Cut and Run

Nineteen

C atharina was impatient for the last of her customers to leave so that she could close up the shop. Over and over again she had berated herself for not telling Hendrik she had the Minstrel. That way, she could have protected Juliana-and even Wilhelmina. She could lead Hendrik away from them, just as Johannes had tried to do. It was a good plan; anyway, good or not, it had to be done.

If only she’d thought to do it when Hendrik was there.

But she would have another chance. She would make one.

The cleanup crew already had the kitchen spotless, and there was just one trio of friends lingering over a pot of tea and a tray of butter cookies. Catharina didn’t rush them. She laid six miniature cream puffs in a box to take home to her husband; they were his favorite. He was urging her to go to their country house in Connecticut for a few days and make wreaths, gathering the pine cones, sprigs of evergreen, and perhaps some grapevines from their own woods. She remembered herself urging Juliana to go to Vermont. Was there really anywhere they could hide?

The little doorbell tinkled, and two men entered the shop. The trio had split up their bill, and each young woman was counting out her money; they had on their coats already. Catharina started to tell the men the shop was closed, but she stopped herself, staring at them instead. One was perhaps in his early fifties with a blunt, mean face and iron-gray hair. He wore a navy blue sweater that emphasized the breadth and strength of his shoulders; she thought the sweater was intentionally snug. She noticed the bulge of his thigh muscles beneath the sturdy pants. The second man was perhaps twenty, rangy and dark, wearing a jacket and baggy jeans. Catharina didn’t think they had come to buy cream puffs.

“Afternoon,” the older one said, nodding in greeting.

Catharina nodded back, holding her head regally, and when she spoke, her Dutch accent sounded exaggerated, even to her. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

The older man laughed, a twangy snort that she found disturbing. “Now that’s the kind of talk I like. Yeah, you can help me-Mrs. Fall, right?”

“Yes, that is correct.” Again, the heavy accent.

“Sergeant Phillip Bloch.”

She closed up the white box, “What is it you want?”

“The Minstrel’s Rough.”

Matthew had reluctantly agreed to split up with Juliana at the airport so she could fetch her mother, mostly because he wanted to have a word alone with Wilhelmina Peperkamp. She pulled open the door wearing an apron that had sixteenth-notes across the front and fit rather cozily around the old Dutchwoman’s ample middle.

“You Peperkamps get around,” he said.

Wilhelmina was in a no-nonsense mood. “Come in, Mr. Stark.”

He did.

“Where’s Juliana?”

He explained as he followed the old Dutchwoman down the hall to the kitchen. He remembered her story about feeding her brother’s cat, but she showed no indication the silly lie embarrassed her. She just seemed peculiarly glad to have some company. She was an independent, stubborn woman-a Peperkamp.

“You two are being watched, I see,” he said. He’d compelled Juliana to describe the man who’d followed them and had spotted him outside the Museum of Natural History. He’d stopped himself just short of going over and pounding the bastard into the pavement.

“Yes, but he’s not an expert. We have our ways of dealing with him.”

J.J. Pepper, for one. Juliana hadn’t mentioned her on the plane, but Matthew had no doubt her services were called into use to handle her Burberry man.

The kitchen was a large, airy room, its faded elegance in need of remodeling, and Stark wondered how Juliana fit in with the rest of the crowd in the prestigious Beresford. Knowing her, she probably didn’t care one way or the other-or even notice such things. She had any number of small, upscale appliances, but they looked relatively unused. Wilhelmina had already started cleaning the place. There was a mop standing in a bucket of sudsy water, and the counters were sparkling.

“I thought apartments were small in New York,” Wilhelmina said as she squatted down and worked at a spot on the floor with a fingernail, “but this place! Did you see that giant green something in the entry? I can’t decide what it is. I’ve watered it, but who knows. Maybe it doesn’t need water. How is your investigation coming?”

Stark debated grabbing a sponge but leaned against a counter instead. Yes, a woman of action was Wilhelmina Peperkamp. “Facts seem to be coming my way instead of me going theirs.”

“Ahh, yes. I know what you mean.”

He had a sneaking suspicion she did. “I’m glad to see you’re just washing floors, but I have a feeling that isn’t all that you’re up to. Look, this thing’s getting serious-”

She glanced up at him, annoyed. “My brother’s body is being cremated, Mr. Stark. He died of a heart attack, but who’s to say what brought it on? You don’t need to tell me about danger, I assure you. I was in the Dutch Underground Resistance during the war. I know danger.”

Properly chastened, Stark watched her get up and swish the mop around, then wring it out. She attacked the floor under the table, complaining because Juliana had such a big kitchen for one person and so many gadgets and who knew how to work such things and there was no food in the place. No cheese. She’d already cleaned out the refrigerator, apparently, and thrown out everything that didn’t look right to her. What it might look like to Juliana didn’t seem to matter a whole hell of a lot. She finished up with the floor, dumped out the water, and proceeded to scour the sink, working fast and furiously.

Matthew found her opinionated and critical, but she also seemed to practice her own brand of tolerance: you could do as you goddamn well pleased, just so long as you didn’t expect her to approve. Hell, maybe he didn’t need to worry; the old battleax could probably handle Phil Bloch.

