
Two could play that game. She made her own voice hard. "Lyle Redmond's granddaughter. Transfer me to his room."
"He's asleep."
"Wake him at once. It's important."
The man seemed taken aback. His voice grew more reasonable. "I'm sorry, miss. It's his doctor's orders. After his daughter died he took a turn for the worse. There's no way he can talk to anyone. The doctor says you should try next week. I could give him your name. Which granddaughter are you?"
Julia held the phone away from her ear and stared at it. Should she believe him? Why did he want to know her name and which granddaughter she was? Because he'd been alerted to watch for her in particular? She thought about it and decided she had no choice. She was too far away to force this man to do what she asked, and she didn't want to alarm him or make him suspicious.
"His son Brice's daughter. I'll call again next week."
After she hung up she felt uneasy and restless. Were they looking for her to appear at the Westchester home? She stalked around the theater lobby. She climbed the stairs to the apartment. Made herself a cup of coffee. And stood in the kitchen brooding. On the table was the Walther. She picked it up, studied it, and knew Sam's lesson was correct: She wasn't competent enough to trust it could save her from anything. But it was better than nothing, and nothing was what she seemed to have right now.
She took it into the living room. Abruptly she was chilled. She put on Sam's mother's coat. It made her warmer, and it made her feel as if he might almost be there. She watched CNN just long enough to see footage of her concert at the Hollywood Bowl and hear a few words about how she was being hunted for the murder of a prominent New York psychologist. Quickly she switched to a game show, then to a comedy rerun. Distracted, worried, after an hour of that she turned off the TV.
Then she noticed the book he'd left. It had a blue velvet cover with a photograph in the center of Czar Nicholas II and his wife, Empress Alexandra.
She put the gun in the coat's oversized pocket and carried the book downstairs. She sat on the bottom step, where she and Sam had sat while he'd instructed her how to use the Walther. She pulled the coat around her and opened the book. It was written completely in Russian. The curls and angles of the Cyrillic alphabet were handsome and intriguing but completely unreadable for her. She turned to the first photograph, and there it was: From Sam's description, it had to be the fabled Amber Room.
It was breathtaking. There were a thousand hues of golden amber, ranging in tints of pale yellow to deep red and lush brown. Wall sconces held tall lighted candles against the pilastered mirrors, and the light reflected off the mirrors and in through the windows and around the mosaics and royal crests and scrollwork as if it all were alive, breathing with the radiant light. She stared transfixed, reveling in the stunning amber and the art that had been created from it. It made her again very grateful to be able to see. No wonder Sam was so driven to give the room back to the world.
She studied the photograph longer, and then she turned pages, savoring the jewels, paintings, sculptures, and objets d'art that had allegedly been stolen from throughout the Soviet Union and put on display in Königsberg Castle. She'd been raised with wealth and privilege, always surrounded by exceptional treasures, but it was never enough. There was something mystical and intrinsically beguiling about great art. One could never adequately feast upon it, because with each glance it changed, and in turn it changed you. It was an entwining dance that gave the viewer a heartbeat's insight into beauty's timelessness, which no one could ever really own.
Then she saw a gem-encrusted box, glittering with sapphires and pearls and semiprecious stones.
Shaking, she touched the picture. It couldn't be—
But she knew it was. She'd seen it too often before she went blind. For years that same remarkable piece of historic art, or an exact duplicate, had held cigars and sat on her grandfather Redmond's desk in his rustic retreat at Arbor Knoll.
As she studied the photo, she became aware she was having trouble breathing.
Afraid, she turned more pages. And saw—
Her mother's emerald earrings.
She swallowed hard. They were the special earrings her mother had been wearing and had fought to keep the night she'd been murdered. The ea
rrings that Grandfather Austrian—Daniel Austrian—had given her mother on her wedding day. As her mother's horrible death jackknifed through her, she fought to keep control. Both her grandfathers had had pieces from the castle where the Amber Room had been stored—
She flipped more pages. And froze in horror.
Instantly she tried to look away. Because there, blazing back at her from a photograph, was her alexandrite ring.
The ring of the stunning green gem with the flowerette of bluebell jewels. Unique and spectacular. The ring that had triggered her blindness in London—
She slammed the book closed.
It was too late.
Immediately inside her mind she smelled that strange odor she'd smelled before—
Her pulse hammered at her temples. A flush burned her cheeks. And suddenly she felt the almost physical sensation of her mind's shutting down. Turning off.
Darkness arose on the horizon of her staring, appalled gaze. It billowed relentlessly toward her. She tried to force it back. But it closed in on her, a black fog. Cold and empty and unforgiving. The lobby was vanishing as she watched—
Her chest throbbed with pain. The darkness spread across her vision like a raven's wing, blocking out everything.
Now she knew what she hadn't known before. The ring that triggered her return to blindness was from Königsberg Castle. The Second Himmler Treasure. The ring that made her mind recreate the trauma in her unconscious of whatever had happened the night of her debut was stolen Nazi loot.
Something tore inside her heart.
Blink. She was blind again.
37
3:58 PM, SUNDAY
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, DC
Sam felt guilty. He'd lied to Julia. It was true he was going to visit the DCI in Silver Spring, but not just yet. First he intended to confront Vince Redmond. Whatever was happening around Julia and him, the Redmonds where certainly involved.
It was a conviction he'd withheld from Julia so as not to alarm her too much, and he seethed as he drove through the streets of Georgetown with their quaint Federalist and Victorian houses, big shutters, tall trees, and brick sidewalks. One of the most exclusive areas in Washington, it radiated old money and privilege. Beside him in the well was his Browning 9mm. Redmond had better not give him any trouble.