Too Damn Rich (63 page)

I hate them! he thought. They all take after
their mother.

"And you want everything to be theirs, do you
not?" Sofia went on. "The businesses and castles? The true power of
the von und zu Engel- wiesens? You do want them to have what should
rightfully be theirs?"

"I ... I don't understand," he stammered, and
squirmed nervously in his chair.

Sofia smiled without humor. "Oh, I think you
do, Erwein."

But Erwein really didn't understand. His mind
was incapable of devi- ousness. He truly had no idea of what she
was getting at.

"My father!" Sofia hissed softly, quickly
glancing around to make certain none of the multitude of servants
was eavesdropping. "Don't you see? Only life support is keeping him
alive!"

Erwein sat there and swallowed, his prominent
Adam's apple bobbing.

"If Karl-Heinz and that bitch Zandra have a
male heir before he dies, our children will end up with nothing! Do
you hear me, Erwein? Nothing!"

She paused again, and her voice went colder
and harder.

"It's up to you to do something, Erwein. For
the first time in your life, be a man and fix things!"

Erwein felt a suffocating cloud closing in on
him. "But ... but what can I fix?"

"You have only to go to the clinic and unhook
my father's life- support system. That is all you have to do,
Erwein."

Erwein's eyes got as big and round as dinner
plates, and his mouth fell open in protest. But his vocal cords
were frozen. He was too shocked to emit a sound.

"For once, Erwein—just for once—you can do
something for us and the children. Is that asking for too
much?"

Somehow Erwein managed to find his voice.
"W-why don't you do it?" he whispered.

Sofia stared at him, the thin lines around
her mouth tightening. "Believe me, this is not the first time it
has crossed my mind. However, until now there has never been any
need to resort to it. Heinzie has always been a confirmed bachelor!
Who would have thought he'd have it in him to settle down? But
this—" Sofia brandished the wedding invitation and shook it
wrathfully. "—this suddenly changes everything! Now, will you do as
I ask?"

"But ... why me?" Erwein whimpered. "Why
don't you do it, Sofia? H-he's your father!"

Sofia looked at him with such fury that he
cringed, but suddenly she sighed deeply, and her face grew
uncharacteristically gentle and pensive.

"I can't!" she whispered, pacing back and
forth in a flurry of agitation. "Much as I'd like to, I simply ...
can't.
Um Gottes willen
, he's my father! I love him."

"I-I can't do it either," Erwein
stuttered.

Sofia stopped in midpace and glared at him.
"Was
zum Teufel ist los mit Dir?
" she demanded. "It's not
like he's your father."

"I-I can't commit murder, Sofia.
Bitte
," he begged. "Don't ask me to do this. I-I can't."

She looked at him with disgust. "You
wretched, spineless little
Untermensch!
Don't think this
subject is closed," she said ominously. "We will discuss it
later."

Turning away from him, she tore open the
second envelope. Probably something else to do with plans for that
verfluchtes
—

She scarcely read a few lines before she let
out an unearthly shriek.

Erwein's blood froze.

She balled up the paper and tossed it as far
as she could throw it. "I'll kill him!" she screamed. "Gott
behiite! As you are my witness, Erwein, with my own two hands I
will kill that rotten brother of mine!"

This, Erwein knew, was an idle threat, and
would never happen. For some reason, Sofia never ranted or raved or
threw fits in front of her brother. Somehow, Karl-Heinz was the one
man she could neither frighten nor intimidate.

"The nerve!" she seethed. "The gall! The
humiliation! Oh, how dare he? How dare he!"

"Wh-what did he write?"

"He wrote—" Sofia spat bitterly "—that we
have to vacate these premises! He wrote that he's exercising his
prerogative as first-born son! He wrote that he intends to make
this
Schloss
his primary residence!"

Erwein didn't have to pretend to be shocked.
He was, but for altogether different reasons than his wife.

To Sofia, Schloss Engelwiesen had always
served as a personal showcase. It was her pride and joy, and
although she and Erwein had lived in it through the good graces of
Karl-Heinz, she had come to think of it as her very own.

