by Gregg Loomis
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.
CHAPTER 11
Oberkoenigsburg, Austria
Two Weeks Earlier
January 15
FRIEDRICH 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.
After what seemed an eternity, he reached a line of boulders near the crest that screened the lowe
r 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.
CHAPTER 12
480 Lafayette Drive
February 5
Sunday Afternoon
SATURDAYS 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.
