by M. J. Rose
There it was. But before he could open it, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Malachai called out as he moved the leather boxes to the side of his desk.
Frances introduced Robert Keyes and his daughter, Veronica, who examined Malachai with troubled deep blue eyes.
The children mattered to him. Their problems came first, and so, as he crossed the room, he wasn’t thinking about the parcel from Paris, but what was upsetting this little girl. Acute past-life memories manifested themselves in different ways in different children—some relished each remembrance; others were frightened by what they glimpsed. Malachai, like his aunt, believed he had a duty to offer unconditional understanding, to suspend all disbelief no matter how unbelievable the children’s tales and to try to help them navigate through the cloudy memories to find meaning and closure.
“I’m Malachai,” he said, extending his hand to Veronica.
She cocked her head slightly and then frowned as if confused by something. “Can’t you take some medicine?”
“What do you mean?” Malachai asked.
“You have the hurt face. My son used to have it all the time.”
Malachai glanced over at the girl’s father, who was frowning.
“In one of the other times before this one,” Veronica continued, explaining as if expecting him to be confused. But he wasn’t.
Malachai nodded. “Why don’t we all sit down so we can talk about it,” he said, and indicated the couch.
Robert sat beside his daughter and put his arm around her little shoulders.
Malachai pulled up a chair, trying not to wince with the effort. “I think I know what you mean,” he said to Veronica conspiratorially. “You remember a time before now when you had a son and he used to have bad pain.”
“They’re more like dreams. But most of them are scary. Grandma Nina thinks they’re incarnation memories.”
Nina Keyes? Was this her granddaughter? Malachai had met the philanthropist several times. Not only was she one of his aunt’s acquaintances, she also donated yearly to the foundation. He wished Frances had given him some background.
“Reincarnation memories?”
She nodded.
“A lot of people have them,” Malachai said.
“My grandma says that if I talk about the incarnations here then maybe I’ll get them out of my system. I don’t really know what my system is, though.”
“She means get them out of your mind,” Robert offered, leaning over and kissing his daughter on her forehead.
“Do they bother you, Veronica?” Malachai asked.
She nodded.
“Can you tell me?”
She leaned toward him. “They’re scary,” she whispered.
Her father’s anxious face told the rest of the story. “For the past few months Veronica has been having really bad dreams and hasn’t wanted us to leave her alone. She needs one of us—her mom or me or her grandmother—with her all the time. It’s been a problem at school.”
“Being alone can be very scary,” Malachai said, commiserating with her.
“That’s not what’s scary.”
Her father looked confused. “But, honey, that’s what you’ve been saying.”
“What’s scary, Veronica?” Malachai asked.
“I don’t want everyone else to be alone.”
“Why?”
“Something bad could happen.”
“Do you know what that something is?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe I can help you figure it out so you can stop being scared. Are you willing to try?”
“Yes, Grandma said if I tried I could have hot dogs and hot chocolate and we could go to the store and get anything I wanted.”
“The toy store?”
“No. The store at the museum.”
“You like the museum?” It had to be the same Nina Keyes; she’d donated an entire wing to the Metropolitan Museum.
“More than anyplace.” She sighed. “Except…”
“Yes?”
She didn’t answer.
“Veronica has always loved the museum, but a few times lately she’s had…” He struggled to find the word.
“What happens at the museum, Veronica?”
She pursed her lips together. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t happen every time.”
“What doesn’t happen?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” Malachai said. “Do you like looking at old things in the museum?”
Veronica nodded vigorously.
Fishing in his pocket, Malachai pulled out a coin. “Why don’t I show you something that could be in a museum? It’s an ancient Roman coin.” He handed it to her. She inspected it with real curiosity and then gave it back.
“Now watch,” Malachai said as he rolled it through his fingers, making it appear and disappear. “Do you know where the coin is?”
She shook her head.
Holding out first his right, empty hand and then the other, Malachai proceeded to find the coin behind Veronica’s right ear, making her squeal.
“I want you to watch the coin. Follow the sweep that it makes in the air, and let it fill up your eyes.”
The child was riveted to the moving golden orb he shifted back and forth in front of her in an even, measured motion. After thirty seconds she had the fixed, unblinking gaze of someone under hypnosis.
Malachai’s father had thought his son’s desire to learn magic tricks was pointless, but the knowledge helped immeasurably with the children. In minutes, instead of the hours it would otherwise take, he was able to relax them and help them open up.
“Now let’s try to remember,” Malachai said. “Can you find yourself in another time…the time of one of the bad dreams?”
For a few seconds Veronica was quiet and then, suddenly, startling both Malachai and her father, she jerked back in her chair, put her hand out as if reaching for someone and screamed out, “No!”
“What is it? Where are you?”
“No, please.” It was a plaintive whimper, full of fear.
“What’s happening?”
