STEPHANIE WAS A LITTLE DISCONCERTED. DAVIS HAD DECIDED they'd stay the night and reserved one room for them both.
"I'm not ordinarily this kind of girl," she said to him as he opened the door. "Going to a hotel on the first date."
"I don't know. I heard you're easy."
She popped him on the back of the head. "You wish."
He faced her. "Here we are at a romantic four-star hotel. Last night we had a great date huddled in the freezing cold, then getting shot at. We're really bonding."
She smiled. "Don't remind me. And by the way, love your subtlety with Scofield. Worked great. He warmed right up to you."
"He's an arrogant, self-absorbed know-it-all."
"Who was there in 1971, and knows more than you and me."
He plopped down onto a bright floral bedspread. The whole room looked like something out of a Southern Living magazine. Fine furnishings, elegant curtains, decor inspired by English and French manor houses. She actually would like to savor the deep tub. She hadn't bathed since yesterday morning in Atlanta. Is this what her agents routinely experienced? Wasn't she supposed to be in charge?
"Premier king room," he said. "It's all they had available. Its rate is way over government per diem but what the hell. You're worth it."
She sank into one of the upholstered club chairs and propped her feet on a matching footstool. "If you can handle all this togetherness, I can, too. I have a feeling we're not going to get much sleep anyway."
"He's here," Davis said. "I know it."
She wasn't so sure, but she could not deny a bad feeling swirling around in her stomach.
"Scofield is in the Wharton Suite on the sixth floor. He gets it every year," Davis said.
"Desk clerk let all that slip?"
He nodded. "She doesn't like Scofield, either."
Davis fished the conference pamphlet from his pocket. "He's leading a tour of the Biltmore mansion in a little while. Then, tomorrow morning, he's going boar hunting."
"If our man's here, that's plenty of opportunities for him to make a move, not counting the time tonight in the hotel room."
She watched Davis' face. Usually its features never gave away a thing, but the mask had faded. He was anxious. She felt a dark reluctance mingling with an intense curiosity, so she asked, "What are you going to do when you finally find him?"
"Kill him."
"That would be murder."
"Maybe. But I doubt our man will go down without a fight."
"You loved her that much?"
"Men shouldn't hit women."
She wondered who he was talking to. Her? Millicent? Ramsey?
"I couldn't do anything before," he said. "I can now." His face clouded over once again, belying all emotion. "Now tell me what the president didn't want me to know."
She'd been waiting for him to ask. "It's about your co-worker." She told him where Diane McCoy had gone. "He trusts you, Edwin. More than you know." She saw he caught what she hadn't said. Don't let him down.
"I won't disappoint him."
"You can't kill this man, Edwin. We need him alive, to get Ramsey. Otherwise the real problem walks."
"I know." Defeat laced his voice.
He stood.
"We need to go."
They'd stopped by the registration desk and signed up for the remainder of the conference before coming upstairs, obtaining two tickets for the candlelight tour.
"We have to stay close to Scofield," he said. "Whether he likes it or not."
CHARLIE SMITH ENTERED THE BILTMORE MANSION, FOLLOWING the private tour inside. When he'd registered for the Ancient Mysteries Revealed Conference under another name, he'd been presented a ticket for the event. A little quick reading in the inn's gift shop informed him that from early November until New Year's the mansion offered so-called magical evenings where visitors could enjoy the chateau filled with candlelight, blazing fireplaces, holiday decorations, and live musical performances. Entry times were reserved, and tonight's was extra special since it was the last tour of the day, open only for conference attendees.
They'd been ferried from the inn in two Biltmore buses-about eighty people, he estimated. He was dressed like the others, winter colors, wool coat, dark shoes. On the trip over he'd struck up a conversation about Star Trek with another attendee. They'd discussed which series they liked best, he arguing that Enterprise was by far superior, though his listener had preferred Voyager.
"Everyone," Scofield was saying, as they stood in the frigid night before the main doors, "follow me. You're in for a real treat."
The crowd entered through an elaborate iron grille. He'd read that each room inside would be decorated for Christmas, as George Vanderbilt had done, starting in 1885 when the estate was first opened.
He was looking forward to the spectacles.
Both the house.
And his own.
MALONE CAME AWAKE. CHRISTL SLEPT BESIDE HIM, HER NAKED body against his. He glanced at his watch. 12:35 AM. Another day-Friday, December 14-had started.
He'd been asleep two hours.
A warm pulse of satisfaction flowed through him.
He hadn't done that in awhile.
Afterward, rest had come in a no-man's-land of a twilight where detailed images roamed his restless mind.
Like the framed drawing hanging one floor below.
Of the church, from 1772.
Odd the way a solution had materialized, the answer laid out in his head like an open-faced hand of solitaire. It had happened that way two years ago. At Cassiopeia Vitt's chateau. He thought about Cassiopeia. Her visits of late had been few and far between, and she was God knew where. In Aachen he'd thought about calling her for help, but decided this fight was his alone. He lay still and wondered about the myriad choices life offered. The swiftness of his decision regarding Christl's advances worked his nerves.
But at least something more had come of it.
Charlemagne's pursuit.
He now knew the end.