The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (7 page)

     After what seemed an eternity, he reached a line of boulders near the crest that screened the lower slopes from view. A quick look around revealed this was not the place his father had described. The cog railway came to an
end, but there was no old mineshaft. Then it hit him with crushing reality: the resort would have closed the hole for safety purposes. He looked for a pile of rubble that might signal its former location. There was nothing
but
rubble: scree that had crumbled off the top of the mountain, rocks of every description. There was no way to distinguish what was manmade from what had been there for centuries.

     A shout from behind him spun him around so quickly he almost lost his footing.

     
"Ist verboten!"

     A man wearing the vest of the ski patrol was approaching, waving an admonishing hand. Friedrich was outside of the clearly marked boundary set by the resort.

     Friedrich felt a jolt of panic. Even if he peacefully left the area, this meddling fool would have seen his face, would remember him if he returned tomorrow when the light was better. He moved to his right, circling the peak so the hill was between him and the skiers below.

     As anticipated, the man followed, now close enough for Friedrich to see a face red with either exertion or anger. Friedrich transferred the ski pole to his left hand and reached into a pocket of his jacket. His fingers closed around a wooden grip, one of the few things of value his father had left him.

     Unless he found the mineshaft.

     The man from the ski patrol was now less than five feet away, spluttering something about violating the rules and being barred from future use of the slopes. His mouth remained open though the words stopped and his eyes bulged as he saw the 9mm Mauser in the trespasser's hand.

     Friedrich had never fired the weapon, was unsure if the old ammunition was still usable, but it was the only chance he had to rid himself of interference. He quickly pulled the slide back as his father had shown him, feeling the cold of the metal through his gloves. He leveled the pistol and jerked the trigger.

     For an instant the recoil and noise distracted him from his purpose. He smelled burned cordite and saw the man from the ski patrol's startled expression. He also saw a surprisingly small red blot above the man's right eye as he staggered back and crumpled in the snow.

     Friedrich fought a wave a panic and forced himself to think. The
mountain itself would have absorbed most of the sound, defusing the rest so those at the resort on the other side would have little idea of its origin. Taking the ski patrol's boots in his hands, Friedrich dragged him to a mound of snow-covered rocks. Ten minutes of excavation provided a shallow grave. A few more minutes smoothing over the snow as he backed away got rid of his tracks as well as a few small remaining spots of red. By the time he was found, if ever, Friedrich would be long gone.

     Now there was no question of tomorrow. Tomorrow, it must be tomorrow. He would either be able to afford living on one of those wonderful Caribbean islands with twelve months of warm sun, or he would end his days in the small apartment near the Münchner Freiheit U-Bahn station.

     One life, that of a stranger, was a small price to pay.

480 Lafayette Drive

February 5

Sunday Afternoon

S
ATURDAYS AND SUNDAYS WERE TECHNICALLY NONBUSINESS
days at Swisher & Peele. That meant few clients called and most secretaries, or administrative assistants—the politically correct job description—didn't come in. Paralegals, associates, and junior partners did, however. In fact, it would be nearly impossible to reach the twenty-five-hundred-minimum annual billable hour without working weekends and most holidays. Twenty-five hundred, nearly fifty a week, fifty-two weeks a year, not counting administrative time, the
pro bono
, or charity work, the firm required to burnish its public image, or any other activity that did not result in time billed to clients. Vacations were promised but rarely taken. With starting salaries in the mid-$130,000 range, the firm, and others of its size in the city, had little chance to recoup their investment otherwise.

     Wynton had taken this afternoon off anyway. Weeks of uninterrupted work on the United Bank case had dulled whatever edge he had. A few hours away might give him a new perspective. At least that was what he had told himself when he pushed back from his desk, put his computer into hibernate mode, and headed for the parking garage.

     The day was another of those meteorological anomalies common in the south. A warm sun belied the nasty weather that February historically would deliver. Once home, the end of an all-too-brief lunch with Paige and Wynn-Three left him idle. The little boy was already yawning when
Wynton carried him off for his nap. He had no hobbies; the time required by the firm would permit none. With his son asleep and Paige engaged in indeterminable household chores, he wandered outside into the backyard.