To Erwein, Schloss Engelwiesen meant a
degree—however slight—of safety and freedom. Because of its sheer
size, it was the easiest of all the von und zu Engelwiesen castles
and hunting lodges in which to hide from Sofia.

He couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

"Do you realize what this means?" Sofia
keened. "Erwein. Erwein! We'll have to go and live in ... in
Schloss Schweingau!"

Erwein's mind reeled. Schloss Schweingau,
traditionally the residence of the eldest von und zu Engelwiesen
daughters, was a dreary castle on the shores of that dreariest of
all Bavarian lakes, Starnberger See, the very lake in which Mad
Ludwig had chosen to drown himself.

Worse, Schloss Schweingau was small, and
because of its compact size, Sofia would always be underfoot.

There would be no escaping her.

As these thoughts rushed through Erwein's
mind, Sofia pressed one hand to her forehead and turned her back on
him. Slowly she walked over to the nearest window recess and stared
out across the frozen lake at the view of the distant snow-covered
Alps, a view she had always taken for granted.

Tightening his lips, Erwein slid a glance
over at the nearest door.

This is my chance, he thought.

Holding his breath, he slipped out of the
chair and began to tiptoe stealthily out.

Sofia's voice stopped him before he was
halfway there.

"Errrrrweiiiiin," she cooed in that parody of
sexual intonations which always caused his hair to stand on
end.

Erwein slowly turned around, his eyes white
and frightened. He could feel his testes shriveling, and he began
to tremble. He knew only too well what was in store. Sofia intended
to take all her anger and frustration out on him.

She came slowly toward him, her fingers
already unhooking the back of her ostrich-trimmed gown.

Erwein backed away. "
Bitte
, Sofia," he
begged. "Don't hurt me?"

"Hurt you!" She laughed derisively and moved
inexorably closer. "What makes you think I would want to hurt you,
you miserable, cowardly, flatulent little
Maus!
You are not
worth hurting!"

Sofia let the gown slide off her shoulders.
Like a diaphanous mauve cloud, it seemed to hover in the air before
drifting, crackling with static, down to the marble floor.

Naked, Sofia looked even more powerful and
deadly than she did dressed. She was a Valkyrie, Erwein decided,
not for the first time.

He swallowed nervously, his giant Adam's
apple working overtime. A painful erection was already straining
against the rough linen undershorts he wore as a kind of hairshirt
to discourage tumescence.

Not that it helped. Nothing would, or
could—not once he caught sight of his wife's naked breasts.

Sofia slapped her hands sharply against his
face and held it captive. Then, yanking his head down toward a
thrusting breast, she looked out over his head.

"I only hope for your sake, Erwein, that it
turns out to be one hell of a rotten wedding!"

Porston Prison, Great Britain, January 27

The Victorians had not built this desolate,
top-security prison for rehabilitation. The thickly walled compound
with its watchtowers had been built expressly for punishment. It
was said to be escape-proof, this island marooned upon the wintry,
mist-shrouded moor.

Inside the cell block, footsteps echoed as
Leatham, the uniformed guard, semiautomatic rifle at the ready, led
the priest and the nun down a grim institutional corridor.

The nun was sweet-faced, and wore the
traditional black-and- white habit, complete with wimple and veil,
and seemed to glide rather than walk.

The priest was ruddy-complexioned, and had on
a black suit with a black shirt and a white clerical collar. He was
carrying an ancient leather satchel, the contents of which had
already been searched twice.

Inside it were the portable accoutrements for
celebrating Mass: a collapsible crucifix, a container for the Host,
a missal, a plastic vial of holy water, and two candles.

They came to a steel-barred gate.

At a signal from Leatham, it rolled noisily
aside. A few yards farther on, a second, identical gate remained
locked.

The priest and the nun looked at Leatham
questioningly.

"Father. Sister." With the rifle, Leatham
gestured for them to precede him.

The nun eyed the weapon warily as she passed
him.

"Sorry, Sister." He raised the barrel higher.
"It's necessary, you know. We keep the most dangerous and violent
prisoners 'ere."

