by Gayle Lynds
"You can't do a damn thing about it," Creighton insisted. "Forget it!"
"Like hell I will." Her father jammed sheets of stationery back into his pocket.
He was of medium height and slender like his father. Jonathan and Daniel Austrian, physically alike but opposites in personality. Jonathan was friendly and easygoing, a doting father, an adoring husband. But Daniel Austrian could have just descended from a Himalayan peak. He was cool and aloof, reserved in a polite and aristocratic way.
Her father said, "I'm going to talk to Dad about this!" He turned on his heel and stormed out. Creighton followed She'd never seen her father so outraged, and she was afraid So she followed.
The two men marched out to the retreat. She remembered the night clearly. A sea wind had just risen, and the bare, winter trees seemed to shake ghostly fingers at the moon. It was eerie and a little frightening, but she persisted, and when she cracked open the door of the retreat, she could hear her father's voice inside.
"We got these letters today," Jonathan was telling his father. "Both Creighton and I. The writer says since we're the eldest sons we should know that you and Lyle Redmond built your fortunes on Nazi loot. He says you've got the Amber Room, and that you killed a man to get it. Did you do that, Dad?"
Daniel Austrian calmly set down his glass. "And if we did? You've sure as hell enjoyed the fruits of it all these years."
They argued. Their voices were furious and violent. She swung open the door to see. Now Creighton and her father were yelling at one another.
"We've got to take this public!" her father bellowed at Creighton. "It's immoral. Dad's got to admit to the murder!"
"Are you crazy?" Creighton shouted back. "No! He won't ruin us all, and Lyle won't either. You're the only one thinks this is a problem. Forget it!"
Creighton and her father continued to battle. Tension escalated. Their faces turned red.
Finally her father roared, "I'm going to take this to the authorities!"
"We can't afford to have our fathers revealed as war criminals!"
"Fuck you! I'm doing it anyway!" Her father turned to leave. His eyes widened when he saw her.
A vein throbbed at Creighton's temple. His face was purple. "Like hell you are!" He reached out for a weapon, and his hand closed on his father's silver-headed walking stick. He swung the stick as hard as he could. The blow struck Jonathan Austrian on the back of the head. He slammed forward against the desk and bounced off. Creighton hit him again.
"Stop!" Daniel Austrian bellowed. "That's enough!"
But her father turned and swung a fist at Creighton. Creighton hit him with the cane again. Her father fell and struck his head on the desk. It was a horrifying sound, almost like that of a melon cracking open.
She screamed. Hot tears poured down her face. She rushed to her father. He was limp on the floor, his head lying in a small pool of blood. She rolled him over. "Dad! Daddy!" She shook his lapels. She kissed him. "Daddy! Wake up!"
Her grandfather Austrian pushed her away. "Let me look at him." He knelt and felt Jonathan's throat
Creighton stood with the bloody cane hanging from one hand. He was in shock. His skin was drained of color.
Daniel Austrian closed his son's eyes and stood up. "He's dead."
His voice was emotionless. He stood looking down at his son's corpse. Then he glared at Creighton. "You're a damn fool, Creighton. Now we're all in trouble."
Julia stared at her father, the closed eyes, the pain in his features, and the blood that coated his forehead and matted his hair. She jumped up and whirled. She pounded Creighton's chest and scratched at his face.
Daniel Austrian pulled her off. "Stop it, Julia! Stop it . It was an accident!"
She cried and slapped her grandfather.
Creighton's voice shook. "Dan? What can we do?"
Daniel Austrian grasped Julia's shoulders and forced her to turn to face him. "Don't fight me, girl." He grabbed her hand, led her to the sofa, and made hers it. He dropped to his knees in front of her and gazed steadily into her pain-ravaged face. "He wasn't only your father. He was my son. My only son. This is a terrible tragedy." His voice was almost hypnotic. "It wasn't anybody's fault. Your father and uncle had a fight, and Creighton hit him. He didn't mean to kill him. No one's to blame really. It was an accident. That all."
When she didn't respond, he took her hands. "Look at me!"
She stared, anger flaring through her grief.
