the Amber Room

FORTY-SIX

Knoll opened the door and saw that it led out to an open terrace. He stood still. Danzer was still lurking somewhere behind him. But maybe she'd fled the abbey. No matter. As soon as he determined who else had been in the church, he'd head straight to her hotel. If he didn't find her there, he'd find her somewhere else. She would not be disappearing this time.

He peered around the edge of the thick oak door and surveyed the terrace. No one was there. He stepped out and closed the door, then crossed the wide loop. Halfway, he stole a quick glance over the side. Stod blazed to the left, the river ahead, a long drop down. He reached the other door and determined it was locked.

Suddenly, the door from the Marble Hall, at the other end of the loop, swung open and Danzer leaped out into the night. He lunged behind the stone rail and thick spindles.

Two muffled shots streaked his way.

The bullets missed.

He returned fire.

Danzer sent another round his way. Stone splinters from the ricochet momentarily blinded him. He crawled to the door nearest him. The iron lock was furred in rust. He fired two shots into the handle and the latch gave way.

He yanked open the door and quickly crawled inside.

Suzanne decided enough. She saw the door at the other end of the horseshoe open. No one walked inside, so Knoll must have crawled. The confines were tightening, and Knoll was far too dangerous to keep openly pursuing him. She now knew that he was on the abbey's upper stories, so the smart move was to backtrack and head down to town before he had a chance to find his way out. She needed to get out of Germany, preferably back to Castle Loukov and the safety of Ernst Loring. Her business here was finished. Grumer was dead, and, as with Karol Borya, Knoll had saved her the trouble. The excavation site seemed secure. So what she was now doing seemed foolish.

She turned and raced back through the Marble Hall.

Rachel clung to the cold stone spindle. Paul dangled beside her, desperately gripping his own spindle. It had been her idea to leap over the railing and hang on just as someone exited the far door. Below her boots was a cascading blackness. A strong wind buffeted their bodies. Her grip was weakening by the second.

They'd listened in horror as bullets careened off the terrace and out into the chilly night, hoping that whoever was following them did not glance over the side. Paul had managed a look as the near door's lock was shot through and someone crawled inside. "Knoll," he'd mouthed. But for the last minute--silence. Not one sound.

Her arms ached. "I can't hold on much longer," she whispered.

Paul ventured another look. "There's nobody there. Climb." He swung his right leg out, then pulled himself up and over the railing. He reached down and helped her up. Once on firm ground, they both leaned against the cold stone and stared down at the river below.

"I can't believe we did that," she said.

"I've got to be out of my damn mind to be in the middle of this."

"As I remember, you're the one who dragged me up here."

"Don't remind me."

Paul inched the half-closed door open and she followed him inside. The room was an elegant library lined floor to ceiling with inlaid bookshelves of shiny walnut, everything gilded in baroque style. They passed through a wrought-iron gate and quickly crossed a slick parquet floor. Two huge wooden globes flanked either side, set in recesses between the shelves. The warm air smelled of musty leather. A yellow rectangle of light extended from a doorway at the far end where the top of another staircase was visible.

Paul motioned ahead. "That way."

"Knoll came in here," she reminded.

"I know. But he had to have taken off after that shootout."

She followed Paul out of the library and down the staircase. A darkened corridor below immediately wound to the right. She hoped there was a door somewhere that led back to the inner courtyard. At the bottom she saw Paul turn, then a black shadow shot from the darkness and Paul's body folded to the floor.

A gloved hand encircled her neck.

She was lifted from the last step and slammed against the wall. Her vision blurred, then refocused, and she was staring straight into the feral eyes of Christian Knoll, a knife blade pinched into the bottom of her chin.

"That your ex-husband?" His words came in a throaty whisper, his breath warm. "Come to your rescue?"

Her eyes stole a look at Paul sprawled across the stone. He wasn't moving. She looked back at Knoll.

"You may find this hard to believe, but I have no complaint with you, Frau Cutler. Killing you would certainly be the most efficient thing to do, but not necessarily the smartest. First your father dies, then you. And so close together. No. As much as I might want to rid myself of a nuisance, I cannot kill you. So, please. Go home."

"You killed . . . my father."

"Your father understood the risks he took in life. Even seemed to appreciate them. You should have taken the advice he offered. I am quite familiar with Phaethon's story. A fascinating tale about impulsive ways. The helplessness of the elder generation trying to teach the younger. What did the Sun God tell Phaethon? 'Look in my face and if you could, look in my heart, see there a father's anxious blood and passion.' Heed the warning, Frau Cutler. My mind can easily change. Would you want those precious children of yours to cry tears of amber if a lightning bolt struck you dead?"

She suddenly visualized her father lying in the casket. She'd buried him in his tweed jacket, the same one he'd worn to court the day she changed his name. She'd never believed that he merely fell down the stairs. Now his killer was here, pressed against her. She shifted and tried to knee Knoll in the crotch, but the hand around her neck tightened, and the knife tip broke the skin.

She gasped and sucked in a deep breath.

"Now, now, Frau Cutler. None of that."

Knoll released his right hand from her throat, but kept the blade firm to her chin. He let his palm travel the length of her body to her crotch, and he cupped her in a tight clasp. "I could tell that you found me intriguing." His hand drifted up and massaged her breasts through the sweater. "A shame I don't have more time." He suddenly clamped tight on her right breast and twisted.

The pain stiffened her.

"Take my advice, Frau Cutler. Go home. Have a happy life. Raise your kids." His head motioned to Paul. "Please your ex-husband and forget about all this. It does not concern you."

She managed through the pain to say again, "You . . . killed my . . . father."

His right hand released her breast and throttled her neck. "The next time we meet, I will slit your throat. Do you understand?"

She said nothing. The knife tip moved deeper. She wanted to scream but couldn't.

"Do you understand?" Knoll slowly asked.

"Yes," she mouthed.

He withdrew the blade. Blood trickled from the wound in her neck. She stood rigid against the wall. She was concerned about Paul. He still hadn't moved.

"Do as I say, Frau Cutler."

He turned to leave.

She lunged at him.

Knoll's right hand arched up and the knife handle caught her square below the right temple. Her eyes flashed white. The corridor spun. Bile erupted in her throat. Then she saw Marla and Brent rushing toward her, arms outstretched, their mouths moving but the words inaudible as blackness overtook them.