“Tell me, Mr. Stark,” she said, drying her hands with a linen dishtowel, “are you planning to write another book on these past few days?”

“Did Juliana tell you about LZ?”

Again annoyance flashed in her plain, square face. “No, I read it when it came out-in English, of course. I avoid translations whenever possible. It was an excellent work, but naturally with a book like that, there’s always the danger it’s the only one you have to write. Either you wrote that book over and over-under different titles, of course, and perhaps the readers don’t mind, but still it’s the same-or you just stop. If a new idea comes, it comes. If not, at least you won’t starve.” She nodded at his feet, adding, “You have good boots, Mr. Stark. I’d say you’re doing all right.”

“I’ll tell my editor: judge me by my boots, not my lack of production.”

“You’re lazy?”

A sin in Wilhelmina Peperkamp’s world, to be sure. She scowled at some expensive European hand cream Juliana had on the sink but squirted some out and rubbed it into her tough old hands.

“Unmotivated might be a better word,” Stark said. “But never mind. You and Juliana are being watched-”

“Catharina, too,” Wilhelmina added perfunctorily.

“I suspected as much. I think it’s because someone thinks one or all of you can lead him to the Minstrel’s Rough.”

Wilhelmina put the cap back on the hand cream and looked at him, her stony expression matching his. “You know, Mr. Stark, if one looks closely, one can see how your eyes tell what is in your heart. It’s not easy to see, perhaps, but it’s there. You’re not so tough.” She smiled at his look of surprise. “Why don’t you just tell me what you know?”

“I haven’t made all the connections yet,” he said, determined not to let the old Dutchwoman get to him. “I’m trying. But you put me at a disadvantage by not leveling with me. What do you know about the Minstrel?”

She shrugged, but he didn’t for a second believe her look of nonchalance and ignorance. “It’s a legendary diamond. I’ve never seen it and have no proof it exists, but I grew up in the diamond business. I’ve heard stories. If it could be located and successfully cut, it would be worth millions.”

And what would Phillip Bloch do with that much money? He was a retired army sergeant. “Why do people think you have it?”

“I don’t know that people do think that. Do you?”

“It’s a damn good guess.” He saw that his dark looks weren’t inspiring her to talk. Another Peperkamp trait. “What about your sister?”

“Achh, she bakes cookies. She always could cook. In the war, she would come up with so many ways to stretch what food we had. Here, I’ve some coffee made. I don’t know why Juliana doesn’t have a regular coffeepot, but-” she shrugged “-one adapts.”

“Your sister doesn’t like to talk about the war, does she?”

“No.”

Stark nodded. “I can understand that.”

“Yes,” Wilhelmina said, “I believe you can. For me, it’s more difficult to understand, because I think we cannot afford not to talk. But Juliana’s never pushed.”

“Good for her.”

The coffee maker, Stark noted, was top-of-the-line. He took a seat with her at a high-gloss rectangular oak table and watched without expression as she added two tablespoons of canned evaporated milk to her coffee. Aunt Willie’s coffee was strong enough to kill a horse, but he drank it anyway.

“Do you want to tell me about Hendrik de Geer?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“You knew him during the war?”

“Yes, but that’s of no consequence.”

“At this point, probably not,” Matthew agreed. “What’s important right now is getting you three out of the reach of the man I think de Geer’s been working for. I’ll help you get somewhere safe, then I’ll figure out a way to stop these guys.”

“Is this man someone you know?” Wilhelmina asked, interested.

Stark grinned. “Tit for tat, Ms. Peperkamp. You tell me about de Geer and the Minstrel, and I’ll tell you what I’ve got on my end.”

“Maybe you have nothing,” she said with a grunt, drinking some of the coffee, “and then where would I be?”

“Whichever way you want it. I have a call to make. Mind if I use the phone?”

“And if I do mind?”

Stark laughed at her combativeness. “Hell, Juliana can afford it.”

“Who are you calling?”

“The Gazette.” Wilhelmina Peperkamp followed him into the living room, making no attempt to give him any privacy, but Matthew didn’t care. Ziegler picked up on the first ring. “Working hard, Aaron? Good. Got anything for me?”

“Zip,” Aaron said, sighing. “I got in touch with most of the men whose names you gave me, but none had heard from or about Phillip Bloch in a number of years-or were too keen to hear his name. They also hadn’t heard from Otis Raymond. I checked the wires, too, and the morgue, but no luck.”

“Stay on it, see if anything comes up,” Stark said, and before hanging up, he gave Ziegler the number on the telephone next to the goldfish tank. Given the general disarray of the rest of the place, it was cleaner than he’d have expected, but he had to admit to a certain satisfaction that beautiful, talented, wealthy Juliana Fall didn’t worry about maintaining the standard Central Park West opulence.

“Did he have anything?” Wilhelmina asked, her frustration with her own inactivity mounting.

“No.”

“Bah. I hate waiting.”

“Ready to knock heads together, are you?” Matthew grinned. “We could have used you in ’Nam.”

“A terrible war,” she said.

