The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (35 page)

     He pretended to fumble for something in the glove box while a noisy quartet of young people unloaded skis from a rack on top of a Volkswagen Golf and headed for the lift. A brief glance around the lot confirmed he was finally alone.

     He got out of the VW and climbed into the back seat.

The press of the weapon into Lang's back became greater. "And your stick, the one with a sword in it. Drop it."

     Lang slowly lifted his arms, letting the cane fall into the snow. He risked a brief glance over his shoulder and recognized the man from Auschwitz. "We've got to quit meeting like this. People will talk."

     Language barrier or no sense of humor, the man used the hand not holding the gun to motion. "Come."

     It was clear whatever the man intended, he was not going to do it here. More the reason not to be in a hurry to leave. "What is it you want, anyway?"

     Rather than answer, the man motioned again, this time with visible agitation, increasing Lang's certainty he was dealing with an amateur.

     Lang took a step down from the mound of snow and stumbled, his hands flying out for support. The gunman stepped back rather than fall himself.

     Mistake one.

     Lang used one of the numerous ski poles stuck in the snow to pull himself slowly upright as he turned. Now the man with the gun was in front of him, taking a step back.

     Mistake two.

     In what seemed like an attempt to regain his balance, Lang jerked forward,
freeing the pointed tip of the pole from the snow. Before his opponent could plant his foot from the step back, the ski pole jammed into his chest, shoving him further backwards and down the small slope, his arms instinctively windmilling to try to maintain his balance.

     Three and out.

     It took only a fraction of a second for one or more skiers to spot the gun in one hand. Cries of alarm and screams erupted as people scattered like a covey of frightened birds.

     For an instant, Lang considered pressing his advantage. Police would be here shortly if the number of cell phones he saw were any indication. The last thing he needed was to spend the rest of the day answering questions. Instead, he snatched a pair of skis from the snow mound, praying for a reasonable fit and snap-on bindings.

     He got lucky.

     With a shove, he was sliding past the milling crowd and toward the slope.

     The crack of a pistol shot and more screams told him he was making his exit right just in time.

     He was past the lift, the operator's mouth a silent "O" as people turned in their moving chairs to see what was happening. Then Lang was headed down the slope, tuneless wind whistling in his ears.

     Far below was a parking lot. How he was going to get back up here to the rented BMW was a problem he would deal with when he got to the bottom. He . . .

     The sudden sound was like a chain saw, and Lang could only wish that was what he was hearing. A look behind him took in a snowmobile in the colors of the ski patrol racing toward him.

     It was a good bet it wasn't a reprimand for careless skiing.

     As if to confirm this, another gunshot echoed down the slope. He was well out of range but that wasn't going to last long. The snowmobile was rapidly closing the gap. Even shortening his traverses, the moves by which a skier controls his speed, wasn't going to help. Graceful stem christies were not what was required here. Lang had his skis pointed straight downhill and was going faster than he ever had on any slope before. But the machine was still gaining.

     Then he saw something that gave him an idea.

     Desperate, but an idea nonetheless.

* * *

Dr. Heim was speaking slowly, the little boy lying across his lap in the car's back seat. It would only be minutes before the child was in a hypnotized state. If Heim could pry the secret loose from the person the boy had been, he would have achieved something he was aware of no hypnotist having done before: retrogressing a subject on site.

     Another great pity: he would never receive recognition for the feat.

     The
kind
's eyes were beginning to droop, his breathing getting deeper when he heard the commotion on the slopes.

     Gunshots?

     Surely not.

     Leaning forward to see through the windshield, Heim saw skiers on the snowy hillside that filled the glass. They did not seem to be coming down the hill in the regular graceful maneuvers he had seen before but were scattering like a flock of chickens upon spotting a hawk. He saw a snowmobile moving at what had to be top speed. It seemed to be chasing a single skier.

     Whatever was happening, it was likely to reach a conclusion right at this parking lot, a conclusion that might well involve the police.

     He pushed the front seat forward, got out of the back, and climbed behind the wheel. He had no intention of being here when the authorities arrived.

     He turned the key only to produce a series of dead clicks. He tried again with the same result.

     What was it the mechanic had said a month or so ago? Something about a solenoid? Heim had dismissed the warning as an attempt to pad the bill. Now the words had the weight of prophesy.

     He took another look up the slope where fleeing skiers had almost reached this parking lot. Potential treasure or not, he was not about to be apprehended with a kidnapped child. He had no qualms about disposing of the child; the question was, where?

Lang was now thankful the slopes here were not the broad avenues of Aspen or Park City. With the quick shift of his weight that bit the ski's edges into the snow, thereby giving direction, he cut to his right and into a group of
trees. They were close enough together that he had to dig an edge into the slope to reduce his speed to a point of control. The trees seemed to somewhat muffle the snarl of his pursuer's motor. Here it was all shadow rather than sunlight. His eyes had to adjust. Here also the snow bore only a few marks of skiers, mostly unpacked powder that would slow the machine down.

     But not too much, he hoped.

     He slowed down, barely moving until a flash of color told him the snowmobile had entered the trees. Then he set off at a brisk pace. The sound of the two-cycle motor adding power told him he had been seen. As if he needed confirmation, another bullet thudded into a tree trunk a few feet away.

     Lang had intended to let the snowmobile get close but not
that
close.

     Now it was matter of remembering what he had seen just before ducking into the grove of trees. He only had an interrupted view of the slope he was paralleling and he would have but the one chance.

     There it was, just as he had calculated: a slight clearing where the snowmobile driver would have a clear look at him, hopefully not in pistol range.