Veronica moaned, her eyes fixed on a faraway spot. She wasn’t there in the room anymore, but lost in the memory she was seeing in her mind. She started to cry.
Robert Keyes made a move to comfort his daughter, but Malachai put an arm out to stop him. It’s okay, he mouthed.
“Veronica, listen to me. You’re all right. You’re safe. What you’re seeing is something that happened a long time ago. You don’t have to stay there if you want to leave. All right?”
Veronica’s voice was hard to understand through her sobbing, but Malachai could just make out the words. It’s my fault, she’d said.
“What is?”
Her only answer was continued sobs.
“Veronica? You don’t have to stay there anymore. Come back to your father. Come back now.”
Veronica opened her eyes. There were still fat tears sliding down her cheeks, but she wasn’t crying anymore. Malachai asked her if she remembered anything. Scrunching up her face, she tried to think. “No.” She sounded frustrated.
Malachai picked up a copy of Curious George, which he kept handy for this kind of situation. “It’s like this book,” he said to Veronica, and showed her the cover.
She smiled a little. “I have that,” she said.
“Have you read it?”
She nodded.
“So you probably know we have to start here, on the first page, if we’re going to understand the whole story.” He flipped to the middle. “It wouldn’t make much sense if we started here, would it? We’d miss everything that came first and never understand what was going on afterward, right?”
Veronica nodded.
“We just haven’t found the first page of your story yet. That can take a little time. Are you willing to try again another day?”
She nodded and hiccuped a last small sob.
The sess
ion was over, and Malachai led them to the door.
Richard Keyes put his arm lovingly around his daughter’s shoulders, offering her the kind of support and comfort only a father can, and Malachai watched them walk away.
Chapter
SEVEN
The book of Baudelaire’s poetry had cost thirty-five dollars. Its edges were worn, its cover stained and torn. It lay on the black laminate worktable in the foundation’s library, surrounded by conservation tools, pads of paper, jugs of pencils and a dozen other books from the mid-1800s about different methods of inducing past-life regressions—books Malachai had been studying the last time he’d been here, before the Viennese trip. Tonight only the Baudelaire held his interest.
He used a razor blade to cut along the edges of the red-and-gold marbleized endpaper, then peeled it back to find a folded sheet of plain white paper that had cost one woman’s life and one hundred thousand dollars. Whether or not it would prove to have been a worthwhile investment was yet to be determined. All he knew was that he was finally in possession of the only known list—even if it was only a partial list—of Memory Tools. The real trick now would be figuring out how to find them.
He started to read:
Pot of fragrant wax
Colored orb
Reflection sphere
Bone flute
Word holder
Malachai heard keys jangling and looked away from the paper he hadn’t finished reading and over to the door just as it swung inward. Beryl never came down here. With her MS it wasn’t easy to navigate the steep steps—but now he watched the tip of her ebony cane precede her.
Over the past year she’d never wavered in her support of his claim of innocence, but she blamed him for bringing scandal to their front door. The fact that the police had investigated the co-director for more than eighteen months in a robbery and murder case had tarnished the foundation’s reputation, a reputation Beryl had nurtured for years. She worked to gain respect from the scientific community, not derision. It was one thing to see patients in a therapeutic situation; quite another, she said, to go off in search of ancient treasures with mystic properties.
She had a dim view of her nephew’s obsession with the Memory Tools and had been angry when he’d gone to Vienna looking for yet another one. It would be better if she didn’t find out about his decision to take up the quest again.
Malachai withdrew a deck of antique cards from his jacket pocket and started shuffling. Their gilt edges gleamed. He had more than three dozen packs in his collection and he always carried one with him. They were excellent distractions.
“Beryl, how are you? Frances said you were at the doctor, and—”
His aunt wasn’t alone; a man followed a few steps behind her. He had close-cropped russet hair and a broad nose that looked as if it had been broken once. His gray slacks and navy blazer were store-bought and made of inferior cloth.
“This gentleman was waiting outside when I got home,” Beryl said in a voice tinged with frustration.
“I’m Agent Matt Richmond from the FBI.” The man flashed his credentials.
“Good evening, Agent Richmond.” Malachai smiled sociably, as if he were welcoming a guest into his home. “It’s late for a visit, isn’t it?” There was a very slight mocking tone to the question.
“I’d like to talk to you about your recent trip to Vienna.”
“Tonight?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well, I just returned to work for the first time in quite a few weeks. I’d prefer to schedule something for later in the week.”
“We’d prefer to do it now.”
Malachai smiled again. “If that’s the case, I’d be happy to submit to your inquisition. Would you like to sit down? There are some extremely comfortable chairs in the reading room.”
“I’m fine standing.”
“Beryl, are you planning on staying?” Malachai asked his aunt. “Would you like me to get you a chair?”
“I’ll stand, too.” Her face was impassive, but her voice was sharp.