“Name me one that wasn’t.”

She pursed her thin lips thoughtfully. “A good point. Where are you going?”

He was zipping up his coat. “See if I can find some heads to knock together. Sit tight, Aunt Willie. I won’t be long.”

Catharina pulled out a length of delft-blue ribbon; it was real ribbon, not paper. The Minstrel. Of course. She wasn’t surprised-or, after forty years, frightened. She’d known someone would come, not this man, perhaps, but someone.

“And why do you want the Minstrel?” she asked, nominally curious.

“I don’t like to waste time, Mrs. Fall. The stone, please.”

“As you wish.”

With a few deft movements, she tied the ribbon around the box, which she tucked under her arm, nodding toward the kitchen. They would use the rear exit-less likely to run into any well-intentioned rescuers that way. This, Catharina thought, was what she had to do-and it was going to be easier than she’d envisioned. She hated only to worry Adrian, to sadden him…

No, she wouldn’t think of those things now.

“Come with me,” she said, hearing the resolve in her own voice.

The two men followed her into the kitchen as her mind raced. Where should she take them? Johannes had led his merry chase to Amsterdam. She considered Rotterdam, the Hague-no, she thought. Switzerland. She would tell them the Minstrel was in a safe-deposit box in a Swiss bank. Her husband being a banker and herself a member, if a somewhat eccentric one, of the Park Avenue elite, she could name several. She would pick one, and they would go.

In the front of the shop, the doorbell tinkled again, and Catharina held her breath.

“Mother?”

No! “Juliana-no, get out! Quickly!”

But Bloch was already swinging back around toward the kitchen.

Muttering in Dutch, Catharina grabbed a knife and sent it slicing toward the big gray-haired man. He dodged, swearing, as the knife stuck in the doorframe inches to his left. The younger man lunged toward her. Catharina began pulling pots and baking pans off their hooks and throwing them in their path.

“Juliana,” she screamed, “run! I don’t need you!”

Catharina kicked a stack of baking trays onto the floor, blocking the younger man’s path, and snatched up another knife, an eight-inch Sabatier. She flung it at the sergeant, who was circling around the cooking island toward her. The blade nicked his wrist as he put up a hand to keep the knife from striking his neck. Catharina felt herself going wild, as her wispy white-blond hair hung in her face. She’d never before felt as if she could kill someone.

“Feisty, aren’t we?” Bloch said, grinning as he carelessly shook a spurt of blood from his hand.

“If you touch my daughter, Phillip Bloch,” Catharina yelled hoarsely, “I’ll kill you. Nothing will stop me!”

“Get the girl,” Bloch said calmly to the younger man. “I’ll take care of this one.”

Juliana appeared in the doorway, her face pallid with fury and terror as she held a wooden shoe above her head as a weapon. Catharina felt a surge of pride at her daughter’s courage, but also a sinking sense of despair.

Doing as he was told, the younger man kicked his way over the baking pans, pulling out a gun in a holster over his kidney. Juliana wasted no time. As he swung toward her, she lunged at him and smashed the wooden shoe down on the side of his neck, clearly not expecting to have a second chance. The impact of the shoe on flesh and bone made a sickening sound. The man sank to his knees. His gun flew out of his hand and skidded across the floor.

Catharina was sobbing, adrenaline pumping painfully through her. “Good for you, Juliana! Now for God’s sake, run!”

But the blow had only stunned the younger man, and he recovered enough to whip around and grab Juliana by the knee, toppling her over. Her head struck the doorframe, and she landed awkwardly, in a sprawling heap. Catharina saw that her daughter had instinctively protected her hands.

“Juliana!”

Catharina reached for another knife, but Bloch bounded over to her and smashed it from her hand, ignoring his flesh wound. He grabbed the baker’s wrist and twisted it behind her, and she cried out in agony as she heard the snap of her own bone.

“You sonofabitch,” Juliana yelled, trying to pull herself up.

“Don’t move or I’ll snap another bone,” Bloch said.

Through her blinding pain, Catharina saw the young henchman strike her daughter across the side of the head, knocking her back to the cool tile floor. Catharina began praying in Dutch for strength and forgiveness. Her helplessness was the worst pain she had ever experienced.

“I should learn not to underestimate you Peperkamps,” Bloch said. He was breathing hard and bleeding significantly, and he coughed and snorted, catching his breath. “Goddamn women. Still, ain’t this convenient? We got us two little birdies with one stone, don’t we? Pick up the girl, Peters. We’ll go out the back.”

Juliana’s Burberry man had moved across the street to Central Park, where it was dark and getting very cold. Matthew trotted across the street and before the guy could do anything had him pinned against the tree, with a forearm pressed against his throat. “What’s your name?” Stark asked.

“Paul-”

“Hello, Paul. I’m Matthew Stark.”

“Jesus Christ.” The bland eyes widened. “Steelman? Weasel’s told me about you-shit. Look, I’m just following orders.”

“Bloch’s.”

It wasn’t a question. Paul tried to nod but couldn’t. “Hey, look, he’s okay. Just trying to get it together to go after some commies, that kind of thing, no big deal.”

