"One of their milk shakes would be good," Davis said.
"You have a strange diet."
He shrugged. "Whatever fills the stomach."
She checked her watch. 11:15 AM. "A quick stop, then into the estate. The hotel is a mile or so inside the gates."
CHARLIE SMITH ORDERED HIMSELF A BIG MAC, NO SAUCE, NO onions, fries, and a large Diet Coke. One of his favorite meals, and since he weighed about 150 pounds sopping wet, weight had never been a concern. He was blessed with a hyper metabolism-that and an active lifestyle, exercise three times a week, and a healthy diet. Yeah, right. His idea of exercise was dialing for room service or carrying a take-out bag to the car. His job provided more than enough exertion for him.
He leased an apartment outside Washington, DC, but rarely stayed there. He needed to develop roots. Maybe it was time to buy a place of his own-like Bailey Mill. He'd been screwing with Ramsey's head the other day, but perhaps he could fix up that old Maryland farmhouse and live there, in the country. It'd be quaint. Like the buildings that now surrounded him. Even the McDonald's didn't look like any he'd ever seen. Shaped like a storybook house with a player piano in the dining room, marble tiles, and a shimmering waterfall.
He sat with his tray.
After he ate, he'd head toward the Biltmore Inn. He'd already reserved a room online for the next two nights. A classy place and pricey, too. But he liked the best. Deserved it, actually. And, besides, Ramsey paid expenses, so what did he care what it cost?
The schedule for the 14th Annual Ancient Mysteries Revealed Conference, also posted online, noted that Douglas Scofield would serve tomorrow evening as the keynote speaker at a dinner, included with the registration. A cocktail party would be held before the event in the hotel's lobby.
He'd heard of Biltmore Estate but never visited. Maybe he'd tour the mansion and see how the other half once lived. Get some decorating ideas. After all, he could afford quality. Who said killing didn't pay? He'd amassed nearly twenty million dollars from fees and investments. He'd also meant what he'd said to Ramsey the other day. He did not intend on doing this for the rest of his life, no matter how much he enjoyed the work.
He squirted a dab of mustard and a smear of ketchup on his Big Mac. He didn't like a lot of condiments, just enough to give it flavor. He munched on the burger and watched the people, many clearly here to visit Biltmore at Christmas and shop in the village.
The whole place seemed geared to tourists.
Which was great.
Lots of obscure faces among which to disappear.
MALONE HAD TWO PROBLEMS. FIRST, HE WAS PURSUING AN UNKNOWN gunman through a dim, frigid cloister, and second, he was relying on allies that were wholly untrustworthy.
Two things had clued him in.
First, Werner Lindauer. I knew Herr Malone was here, with a gun. Really? Since in their brief encounter Malone had not once mentioned who he was, how did Werner know? Nobody in the church had uttered his name.
And second, the gunman.
Never once had he seemed concerned that someone else was there, someone who'd shot his accomplice. Christl had indicated that she'd told her mother about Ossau. She could also have mentioned that he would come. But that wouldn't explain Werner Lindauer's presence or how he immediately knew Malone's identity. And if Christl had provided the information, that act showed a level of Oberhauser cooperation that he'd thought didn't exist.
All of which spelled trouble.
He stopped and listened to the wheezing of the wind. He stayed low, below the arches, knees aching. Across the garden, through the falling snow, he spotted no movement. Cold air burned his throat and lungs.
He shouldn't be indulging his curiosity, but he couldn't help it. Though he suspected what was happening, he needed to know.
DOROTHEA WATCHED WERNER, WHO CONFIDENTLY HELD THE GUN Malone had offered. During the past twenty-four hours she'd learned a lot about this man. Things she'd never suspected.
"I'm going out there," Christl said.
She couldn't resist. "I saw the way you looked at Malone. You care for him."
"He needs help."
"From you?"
Christl shook her head and left.
"Are you okay?" Werner asked.
"I will be when this is over. Trusting Christl, or my mother, is a big mistake. You know that."
Cold gripped her. She wrapped her arms across her chest and sought comfort within her wool coat. They'd followed Malone's advice, retreating into the apse, playing their parts. The ruinous condition of the church cast a foreboding spell. Had her grandfather actually found answers here?
Werner grasped her arm. "We can do this."
"We have no choice," she said, still not happy with the options her mother had offered.
"You can either make the best of it, or fight it to your detriment. Doesn't matter to anyone else, but it should matter a great deal to you."
She caught an underlying insecurity in his words. "The gunman was genuinely caught off guard when you tackled him."
He shrugged. "We told him to expect a surprise or two."
"That we did."
The day was sinking away. Shadows inside were lengthening, the temperature dropping.
"He obviously never believed he was going to die," Werner said.
"His mistake."
"What about Malone? Do you think he realizes?"
She hesitated before answering, recalling her reservations from the other day at the abbey, when she first met him.
"He'd better."
MALONE STAYED BENEATH THE ARCHES AND RETREATED TOWARD one of the rooms that opened off the cloister. He stood inside, amid the snow and debris, and assessed his resources. He had a gun and bullets, so why not try the same tactic that had worked for Werner? Perhaps the gunman on the opposite side of the cloister would head toward him, making his way to the church, and he could surprise him.
"He's in there," he heard a man shout.
He stared out the doorway.
A second gunman was now in the cloister, on the short side, passing the church entrance, rounding the corner, coming straight toward him. Apparently Ulrich Henn had not been successful in stopping him.
The man raised his gun and fired straight at Malone.
He ducked as a bullet found the wall.
Another round ricocheted past, straight through the doorway, from the other gunman, across the cloister. His refuge contained no windows and the walls and roof were unbroken. What had seemed like a sure bet had suddenly turned into a serious problem.
No way out.
He was trapped.
FIFTY-NINE
STEPHANIE ADMIRED THE INN ON BILTMORE ESTATE, AN EXPANISVE fieldstone-and-stucco building that crowned a grassy promontory, overlooking the estate's famed winery. Vehicle access was restricted to estate guests, but they'd stopped at the main gate and bought a general pass to tour the grounds, which included the hotel.
She avoided a busy valet service and parked in one of the terraced paved lots, then they climbed a landscaped incline to the main entrance, where uniformed doormen greeted them with smiles. The inside was reminiscent of what it might have been like to visit the Vanderbilts a hundred years ago. Light-paneled walls finished with a dull honey-stained gloss, marble flooring, elegant art, and rich floral patterns in the drapes and upholstery. Greenery overflowed from stone planters and warmed an airy decor that opened upward to the next floor, a coffered ceiling twenty feet overhead. The views beyond the plate-glass doors and windows, past a veranda dotted with rockers, were of the Pisgah National Forest and the Smoky Mountains.
She listened for a moment to a pianist playing near a flagstone hearth. A stairway led down to what sounded and smelled like the dining room, a steady procession of patrons coming and going. They inquired at the concierge desk and were directed through the lobby, past the pianist, to a window-lined corridor that led to meeting rooms and a conference center where they found the registration desk for Ancient Mysteries Revealed.