The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (6 page)

     The floor was Wynton's again.

     "We have a number of defenses. Specifically . . ."

     The door to the room opened and a young black woman entered. She glanced around the room like a bird unsure of its surroundings. "Excuse me. Mr. Charles's wife is on the phone."

     Wynton felt his face flush.

     Richardson scowled. "I thought I left word we weren't to be interrupted."

     The woman was clearly flustered. "You did, Mr. Richardson. She says it's an emergency."

     Richardson's glare at Wynton was hard as a diamond drill. "Go ahead, take it." He softened as he spoke to Frisk. "I was about to suggest a break, order a fresh pot of coffee, anyway."

     As likely as he was about to jump out of the window.

     Wynton felt his chest clinch. Causing an interruption of a meeting with one of the firm's biggest clients was not something Richardson was going to forget. It might be worse, though. He almost panicked as the dark possibilities flashed through his mind as he entered a vacant office next to the conference room. Jesus, what if Wynn-Three had fallen into the swimming pool? Run out in front of a truck? Swallowed something? Had the house caught on fire?

     His hand shook as he punched the winking button on the phone's keyboard. "Yes?"

     At least Paige's voice sounded calm. "Wynton, we have a problem."

     He exhaled deeply, relieved that his son was not in immediate peril. A problem? No shit. Just a problem and she had intruded on what could be the most important meeting of his career so far? He swallowed the sour taste of his fear, letting the fright be replaced by his anger over the interruption.

     "Paige, I was in a meeting with the president of United Bank and Trust. He and two senior partners are waiting. I hope this is important," he said stiffly.

     "It's important, all right. I've just had a conference with Mrs. Jennins."

     The name didn't register.

     "Who?"

     "The head of St. Philip's Day Care. She wants to speak with both of us about Wynn-Three."

     Wynton was surprised to realize the sound he was hearing was the grinding of his own teeth. "Some teacher wants to talk with us and you interrupt . . ."

     That all-too-familiar edge was back in her tone. "I'd think your son's welfare would take precedence over some meeting. Wynn-Three may have some sort of psychological disorder."

     What the hell was going on? Paige had worked here. She knew how things were. Absent imminent nuclear attack, you
did not
call a junior partner out of meetings with senior partners. She was calling him about some fairy-fay psycho-babble? Wynton viewed mental health practitioners with the same skepticism he reserved for auguring chicken entrails, voodoo curses, or tarot cards. Paige had been away from Swisher & Peele too long.

     "Paige," he said as patiently as he could, "as I said, I have a very important meeting going on concerning the bank litigation. As you know, a good performance could mean a lot to me professionally." He paused, unable to resist. "You
do
recall 'professional'? Any problems Wynn-Three might have that are not life threatening can surely wait until I get home. Okay?"

     There was the sort of pause romance writers would have described as "pregnant," then, "Does that mean you won't meet with Mrs. Jennins?"

     There was that grinding sound again.

     "Paige, I'm going to hang up now, try to salvage the conference. That does not mean I'm not interested in our son. It does mean one of us has to earn a living. Okay?"

     Her voice might as well have been dripping with icicles. "Wynton, it was as much your decision as mine that I become a full-time mother to our child. That does not, repeat,
does not
give you the right to patronize me."

     He started to reply but was stopped by a disconnecting click.

Cathedral of St. Phillip

February 1

2:20
P.M.

W
YNTON STARED INCREDULOUSLY AT THE CRAYON
drawing on Mrs. Jennins's desk. For this he was giving up billable hours? Because his son had scribbled something that, possibly, might be construed as a man in an old-fashioned striped prison suit, he was sitting at St. Philip's instead of preparing for trial? Swisher & Peele's announced policy was that, whether senior partner or youngest associate, family always came first. It sounded great in the firm's brochure and was an enticing inducement in recruiting. The truth was that, aside from the ability to bring in business, billable hours and performance determined all future raises and promotions. Neither were going to be enhanced by his presence here at the church office.