     The crepe myrtle trees along the boundary between his and the neighbor's yard were shabby with uneven twigs and nude branches. They should have been pruned back in January. Paige should have gotten someone to do it, but then he shook his head at the thought. Paige had enough to do. He went into the garage and in a few minutes found the shears he had purchased a year or so ago when, in a fit of unwarranted optimism, he had thought he might have time for a little yard work. The clippers still had the price tag attached. He experimentally took a few clips at the air. A little time outside, a bit of exercise, a few snips and those trees would be as shapely as any on the street when they put out grapelike bunches of pink flowers this summer.

     He had worked about half an hour when he sensed another presence, that undefinable feeling of being watched. Turning, he saw the little boy next door seated on a tricycle and watching him intently. Next to him was arguably the world's ugliest dog.

     "What are you doing, Mr. Charles?"

     The kid always spoke like that, like an adult being careful with his English. With his serious eyes and almost grown-up speech, the child was . . . unusual. Manfred, that was his name. Never saw him without that ugly mutt. However, his mother was really hot. A tall, blond German woman. Every time she came out to do yard work on a weekend, every man in the neighborhood developed a sudden need to cut the lawn no matter how recently the landscaping service had been there. Manfred had been born in Germany from what Wynton had heard. There was something a little strange there. For some reason, his father, name of Lang Reilly, had not seen the boy until the kid was already three, or so the talk on the street went. In Ansley Park, everybody's business was everybody else's business. Reilly and his wife had worked together somewhere in Europe before Reilly married his first wife, who had died a long time ago. And his current wife kept what Wynton guessed was her maiden name, Fuchs. Pronounced very differently in German and English, Wynton gathered, judging by the number of jokes in questionable taste going around the Park. Whatever. Manfred was unfailingly polite if he tended to be a little on the quiet side.

     Wynton put down his shears long enough to wipe his forehead with a shirt sleeve. "I'm pruning these trees so they'll have more blooms this summer."

     Manfred twisted his mouth from one side to the other, thinking this over. "Pruning?"

     "Yeah, cutting the smaller branches so they'll come back thicker."

     With that abrupt change of subject not necessarily peculiar to children, Manfred asked, "Where is Wynn?"

     "Taking a nap."

     Manfred gave this pronouncement serious consideration, too. "He is tired?"

     Wynton shrugged. "Guess so. Little kids take naps. You don't?"

     Manfred stood, the trike between his legs. "I am now four. I no longer take naps. Wynn is but three."

     Four wasn't so far from three, was it? What had that old bat at St. Philip's said, something about increasing contact with other children? He didn't remember seeing Manfred among his son's playmates.

     "Maybe you and Wynn should play together. After all, you live next door." He put down the shears and checked his watch. Pruning was harder work than he'd thought. "Tell you what: it's about time for Wynn to wake up or he won't go to sleep tonight. Why don't you ask your folks if it's okay for you to come over for a glass of lemonade or something? The two of you together can think of something to play."

     Wynton had no idea if any such beverage was in the refrigerator, but he did know that if it was sweet enough, a kid would be delighted to drink whatever was available.

     "I would like that. Thank you."

     He pedaled furiously around the corner of the house, dog trotting behind. He reappeared in seconds with his father. Behind them, Wynton noticed for the first time a stream of water. Reilly was washing his car again, a silver turbo Porsche. Reilly's car was almost as much an object of admiration and envy among the neighborhood men as his wife.

     Wynton didn't know Lang Reilly well, only enough to speak to upon sight. He did know Lang ran some sort of international charitable fund and practiced white-collar criminal defense. He had defended Atlanta's mayor against a number of corruption and racketeering charges a few years ago. Got "Hizhonor" the mayor off with a twenty-two-month sentence for
tax evasion instead of the six or seven years Wynton thought he deserved. Reilly hadn't gone to one of the top law schools—Harvard, Yale, Virginia—Wynton was fairly certain. But the man had an air of self-confidence that he wore like a familiar sweater, the legal equivalent of bedside manner.