“Then what’s he doing have piano players and old women followed around?”

“He’s just looking after his own interests. I got orders not to hurt nobody.”

“You haven’t got the talent to hurt anybody,” Stark said mildly. “Those women have been running circle around you. What about me? Got any orders?”

Paula licked his fleshy lips. “Truth is, I can do anything to you. I mean, Bloch don’t care what happens to you. But Weaze says you’re okay.”

“Tell me about Weasel.”

“I ain’t seen him in a while, I been up here.”

“Where’d you see him last?”

“I can’t…”

“Where?”

Stark didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Weaze had been telling stories about Steelman, some of them probably even true. “Florida. Ryder’s place on the Dead Lakes. Bloch knows I told you, I’m dead.”

“Is he there now?”

Paul didn’t say anything. Matthew repeated the question. Paul licked his lips some more; they were purple in the cold. He looked like the kind of guy who considered standing in the cold watching a ritzy apartment building on Central Park West hazardous duty. “No.” It came out as a whisper. “He ain’t there.”

Matthew waited.

“Man, I can’t-”

“You’d better. I can think of lots of things I could do with you if you don’t.”

“He’s here in New York, okay? I think he’s going after the women, first the baker, then these two, just to ask them some questions. They deal with him straight, he’ll let ’em go.”

“You dumb fuck,” Matthew said, but he didn’t waste any time or energy explaining to Paul that it didn’t matter if you dealt straight with Sergeant Phillip Bloch. If you were a loose end, he cut you off.

He ran out into the street, and a cab screeched to a stop in front of him. It was occupied. He didn’t care. He tore open the door and flashed his press badge. “It’s an emergency-please,” he said, climbing in.

The woman already occupying the cab decided she wouldn’t stay in for the ride and shot out. The driver, a fat, slow gentleman from Brooklyn, insisted on checking Stark’s press badge before he went anywhere.

“Okay, fella,” he said, “where to?”

It sounded ridiculous, but Matthew said it anyway, “Catharina’s Bake Shop on upper Madison.”

Phillip Bloch’s henchman Peters bent down to haul Juliana to her feet, but she was ready for him. Ignoring the shooting pain in her head and the muted cries of her mother, she kicked out viciously, one of her three-hundred-dollar black Italian shoes landing squarely in his face, knocking him backward. He grunted in surprise and blinding pain, and Juliana seized the opening, scooting backward as far out of reach as she could and scrambling agonizingly to her feet.

Bloch growled. “Fuck it, do I have to do everything?”

From the front room came a crashing sound and, absurdly, the tinkling of Catharina’s little doorbell. Matthew, Juliana thought wildly, hanging onto the doorframe, it’s got to be him!

A stout, fair-skinned older man jumped behind the counter, brushing her aside as he went into the kitchen.

“Hendrik-help Juliana!” Catharina was sobbing as Bloch twisted her good arm behind her back and pushed her toward the storeroom and rear exit. “Never mind me-for God’s sake, never mind me!”

“Don’t follow me, de Geer,” Bloch said. He had pulled out a monstrous gun and looked ready to call the whole thing a wash and kill everyone in sight. Blood poured over his hand. “I’ll kill her right now-and the girl. I’ll cut my losses. You know I will.”

The Dutchman took a short breath and halted, his cold eyes giving Juliana a quick, appraising glance. The young henchman was coughing, climbing slowly to his feet. Juliana could see his eyes focus on his gun and shot out one foot, kicking it farther away. De Geer folded his hands together and brought them down on the stumbling Peters, hitting him almost exactly where Juliana had gotten him with the wooden shoe. He fell unconscious.

Phillip Bloch had seized the opportunity and had disappeared through the storeroom with Catharina.

“Come, you must get out of here,” the Dutchman said in a low voice, “before he changes his mind and thinks he can handle us both after all.”

Juliana lunged blindly toward the storeroom. “Mother-”

“Bloch will kill her, and you, if we don’t leave now. He means what he says.”

“Dammit, I’m calling the police!”

Hendrik de Geer grabbed her by the shoulders and held her, not ungently, against the doorframe. “No. Understand me, Juliana: he will kill her.”

She nodded dully, hurting everywhere, gulping for air as she tried to still her pounding heart and concentrate…Mother. But she knew the Dutchman was right. “He wants the Minstrel,” she said.

“Of course he does. Now come. I will get you somewhere safe.”

She looked at him. She had never seen eyes so piercingly blue. “You’re Hendrik de Geer.”

“Yes,” he said, without pride. “I’m the man who betrayed your family and the Steins-my friends-to the Nazis. And, of course, you’re wondering whose side I’m on.” He gave her a thin, wretched smile. “But that’s very simple, Juliana. Everyone knows whose side I’m on: my own. Right now it suits me to help you. Now come.”

Betrayed…my friends…Juliana held back another wave of shock. She couldn’t think about the past and all she didn’t know right now. Stay within yourself. Shuji always said. “Wait-it’s all right. I can find my own way.”

“Your mother told me-”

“I know, but go after her. You can do it.” She had the feeling he had to. “I’ll be all right.”