He said, "Do you want me to go to jail because of this?"
She frowned.
"Because I will if you say anything. Creighton might be executed for murder. You don't want to kill your uncle, do you, child?"
She gulped. "No—"
"He'll be executed, and I'll go to prison as an accomplice. You have to remember this was just an accident, but if you tell anyone, your uncle and I will pay horribly." He released her left hand and held up her right. He pointed at the alexandrite ring he'd given her earlier. "And you will pay, too. This is a beautiful ring. A piece of art. You love it and you love your mother. We'll lose all our money. The money that paid for your fine music lessons, your Steinway, your years at Juilliard, your family's apartment on Park Avenue, this handsome ring, everything and anything you and your family own. Your mother will have nothing to live on. Everyone will lose everything, and it will all be your fault." His face was an enigma. "You must forget what happened. Nothing good will come of telling. Promise me you'll forget."
He stared at her with his large, penetrating eyes. She saw her own grief in them, her own pain. Her father was gone, but so was his son. She saw unshed tears deep in his dark eyes. She'd never seen her unapproachable grandfather so close, so emotional. She could see he was hurt deeply, too. And now he was asking her to do what he thought was right.
He said softly, "Promise me, Julia. Everything depends on you."
Guilt swept through her. Slowly she nodded.
"Good girl. I'm proud of you. When you wake up in the morning, it'll all seem like a bad dream. Go to bed now. Remember, you can never tell anyone. Never. You must forget."
Like an automaton she stood. She looked down once more at her dead father, and she walked woodenly across the long room. Behind her the voices of her grandfather and uncle resumed.
"Will she keep quiet?" Creighton asked shakily.
"She'd better," her grandfather said. "No need to tell Lyle. It'd just upset him. We'll handle this ourselves. Any ideas?"
Creighton cleared his throat. "A car accident. We'll take my car and Jonathan's. We'll crash his off the road, then I'll drive you home to Southampton. I'll be back here before anyone wakes up."
"That should work. You're growing up. It's time I showed you something."
She heard them walk across the floor. As she stepped outside, there was a creaking sound behind her and then her eyes seemed to fill with golden light. She looked down at her new ring. The brilliant stone caught the light from the room behind her. She wanted to take it off, but she couldn't hurt her grandfather any more. Stolen money had bought this ring. For a moment it seemed to tighten like a snake around her finger, and her finger ached.
She was suddenly afraid. What had happened to her father could happen to her. Her mother could have no money. They could all go to jail. She would lose her piano, the lessons she still needed so much. She wanted to be a great pianist.
Crying, she closed the door. The wind was still blowing. It sighed and moaned. The sky was black, the stars hidden by swiftly moving clouds. She wept and sobbed as she went back to the mansion. Her grandfather and uncle were going to create a car accident for her father that hid their guilt. . . and her own.
59
4:34 PM
Sam drove like a madman back to the Redmond compound. He returned the car to where it'd been parked when he'd been hustled to it . He wiped his bloody face, brushed the dirt from his clerical suit, and slipped through the late afternoon sunshine in the direction Maya Stern had been pushing Julia.
&nbs
p; 4:35 PM
Creighton glanced up and knew something odd had happened to Julia. As she stood there just inside the retreat in her nun's habit, her blue eyes and oval face were intense. A flush had crept up her cheeks. He'd expected her to be terrified, but—
Beneath him the old man growled, "You don't even have the balls to do your own dirty work, Creighton. Shoot before you get tired and drop the damn gun!"
With a shudder, Julia left her trance. Came out of the past. She saw Creighton. There was no one and nothing else that mattered in the enormous room.
"You killed my father!" She shook with fury. She pulled cotton from her mouth, hurled it down, and with all her strength shoved Maya Stern away. She strode toward Creighton. "You monster. Your greed and ambition got my mother killed, but you killed my father yourself! I saw it! That's why I went blind. I saw you murder Dad, and I let Grandpa Austrian talk me into keeping silent. Then you hid your crime and lied about it all these years. You and Grandfather Austrian!"
