He followed a grassy drive lined by trees bare to winter. The manor house was a perfect specimen of Danish baroque-three stories of brick-encased sandstone, topped with a curving copper roof. One wing turned inland, the other faced the sea. Not a light burned in any window. Normal for the middle of the night.

But the front door hung half open.

That was unusual.

He parked, stepped from the car, and walked toward the entrance, gun in hand.

Collins followed.

Inside, the warm air reeked with a scent of boiled tomatoes and a lingering cigar. Familiar smells for a house that he’d visited often during the past two years.

“Henrik,” Collins called out.

He glared at the younger man and whispered, “Are you a complete idiot?”

“They need to know we’re here.”

“Who’s they?”

“The door was open.”

“Precisely my point. Shut up and stay behind me.”

He eased across polished flagstones to the hardwood of a nearby corridor and followed a wide hall, past the conservatory and billiard parlor, to a ground-floor study, the only light courtesy of a three-quarter winter moon stealing past the windows.

He needed to check something.

He threaded his way through the furniture to an elaborate gun cabinet, fashioned of the same rich maple that encased the rest of the salon. He knew that at least a dozen hunting rifles, along with several handguns, a crossbow, and three assault rifles were always displayed.

The beveled glass door hung open.

One of the automatic weapons was gone, as were two hunting rifles. He reached for one of the pistols. A Welby target revolver-blued finish, six-inch barrel. He knew how Thorvaldsen admired the weapon. None had been made since 1945. A bitter scent of oil filled his nostrils. He checked the cylinder. Six shots. Fully loaded. Thorvaldsen never displayed an empty gun.

He handed it to Collins and mouthed, You can use it?

The younger man nodded.

They left the room through the nearest doorway.

Familiar with the house’s geography, he followed another corridor until he came to an intersection. Doors framed with elaborate molding lined both sides of the hall, spaced sufficiently apart to indicate that the rooms beyond were spacious.

At the far end loomed a pedimented entrance. The master bedchamber.

Thorvaldsen hated climbing stairs, so he’d long ago occupied the ground floor.

Malone stepped to the door, slowly turned the knob, and pushed the slab of carved wood open without a sound.

He peered inside and inventoried the silhouettes of tall, heavy furniture, the drapes open to the silvery night. A rug filled the center, its edge a good five paces from the doorway. He spied the duvets on the bed and noticed a mound, signaling where someone may be sleeping.

But something was wrong.

Movement to the right caught his attention.

A form appeared in a doorway.

Light flooded the room.

He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the burning rays and caught sight of Thorvaldsen, a rifle muzzle pointed straight at him.

Jesper appeared from the walk-in closet, gun leveled.

Then he saw the bodies.

Two men, lying on the floor at the far side of the bed.

“They thought me stupid,” Thorvaldsen said.

He did not particularly enjoy being caught in a trap. The mouse never did have much fun. “Is there a reason I’m here?”

Thorvaldsen lowered his weapon. “You’ve been away.”

“Personal business.”

“I spoke to Stephanie. She told me. I’m sorry, Cotton. That had to be hell.”

He appreciated his friend’s concern. “It’s over and done with.”

The Dane settled onto the bed and yanked back the covers, revealing only pillows beneath. “Unfortunately, that kind of thing is never done with.”

Malone motioned at the corpses. “Those the same two who attacked the bookshop?”

Thorvaldsen shook his head, and he spotted pain in Thorvaldsen’s tired eyes.

“It’s taken me two years, Cotton. But I finally found my son’s murderers.”

“NAPOLEON STRONGLY BELIEVED IN ORACLES AND PROPHECY,” Eliza told her flying companion. “That was the Corsican in him. His father once told him that fate and destiny were written in the sky. He was right.”

Mastroianni did not seem impressed.

But she was not to be deterred.

“Josephine, Napoleon’s first wife, was a Creole from Martinique, a place where voodoo and the magical arts flourished. Before leaving that island and sailing for France, she had her fortune told. She was assured that she would marry young, be unhappy, widowed, and would later become more than the queen of France.” She paused. “She married at 15, was extremely unhappy, became widowed, and later rose to be not queen, but empress of France.”

He shrugged. “More of the French way of looking backward to find answers.”

“Perhaps. But my mother lived her life by this oracle. I was like you once, a nonbeliever. But I now have a different opinion.”

She opened the thin book.

“There are thirty-two questions to choose from. Some are basic. Shall I live to old age? Shall the patient recover from illness? Have I any or many enemies? Shall I inherit property? But others are more specific. You spend a few moments formulating the question, and are even allowed to substitute a word or two in the query.” She slid the volume before him. “Choose one. Something that perhaps you may already know. Test its power.”

A shrug and a wink conveyed his amusement.

“What else do you have to do?” she asked.

He surrendered and examined the list of questions, finally pointing to one. “Here. Shall I have a son or daughter?”

She knew he’d remarried last year. Wife number three. Maybe twenty years younger. Moroccan, if she remembered correctly.

“I had no idea. Is she pregnant?”

“Let’s see what the oracle says.”

She caught the warning of suspicion in a quick twitch of his eyebrow.

She handed him a notepad. “Take the pencil and mark a row of vertical lines across the page of at least twelve. After twelve, stop where you please.”

He threw her a strange look.

“It’s how it works,” she said.

He did as she instructed.

“Now, mark four more rows of vertical lines, one line each, under the first. Don’t think about it, just do it.”

“At least twelve?”

She shook her head. “No. Any number you like.”

She watched as he marked the page.

“Now count all five rows. If the number is even, place two dots to the side. If it’s odd, one dot.”

He took a moment and made the calculation, ending up with a column of five rows of dots.

She examined the results. “Two odds, three evens. Random enough for you?”

He nodded his head.

She opened the book to a chart.

“You chose question 32.” She pointed to the bottom and a row marked 32. “Here, at the top of the page are the dot possibilities. In the column for your chosen combination, two odd, three even, for question 32, the answer is R.”

She thumbed through and stopped at a page with a capital R at the top.

“On the answer page are the same dot combinations. The oracle’s reply to the two odd, three even combination is the third one down.”

He accepted the book and read. A look of astonishment came to his face. “That’s quite remarkable.”

She’d allowed herself a smile.

“‘A son will be born who, if he receives not timely correction, may prove a source of trouble to thee.’ I am, indeed, having a son. In fact, we only learned that a few days ago. Some prenatal testing has revealed a developing problem that the doctors want to correct while the baby is in the womb. It’s risky to both mother and baby. We’ve told no one the situation, and are still debating the treatment.” His original dismay faded. “How is that possible?”