InChrista-Marie Schönburg's case, her skills had not eroded in the least when shewas sent to prison. She was still, at the moment of her incarceration, one ofthe most celebrated and revered cellists in the world. Here, looking at thewoman so many years later, he wondered which fate was worse.

    'Wecame from the conservatories in those days,' she said. 'I went to Prentiss. Myteacher was a childhood friend of Ormandy. They might never have found me ifnot for him.'

    Christa-Mariearranged herself on the chair, continued.

    'Youknow, there really weren't all that many women back then. It wasn't until muchlater that playing in a major orchestra, at least one of the Big Five - Boston,New York, Cleveland, Chicago, Philadelphia - was seen as a job, a full-time jobthat a woman could do. Gainful employment, as they used to say.'

    Byrneremained silent. While he was sitting there he felt his cellphone vibrate threeseparate times. He couldn't answer. Finally he just said it:

    'Christa-Marie,I need to ask you something.'

    Shesat forward in her chair, expectant. In that instant she looked like aschoolgirl. Byrne held up the note card.

    'Whydid you write me?'

    Insteadof answering she looked out the window for a few moments. She looked back. 'Doyou know those scrolls on the bottom front of the cello? The holes cut there?'

    Byrneglanced at the cello in the corner. He saw what she was talking about. Henodded.

    'Doyou know what they call those?' she asked.

    'No.'

    'They'recalled the F-holes. Can you imagine a group of young students hearing this forthe first time?'

    Christa-Marie'sexpression soon changed from one of joyful remembrance to one of longing.

    'Myhappiest years were at Prentiss, you know. There was no pressure. There wasjust the music. Bernstein once told me that the only thing that mattered was tolove the music. It's true.'

    Shesmoothed her hair, ran a hand across her cheek. 'I was just nineteen that firstnight at the Academy. Nineteen. Can you imagine?'

    Byrnecould not. He told her so.

    'Ithas been so many years since then,' she said.

    Shefell silent again. Byrne had the feeling that if he did not move forward withhis questions he would never again have the opportunity.

    'Christa-Marie,I need to talk to you about your letter.'

    She glancedat him. 'After all this time, you want to get to business.' She sigheddramatically. 'If we must.'

    Byrneheld up the note card again. 'I need to know what you were talking about whenyou wrote me, and asked if I'd "found them." If I'd found the lionand the rooster and the swan.'

    Shestared at him for a long second, then rose from her chair. She walked the shortdistance between them, knelt before him.

    'Ican help you,' she said.

    Byrnedid not answer immediately, hoping she would continue. She did not. 'Help me dowhat?'

    Christa-Marielooked out the window again. In this light, at this short distance, her skinwas translucent, the result of a lifetime spent hiding from the sun.

    'Doyou know the Suzuki method?' she asked.

    Byrnehad heard of it, but he knew nothing about it. He told her so.

    'Hefocused on song-playing over technique. He allowed students to make music onthe first day. It's no different from learning a language.' She leaned in. 'We twospeak the language of death, do we not?'

    Christa-Marieleaned even closer, as if to share a secret.

    'Ican help you stop the killings,' she said softly.

    Thewords echoed off the misted glass walls of the solarium.

    'Thekillings?'

    'Yes.There will be more, you know. Many more. Before Halloween night at midnight.'

    Hertone was flat, emotionless. She talked about murder in the same manner in whichshe had talked about music earlier.

    'WhyHalloween midnight?'

    Beforeshe answered, Byrne saw the fingers on her left hand move. At first he thoughtit might have just been some sort of twitch, an involuntary movement broughtabout by being in one position for an extended period of time. But out of thecorner of his eye he saw her fingers curl around an imaginary thing and herealized she was recreating some passage she had once played on the cello.Then, just as suddenly as the movement began, it stopped. She dropped her handsto her lap.

    'Itis not over until the coda, detective.'

    Byrneknew the word. A coda was a final section to a piece of music, generally playedwith some dramatic urgency - a flourish at the end of a symphony, perhaps. 'I'mnot sure what you mean.'

    'GeorgeSzell would often stand in his office window and see which of his players tooktheir instruments home with them.'

    Byrnesaid nothing, hoping she would return to the moment on her own.

    'Easyfor the oboist, n'est-cepas? she added. 'Not so for the bassist.' Shesat up on her heels. 'Did you know that the cellist and bassist must eachpurchase an extra airline ticket for their instruments?'

    Byrnehadn't known that.

    'TheCavani String Quartet always books for five.'

    'Christa-Marie,'Byrne said, hoping that his voice did not sound as if he were pleading. 'Ineed—'

    'Willyou come back on Halloween?' she asked, interrupting him. 'I want to show you aspecial place in the country. We'll make a day of it. We'll have such fun.'

    Byrnehad to find out what she meant in her note, the references to the animals. Buthe now knew that getting the information was not going to be easy. Before hecould stop himself he said: 'Yes. I'll come back.'

    Shelooked at him as if seeing him for the first time, her expression darkening. 'Ican help you stop the killings, Kevin. But first you must do something for me.'

    'Whatis it, Christa-Marie?' he asked. 'What can I do for you?'

    Ofall the things he expected her to say, what she did say nearly took his breathaway. They were probably the last two words he would have expected to hear, twowords that would carry his thoughts well into the dark hours of the night.

    Christa-MarieSchönburg took his hand in hers, looked deep into his eyes, and said: 'Loveme.'

Chapter 54

    Lucystood in front of the door to Room 1208, her heart pounding. She wanted to goin, but she was afraid, as frightened as she had ever been in her life. She haddone a little sleuthing on her own. She knew that everyone on this floor was amember of Société Poursuite. The group had a seminar in the Crystal Roomthat day, a seminar that was scheduled to run from 10:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.,when they would break for lunch. Lucy figured that the floor would be emptyfrom about 9:30 a.m. until perhaps 2:00 p.m.

    Earlierin the day she had stood on the mezzanine and watched everyone file into theCrystal Room. Ever since she had been kidnapped, with everyone she met she wasalways looking for something, some gesture, some familiar posture, a word, aninflection, an accent that would draw her back to those three lost days andwhat had happened to her.

    Once,in Carlisle, she had heard a woman's high-pitched laughter, and it had drawnher memory to a room - not necessarily a room in which she had been held, but aroom that had served as a stop along the way. When she had turned to look atthe woman - a doughy redhead of forty with cigarette-stained lips - the feelinghad gone. She understood then that the feeling would come and go. She onlyneeded it to stay for a moment, during which she could take a snapshot. Andremember.

    Rightnow she had a job to do.

    Lucylifted her hand to knock but found she couldn't do it. Her arms felt weak and alittle too light all of a sudden. She tried again.