Langford Ramsey.
"The debt is paid," she said.
Davis bypassed her and approached the corpse. "I only wish I could have done it."
"It's better this way."
There was a sound overhead. Footsteps. Her gaze shot to the wood floor above.
"That's not a dog," Davis whispered.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
MALONE AND DOROTHEA FLED THE HOUSE AND FOUND THE EMPTY street. Another pop sounded. He determined its direction.
"That way," he said.
He resisted breaking into a run, but quickened his pace toward the central plaza, their bulky clothing and backpacks slowing progress. They rounded the circular walled pit and trotted down another wide causeway. Here, deeper into the city, more evidence of geological disturbances could be seen. Several of the buildings had collapsed. Walls were cracked. Rocks littered the street. He was careful. Their legs couldn't be trusted over such unsure footing.
Something caught his eye. Lying near one of the faintly glowing elevated crystals. He stopped. Dorothea did, too.
A cap? Here? In this place of ancient and abandoned possession, it seemed a strange intrusion.
He stepped close.
Orange cloth. Recognizable.
He bent down. Above its bill was stitched:
Mother of God.
Dorothea read it, too. "It can't be."
He glanced at the inside. Written in black ink was the name vaught. He recalled the court of inquiry report. Machinist Mate 2 Doug Vaught. One of the crew of NR-1A.
"Malone."
His name had been called out across the vast interior.
"Malone."
It was Christl. His mind jolted back to reality.
"Where are you?" he yelled.
"Over here."
STEPHANIE REALIZED THEY NEEDED TO FLEE THE DUNGEON. IT WAS the last place they'd want to confront anybody.
A single set of footsteps thumped above, moving to the other side of the house, away from the room at the top of the stairs. So she lightly climbed the wooden risers, stopping at the top. Carefully, she peered around the open panel, saw no one, and exited. She motioned and Davis flanked one side of the hallway door, she the other.
She risked a glance.
Nothing.
Davis went first, not waiting for her. She followed him back to the foyer. Still no one. Then movement from beyond the parlor into which she was staring-what would be the kitchen and dining room.
A woman appeared.
Diane McCoy.
Just as Daniels had said.
She walked straight toward her. Davis abandoned his position across the foyer.
"The Lone Ranger and Tonto," McCoy said. "Come to save the day?"
McCoy wore a long wool coat, open in front, slacks, shirt, and boots beneath. Her hands were empty and the rhythmic thump, thump of her leather heels matched what they'd heard below.
"Do you have any idea," McCoy asked, "how much trouble you two have caused? Prancing around. Interfering in things that totally don't concern you."
Davis aimed his gun at McCoy. "Like I care. You're a traitor."
Stephanie did not move.
"Now, that isn't nice," a new voice said. Male.
Stephanie turned.
A short, wiry man with a round face appeared in the opposite parlor with an HK53 pointed at them. She knew the assault rifle well. Forty rounds, rapid fire, messy. She also realized who held it.
Charlie Smith.
MALONE STUFFED THE CAP INTO HIS COAT POCKET AND RAN. A series of extended step-downs, twenty or so feet long, steadily lowered the street to a semicircular plaza that faced a tall colonnaded building. Statues and sculptures ringed its perimeter, displayed atop more square pillars.
Christl stood among the columns on the building's portico, a gun lowered at her side. He'd had her pack searched, but not her person. To do that would have alerted everyone that he wasn't as dumb as they apparently thought him to be, and he had not wanted to lose the advantage of being underestimated.
"What's happening?" he asked, winded.
"It's Werner. Henn killed him."
He heard Dorothea gasp. "Why?"
"Think, dear sister. Who gives Ulrich commands?"
"Mother?" Dorothea asked in answer.
No time for a family debate. "Where's Henn?"
"We split up. I came back just as he shot Werner. I found my gun and fired, but Henn fled."
"What are you doing with a gun?" he asked.
"I'd say it's a good thing I brought it."
"Where's Werner?" Dorothea asked.
Christl motioned. "In there."
Dorothea bounded up the steps. He followed. They entered the building through a door wrapped in what appeared to be ornamented tin. Inside was a long hall with a high ceiling, the floor and walls tiled in blue and gold. Basins, their bottoms paved with well-worn pebbles, dotted the floor, one after the other, a stone balustrade on either side. Unglazed window openings were cased in bronze lattice and mosaics sheathed the walls. Landscapes, animals, young men wearing what appeared to be kilts and women in flounced skirts, some carrying jars, others bowls, filling the basins. Outside he'd noticed what appeared to be copper topping the pediment and silver adorning the columns. Now he spotted bronze cauldrons and silver fittings. Metallurgy had clearly been an art form to this society. The ceiling was quartz, a wide arch supported by a center beam that ran the length of the rectangle. Drains in the sides and bottoms of the basins confirmed that they had once held water. This was a bathhouse, he concluded.
Werner lay sprawled in one of the basins.
Dorothea ran to him.
"Touching scene, isn't it?" Christl said. "The good, faithful wife lamenting the loss of her precious husband."
"Give me your gun," he demanded.
She threw him a cutting glare but handed over the weapon. He noticed it was the same make and model as Dorothea's. Isabel had apparently made sure the daughters' odds were even. He removed the magazine and pocketed both.
He approached Dorothea and saw that Werner had been shot with a single round to the head.
"I fired twice at Henn," Christl said. She pointed to the end of the hall, past a low-stepped platform, at another doorway. "He escaped there."
Malone slipped the rucksack off his shoulders, unzipped the center compartment, and found a 9mm automatic. When Taperell had searched the others' belongings and found Dorothea's gun, he'd wisely asked the Aussie to stash a weapon in his own pack.
"Different rules for you?" Christl asked.
He ignored her.
Dorothea stood. "I want Ulrich."
He heard the hate. "Why would he kill Werner?"
"It's Mother. Why else?" Dorothea screamed, her words echoing through the bathhouse. "She killed Sterling Wilkerson just to keep him from me. Now she's killed Werner."
Christl seemed to sense his ignorance. "Wilkerson was an American agent that the Ramsey man sent to spy on us. Dorothea's latest lover. Ulrich shot him in Germany."
He agreed, they needed to locate Henn.
"I can help," Christl said. "Two would be better than one. And I know Ulrich. How he thinks."
He was certain of that observation, so he reinserted a magazine from his pocket and handed the gun back to her.
"I want mine, too," Dorothea said.
"She came armed?" Christl asked him.
He nodded his head. "You two are just alike."
DOROTHEA FELT VULNERABLE. CHRISTL WAS ARMED AND MALONE flatly refused her request for a gun.
"Why give her an advantage?" she asked. "Are you an idiot?"
"Your husband is dead," Malone reminded her.
She glanced down at Werner. "He hasn't been my husband in a long time." Her words were remorseful. Sad. Just as she felt. "But that doesn't mean I wanted him dead." She glared at Christl. "Not like this."
"This quest is proving costly." Malone paused. "For you both."
"Grandfather was right," Christl said. "History books will be rewritten, all thanks to the Oberhausers. It's our job to see that happens. For the family."