“Very well,” Malachai said. “Agent Richmond, the proverbial floor is yours.”
“Were you in Vienna on Saturday, May third?”
“Obviously you know I was, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Where exactly were you on that Saturday?”
“In the hospital, as you must also know. Recovering from a gunshot wound.”
“On that evening there was a robbery, and a woman was killed. Did you hear about it?”
“No. I’m afraid I was floating on a sea of narcotics. What was stolen? Who was killed?” Malachai was aware that his heartbeat was quickening and concentrated on slowing it down.
“Dr. Alderman, the director of the Memorist Society. Did you know her?”
“No. I knew the previous director. I’m sorry to hear that, though. Can you tell me what was stolen?”
“A piece of ephemera. Are you familiar with the term, Mr. Samuels?” Richmond asked.
“Dr. Samuels,” Malachai corrected him as he held out the playing cards he was still holding. “I collect ephemera. These are nineteenth-century, from England. Purchased at Sotheby’s.” As he offered them, they slipped from his grip. Gold, red, white and black cards spilled across the table, landing at haphazard angles and creating a random but not unpleasant design. “What kind of ephemera was stolen in Vienna?” Malachai asked as he set about picking them up.
“An ordinary piece of paper with a list of items on it written in blue ink.”
Malachai looked up. “Not much detail.”
Richmond didn’t answer as he moved closer to the table. “We’d like to know if by any chance anyone has contacted you offering to sell you that sheet of paper while you were in Vienna or since your return.”
As Malachai continued his cleanup effort, moving books and papers out of the way to find the errant cards, he shook his head slowly. “No. What was on it?”
“I’m not at liberty—”
“To say? How can I help you if I don’t know what it’s a list of?”
“Either someone contacted you or they didn’t,” Richmond said.
“No one has contacted me.” Done, Malachai shuffled the cards back into a pack, cut them and shuffled them again. The sharp slapping noise they made was the only sound in the room.
“What’s down here?” Richmond asked after a few seconds.
“Our library. We have several thousand volumes, many of them rare books. It’s the most complete library on reincarnation in the world. Would you like to look around? Just dial me upstairs at extension twelve forty-three when you’re done and I’ll come down to let you out.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. You’re certain you don’t know anything about the list we’re looking for?”
“No,” Malachai said. “I don’t. And if that’s all you were here to discuss, allow me to see you out now.” He walked over to the door, opened it and held it open. “After you,” he said.
Beryl went first and the two men followed. Even though he’d expected the climb to be difficult, Malachai was still surprised by the amount of pain the simple effort generated. He was moving more slowly than his aunt.
On the main floor, he escorted the agent down the hall and through the foyer. “Good night,” he said as he opened the door for Richmond, but the agent remained where he was.
“The cards.” He nodded at the deck. “You do tricks?”
“I do. Yes, since childhood. Is that a crime now?”
“Not at all. It’s just something I’m interested in.”
“Have you studied, Agent Richmond?”
“Just for fun.”
Malachai held out the deck. “Care to show off?”
Richmond shook his head. “I’d embarrass myself.”
“Then indulge me.” He held out the deck. “Pick a card.”
The agent did.
“Now look at it but don’t let me see it.”
Richmond carefully lifted a
corner and glanced at it.
Malachai fanned the cards out in his hand. “Now slip it back. Anywhere in the deck.”
After Richmond had replaced the card, Malachai shuffled the deck.
“That man’s a master at obfuscation,” Lucian said from his vantage point across the street, standing at the window in a fourth-floor studio apartment. The room was sparsely decorated with a battered card table and four chairs but overwhelmed with equipment. Doug Comley was sitting at one of those chairs nursing a diet soda. Using a state-of-the-art ultra-directional microphone trained on the foundation, the agents had been listening since Richmond had gone into the building, but he’d been out of range for most of the visit.
ACT had set up surveillance in this apartment during the memory stone case, when Malachai Samuels had first come under suspicion. When no evidence had surfaced after almost a year, Comley had been ready to close down the operation and let go of the apartment. Then they found out that Malachai was on his way to Vienna in search of a new Memory Tool—and then Lucian had been attacked.
The case was reopened, the apartment was operational again, and there was yet another capital offense to add to the list of unresolved crimes that all connected, tangentially, to the reincarnationist.
“Malachai never lets his guard down,” Lucian said, impressed and irritated at the same time.
“Richmond doesn’t, either.”
“No, but I’ll bet even Matt is surprised by how smooth Malachai is.” Using binoculars, Lucian watched the reincarnationist cut the deck and shuffle the cards again. “He’s hiding things we’re not going to find out from talking to him or from going in with a warrant. We’ve got to get deep inside that place. Malachai’s not just dangerous—he’s desperate.”
“I told you, there’s no way you’re going in there.”
“I didn’t say anything about me going in there.”
“You didn’t have to. I know you, and I’m telling you no in advance.”