The smile grew less thin, less wretched, and the cold eyes moistened and became almost warm. “You’re a fine woman, Juliana Fall,” he said.

He waited until she’d gotten safely out to the street, past the unconscious Peters, the fallen gun, the fallen knives, the pots, the baking pans…the smashed box of cream puffs. The glass door was smashed, but she seemed hardly to notice. She was a strong girl, Hendrik thought. He reminded her of Catharina-and Wilhelmina. He watched her stumble out into the street and flag a passing cab and waited until she’d climbed in, safe.

Then he went silently through the storeroom.

“Juliana.” Shuji opened the door to his Upper East Side townhouse. “You look like hell.”

She managed a weak smile. “Jazz’ll do that to you.”

“Bullshit.”

“I need help, Shuji.”

He sighed. “Get in here.”

Shuji’s townhouse combined a Japanese sense of negative space with his flair for the opulent and dramatic. The entire fourth floor was his music studio. Juliana knew; she’d spent countless hours there. A warmth came over her, a nostalgia for those days, their security. She almost cried.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“A car and some cash.”

He managed a small smile. “The New York Times find out what you’ve been up to?”

“No, my mother’s been kidnapped.”

He looked at her, uncertain that she was in fact serious. For almost twenty years he’d listened to her problems, excuses, fears, exaggerations. He knew her better than he knew anyone. Loved her in a way he could love no one else-as, he realized, she did him. She was unpredictable and outrageous, and he knew he was lying to himself if he believed he could ever walk out of her life, J.J. Pepper or not.

He handed her the keys to his Mercedes and all the cash in his wallet. “I presume you’re in too big a hurry to answer any questions.”

“Later,” she said, throwing her arms around him as she felt the tears hot on her cheeks, and then she fled.

It must be a man, Shuji told himself, heading back upstairs to practice. Now at least he could. Since their argument he’d been able to do little more than stare at the keyboard, something, of course, he would never admit to her. He hadn’t understood what happened to her. J.J. Pepper, dyed hair, turbans, outrageous clothes. Jazz. He shuddered. Yet now, while he still didn’t understand, he did know it wasn’t something he needed to address. It was Juliana’s problem-something she had to confront and decide what to do about on her own. If she wanted his counsel, she would ask for it. The student-teacher relationship they had had for so long was over. It was one of those things that had been ending for a long time, gradually fading, not like a sunset into the night, but like the colors of dawn into a bright, beautiful day. Yes, that was how he would think of it.

They’d become friends, he thought with satisfaction.

Equals.

The cabdriver obviously felt vindicated when he pulled up in front of Catharina’s Bake Shop and the place was crawling with police. Blue lights were flashing, in contrast to the festive holiday lights lining the street. Stark passed him a twenty and didn’t wait for change as he got out, dropping his mask in place. Inside he was empty and stone cold. He flashed his press credentials and talked to the cop in charge, listening without comment. It seemed to be a simple break-in; they’d found a guy unconscious in the kitchen claiming he was smacked on the head while buying cream puffs. Guy’s name was Peters-Alex Peters. They’d tried to reach the owner.

Just then Adrian Fall walked up and introduced himself, but Stark had already guessed who it was, not so much by his resemblance to his daughter-although it was there, in the coloring, the bones, the sensitive mouth-but by his look of terror. Stark knew something of how he felt.

Bloch had struck it rich, Matthew thought bitterly: Juliana and Catharina in one fell swoop. But if Matthew mentioned his name now to the police, Bloch would just dump them the first chance he got. That was the sergeant’s style. No deals, no loose ends. His chief strength, his only weakness.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered. Wilhelmina…

He thanked the cop as he heard Adrian Fall say his wife had called from her shop two hours ago and hustled down the block to the first pay phone he came to. He dropped in some coins and dialed Juliana’s apartment, and Wilhelmina answered on the first ring, saying “Allo.”

“It’s Stark.” He looked up at the milky-dark sky above Manhattan. “A man named Phil Bloch has Juliana and your sister. He’ll come for you next. Then he’s going to find out which one of you has the Minstrel’s Rough. If he gets to you before I do, don’t tell him. Stall him. I’m on my way.”

“Who is this Phil Bloch?”

There wasn’t an ounce of fear in her solid, accented voice. “A real shitkicker, Willie. Lay low.”

He hung up, thinking Ryder, you sonofabitch, you put this in motion. This is all your fucking fault, and if anything happens to the Peperkamps or Weasel, I’m coming after your ass the way I should have twenty years ago.

He flagged a cab and headed back to the Upper West Side. He passed the bakeshop. Adrian Fall was standing outside, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his conservative cashmere overcoat, his handsome patrician face white and gaunt in the harsh light of the police car. Matthew felt for the man. It couldn’t be easy to be in love with a Peperkamp.

Her hands were all right.

It was Juliana’s first coherent thought as she drove north along the Hudson River Parkway, staying within five miles of the posted speed limit. Traffic was heavy. Cars passed her with ski racks on their roofs; there’d been snow in Vermont and the Berkshires during the week and another couple of inches was forecasted. Skiing would be excellent. Juliana didn’t ski. She’d never taken the time to learn and she’d always been afraid for her hands. That wasn’t why she went to Vermont. It wasn’t why she was going now.