Now she understood what Orion Grapolis had meant when he'd said that whatever had happened had traumatized her so much she could no longer look at her world. First she'd witnessed the murder of her father, whom she'd loved deeply, at the hands of her uncle, whom she loved, too. Then she'd been told she had to lie about it to save them all by the grandfather she also loved. The conflict—honor her father or save the family—had been too much. Plus there was the guilt: If she'd been smarter, quicker, somehow better, she could've prevented the fight. Did she want her piano, her career, her good life too much? Trauma upon trauma upon trauma.
"You're out of your mind." Creighton scowled. She knew. "Stern, hold her."
Maya Stern grabbed Julia again in a steel grip.
Julia struggled against the killer's hands. "It was here. In this room. You and Dad were fighting because someone had just written you both about the Nazi treasure. Dad wanted Grandpa to go to the authorities, but you didn't. You hit him. Over and over. Then you and Grandfather Austrian lied to me, scared me, made me swear to keep quiet. Told me to forget, and I went blind to forget."
Everything they'd told her was distorted and perverse, including that Creighton would be executed and her grandfather would go to jail. This was New York, and if they'd instantly reported the crime, the most Creighton would've received was manslaughter, and her grandfather would've been considered no accomplice at all.
David and Brice had been listening to it all. They seemed to waver. They stood up, pale and uncertain.
"You murdered Jonathan?" David was shaken. "It wasn't a car crash?"
Brice said, "Why didn't you tell us? What the hell else haven't you told us?"
Vince came to stand beside his father. "It doesn't matter. What's important is no one else ever knows—"
Disgusted, Creighton raised the big SigSauer and aimed it at Julia. "Shut up, Vince. Hold her there, Stern." He stalked toward Julia. "It's all your fault. All of this. If you hadn't gone crazy when Marguerite died, none of this would've happened. I'm going to be president tomorrow, and you're not going to stop me. Not you. Not the old man. No one." His gaze never left Julia. But he ordered, "Stern, turn her loose. Vince, cover the old man. Stand away from her, Stern. Now!"
Desire can be an addiction. It gives life a diamond-sharp focus. It's as heady as an aphrodisiac, and it can fuel great accomplishments. Or devastation. As if at a great distance, Julia watched Creighton close in on her. His salt-and-pepper hair had not a strand out of place. His designer tuxedo enhanced his wide shoulders and trim waist. His strong, hawklike face was no longer twisted with rage. But ruthlessness seemed to ooze from his pores. Whatever control he'd had evaporated in that instant. Whatever forces had created him, ceased to exist. Whatever good intentions he'd once had were forgotten.
Nothing mattered. He was going to kill her. She was in his way. It was obvious.
Vince stepped forward with his second gun, a small boot Mauser, to guard their grandfather. Maya Stern smiled coolly, her respect for Creighton accelerating. She moved away from Julia to allow him to get a clean shot.
4:38 PM
Outside, Sam rose up before the wall of windows. The sun was at just the right angle to cast his long shadow into the room like a movie playing on the far wall.
Maya Stern was the first to see the looming projection of Sam. She leaped between Creighton and the wall of windows. Sam's best target was Vince, who was aiming his gun down at the old man.
Sam didn't think or hesitate. He needed a distraction, and he needed it to count. He fired through the glass and saw Vince go down. Instantly, Sam curled his head deep, rounded his shoulders, and hurled himself through the shattered window.
Sam hadn't missed. Vince Redmond lay on the floor. Dead.
The rest happened in seconds.
Julia dove left. Creighton shot and missed. And missed again.
Maya Stern spun and fired. Her bullet caught Sam high on the left arm as he landed behind the captain's chairs.
Brice and David frantically lunged over the couch for cover.
Lyle sat down where he'd been kneeling. He rubbed his sore old knees, but his eyes remained defiant, daring anyone to kill him.
Julia crawled frantically to where Vince's little boot Mauser had skidded when Sam shot him. She grabbed it. Double-handing it, she rose into a crouch.
Maya Stern swung back after shooting Sam, and the muzzle of her gun trained on Julia. Her black eyes were full of cold joy to finally snuff out the arrogant woman who'd eluded all her efforts.