     Lang darted into the clearing, picking up speed again. The tone of the motor behind told him the machine was doing the same. In an instant, he was out of the woods and crossing the narrow slope. He could only hope the transition from dim forest light to brilliant sun reflecting on snow impaired his opponents' vision as it did his own. With a twitch of the skis, he rounded a stairwell of moguls, bumps, and the black outcrop of rock he had seen before darting into the trees.

     The snowmobile had neither the agility of skis nor the foreknowledge of the stone jutting up among the bumps.

     The impact sent it airborne like some ungainly missile. In midair, it did a roll, dropping its driver onto hard, packed snow, before splintering against trees on the other side of the slope.

     Lang stopped long enough to look uphill. A cursory glance at the angle of the man's neck told him that this enemy would never be a threat again.

Whatever was happening on the slope was drawing attention away from the parking lot. It was just a matter of time until Heim found an old Renault with French plates and an unlocked door. He felt around the
floorboard. Anyone that careless . . . Sure enough, the key was under a worn mat. Leaving keys in the car was not totally uncommon in resort areas where drivers feared that the activity on the slopes might cause their car keys to fall out. Heim would bet that the owner's wallet was in the glove box for the same reason.

     The car was almost as old as the VW Bug, but it cranked on the first try. Shoving the boy in the back seat, Heim pulled out of the parking lot and headed away from Oberkoenigsburg.

     Away for now—but they would be back.

Up above, two men detached themselves from the chatter and excitement about the skier who had been chased by the stolen snowmobile. Theories spanned the spectrum from the filming of a movie (although no one recalled any cameras) to a discovery of marital infidelity. The revelation that earlier that morning the same skier had been carrying a cane with a concealed blade added fuel to the speculation.

     The two men were walking back to the town square when the trill of a cell phone stopped them where they stood. The ensuing conversation, in Italian, related what had happened only minutes before.

     At the conclusion of the recitation, the man listened wordlessly for several minutes before nodding his head as if the person on the other end could see him.

     As he hit the end key, he turned to the man beside him, still speaking Italian. "New orders from Rome. We are to handle
Signor
Reilly a little differently. First, we pick up a fax from the hotel here, then . . ."

Outside Oberkoenigsburg

Ten Minutes Later

F
ROM THE LOWER PARKING LOT, LANG
Reilly had watched the police and medical emergency crew swarm over the slope before reversing his jacket, swinging the purloined skis and poles over his shoulder and heading for the road. It took only minutes before a battered Volkswagen bus filled with six college students, ski gear, and beer stopped in response to his extended thumb.

     Although there were moments of doubt, the vehicle's four-cylinder engine eventually conquered the steep incline and Lang was standing outside the ski shop where he had left the clothes he had worn to Oberkoenigsburg. He entered. Using one of the store's changing rooms, he returned to his street clothes. He could hear the store owner's account of the excitement that had taken place less than an hour ago.

     Leaving the shop, he deposited his ski clothes in the nearest trash bin. He had clearly overstayed his welcome here and had no desire to be recognized as the skier that was the topic of every conversation he heard on the streets.

     Although he had not discovered the relationship the ski town had with Wynn-Three—or the person he had been in the previous life—he had learned that other people, the two men in the
Biergarten
and the recently deceased thug on the snowmobile, either knew or suspected a connection. He was reminded of Gurt's observation that they likely
represented two different factions, both of whom had more than a passing interest in the missing child or this town or both. If he could ascertain that interest, perhaps he would be closer to finding the little boy.

     He inhaled deeply. He could only imagine his own emotional state were it Manfred who had been kidnapped. His fists clinched at the thought. Were his son missing, what would he do? Was there anything he wasn't doing on behalf of Wynn-Three?

     Without pausing, he passed the fountain and
Biergarten.
When he was within a few feet of the rented BMW, two men stepped from behind cars, one on his right, the other on his left.

     They were the same pair he had seen earlier in the
Biergarten
: big men with hard faces and cruel eyes. One had a scar from cheekbone to jawbone that Lang felt fairly certain had not come from shaving. Both were the sort of men one might see on duty in a nightclub where patrons were likely to get rowdy.

     Neither made any movement toward Lang.

     Glancing to his right and left, Lang saw a single avenue of escape: turn and flee. With their heavy, forward-canted ski boots, these two were not going to run well. Unfortunately, a dash through the narrow streets was likely to call attention to possibly the only person in town not in ski clothes, attention Lang could not risk after the recent affair on the slope.

     Lang nodded toward the BMW while backing away. "Somebody wants the parking space, right?"

     The two exchanged bewildered glances.

     Lang took another step backwards, reconsidering the flight option. "You're in luck. I'm leaving."

     Other than their looks, there was nothing aggressive about them until one reached into his jacket. Lang was about to duck, anticipating a weapon.

     Instead, the one on the left withdrew a sheet of paper. His eyes never leaving Lang, he reached over the hood of the BMW to stick it behind a windshield wiper before taking a couple of steps backward himself. Then they both turned and walked away without as much as a look back.

     If that was a parking ticket, it had been delivered by the ugliest pair of meter maids Lang had ever seen.

     He watched the two disappear around a corner before he moved. Taking the paper from the windshield, he unfolded it. He first noticed it was a
fax. Part of the sender's number looked familiar, the 39 for Italy, followed by a 6 for Rome. Then the 714 he recalled from somewhere. His eyes dropped to the letterhead and he swallowed hard.

The Vatican.

"Mr. Reilly," he read,

I regret deeply any discomfort caused you by
my attempts to keep abreast of your search for
the Charles child, who was taken by persons unknown
from his home in your city of Atlanta.

Because of his apparent memory of a previous
life, he has become of interest to The Office of
Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith, that
office of the Holy See which investigates supposedly
paranormal events.

Rather than work from adversarial positions, I am
offering such cooperation in locating the child as
may be available to this office. My only request is
that, when found, someone of my choosing be given the
liberty to interview and examine the Charles child.