     Over half-moon spectacles, Mrs. Jennins's watery blue eyes were shifting from Wynton to Paige and back again. "Do either of you have any idea where the child might have gotten such an image?"

     Paige darted a look to where Wynn-Three was completing a tower of gaily colored building blocks. "Not a clue. We're very careful what he watches on TV,
Sesame Street
and the like. The only movies he's seen were Disney animations. Certainly nothing to do with prisons."

     The older woman pursed her lips as though tasting the words. "Well, the concept had to come from somewhere in his environment."

     Wynton shook his head. "Kids just think stuff up. I'm not convinced that picture shows anything more than a striped suit or maybe a shirt."

     Mrs. Jennins impaled him with a stare. "Even so, Mr. Charles, the face is sad, reflective of unhappiness. Your son chose dark colors rather than the bright ones typical of a child Wynton's age. Neither is a good sign. Could be some unfortunate subconscious memory or a symptom of depression."

     If Wynton could have bit his tongue, he would have. What did the old bag think, that a kid's doodling was some sort of Rorschach test? How much longer was this woman going to continue with her psychological hocus-pocus? He glanced at his watch for probably the tenth time.

     Paige saw him. This time it was her eyes that were as sharp as a dagger. She turned back to Mrs. Jennins. "He doesn't seem depressed. I mean, he's just as rowdy as his playmates and seems to enjoy the same things."

     The childcare principal sniffed. "Depression isn't necessarily consistent. He could be a happy three-year-old this afternoon and miserable by bedtime. Tell me, has young Wynton had nightmares or wet the bed lately?"

     Wynton shook his head. "No."

     "Wait a minute," Paige said. "Right before Christmas, he did. Same day that he also had an accident at Lenox Square. I'd taken him to ride the Pink Pig. He was terrified of it."

     "But that was over six weeks ago," Wynton protested. "That hardly . . ."

     Mrs. Jennins nodded, her hypothesis proved. "First time you had taken him to a mall?"

     This time it was Paige who nodded. "Yes. I didn't think he was old enough before."

     "The crowds, the noises. It's enough to make an adult nervous. I'd guess all that dredged up some sort of insecurity, a feeling that maybe he wasn't getting the amount of attention he's used to, something I'd expect him to outgrow soon enough. Children need to be weaned a little bit from mommy. You were wise to enroll him here where he can learn to interact with others in an environment besides home."

     Wynton stood. "I'm glad that's resolved. Thank you so much."

     Mrs. Jennins eyed him like she might have an unruly three-year-old. "Resolved? We really haven't resolved anything." She gave Paige a knowing look. "But I know all you young lawyers are busy. I suggest you increase young Wynton's contact with other children, at the same time keeping an eye on him for anything unusual. The things you want to watch for are unexplained unhappiness, crying with no reason, antisocial conduct. We
here at St. Philip's will evaluate him from time to time as we do all our children. Perhaps this drawing is meaningless, just an aberration on the norm."

     Outside, Paige was strapping Wynn-Three into his car seat in the BMW X3 as Wynton brushed his lips across the back of her neck. "I may be a little late getting home tonight, got to make up for lost time."

     Instead of scrunching her neck into her shoulders and turning to put her arms around him, her usual response, she spun, glaring. "You were so bored! And it showed. All you wanted to do was get back to work instead of worrying about your son!"

     He jutted his chin toward Wynn-Three, a silent reminder that by long-standing agreement arguments were not held in front of the child. "You heard her, an aberration on the norm. There's nothing to worry about."

     "If there were, you still would be more interested in getting back to work!"

     He sighed in resignation. "Paige, that work you are so quick to disparage is what puts a roof over our heads, pays for Wynn-Three to attend a fancy day-care center . . ."

     The slam of the SUV's door cut him off.

     He stood in the parking lot. Through the car's window, he could see Wynn-Three bend and straighten his little fingers in a good-bye wave. Wynton and Paige had been married, what, four years? And he still didn't completely understand her. He was beginning to realize he never would.