Inside, Julia was listening to Sam's voice: Hold the gun firmly but not in a stranglehold. Think of your body as part of it. Your eyes and your arm are in complete coordination. Where your eyes look, your gun will fire. Breathe. And shoot.
And then suddenly she felt a rolling wave of heat. She turned just in time to see Maya Stern aim. Julia stopped thinking. She pulled the trigger.
Just as Maya Stern fired, Julia's bullet caught her in the neck and severed the carotid artery. Stern's bullet plowed into the parquet behind Julia. A geyser of blood erupted from Stern's throat. An almost childlike sense of wonderment filled her eyes. To fail was impossible. Maya Stern did not fail. Then terror. Then nothing.
Across the room, Sam, his left arm dangling and bloody, struggled to get up.
A howl of despair filled the big room. Creighton Redmond looked at his dead son, at the dying Maya Stern, and at his cowering brothers. He bellowed in rage and hate as he turned the SigSauer on the only enemy he saw—Sam, lurching to his feet.
"Creighton!" his father shouted. "No! Stop! It's too—"
As Creighton's finger tightened on the trigger, Julia knew she had no choice. She wasn't going to let Sam die. She looked, breathed, and shot.
Scarlet blood spurted up on Creighton's white, ruffled shirt. He slammed back on the desk, his arms spread wide. Blood poured out over his chest and pooled over his papers. His head rolled back. He was dead.
As she looked at his sightless, open eyes, Julia remembered her mother's wound and her horrible suffering, and she felt some old pain rip free inside her. Creighton had been responsible for so many murders, and all weighed heavily on her. Everything he'd done, from killing her father, to sending her to a psychiatrist who'd made sure she'd never remember, to setting in motion his plan to get the presidency at all costs . . . even if part of the price was the murder of her mother—
"Julia!" Sam reached her, pulled her around with his good arm, and held her. Relief flooded him. His heart swelled with emotion. With what had to be love. He pushed off her nun's cap and stroked her hair and murmured in her ear.
Lyle Redmond staggered up and walked to where Creighton's corpse lay. He sighed, and his old voice trembled. "I'm sorry, son."
The door burst open. Four Secret Service agents carrying semiautomatic rifles slipped in warily and fanned out, looking for targets.
Sam held his Company badge up in his good hand and shouted. "CIA! Don't shoot!"
As the agents silently secured the r
oom, the chief of detail checked Creighton. He-looked up at Sam.
"It's a long story," Sam told him, "but we've got the details. So do his brothers and his father over there."
Brice and David emerged from behind the couch, pale and shaken. Instantly Lyle glared at them. "Cowards. Start talking. That's the goddamned least you can do!"
Speaking rapidly, Brice, David, and the old man told what had happened. Julia and Sam added their story. They sat down, and the agents shot questions at them. The police came. The paramedics came. The FBI had been notified. The Secret Service had closed off the estate, and no one but police were allowed in, and no one except police—including the party guests—were allowed to leave. Many of the dignitaries protested bitterly, including the cardinal, but to no avail.
Finally, David announced, "That's it. I want a lawyer before I do myself any more legal damage."
While they all talked, Julia became quiet. Her father's tragic death lingered in her mind, as if there was something else she should recall. She went over it again. The fight, her grandfather talking to her, her leaving the retreat, the sudden glow of golden light, the . . . And then she knew.
She stood and walked to old Lyle. "Where is it, Grandpa?"
He stared up at her, puzzled.
"I saw the reflection of it that night. You couldn't have known Creighton and the others would be meeting here tonight. You came to the retreat for another reason. You've got to show it now. To everybody."
The old man blinked slowly. He nodded. "You're right. Because of all this—" he gestured sadly around the room "—I almost forgot." He heaved himself up and walked to his desk. He yanked out the top drawer and reached deep inside. Julia could hear the quiet click of a switch. He turned to address the dozen people who were standing and sitting around the big room. "This is the best time of day. Look at how the sunlight's pouring in." He nodded. "You'll see."
Sam was alert. He recognized the sound of pulleys. His gaze swept the room hungrily.