The Hypnotist

by M. J. Rose

  “Don’t tell me what should be enough,” he interrupted. “You do not have any idea what is enough for me.” In one very smooth move, as if what he was doing was of no importance, Malachai opened his desk drawer and pulled out a silver and mother-of-pearl handgun that gleamed in the light cast from the torchiere.

  Beryl watched her nephew, holding her breath, an expression of disbelief on her face.

  Malachai studied her and then laughed. “Nerves of steel.”

  “Don’t play with me, Malachai. There’s a policeman outside in a squad car. You can kill me, but you won’t get away with it. I did you the courtesy of waiting until everyone was gone for the day so you could leave without embarrassment. Against advice I chose not to have you escorted from your own office. I can see now that I was still naive. I always underestimate you, even when I cast you as the devil.”

  “The devil? Please, Aunt Beryl. I’m not going to harm you. I’m collecting my belongings to take with me. You don’t mind if I do that, do you? Or has the board voted that I have to leave my personal effects behind?”

  “Take what you need and get the hell out.”

  One by one he picked up other items from his desk: a deck of antique playing cards, a small tape recorder, three manila files, a leather-bound address book. When he reached for the two small black cassette tapes, Beryl anticipated the move, and her hand was there before his. He reached forward to wrest them from her arthritic fingers, fingers that were like the carved claws on the antique chairs.

  “You are hurting me. It’s not a wise move, Malachai.”

  For thirty seconds they stood, frozen in mid-action, hands clasped in animosity, standing on either side of the desk that had belonged to Trevor Talmage when he founded the Phoenix Club over a hundred and fifty years before—where he had been found murdered.

  Malachai felt his aunt’s grip tighten, and before he even guessed what she was going to do, Beryl lifted her cane and brought it down on his hand, smashing his wrist. He couldn’t stop himself. He let go of her, grabbed his own hand…the pain was excruciating…and while he reeled from its intensity, he watched her pocket the tapes and limp to the door. She left leaning on the ebony stick as if the past few minutes had drained her of all her strength.

  When she had the space of the room between them, she stopped and turned back. “A few other housekeeping issues. I called Nina Keyes. She knows everything and won’t allow you to see her granddaughter again. We’ve alerted James Ryan not to take your calls, either. Your bulldog, Reed Winston, has been paid off, and our lawyer has warned him that if anything happens we’ll give the police his name. I’m not sure what we’re going to do about the librarian you hired. He doesn’t seem to have figured into this insanity, but our lawyer is checking his references. If he’s legitimate I’m thinking of offering him a full-time job.” And then she walked out.

  Malachai didn’t realize he’d bitten the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He’d only done that once before, the night his father had told him what a disappointment he was and that of his two sons, the wrong one had died. Spitting into his handkerchief, Malachai fought his rising panic.

  This could not happen. It was unthinkable. He was the co-director of the Phoenix Foundation. Reaching down, he ran his finger down the mother-of-pearl pistol sitting on his open briefcase. The lamplight gleamed off the opalescent surface, illuminating the nacre’s subtle blue and yellow highlights. As he lifted the antique gun his right wrist throbbed, but he didn’t move it to his left hand. The pain was at least a distraction from the greater, more ruthless pain. Malachai put the gun up to his temple and felt the cool metal like a caress.

  This gun had belonged to Davenport Talmage, and there was a rumor that he’d used it to kill his brother, Trevor, so he could take over the club, marry his brother’s wife and inherit the fortune that had gone to the eldest son.

  Malachai teased the trigger. He realized the gun wasn’t loaded and, feeling like a fool, sank back into his chair, letting the weapon clatter to the floor. How could Beryl dismiss him? He was her blood, her only family. Malachai shut his eyes and looked into a galaxy of blackness. He wouldn’t give up his position…or his quest. He’d talk Beryl out of this. He’d give her a day or two. He’d done it before, talked her in and out of all sorts of things over the years. He had that ability. Always had. Would again.

  Snapping the briefcase closed, he stood and was surprised to feel his legs trembling. He couldn’t allow that. He was stronger than she was, stronger than all of them. Taking a deep breath, he refocused his energy.

  He didn’t stop to turn and take a last look at his office because he wasn’t leaving for more than a few days. A week. Beryl would change her mind. He’d come too far to give up now; he had made too many sacrifices to give up…taken too many risks. He’d been shot, for God’s sake, and was still recovering! Yes, that was it. The painkillers. The perfect way out of this. Everyone knew how easy it was to get addicted to painkillers and act irrationally. Malachai had no doubt he could coerce his doctor to diagnose him and then convince Beryl it was just the painkillers that had clouded his reason and that he’d take a few weeks off and get straightened out. She’d want to believe that. She always wanted to believe that he wasn’t as evil as he really was. But he was. He knew it and he could live with it. Like Davenport. The youngest son had no choice but to do what he had to do to survive.

  Chapter

  SIXTY-THREE

  “Tonight I want to welcome you to a very special event,” Tyler Weil said into the microphone. “A private showing of paintings that on paper have belonged to our illustrious institution for decades but have never been exhibited. Each was a bequest never received, a gift we never catalogued, studied or learned from. These paintings were stolen before we ever received them. And have been lost to the world until tonight.”

