The Charlemagne Pursuit (Cotton Malone 4)

"She knew Father kept his papers there. But I never told her how the cabinet opened. She was never interested, until lately. She clearly didn't want me to have the documents."

"But she wanted you to have me?"

"That is puzzling."

"Maybe she thought I'd be useless?"

"I can't imagine why."

"Flattery? You'll try anything."

She smiled.

He wanted to know, "Why would Dorothea steal the documents at the abbey and leave the originals of at least one of them in the castle?"

"Dorothea rarely ventured beneath Reichshoffen. She knows little of what's down there."

"So who killed the woman from the cable car?"

Her face hardened. "Dorothea."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "You must know that my sister has little or no conscience."

"You two are the strangest twins I've ever come across."

"Though we were born at the same time, that doesn't make us the same. We always maintained a distance from each other that we both enjoy."

"So what happens when you two inherit it all?"

"I think Mother hopes this quest will end our differences."

He caught her reservations. "Not going to happen?"

"We both promised that we'd try."

"You each have a strange way of trying."

He stared around at the chapel. A few feet away, within the outer polygon, stood the main altar.

Christl noticed his interest. "The panel in front is said to have been made from gold that Otto III found in Charlemagne's tomb."

"I already know what you're going to say. But nobody knows for sure."

Her explanations, so far, had been specific, but that didn't mean they were right. He checked his watch and stood. "We need to eat something."

She gave him a puzzled look. "Shouldn't we deal with this first?"

"If I knew how, I would."

Before entering the chapel, they'd detoured to the gift shop and learned that the interior stayed open until seven PM, the last tour starting at six. He'd also noticed an assortment of guidebooks and historical materials, some in English, most in German. Luckily, he was reasonably fluent.

"We need to make a stop, then find a place to eat."

"The Marktplatz is not far away."

He motioned toward the main doors. "Lead the way."

THIRTY-FIVE

CHARLOTTE, NORTH CAROLINA

11:00 AM

CHARLIE SMITH WORE STONE-WASHED JEANS, A DARK KNIT SHIRT, and steel-toed boots, all bought a few hours ago from a Wal-Mart. He imagined himself one of the Duke boys, in Hazzard County, just after climbing out the driver's-side window of the General Lee. Light traffic on the two-lane highway north from Charlotte had allowed a leisurely pace, and now he stood shivering among trees and stared at the house, maybe twelve hundred square feet under one roof.

He knew its history.

Herbert Rowland had bought the property in his thirties, made payments until his forties, then built the cabin in his fifties. Two weeks after retiring from the navy, Rowland and his wife packed a moving van and drove the twenty miles north from Charlotte. They'd spent the past ten years living quietly beside the lake.

On the flight north from Jacksonville, Smith had studied the file. Rowland possessed two genuine medical concerns. The first was a long-standing diabetic condition. Type 1, insulin-dependent. Controllable, provided he maintained daily insulin injections. The second was a love of alcohol, whiskey being Rowland's preference. A bit of a connoisseur, he spent a portion of his monthly navy retirement check on premium blends at a high-priced Charlotte liquor store. He always drank at home, at night, he and his wife together.

His notes from last year suggested a death consistent with diabetes. But devising a method to accomplish that result, while at the same time not raising any suspicion, had taken thought.

The front door opened and Herbert Rowland strolled out into bright sunshine. The older man walked straight to a dirty Ford Tundra and drove away. A second vehicle belonging to Rowland's wife was nowhere to be seen. Smith waited in the thickets ten minutes, then decided to risk it.

He walked to the front door and knocked.

No answer.

Again.

It took less than a minute to pick the lock. He knew there was no alarm system. Rowland liked to tell people he considered it a waste of money.

He carefully opened the door, stepped inside, and found the answering machine. He checked the saved messages. The sixth one, from Rowland's wife, dated and timed a few hours ago, pleased him. She was at her sister's and had called to check on him, ending by noting that she'd be home the day after tomorrow.

His plan immediately changed.

Two days alone was an excellent opportunity.

He passed a rack of hunting rifles. Rowland was an avid woodsman. He checked a couple of the shotguns and rifles. He liked to hunt, too, only his sport walked upright on two legs.

He entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Lining the door shelf, exactly where the file indicated, stood four vials of insulin. With gloved fingers he examined each. All full, plastic seals intact, save for the one currently in use.

He carried the vial to the sink, then removed an empty syringe from his pocket. Puncturing the rubber seal with the needle, he worked the plunger, siphoned out the medicine, then expelled the liquid down the drain. He repeated the process two more times until the vial was empty. From another pocket he found a bottle of saline. He filled the syringe and injected the contents, repeating the process until the vial was once again three-quarters full.

He rinsed the sink and replaced the tampered vial in the refrigerator. Eight hours from now, when Herbert Rowland injected himself, he'd notice little. But alcohol and diabetes didn't mix. Excessive alcohol and untreated diabetes were absolutely fatal. Within a few hours Rowland should be in shock, and by morning he'd be dead.

All Smith would have to do was maintain a vigil.

He heard a motor outside and rushed to the window.

A man and woman emerged from a Chrysler compact.

DOROTHEA WAS CONCERNED. WILKERSON HAD BEEN GONE A LONG time. He'd said he would find a bakery and bring back some sweets, but that had been nearly two hours ago.

The room phone rang and startled her. No one knew she was here except- She lifted the receiver.

"Dorothea," Wilkerson said. "Listen to me. I was followed, but managed to lose them."

"How did they find us?"

"I have no idea, but I made it back to the hotel and spotted men out front. Don't use your cell phone. It can be monitored. We do that all the time."

"You sure you lost them?"

"I used the U-Bahn. It's you they're keying on now since they think you'll lead them to me."

Her mind plotted. "Wait a few hours, then take the underground to the Hauptbahnhof. Wait near the tourist office. I'll be there at six."

"How are you going to leave the hotel?" he asked.

"As much business as my family does here, the concierge should be able to handle whatever I ask."

STEPHANIE STEPPED FROM HER CAR AND EDWIN DAVIS EMERGED from the passenger side. They'd driven from Atlanta to Charlotte, about 240 miles, all interstate highway, the trip a little under three hours. Davis had learned the physical address for Herbert Rowland, LCDR, retired, from navy records and Google had provided directions.

The house sat north of Charlotte, beside Eagles Lake, which, from its size and irregular shape, seemed man-made. The shoreline was steep, forested, and rocky. Few homesites existed. Rowland's wood-sided, hip-roofed house was nestled a quarter mile from the road, among bare hardwoods and green poplars, with a great view.

Stephanie was unsure about all of this and had voiced her concerns during the trip, suggesting that law enforcement should be involved.

But Davis had balked.

"This is still a bad idea," she said to him.

"Stephanie, if I went to the FBI,

or the local sheriff, and told them what I suspected, they'd say I was nuts. And who the hell knows? Maybe I am."

"Zachary Alexander dying last night isn't a fantasy."

"But it isn't a provable murder, either."

They'd heard from the Secret Service in Jacksonville. No evidence of foul play had been detected.

She noticed no cars parked at the house. "Doesn't seem like anyone's home."

Davis slammed the car door. "One way to find out."

She followed him onto the porch, where he banged on the front door. No answer. He knocked again. After another few moments of silence, Davis tested the knob.