The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (11 page)

     He nodded as he examined the tip of his cigarette before a final drag and ground it into the pavement. "Far as I know."

     "Okay. Is there a registry?"

     He seemed to consider this a moment before answering. "Not here. Not anywhere, I'd guess."

     Marcie took a final puff before adding to the litter of butts on the ground. "Why not? Seems like another way to identify survivors."

     "That's just it: the numbers were tattooed to identify
prisoners
, slave laborers, hardly something to be proud of. Making up a list of those numbers would be like truly adding insult to injury."

     Marcie was puzzled. "I don't get it. Are you saying Auschwitz survivors are
ashamed
?"

     "Something like that."

     "Why? It's not like they did anything wrong other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

     The young man reached inside his jacket and produced a pack of generic cigarettes. He offered one to Marcie, who shook her head, before lighting up. "I think they don't see it that way. I had to guess, I'd speculate most of them, the Jews, anyway,
do
have some degree of shame. After all, they went off to the camps like sheep, no resistance other than a short uprising in Warsaw."

     Marcie had never given the subject any thought. Until her interview of Grituchlik, World War II had been ancient history.

     Her companion glanced at his watch. "Jeez, I'm late getting back from my break. I'd love to continue the conversation. Maybe a drink after work?"

     Marcie would have had no qualms about leading him on if there was more information to be gleaned. But there wasn't. She was at a dead end for the moment. "Thanks, but I'm here for the day only."

     The disappointment on his face was at least some compensation for what might well be a fruitless trip. It was good to know men, someone besides David, still found her attractive.

Office of Silvia Weiner, PhD

132 17th Street

Atlanta

Two Days Later

1:35
P.M.

P
AIGE HAD MIXED FEELINGS ABOUT DR. SILVIA WEINER
, PhD, not MD, working out of her home right here in Ansley Park. The possibility of Paige's neighbors seeing her bringing Wynn-Three to a shrink was, well, unsettling if not downright embarrassing. What kind of a parent had a three-year-old with mental problems, anyway? On the other hand, she did not relish the idea of sitting in the waiting room of one of those medical office buildings with other children who might be suffering from all kinds of disturbances, either.

     Within minutes of meeting Dr. Weiner, most of Paige's doubts vanished. The doctor, a small, fifty-ish woman whose oversized eyeglasses gave her an owl-like appearance, had a warm smile and a manner that relaxed Paige. She carried a thin manila folder.

     Wynn-Three, though, seemed to reserve judgment. Perhaps his mother had made a mistake by telling him he was going to visit a doctor. Doctors usually meant shots and shots hurt.

     Squatting in front of Wynn-Three's chair to bring her face even with his, Dr. Weiner asked, "How would you like to play with some really cool toys while I talk to your mommy?"

     Relieved that no hypodermic needles seemed to be involved, he nodded uncertainly, waiting for her to open the door to the adjacent room. From where she sat, Paige could see an huge assortment of toys that would occupy any kid for hours.

     Shutting the door behind Wynn-Three, Dr. Weiner took a seat across from Paige. "A few questions."

     "Sure, but I think I pretty well described what's happened when I called to make the appointment."

     The psychologist opened the folder, scanning its contents before looking up. "You are a full-time parent, right?"

     "I quit the law practice shortly after Wynn-Three was born, yes."

     Dr. Weiner looked like she was re-reading something in the file. "Do you do volunteer work, stuff outside the home?"

     Paige shook her head. "I didn't resign from the law firm just to work for free. I'm a full-time mother."

     "So, you don't have a nanny?"

     Paige wasn't sure she succeeded in keeping the edge out of her voice. "Full time is full time. I'm home with him every day all day."

     "Surely you take off an hour now and then to go get your hair done, have a manicure."

     Paige was getting impatient. What the hell did keeping up her personal appearance have to do with Wynn-Three's problem? "Of course."

     "Who looks after the little boy then?"

     "Sometimes his father if he's home, although he works most of the weekends. We're lucky. A young lady who works at home lives right down the street. She takes care of Wynn-Three maybe two, three hours a month and when we go out at night."

