Berry, Steve - the Amber Room

He stole a glance at Rachel. She was curled under the down comforter, her naked body covered only by one of his twill shirts. She'd made love to him two hours ago for the first time in nearly four years. He could still feel the intensity between them, his body drained from a release of emotions he thought never again possible. Could they make things right? God knows he wanted to. The past couple weeks had certainly been bittersweet. Her father was gone, but perhaps the Cutler family could be restored. He hoped he wasn't simply something with which to fill a void. Rachel's words earlier about him being all the family she had left still rang in his ears. He wondered why he was so suspicious. Perhaps it was the kick in the gut he'd experienced three years ago--caution shielding his heart from another crushing break.

He inched the door open and quietly slipped into the hall. Incandescent wall sconces burned softly. Not a sound drifted in the air. He crossed to a thick stone railing and glanced down at a foyer four stories below, the marbled space illuminated by a series of table lamps. A massive, unlit crystal chandelier hung down to the third-floor level.

He followed a carpet runner down a right-angled stone staircase to the ground floor. Barefoot and silent he moved deeper into the castle, negotiating wide corridors past the dining hall toward a series of spacious rooms where art was displayed. None of the doors to any room was shut.

He stepped into the Witches' Room, which, as Loring explained earlier, was where a local witches' court was once held. He approached a series of ebony cabinets and switched on tiny halogen lights. Roman Age artifacts lined the shelves. Statuettes, standards, plates, vessels, lamps, bells, tools. A few exquisitely carved goddesses, as well. He recognized Victoria, the Roman symbol for victory, a crown and palm leaf in her outstretched hands beckoning a choice.

A sound suddenly came from the hall. Not much. Like a scuff on carpet. But in the silence it rang loud.

His head whipped left to the open doorway and he froze, barely breathing. Was it a footstep or just a centuries-old building settling down for the night? He reached up and gently flicked off the cabinet lights. The cases went dark. He crept to a sofa and crouched down behind.

Another sound slipped past him. A footstep. Definitely. Somebody was in the hall. He shrank farther behind the couch and waited, hoping whoever it was moved on. Perhaps it was simply one of the staff making required rounds.

A shadow spread across the lit doorway. He peered over the sofa.

Wayland McKoy walked past.

He should have known.

He tiptoed to the doorway. McKoy was a few feet away, headed in the direction of a room at the far end. Earlier, Loring had merely pointed out the darkened space, calling it the Romanesque Room, but had not offered a tour.

"Couldn't sleep?" he whispered.

McKoy reeled back with a start and whirled around. "Goddammit, Cutler," he mouthed. "You scared the fuck out of me." The big man wore a pair of jeans and a pullover sweater.

He pointed to McKoy's bare feet. "We're starting to think alike. That's scary."

"A little redneck wouldn't hurt you a bit, city lawyer."

They stepped into the shadow of the Witches' Room and spoke in hushed whispers.

"You curious, too?" Paul asked.

"Damn right. Two fuckin' million. Loring jumped on that like flies on shit."

"Wonder what he knows?"

"I don't know. But it's somethin'. Trouble is, this Bohemian Louvre is so full of crap, we may never find out."

"We could get lost in this maze."

Suddenly, something clattered down the hall. Like metal to stone. He and McKoy leaned their heads out and glanced left. A dim yellow rectangle of light spilled from the Romanesque Room at the far end.

"I vote we go see," McKoy said.

"Why not? We've come this far."

McKoy led the way down the carpet runner. At the open door of the Romanesque Room they both froze.

"Oh, shit," Paul said.

Knoll had watched through the judas hole as Paul Cutler donned his clothes and crept out. Rachel Cutler had never heard her ex-husband leave and was still asleep under the covers. He'd been waiting for hours before making his move, allowing ample time for everyone to retire for the night. He planned to start with the Cutlers, move to McKoy, then Loring and Danzer, particularly enjoying the last two--savoring the moment of their deaths--exacting compensation for the murders of Fellner and Monika. But Paul Cutler's unexpected leaving had raised a problem. From what Rachel described, her ex-husband wasn't the adventurous type. Yet here he was, venturing off barefoot in the middle of the night. Certainly not heading for the kitchen and a midnight snack. He was most likely snooping. He'd have to tend to him later.

After Rachel.

He crept down the passage, following a trail of bare bulbs. He found the first exit and tripped the spring-loaded switch. A slab of stone swung open and he stepped into one of the empty fourth-floor bedrooms. He crossed to the hall door and hustled back to the room where Rachel Cutler slept.

He entered and locked the door behind him.

Approaching the Renaissance fireplace, he located the switch disguised as a piece of gilded molding. He'd not entered from the secret passages for fear of making too much noise, but he might need to make a hasty exit. He tripped the switch and left the concealed door half open.

He inched over to the bed.

Rachel Cutler still slept peacefully.

He twisted his right arm and waited for the stiletto to slither down into his palm.

"It's a friggin' secret door," McKoy said.

Paul had never seen one before. Old movies and novels proclaimed their existence, but right before his eyes, thirty feet away, a section of stone wall was swung open on a center pivot. One of the wooden display cases was firmly affixed to it, three feet on either side allowing entrance into a lit room beyond.

McKoy stepped forward.

Paul grabbed him. "You crazy?"

"Do the math, Cutler. We're supposed to go."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean our host didn't leave this open by accident. Let's not disappoint him."

Paul believed going any farther was foolish. He'd pushed things coming downstairs to start with, but now he wasn't sure about following the situation to its conclusion. Maybe he should just go back upstairs to Rachel. But his curiosity told him to go on.

So he followed McKoy.

In the room beyond, more lighted cases lined the walls and center. Paul strolled through the maze in awe. Antico statues and busts. Egyptian and Near East carvings. Mayan etchings. Antique jewelry. A couple of paintings caught his eye. A seventeenth-century Rembrandt he knew was stolen from a German museum thirty years ago and a Bellini taken from Italy about the same time. Both were among the world's most sought-after art treasures. He recalled a seminar at the High Museum on the topic.

"McKoy, this stuff is all stolen."

"How do you know?"

He stopped in front of one chest-high case that displayed a blackened skull resting on a glass pedestal. "This is Peking Man. Nobody has seen it since World War Two. And those two paintings over there are definitely stolen. Shit. What Grumer said was right. Loring is part of that club."

"Calm down, Cutler. We don't know that. This guy may just have a little private stash he keeps to himself. Let's not go off half-cocked."

He stared ahead at a set of open, white-enameled double doors. He noticed the whiskey-colored mosaic walls beyond. He stepped forward. McKoy followed. In the doorway they both went motionless.