Christa-Marie's expression soon changed from one of joyful remembrance to one of longing.
'My happiest years were at Prentiss, you know. There was no pressure. There was just the music. Bernstein once told me that the only thing that mattered was to love the music. It's true.'
She smoothed her hair, ran a hand across her cheek. 'I was just nineteen that first night at the Academy. Nineteen. Can you imagine?'
Byrne could not. He told her so.
'It has been so many years since then,' she said.
She fell silent again. Byrne had the feeling that if he did not move forward with his questions he would never again have the opportunity.
'Christa-Marie, I need to talk to you about your letter.'
She glanced at him. 'After all this time, you want to get to business.' She sighed dramatically. 'If we must.'
Byrne held up the note card again. 'I need to know what you were talking about when you wrote me, and asked if I'd 'found them.' If I'd found the lion and the rooster and the swan.'
She stared at him for a long second, then rose from her chair. She walked the short distance between them, knelt before him.
'I can help you,' she said.
Byrne did not answer immediately, hoping she would continue. She did not. 'Help me do what?'
Christa-Marie looked out the window again. In this light, at this short distance, her skin was translucent, the result of a lifetime spent hiding from the sun.
'Do you know the Suzuki method?' she asked.
Byrne had heard of it, but he knew nothing about it. He told her so.
'He focused on song-playing over technique. He allowed students to make music on the first day. It's no different from learning a language.' She leaned in. 'We two speak the language of death, do we not?'
Christa-Marie leaned even closer, as if to share a secret.
'I can help you stop the killings,' she said softly.
The words echoed off the misted glass walls of the solarium.
'The killings?'
'Yes. There will be more, you know. Many more. Before Halloween night at midnight.'
Her tone was flat, emotionless. She talked about murder in the same manner in which she had talked about music earlier.
'Why Halloween midnight?'
Before she answered, Byrne saw the fingers on her left hand move. At first he thought it might have just been some sort of twitch, an involuntary movement brought about by being in one position for an extended period of time. But out of the corner of his eye he saw her fingers curl around an imaginary thing and he realized 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 hands to her lap.
'It is not over until the coda, detective.'
Byrne knew the word. A coda was a final section to a piece of music, generally played with some dramatic urgency — a flourish at the end of a symphony, perhaps. 'I'm not sure what you mean.'
'George Szell would often stand in his office window and see which of his players took their instruments home with them.'
Byrne said nothing, hoping she would return to the moment on her own.
'Easy for the oboist, n'est-cepas? she added. 'Not so for the bassist.' She sat up on her heels. 'Did you know that the cellist and bassist must each purchase an extra airline ticket for their instruments?'
Byrne hadn't known that.
'The Cavani String Quartet always books for five.'
'Christa-Marie,' Byrne said, hoping that his voice did not sound as if he were pleading. 'I need-'
'Will you come back on Halloween?' she asked, interrupting him. 'I want to show you a special place in the country. We'll make a day of it. We'll have such fun.'
Byrne had to find out what she meant in her note, the references to the animals. But he now knew that getting the information was not going to be easy. Before he could stop himself he said: 'Yes. I'll come back.'
She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, her expression darkening. 'I can help you stop the killings, Kevin. But first you must do something for me.'
'What is it, Christa-Marie?' he asked. 'What can I do for you?'
Of all the things he expected her to say, what she did say nearly took his breath away. They were probably the last two words he would have expected to hear, two words that would carry his thoughts well into the dark hours of the night.
Christa-Marie Schцnburg took his hand in hers, looked deep into his eyes, and said: 'Love me.'
Chapter 54
Lucy stood in front of the door to Room 1208, her heart pounding. She wanted to go in, but she was afraid, as frightened as she had ever been in her life. She had done a little sleuthing on her own. She knew that everyone on this floor was a member of Sociйtй Poursuite. The group had a seminar in the Crystal Room that 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 empty from about 9:30 a.m. until perhaps 2:00 p.m.
Earlier in the day she had stood on the mezzanine and watched everyone file into the Crystal Room. Ever since she had been kidnapped, with everyone she met she was always looking for something, some gesture, some familiar posture, a word, an inflection, an accent that would draw her back to those three lost days and what had happened to her.
Once, in Carlisle, she had heard a woman's high-pitched laughter, and it had drawn her memory to a room — not necessarily a room in which she had been held, but a room that had served as a stop along the way. When she had turned to look at the woman — a doughy redhead of forty with cigarette-stained lips — the feeling had gone. She understood then that the feeling would come and go. She only needed it to stay for a moment, during which she could take a snapshot. And remember.
Right now she had a job to do.
Lucy lifted her hand to knock but found she couldn't do it. Her arms felt weak and a little too light all of a sudden. She tried again.
'Housekeeping,' she said, knocking. She soon realized it had come out in a mousy whisper.
A louder knock. 'Housekeeping.'
Nothing.
Now or never.
She took out her section card, swiped the lock, and stepped into Room 1208.
The room was empty.
She wasn't supposed to close the door, but sometimes they closed on their own and her supervisor was well aware of this. This was one of those times. Except that Lucy closed it herself.
She had lugged everything she needed into the room and had piled it on the bed. She breezed through her checklist. She had never worked so fast in her life.
This was crazy. What was she doing? This was all in her head. She had created a fantasy here — from the moment she'd heard about the Dreamweaver it had all been some crazy dream. The fact that a girl had been killed in this room was just a sick and tragic and horrible coincidence.
Mr. Adrian Costa had no special abilities, no special powers. The man was a charlatan, and he was lying to her. Just another long con.
Lucy flew through the rest of her duties, clocking the room at something superhuman, like fifteen minutes. When she was finished she felt a little better. A clean fresh room had that effect on her. Now she could leave.
On the way out she saw that the bottom drawer in the dresser was slightly open. She looked at the door,