     Dr. Weiner produced a pen and scribbled something in the file. "Does your son become upset when you leave him with this woman?"

     "Quite the contrary. He loves Marcie. I'm afraid she spoils him."

     Another note. "Anyone else who spends time with him? Grandparents, aunts and uncles?"

     "My parents live in New York. They see their only grandson maybe twice a year. My husband's father has the beginnings of Parkinson's disease. We don't dare leave him alone with Wynn-Three for fear he might drop him or otherwise unintentionally hurt him. My husband, Wynn-Three's father, of course, spends as much time as he can with his son."

     "Are you present when your husband is with the child?"

     Paige had spent enough time doing corporate mergers and acquisitions to know when someone had an agenda not on the table. "I'm not
sure where all this is going, Dr. Weiner. You're implying Wynn-Three's problems are the result of some kind of relationship with someone in the home?"

     Dr. Weiner removed her spectacles, wiped them on her blouse and held them up to peer through them. "Or outside of it."

     "Meaning?"

     The psychologist sighed deeply. "Mrs. Charles, children do not suddenly develop phobias, self-mutilate, regress in toilet training, or demonstrate any of Wynn-Three's symptoms without causation. Some event, some trauma, precipitates it."

     "Such as?"

     Dr. Weiner studied Paige for a moment, clearly trying to decide what to say. "You are an educated and intelligent woman, Mrs. Charles, hopefully also a sophisticated one. Your son is exhibiting the classic symptoms of sexual abuse."

     It was as if Paige's breath had been sucked away. Otherwise, she would have protested. Instead, Dr. Weiner held up a restraining hand. "It's all there: the uncharacteristic actions, the phobias . . ."

     "Are you telling me Wynn-Three is afraid of, say, trains because of sexual abuse?"

     "There could have been the sound of a train while he was being abused, just as many victims associate their trauma with a song that was playing on the radio when the event took place. He could have seen those numbers during an episode also. It's natural, particularly with children, that they repress the incident. They exhibit anger, humiliation, fear, whatever, by abnormal behavior. Were Wynn-Three a little older, I'd expect him to act out, to become antisocial, a bully, that sort of thing. Unless and until we can identify the sexual predator, who, by the way, need not necessarily be an adult, there is no chance of successful treatment."

     Paige started to say something, then shut her mouth.
Not necessarily an adult?
Had Wynn-Three reacted to Manfred speaking German or Manfred himself? But Wynn-Three had never played with Manfred except for that one afternoon. What had happened when the two boys were up in Wynn-Three's room? Hadn't his dad been present?

     Dr. Weiner stood. "The law requires me to report any incident of suspected child abuse to DEFACS, Department of Family and Child Services . . ."

     "Do
what
? You don't even know . . . What about patient-psychiatrist privilege? It applies to psychologists, too."

     The older woman shook her head slowly. "Wynn-Three is my patient, Mrs. Charles, not you. Besides, I could lose my license. I would suggest you look closely at anyone who has contact with your son,
anyone.
I . . ."

     The door opened, Wynn-Three standing in it. "Mommy, can we go home now?"

     Paige bolted to her feet. "We certainly can. Say good-bye to Dr. Weiner."

     On the short drive home, Paige experienced a rainbow of emotions: disbelief, fear, guilt. Mostly disbelief and anger. The absurdity of suggesting she had let little Wynn-Three suffer some sort of abuse! Impossible! Wynton was right: Freud and all his disciples were equivalent to modern witch doctors. But it was undeniable the child's personality had undergone a change since that day at the Pink Pig.

     Who . . . ?

     Impossible.

     But she would take precautions nonetheless.

     That night Paige intentionally delayed bathing Wynn-Three until Wynton came home, turning the task over to him. Scrubbing the daily grime off a three-year-old was a duty she usually did herself. When Wynton got his small son in the tub, she was confronted with the results of two, rather than one, small child. A splashing contest invariably developed, leaving the child still grubby but wet, Wynton soaked, and the bathroom drenched.