     One thing Wynton was sure of: if he ever got into deep shit with the law, Reilly was the man he would want at his counsel table.

     Reilly was wearing a pair of cutoffs, an Atlanta Braves T-shirt, and no shoes. A bit skimpy even with the unseasonable weather.

     "Manfred says you invited him over for lemonade and to play with Wynn."

     "I hope it's okay."

     Reilly hitched up his pants. "Sure. Send him home the minute he gets overly obnoxious."

     With a word, the dog followed Reilly back around the house and out of sight.

     Wynton walked behind as Manfred skipped to the front door. There was something else about the kid's father he was just now remembering. There were stories, unsubstantiated but persistent, around the Atlanta Bar that Lang Reilly had some sort of mysterious past, something related to secret government work, that his frequent trips out of the country had not all been business related.

     Then there had been the one time Wynton had been in the Reilly house, a cocktail party shortly after Reilly had finished some lengthy, if less-than-obvious, renovations. First, Wynton had noticed multiple locks on the doors, locks that were unlike any Wynton had ever seen before. A set of keys on a table in the hall had also been unique: they had been full of holes and indentations like Swiss cheese rather than the sort you had cut at the local hardware store. Paige had taken a wrong turn—at least that was what she claimed—on the way to the powder room and wound up in what must have been the master bedroom. Steel shutters, a door that was iron painted to look like wood. She swore she had seen surveillance cameras hidden in the shadows of the ceiling.

     So the man liked his security.

     Or made kinky movies.

     Manfred had been in the house only minutes before Wynton sensed something between the little boy and his son. It wasn't exactly that Wynn-Three
seemed to dislike his visitor. More like he was wary of him, an elk watching a distant pack of wolves. Wynn-Three made an obvious effort not to come within a couple of feet of his guest nor did he take his eyes off him.

     If there was a problem, Manfred was oblivious to it. In Wynn-Three's room, he surveyed the contents of his host's toy chest with proprietary interest. Soon, Curious George's fire truck was going head to head with Bob the Builder's yellow earth mover with the moveable front scoop. Wynton watched the action, accompanied by the whirr of battery-powered motors.

     It was too pretty a day to play inside, mechanical toys or not.

     "Guys, why don't you go outside? There's a swing set in the backyard and Wynn got a pedal Jeep for Christmas you can take turns in up and down the driveway. Don't get in the street, though."

     Reluctantly, the two small boys trooped out into the backyard.

     Wynton returned to his pruning to the sound of children at play. From the intermittent attention he paid, the two boys were engaged in some sort of game that involved furious pedaling of the small replica Jeep up and down the pavement followed by a dash to the slide attached to the swing set. Whatever reservations Wynn-Three had about his playmate seemed to have vanished.

     He had been working for a while when he heard the back door open. Stopping, shears in hand, he watched Paige walk across the yard with a tray carrying two plastic glasses and a pitcher.

     "I made you guys some Kool-Aid," she announced, carefully balancing the tray on a swing. "Who wants some?"

     The game forgotten, Manfred and Wynn downed one, then another glass before Manfred returned his to the tray. "Thank you very much."

     Paige stooped to bring her face close to his. "I understand you speak German."

     He nodded slowly with a child's reluctance to be any different from others. "Yes, ma'am."

     "How do you say 'thank you' in German?"

     
"Danke schön."

     "And how would you say, 'I like Kool-Aid'?"

     Manfred shifted his weight, uncomfortable at the attention.
"Ich habe Kool-Aid gern."

     Paige was about to ask another question when something made Wynton's gaze shift to Wynn-Three. His son's eyes were wider than he had ever seen them, comically so, were it not for the terror on his face that froze him where he stood. The child was unaware he was holding his glass inverted, Kool-Aid spilling and streaking his pants blood red.