Berry, Steve - the Amber Room

"It bothers?"

"I'm afraid it does."

"You love my Rachel?"

"And my kids. The apartment gets pretty quiet. I miss all three of 'em, Karl. Or should I say, Karol. That's going to take some getting used to."

"Us both."

"Sorry about not being there today. My hearing got postponed. It was with the lawyer Rachel jailed."

"I appreciate help with petition."

"Any time."

"You know," he said, a twinkle in his eye, "she's seen no man since divorce. Maybe why she's so cranky?" Paul noticeably perked up. He thought he'd read him right. "Claims too busy. But I wonder."

His former son-in-law did not take the bait, and simply sat in silence. He returned his attention to the map. After a few moments, he said, "Braves on TBS."

Paul reached for the remote and punched on the television.

He didn't mention Rachel again, but all through the game he kept glancing at the map. A light green delineated the Harz Mountains, rolling north to south then turning east, the old border between the two Germanies gone. The towns were noted in black. Gottingen. Munden. Osterdode. Warthberg. Stod. The caves and tunnels were unmarked, but he knew they were there. Hundreds of them.

Where was the right cave?

Hard to say anymore.

Was Wayland McKoy on the right track?

SIX

10:25 p.m.

Paul cradled Marla and gently carried her into the house. Brent followed, yawning. A strange feeling always accompanied him when he entered. He and Rachel had bought the two-story brick colonial just after they married, ten years ago. When the divorce came, seven years later, he'd voluntarily moved out. Title remained in both their names and, interestingly, Rachel insisted he retain a key. But he used it sparingly, and always with her prior knowledge, since Paragraph VII of the final decree provided for her exclusive use and possession, and he respected her privacy no matter how much it sometimes hurt.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor and laid Marla in her bed. Both children had bathed at their grandfather's house. He undressed her and slipped her into some Beauty and the Beast pajamas. He'd twice taken the children to see the Disney movie. He kissed her good night and stroked her hair until she was sound asleep. After tucking Brent in, he headed downstairs.

The den and kitchen were messy. Nothing unusual. A housekeeper came twice a week since Rachel was not noted for neatness. That was one of their differences. He was a perfectly in place person. Not compulsive, just disciplined. Messes bothered him, he couldn't help it. Rachel didn't seem to mind clothes on the floor, toys strewn about, and a sinkful of dishes.

Rachel Bates had been an enigma from the start. Intelligent, outspoken, assertive, but alluring. That she'd been attracted to him was surprising, since women were never his strong point. There'd been a couple of steady dates in college and one relationship he thought was serious in law school, but Rachel had captivated him. Why, he'd never really understood. Her sharp tongue and brusque manner could hurt, though she didn't mean 90 percent of what she said. At least that's what he told himself over and over to excuse her insensitivity. He was easygoing. Too easygoing. It seemed far less trouble to simply ignore her than rise to the challenge. But sometimes he felt she wanted him to challenge her.

Did he disappoint her by backing down? Letting her have her way?

Hard to say.

He wandered toward the front of the house and tried to clear his head, but each room assaulted him with memories. The mahogany console with the fossil stone top they'd found in Chattanooga one weekend antiquing. The cream-on-sand conversation sofa where they'd sat many nights watching television. The glass credenza displaying Lilliput cottages, something they both collected with zeal, many a Christmas marked by reciprocal gifts. Even the smell evoked fondness. The peculiar fragrance homes seemed to possess. The musk of life, their life, filtered by time's sieve.

He stepped into the foyer and noticed the portrait of him and the kids still on display. He wondered how many divorcees kept a ten by twelve of their ex around for all to see. And how many insisted that their ex-husband retain a key to the house. They even still possessed a couple of joint investments, which he managed for them both.

The silence was broken by a key scraping the front door lock.

A second later the door opened and Rachel stepped inside. "Kids any trouble?" she asked.

"Never."

He took in the black princess-seamed jacket that cinched her waist and the slim skirt cut above the knee. Long, slender legs led down to low-heeled pumps. Her auburn hair fell in a layered bob, barely brushing the tips of her thin shoulders. Green tiger eyes trimmed in silver dangled from each of her earlobes and matched her eyes, which looked tired.

"Sorry about not making it to the name change," he said. "But your stunt with Marcus Nettles held things up in probate court."

"He's a sexist bastard."

"You're a judge, Rachel, not the savior of the world. Can't you use a little diplomacy?"

She tossed her purse and keys on a side table. Her eyes hardened like marbles. He'd seen the look before. "What do you expect me to do? The fat bastard drops hundred-dollar bills on my desk and tells me to fuck off. He deserved to spend a few hours in jail."

"Do you have to constantly prove yourself?"

"You're not my keeper, Paul."

"Somebody needs to be. You've got an election coming up. Two strong opponents, and you're only a first-termer. Nettles is already talking about bankrolling both of them. Which, by the way, he can afford. You don't need that kind of trouble."

"Screw Nettles."

Last time he'd arranged the fund-raisers, handled advertising, and courted the people needed to secure endorsements, attract the press, and secure votes. He wondered who would run her campaign this time. Organization was not Rachel's strong suit. So far she hadn't asked for help, and he really didn't expect her to. "You can lose, you know."

"I don't need a political lecture."

"What do you need, Rachel?"

"None of your damn business. We're divorced. Remember?"

He recalled what her father said. "Do you? We've been apart three years now. Have you dated anyone during that time?"

"That's also none of your business."

"Maybe not. But I seem to be the only one who cares."

She stepped close. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"The Ice Queen. That's what they call you around the court-house."

"I get the job done. Rated highest of any judge in the county last time the Daily Report checked stats."

"That all you care about? How fast you clear a docket?"

"Judges can't afford friends. You either get accused of bias or are hated for a lack of it. I'd rather be the Ice Queen."

It was late, and he didn't feel like an argument. He brushed past her toward the front door. "One day you may need a friend. I wouldn't burn all my bridges if I were you." He opened the door.

"You're not me," she said.

"Thank God."

And he left.

SEVEN

Northeast Italy

Wednesday, May 7, 1:34 a.m.

His umber jumpsuit, black leather gloves, and charcoal sneakers blended with the night. Even his close-cropped, bottle-dyed chestnut hair, matching eyebrows, and swarthy complexion helped, the past two weeks spent scouring North Africa having left a tan on his Nordic face.

Gaunt peaks rose all around him, a jagged amphitheater barely distinguishable from the pitch sky. A full moon hung in the east. A spring chill lingered in the air that was fresh, alive, and different. The mountains echoed a low peal of distant thunder.

Leaves and straw cushioned his every step, the underbrush thin under gangly trees. Moonlight dappled through the canopy, spotting the trail with iridescence. He chose his steps carefully, resisting the urge to use his penlight, his sharp eyes ready and alert.