     Paige was so irritated that she almost ran the light at the corner of Peachtree and West Wesley. Only the angry blare of horns brought her to a stop halfway through the intersection. That her husband had been right made her even madder.

     Of course Wynton's work and career were important. But so was rearing young Wynn-Three. The difference was that Wynton would receive reward and recognition for his success. There were no accolades for mommies, at least none awarded by the community. No one got their fifteen minutes of fame for motherhood. It was so damn unfair.

     She had made good grades at Yale, had been second in her class. Better than Wynton had done at Columbia. Better school, too. But here she was, chauffeuring her three-year-old around in anonymity while Wynton was on his way to a career that would be admired by his peers. She had not endured the drudgery of law school, the all-nighters, the hours cross-checking
obscure citations for the law review, just to do what any woman with properly functioning biological parts could do, law degree or not.

     No. She wanted recognition, too.

     The problem was how to get it.

Oberkoenigsburg, Austria

Two Weeks Earlier

January 15

F
RIEDRICH GRATZ STOOD ON A LARGE
wooden deck jutting out from the side of the mountain. Young people laughed and shouted as they lounged in the last bit of the afternoon sun. Behind him was an A-frame that sold hot drinks, beer, and a variety of
Wurst
, or German sausages. In front of him, skiers weaved their way downhill from the lift or took a second set of chairs to the run above the town. He had not anticipated this. He had expected a pristine Alpine slope empty of anything except snow and rock. And a cave that had been a mineshaft.

     He had come prepared for rock climbing, only to find one of Europe's newest ski resorts. He cursed his carelessness for failing to call Oberkoenigsburg up on his computer before he left home. Once here, he had little choice but to try to blend in. He had rented skis, poles, and boots but he still felt uncomfortably obvious among the resort's patrons, most of whom were half his age.

     He turned to look up at the crest of the mountain. He could just make out the ripples in the snow that must be the remains of the cog railway his father had described.

     His father.

     Dead now nearly ten years, the old man had managed to live in obscurity, avoiding a past that would have subjected him to hatred and ridicule by the children of the very people he had served, children who had no idea
either of the dream their country had held or the misery of seeing it shattered. His father had kept the dream, as did most men who had served, kept it proudly, if quietly. There was the uniform at the back of the closet, its brass kept polished, and the book of photographs, now sepia-colored and faded, locked in a box along with a list of five-digit numbers.

     Friedrich cared little for long dead dreams and found the uniform and photographs uninteresting anachronisms. The list of numbers were another matter. His father had never really explained its significance until one day shortly before his emphysema-riddled lungs had quit for the last time, a few clear and cogent minutes when the impenetrable curtain of approaching Alzheimer's had temporarily lifted. In gasps and wheezes, the old man had told his son about what he had witnessed over sixty years ago, the first time he had mentioned those times since Friedrich had been a child. Friedrich had wanted to follow up on the information immediately but there had been the matter of an explanation to Analisa and the children. A divorce, and the child's natural graduation into adulthood, had finally obviated any need for elucidation. He had taken early retirement from the BMW plant in Munich, packed mountain-climbing gear into the BMW his years of service to the company had helped him purchase, and set off.

     But now what? There was no ski lift that went all the way to the summit. The one above the town stopped several hundred meters short of a row of boulders just under the summit.

     There was little daylight left and the exorbitant prices at the resort gave him little choice. He had to find what he was looking for today, tomorrow at the latest.

     He took the lift that went to the highest ski trail, where he planted his skis in the snow, sat down, and took off his boots, replacing them with sturdy hiking footwear from his backpack. He kept one pole to act as a staff and went climbing.

     Wind had blown most snow from rocky surface, baring the rails of the cog railway. Following them up the steep incline soon had him gasping in the thin, frigid air. He was leaning more and more on his pole. Despite the cold, he was sweating underneath his layers of clothing.