The initial shock of pain had subsided, and now she felt a dull throbbing at her side where she’d fallen against the door. She wanted to hear her mother’s voice tell her to drink some warm milk lightly flavored with cocoa and go to bed…her mother, whose pain had to be-

“Oh, God,” she mumbled, hearing again the snapping of her mother’s arm.

Her father would be frantic, but she didn’t dare call him-couldn’t. He would demand that she come home; he had a right to know what was going on. But she couldn’t explain, not now, and she had to live up to her responsibilities. If only she’d known seven years ago that Uncle Johannes wasn’t half-kidding or half-nuts. Her father would blame Aunt Willie, whom he’d never liked. He called her a troublemaker.

Aunt Willie…

If she couldn’t call her father, Juliana felt she at least had to give her aunt some kind of explanation-tell her what had happened at the bakeshop. Matthew… She owed him something, too, although she was no longer sure what.

She began looking for an exit.

The old aunt was having a goddamn cup of tea when Matthew pounded into the apartment. “Get your things,” he told her. “I’m getting you out of here.”

He thought rapidly, where the hell can I stash her? In a hotel. The Plaza. She could complain about how fancy it was, and he’d send Feldie the bill. Jesus. Hey, don’t worry about it, Weasel used to tell him, guys with no sense of humor’re the ones who get aced.

Weasel. Juliana. Catharina Fall.

If only he’d taken Weasel’s tip more seriously and put the screws to Ryder at Lincoln Center when he’d had the chance.

If only. His goddamn life was filled with if onlys.

Wilhelmina got up slowly, dumped out the rest of her lukewarm tea into the sink, and rinsed out her cup. “I will not run,” she told Stark.

“Don’t argue with me. I’ll haul you out of here on my back if I have to.”

She raised her thick eyebrows. “Imagine what the doormen would say. They do have their uses, don’t you think? Mr. Stark, I appreciate your protective impulses, but I cannot permit myself to run to safety while those I love are in danger.” She placed the cup on the counter and turned back to him, her plain face racked with worry. “They’re all I have left.”

He nodded curtly, realizing he had no right to order her around-not that she, like her lovely niece, would pay a damn bit of attention if he did.

“I don’t expect you to take me with you. I’d slow you down, and you seem quite competent. You don’t need me. Just leave, and let me do what I must.”

The telephone rang, and Matthew pounced on it.

“Matthew-”

His stomach twisted together at the strain he heard in her voice. “What happened, where are you?”

“Your damned Phillip Bloch took my mother. I met the Dutchman, Hendrik de Geer. He’s gone after Mother, I think. I don’t know, I-he said we shouldn’t call the police.”

“He’s right. Tell me where you are, Juliana. I’ll come for you.”

“There’s more between you and this Phillip Bloch than you told me, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me now.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, I’m okay. My mother threw a knife at him. It just knicked his wrist.” She sounded breathless, just skimming along the surface of her emotions, not diving in too deep. “Tell Aunt Willie, won’t you? She always thinks Mother’s such a wimp.”

“Where are you?” he asked again, his voice burlap-rough.

“Does Senator Ryder know Bloch as well?”

“Yes, goddamnit. Where are you?”

“He wants the Minstrel. He’ll come after Aunt Willie, too. He’d have taken me, but I hit his man Peters and then Hendrik de Geer helped me because Mother yelled for him to…” She broke off, her voice choking; she coughed. “Bloch broke my mother’s arm, just snapped it like kindling. He’s a terrible person, isn’t he? I-” She cut herself off. “Matthew, tell Aunt Willie I’m okay.”

Stark gripped the phone. “Juliana, let me come for you-”

“It’s all right,” she said dully. “Really. This isn’t your problem, Matthew. I don’t want you hurt, too.”

“I can handle it. Juliana-”

But it was too late. She’d already hung up.

Aunt Willie was standing next to him. She handed him a set of keys. “They’re to Juliana’s Nazi car,” she said. “She may have another set and be in it herself, but I don’t think so. I found these in her room. She’s gone to Vermont.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.”

“The Minstrel?” he asked, with a flash of his brownblack eyes. “I’ll be gone to hell. Juliana has it, doesn’t she?”

I don’t even like diamonds. Right, sweetheart.

“Go to Vermont,” Wilhelmina said.

“How do I know you’re not just trying to get rid of me?” He was remembering the cat in Antwerp.

Wilhelmina sighed, a touch of emotion coming into her unremarkable eyes. “You’re in love with Juliana, aren’t you?” she asked, without surprise. “A man like you wouldn’t have many women. He would wait, and when the right one came along, he would know it.”

Every fiber inside him told him the old woman was right, but he only hissed impatiently. “Jesus Christ-”

“You don’t know that I’m not just trying to get rid of you,” she said. “But, understand me, Matthew Stark, I know you care deeply for Juliana-and nothing must happen to her. She’s the last of the Peperkamps. It’s not you who must trust me-I must trust you.”

“And I’ll bet there aren’t many people you do trust.”

