“To take you away,” he said simply.

Her heart leaped stupidly, an echo of the girl she’d been, but she’d learned long ago not to rely on anyone to take care of her. She would take care of herself. She always had.

“I’m going after Catharina,” the Dutchman went on. “I promised Johannes nothing would happen to her-or to you and Juliana. I meant what I said.”

“And Johannes didn’t believe you, of course,” Wilhelmina said with a snort. “We’ve all heard your promises before-and believed them. You’ll see to your own skin before anyone else’s.”

“Perhaps I’ve changed.”

She only laughed. Promises meant nothing to her, only actions. Still, a small, rebellious part of her hoped Hendrik wasn’t lying this time, or even kidding himself. He’d always been so optimistic, so filled with high hopes and grand ideas. He thought he could do anything. Wilhelmina had always been attracted to that side of him. When he was young, it had made him seem so alive, so filled with energy and hope that they all had believed he could accomplish the miracles he bragged about. He hadn’t been obnoxious so much as refreshing.

He hadn’t changed. Wilhelmina had no intention of giving him the opportunity to prove himself; she preferred to be master of her own fate. Yet she supposed there was a glimmer of desire to see him this once seize the opportunity, not wait for it or back away from it, but act out of conviction, not necessity.

“Catharina doesn’t have the Minstrel, does she?” he asked, going to the windows over the couch.

Wilhelmina made no answer.

Hendrik glanced at her, smiling. “It’s all right. You don’t need to tell me. If Johannes had given Catharina the Minstrel, she’d have tossed it into the Hudson River. You and I know how she hates it-but Bloch doesn’t. But when he discovers she doesn’t have the stone, he’ll kill her and come for Juliana and you, too, Wilhelmina. He may even come before he knows for sure which of you has it. That’s his way.”

“Let him come. Juliana isn’t here, and I have no fear.”

“You may get your wish,” Hendrik said grimly. He’d been peering out the window down at the street, and now he nodded to Wilhelmina. She came over and stood next to him. Two men were moving quickly toward the entrance. “That’s Bloch and one of his men.”

“There are doormen-”

Hendrik laughed, and she regretted her lapse into naiveté. He went on, “If Bloch finds me here, he’ll kill me. Then I’ll hardly be in a position to help.”

Wilhelmina shrugged. “It seems to me he’ll kill you anyway at some point.”

“Maybe so.” He grinned at her. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Willie? But revenge never feels so good as we think it ought. Hating me keeps you alive.”

He started toward the door. Wilhelmina touched his arm, but not to stop him. He seemed to know this. His eyes were as blue as she’d remembered and had seen in the dreams she’d never been able to control and will away. Who was she to change what had been? He was a devil, yes, but she’d not always thought him so. That, too, was a part of what had been.

She asked quietly, “Did you ever touch her?”

“No,” he said, “never.”

Then he ran. As before.

The old Dutchwoman spoke no English, which pissed Bloch off, but he figured the younger sister could translate-and he had no trouble getting through what he wanted her to do. A.357 Magnum reduced the need for a common language. He waved it around and told her to get her fat ass out the door, and, sure enough, she did.

He let himself relax, cutting down slightly on his guard-and that was when she whipped around with a goddamn knife that could have sliced an elephant in two with one swipe. She had it at his throat before he could shoot the silly bitch. Like a damn fool, he’d hesitated that fraction of a second because he didn’t want to cause any more ruckus than he already had in busting past the doormen. Now if he fired, the old woman’s last act would be to shove her fucking knife in his throat. And even if it weren’t and he could manage to blow her fat butt across the hall, there’d still be the noise and the mess.

There was also the chance she had the diamond. He wanted Wilhelmina Peperkamp alive.

“Achh,” she grunted, cursing him in Dutch. She threw down the knife and proceeded to the elevator.

Jesus Christ, Bloch muttered to himself, glad none of his men had been around for this one.

He refused to meet her eye on the ride down in the elevator. He decided she’d made her point.

They collected his man in the lobby; he’d done a fair job of convincing the doormen they shouldn’t call in the cavalry just yet. Their car slid up to the Central Park West entrance, and they jumped in, Bloch giving the stout old Dutchwoman a good shove. Henson, the guy posted across the street, had joined them. He didn’t look too happy, and within a block, the sergeant found out why.

“Stark was here,” Henson said.

Bloch swore. He should have taken care of Matthew Stark himself when he was in Washington. Hell, he should have taken care of him twenty years ago in ’Nam.

“Tell him anything?”

“No.”

Bloch didn’t believe it. Time he and Matt Stark finished things, anyway.

“Think the doormen’ll call the police?” Henson asked.

“Worry, worry,” Bloch said derisively. “What do you care if they do? We’re free and clear.”

But Henson sat back, not reassured, and Bloch wondered if the guy had scruples or was just scared. Either one didn’t sit too well with him. Mostly his men were shit. Not all of them, but enough. But that would change soon, and it was another problem for another time.

He told the driver to speed it up, he wanted to be at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey as soon as possible. Then he told the two women, who were yapping in Dutch, to shut the fuck up. The younger one was a nice-looking woman with real manners, but pale and sweating from her busted arm-and Jesus Christ, did she hate his guts. The old one called him a Nazi. Bloch was just as glad she hadn’t known about her sister’s arm before she’d thrown down her knife.

“Well, ladies,” he said, downright jovial, “I hope to hell one of you can lead me to the Minstrel’s Rough. Otherwise I’m going to have to find where de Geer stashed pretty little Juliana Fall. Then we can have a nice family reunion.”

He knew he’d have to find Juliana Fall at some point, regardless of what her aunt and mother did. She knew too much as it was, and she could identify him. A loose end. But he saw nothing to be gained from telling them that, and at the moment he thought the best strategy was to get back to camp and reassess exactly where he stood. If he were lucky, the girl, the Dutchman, and Steelman himself would come to him.

If not, he’d go to them.

Twenty

T he tiny, antique cape house stood on a hillside overlooking the winding Batten Kill River in southwestern Vermont. Three inches of light, dusty snow glistened in the moonlight on the gravel driveway. Juliana plowed Shuji’s Mercedes right through it and went in through the back, into the country kitchen, turning on lights and ignoring the pounding in her head and the tugging at the back of her eyes that told her she needed sleep. She stumbled into the common room and started a fire in the huge center chimney fireplace, using more matches than usual because her hands were shaking with cold and fear. Finally, it caught.

The crackling of the flames and the soughing of the wind were the only sounds. She listened to her footsteps on the wide pine floor as she went into her small bedroom off the common room and found some warm corduroys and a sweater and heavy socks and put them on. She left her city clothes in a heap on the floor.

The fire didn’t take long to get going, and Juliana soon added another log. Then she sat cross-legged on the round hand-braided rug in front of the hearth. Everything about the house was soothing. There was a basket on the floor filled with the needlework she only did when she was here; for the past four years she’d been working on a sweater made with wool from a farm nearby. There was a stack of unread books on the Shaker candle table. Bundles of herbs she’d dried last summer. Reference books on bird watching, gardening, jam making. The women who came here and exulted in simple domestic chores, she thought, was as different from the Juliana Fall who had just completed another highly acclaimed European tour as she was from J.J. Pepper.