     Tonight, she felt guilty peeking through the partially closed bathroom door, praying she would see nothing other than the usual horseplay. She did not suspect her husband, not really, but Dr. Weiner's admonition echoed in her head.

     
Anyone.

     With Wynn-Three tucked away, she described the day's events over glasses of wine.

     "Abuse?" Wynton spluttered, almost spraying her with chardonnay, "Abuse? What the fuck . . . ?" He stopped long enough to wipe his mouth. "What the fuck do you expect from some head shrinker? They think everything has to do with sex, abusive, consensual, you name it! It was your idea to take him to that woman, now you can deal with the snooping bureaucrats she'll sick on us. Jesus, if the firm ever gets wind of this . . ."

     Paige realized the futility of pointing out that Mrs. Jennins at St. Philip's had recommended Dr. Weiner and Wynton had reluctantly agreed.

     She came about on another tack. "But what if there really was abuse?"

     Wynton snorted contemptuously. "By whom, me?"

     "Remember how upset Wynn-Three got when Manfred spoke in German?"

     "You're suggesting what, a four-year-old sexual predator? Besides, Wynn-Three literally shit his pants at the Pink Pig, remember? He drew that goddam picture of a prisoner at nursery school before Manfred came over here, too. If someone's head is screwed up, it's that fruitcake minder you saw this afternoon."

     "Okay, Mr. Realism, what do you suggest we do now?"

     Wynton refilled his glass, calmed slightly both by the passage of time and alcohol. "I suggest we tell the people at St. Philip's we're seeing their fucking head doctor and let Wynn-Three outgrow it."

     "And if he doesn't?"

     "He will."

     Paige wished she could be as certain.

Oberkoenigsburg, Austria

January 16

F
RIEDRICH GRATZ FUMED AS HE SIPPED
his third cup of coffee. Not only was the stuff outrageously expensive, two euros a cup, but all he could do was wait, squandering his short supply of time and money. The image of an hourglass would not leave his mind. He had to wait until there were enough skiers so he would not be noticed and that might be somewhat later than he had anticipated.

     He had been at the lift when it began operation that morning. A quick glance around told him he had made a mistake: only the most enthusiastic skiers were out at this hour. The bulk of the resort's guests were no doubt enjoying the hotel's generous
Frühstück
, breakfast buffet, or were still sleeping off the whisky and schnapps from the night before.

     Shortly before noon, he decided he could wait no longer and set out for the summit.

     He was aware of the risk he was taking. No doubt the dead ski patrol's comrades would be searching for him and, if he were found near the hastily concealed body, he would certainly be detained and questioned by the local police. The Mauser had been dumped in the first trash receptacle he had passed after coming off the mountain yesterday, and there was no other way he could be linked with the killing other than his interest in an area closed to skiers.

     Or so he hoped.

     Forty-five minutes later, Friedrich, out of breath, leaned against a boulder, and surveyed the same landscape he had seen yesterday afternoon. Today, with the sun practically overhead, shadows claimed much less of the area. Shadows or not, there was still no visible clue as to the location of the mine shaft.

     There were a number of possibilities, none of them encouraging. As he had thought yesterday, the resort could well have covered the entrance, making entry impossible without heavy equipment. There was also the chance there was more than one mine in the surrounding mountains, each served by its own cog railroad. Equally frustrating was the chance Friedrich's father had simply gotten the location wrong. Or the onset of Alzheimer's had smudged the line between memory and fantasy. The old man had seemed so certain, so sure.

     As far as Friedrich knew, though, his father had never come here seeking what he said had been concealed in these hills. A reluctance to visit the past or uncertainty as to the location? Perhaps fear that he might somehow be connected to his job as a guard at a Nazi slave camp and face war crimes prosecution. Friedrich was beginning to suspect he would never be sure. He found only the brutal reality of the mountain, the rocks, scattered like Friedrich's dreams of a Caribbean Island.

     There had to be some method of finding what the world had apparently forgotten, had to be. Perhaps somewhere a map existed. Friedrich snorted. Only millions of documents from the war, many unindexed, and he was going to find a map?
The
map? Better chance of winning the lottery.