She shrugged impassively. “That is so.”

Matthew quickly told her about the knife and de Geer, and if either surprised her, she didn’t say. She just produced addresses for her niece’s garage and Vermont house-Stark guessed she’d only started mopping the floor after she’d given the place a thorough shake down-and hurried him out the door. She told him to mind the man across the street watching the building.

Stark assured her he could handle the situation.

“You would have survived the occupation, I think,” she said.

From Wilhelmina Peperkamp, Stark knew that was a supreme compliment.

“I will get you the Minstrel,” Catharina said, leaning forward toward Bloch as the car in which they were riding turned into Central Park West. She cradled her broken arm as best she could, but the pain was excruciating. It had already begun to swell badly. Ah, Mamma, she thought with tears in her eyes, I remember your strength. Bloch was in the front seat with one of his men; she was in the back with another. Neither was as young as the man Peters, and neither offered to help with her arm. “There’s no need to involve the others.”

His cold, clear gray eyes fastened to her. “I make the decisions.”

“If you touch my daughter or my sister, I won’t get you the Minstrel.” She blinked past the pain. “I won’t care what you do to me.”

“But you’ll care what I do to them.” He turned back around, still furious with himself for not having pushed it to the limit with de Geer. He should have killed the Dutchman and taken the girl and never minded the crazy, ugly look in de Geer’s eyes. Maybe he still could get the diamond, maybe not. Either way, he had to go through this; he had other matters to consider, namely covering his ass. Without looking back at the baker, he added, “I’m through taking chances.”

Catharina’s heart beat rapidly, and it was difficult to control her breathing. But she refused to faint. They would be at Juliana’s apartment soon. She had to trust that Hendrik had gotten her to safety. Hendrik…once more she was trusting him with her loved ones. What choice did she have?

What choice did you have then?

She looked out at the lights in Central Park. Juliana and Wilhelmina would not be at the apartment. She had to believe that. Still, she said once more, “You’re wasting time, Sergeant Bloch. We can just go now for the Minstrel.”

“Yeah, we could,” came the hard, mean voice. “But we ain’t going to.”

Wilhelmina prepared herself a snack of bread and butter. Not butter, really. Juliana used some kind of low fat, low salt, no cholesterol margarine the old Dutchwoman thought disgusting. She found a piece of semisweet chocolate in the cupboard and broke it up onto the bread. Much more palatable.

The doorman had called up, saying a Hendrik de Geer was downstairs asking to see Wilhelmina Peperkamp. Of course he would know she was there, of course he wouldn’t bother with a fake name or trying to sneak in. He knew her too well. He would know she would let him in, that she had no choice.

The doorbell rang, and she went into the foyer, opening the door. She made herself not react to the sight of him. Stocky, rugged, the same. His blue eyes held hers a moment. Then she gave him a condescending smile as she noticed he was puffing from exertion. “Getting old, Hendrik?”

He replied in Dutch. “You grate on a man’s nerves, Willie.”

He still called her Willie. He’d started it, almost sixty years ago. “I grate on everyone’s nerves. Come in.”

She turned her back to him and went into the living room, pretending not to care what he did. Johannes was dead and now her sister was missing. And Juliana was going for the Minstrel. Nothing useful would be accomplished by looking backward. She must look ahead.

Hendrik had followed her into the room and was looking at Juliana’s fish. “She’s a strange one, isn’t she? Unpredictable, but tough.” He turned to Wilhelmina, who was standing at the piano, not too close. “The Peperkamp in her, I suppose.”

She put down the last of her bread and chocolate, unable to eat.

“You always did have a sweet tooth,” Hendrik said.

“One of my indulgences.”

“That and your flowers.”

She shrugged, but his words made her think of home, her little apartment, her routines. Her plants would probably be dead when she returned home. She’d neglected to have anyone come in to water them while she was away.

Hendrik was looking at her. “We would have had a nice life together, if the war hadn’t come along. We would have kept each other in line.”

“I can’t see you living with me in a little Delftshaven apartment growing begonias.”

“Maybe we wouldn’t have. Maybe we would have had a yacht and be out sailing the seven seas.”

She scoffed. “Always the dreamer.”

“And you, Willie? Haven’t you ever dreamed?”

“Only of what was, never of what might have been. Now enough of this nonsense.” She gave him a hard look. “What do you want here?”

“To take you away,” he said simply.

Her heart leaped stupidly, an echo of the girl she’d been, but she’d learned long ago not to rely on anyone to take care of her. She would take care of herself. She always had.

“I’m going after Catharina,” the Dutchman went on. “I promised Johannes nothing would happen to her-or to you and Juliana. I meant what I said.”

“And Johannes didn’t believe you, of course,” Wilhelmina said with a snort. “We’ve all heard your promises before-and believed them. You’ll see to your own skin before anyone else’s.”

“Perhaps I’ve changed.”

She only laughed. Promises meant nothing to her, only actions. Still, a small, rebellious part of her hoped Hendrik wasn’t lying this time, or even kidding himself. He’d always been so optimistic, so filled with high hopes and grand ideas. He thought he could do anything. Wilhelmina had always been attracted to that side of him. When he was young, it had made him seem so alive, so filled with energy and hope that they all had believed he could accomplish the miracles he bragged about. He hadn’t been obnoxious so much as refreshing.