Smiling sweetly, she nodded and cast her eyes
demurely downward.

Leatham followed them and signaled again.

Behind them, the heavy steel gates clashed
shut. The nun flinched.

Then the gate ahead rolled open. Leatham led
the way and they continued on; behind them, the gate slammed
shut.

Leatham said: "Too bad you can't see 'im in
the visitin' room. It was built so's you can't see the walls and
watchtowers. Just the moor, properlike."

"Good heavens!" the priest exclaimed as they
approached a walkthrough metal detector flanked by two more armed
guards. "Another one of these gadgets!"

"Security in 'ere's tight, Father. 'As to
be."

"That's quite all right, my son."

The priest handed over his satchel and a ring
of keys from his pocket.

"Sister?"

The nun undid the rosary from her waist and
relinquished it.

She walked through the metal detector first,
and the priest followed.

The detector was silent.

The satchel was thoroughly searched for a
third time. Then it was handed back, along with the keys and the
rosary.

Now they had to pass through yet another set
of heavy barred gates.

The nun gazed around in consternation. This
cell block was even more eerie than the one they had just left.

No natural light intruded. No windows
punctuated thick stone walls. Only naked high-wattage bulbs,
mounted high and covered with mesh, glared and cast long evil
shadows.

To the left and right, lining both walls,
were rows of thick iron doors inset with peepholes. Near the floor,
each had a slot where meal trays could be slid through.

The nun glanced at Leatham.

"Solitary confinement," he explained.

She crossed herself swiftly.

He was waiting. Seated on his narrow cot like
a predator, head tilted.

They were coming.

Donough Kildare looked down at his hands.
Very slowly, and seemingly on their own accord, his strong callused
hands began clenching and unclenching.

Freedom.

It was so close he could almost taste it.

As they passed the steel doors, they could
hear sounds. Coming from behind one, hisses; from another, crazed
laughter; from yet another, screamed curses. And always, from far
away, the eternal echoes of slamming gates.

"God help them," the nun whispered.

Another guard, semiautomatic rifle at the
ready, huge ring of keys clipped to his belt, patrolled the
corridor.

" 'Ello, Brompton," Leatham greeted. "They're
'ere to say Mass for Kildare."

"Well, you'll 'ave to be present, Keith. You
know the rules. 'E can't 'ave no visitors alone. Not even
clergy."

"We know that," the priest said quietly.

"Might as well get it over with, eh,
Brompton?" Leatham said.

"It's yer funeral, Keith."

"Yeh. I guess it is, mate."

Brompton undipped his ring of keys, selected
one, and approached a steel door. He peered in through the peephole
and stuck the key in the lock.

Kildare hung his head, clearing his mind,
feeling nothing, fearing nothing, doing nothing, permitting events
to unfold by themselves. His forearms rested on his thighs and his
hands stilled; he appeared relaxed, yet was as tense as a tightly
coiled spring.

Suddenly he heard the key being inserted, and
what passed for a smile crossed his lips.

His friends were here.

" 'E looks quiet enough," Brompton told the
priest and nun. "But be careful. 'E's already got so much blood on
'is 'ands, 'es got nothin' to lose from spillin' more."

"God will protect us," the priest said with
quiet conviction.

"Yeh. But if he don't, just 'oiler. I'll be
right out 'ere."

And Brompton turned the key and swung the
door open.

Leatham went in first, keeping his rifle
aimed on Kildare, seated on the cot. The priest and nun followed
him inside. There was barely room for one; the four of them
comprised a crowd.

The thick iron door slammed shut and the key
turned in the lock.

They were alone with the killer.

Donough Kildare slowly raised his head and
looked up. He was a handsome man of thirty-eight, hard-faced and
lean of body. His eyes were the deep dark blue of bottomless lochs,
and he had thick black hair, beetling brows, and a full beard.

"You came, priest."

"A man of God always comes when summoned, my
son," said the priest, opening his satchel and emptying its
contents on the cot. "Are you ready to hear Mass?"

"I'm ready for everything." Kildare smiled,
and a dazzling array of shiny white teeth gleamed moistly.