He hadn’t changed. Wilhelmina had no intention of giving him the opportunity to prove himself; she preferred to be master of her own fate. Yet she supposed there was a glimmer of desire to see him this once seize the opportunity, not wait for it or back away from it, but act out of conviction, not necessity.

“Catharina doesn’t have the Minstrel, does she?” he asked, going to the windows over the couch.

Wilhelmina made no answer.

Hendrik glanced at her, smiling. “It’s all right. You don’t need to tell me. If Johannes had given Catharina the Minstrel, she’d have tossed it into the Hudson River. You and I know how she hates it-but Bloch doesn’t. But when he discovers she doesn’t have the stone, he’ll kill her and come for Juliana and you, too, Wilhelmina. He may even come before he knows for sure which of you has it. That’s his way.”

“Let him come. Juliana isn’t here, and I have no fear.”

“You may get your wish,” Hendrik said grimly. He’d been peering out the window down at the street, and now he nodded to Wilhelmina. She came over and stood next to him. Two men were moving quickly toward the entrance. “That’s Bloch and one of his men.”

“There are doormen-”

Hendrik laughed, and she regretted her lapse into naiveté. He went on, “If Bloch finds me here, he’ll kill me. Then I’ll hardly be in a position to help.”

Wilhelmina shrugged. “It seems to me he’ll kill you anyway at some point.”

“Maybe so.” He grinned at her. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Willie? But revenge never feels so good as we think it ought. Hating me keeps you alive.”

He started toward the door. Wilhelmina touched his arm, but not to stop him. He seemed to know this. His eyes were as blue as she’d remembered and had seen in the dreams she’d never been able to control and will away. Who was she to change what had been? He was a devil, yes, but she’d not always thought him so. That, too, was a part of what had been.

She asked quietly, “Did you ever touch her?”

“No,” he said, “never.”

Then he ran. As before.

The old Dutchwoman spoke no English, which pissed Bloch off, but he figured the younger sister could translate-and he had no trouble getting through what he wanted her to do. A.357 Magnum reduced the need for a common language. He waved it around and told her to get her fat ass out the door, and, sure enough, she did.

He let himself relax, cutting down slightly on his guard-and that was when she whipped around with a goddamn knife that could have sliced an elephant in two with one swipe. She had it at his throat before he could shoot the silly bitch. Like a damn fool, he’d hesitated that fraction of a second because he didn’t want to cause any more ruckus than he already had in busting past the doormen. Now if he fired, the old woman’s last act would be to shove her fucking knife in his throat. And even if it weren’t and he could manage to blow her fat butt across the hall, there’d still be the noise and the mess.

There was also the chance she had the diamond. He wanted Wilhelmina Peperkamp alive.

“Achh,” she grunted, cursing him in Dutch. She threw down the knife and proceeded to the elevator.

Jesus Christ, Bloch muttered to himself, glad none of his men had been around for this one.

He refused to meet her eye on the ride down in the elevator. He decided she’d made her point.

They collected his man in the lobby; he’d done a fair job of convincing the doormen they shouldn’t call in the cavalry just yet. Their car slid up to the Central Park West entrance, and they jumped in, Bloch giving the stout old Dutchwoman a good shove. Henson, the guy posted across the street, had joined them. He didn’t look too happy, and within a block, the sergeant found out why.

“Stark was here,” Henson said.

Bloch swore. He should have taken care of Matthew Stark himself when he was in Washington. Hell, he should have taken care of him twenty years ago in ’Nam.

“Tell him anything?”

“No.”

Bloch didn’t believe it. Time he and Matt Stark finished things, anyway.

“Think the doormen’ll call the police?” Henson asked.

“Worry, worry,” Bloch said derisively. “What do you care if they do? We’re free and clear.”

But Henson sat back, not reassured, and Bloch wondered if the guy had scruples or was just scared. Either one didn’t sit too well with him. Mostly his men were shit. Not all of them, but enough. But that would change soon, and it was another problem for another time.

He told the driver to speed it up, he wanted to be at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey as soon as possible. Then he told the two women, who were yapping in Dutch, to shut the fuck up. The younger one was a nice-looking woman with real manners, but pale and sweating from her busted arm-and Jesus Christ, did she hate his guts. The old one called him a Nazi. Bloch was just as glad she hadn’t known about her sister’s arm before she’d thrown down her knife.

“Well, ladies,” he said, downright jovial, “I hope to hell one of you can lead me to the Minstrel’s Rough. Otherwise I’m going to have to find where de Geer stashed pretty little Juliana Fall. Then we can have a nice family reunion.”

He knew he’d have to find Juliana Fall at some point, regardless of what her aunt and mother did. She knew too much as it was, and she could identify him. A loose end. But he saw nothing to be gained from telling them that, and at the moment he thought the best strategy was to get back to camp and reassess exactly where he stood. If he were lucky, the girl, the Dutchman, and Steelman himself would come to him.

If not, he’d go to them.