  There was an audible reaction from the assembled guests as people in the crowd asked each other if they’d ever heard anything about these newly found paintings.

  The news had covered the story of Darius Shabaz, the billionaire Hollywood producer/writer/director pleading guilty in a Los Angeles courthouse to extortion and buying stolen artwork, but no details linking his transgression to the museum or these paintings had yet leaked out.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, before we reveal the paintings I need to warn you that one of the five paintings we’ve just added to our holdings has been vandalized, and we hope to be able to restore it to some semblance of its former glory. We’ve included it tonight because, despite how brutally it’s been violated, it’s still a masterpiece. As is the sculpture on display. The story of this rescue and recovery is nothing less than astonishing, and although I wish I could share it with you tonight, I’ve been asked to hold off until the people responsible are all captured and brought to justice. But I can and do want to thank those who have worked so bravely and tirelessly on our behalf to make it happen. So if you will all join me in a toast—to the Art Crime Team of the Federal Bureau of Investigation—with our heartfelt thanks.”

  While the guests raised their glasses and echoed the director’s “Hear, hear!” the screen was pushed back, revealing the paintings and the colossal statue.

  There was a sudden cessation of noise and the large room became eerily quiet. One pair of clapping hands broke the silence and then others joined in until the room echoed with the roar of applause.

  The Renoir, Klimt, Monet and Van Gogh had been cleaned. Hypnos was stately and tall, and though only a remnant of what he had once been, was still commanding. But more powerful than any of those masterworks was the Matisse in all its horrific destruction.

  “You saved those paintings,” Emeline whispered to Lucian.

  He looked into her shining eyes and fought the urge to accept the kindness he saw there. “It’s my job,” he said, turning his attention back to the paintings. At least they were safe now. Even the murdered Matisse had a chance of resurrection. Treated by the best restorers in the world it would regain
some semblance of its former glory.

  This was the only reincarnation he would ever believe in, he told himself. It’s only art that keeps us immortal.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Nicolas Olshling walking toward the stage. The stunned expression on the head of security’s face made Lucian’s blood run cold.

  “Take your father and sit down at one of the tables. Get him out of the crowd,” Lucian said to Emeline.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, but something’s wrong.”

  Lucian ran across the room, reaching the stage just as Weil stepped away from the microphone.

  “What is it, Nicolas?” Weil asked.

  “We just received a bomb threat.” He was holding his cell phone as if it were a snake about to strike. “If what I heard is legit, we’re under attack. We are under attack.”

  Chapter

  SIXTY-FOUR

  As Olshling explained the instructions he’d received, Lucian listened, and at the same time became aware of a commotion across the room as three—no, four—men pushed their way through the crowd. Each wore a hood and black mask.

  Instinctively Lucian reached for his gun but instead pulled out his cell phone. There were too many of them. Just one of him. He needed backup. Before he could hit the key to connect him to headquarters a fifth hooded man came up beside him, knocked his phone out of his hand and kicked it away. From behind, one of the others knocked Lucian to the ground. As he scrambled to his feet, Lucian saw around each attacker’s waist a wide belt decorated with a half-dozen metal cylinders connected with red detonation cords.

  The shortest of the human bombs grabbed the microphone from Weil and started shouting out instructions to the crowd. His voice had a flat, distinct Midwest twang.

  “Do as I say and no one will be hurt. Stop moving. Just stop moving and stand still. The doors are sealed. The only way you’re getting out is if we let you go.”

  At first he was shouting over the crowd’s panic but they grew quiet quickly.

  “Any movement and we’ll set off our fireworks.” The lead terrorist patted his belt. Neoprene gloves made his thick fingers look like fat sausages. “No calls.”

  Petrified and panicked, the guests stilled. There was no sound from any of them for a few seconds, and then a cry broke the stillness. It was a child. A little girl’s wail, high-pitched and plaintive. Lucian scanned the room trying to pinpoint its source.

  Larry Talbot, the ringleader, turned away from the microphone and spoke directly to Olshling. “Get on your radio and instruct your security force to leave the building. Once they’re outside, they can call the police or the FBI or God and tell them what’s going on. But if anyone even attempts to approach this museum we’ll light it up like a kid’s birthday cake. We have men on every corner outside and at strategic points in the park and in your garage. If my team spots a single cop car or fire engine or ambulance in the vicinity, we’ll blow this space to kingdom come.”

  Olshling nodded.

  “Do it, then.” The leader turned back to the microphone and barked out more instructions to the frightened crowd.

  “Cooperate and nobody gets hurt. But if you don’t…” He gestured emphatically to his corset of explosives.

  From some corner, the little girl continued to cry, the sound rising above all the others.

  “Now, take out your cell phones. Slowly. We’re going to collect them. Needless to say, any attempt at heroics will be plain stupid. Like signing a death warrant. Understand?”

  No one spoke, or even moved.

  “Excellent…now take out your phones.”

  The leader was wearing blue jeans and sturdy work boots. Lucian filed away these small identifying aspects so he’d be able to describe him later. Assuming there would be a later.

  After checking on Olshling, who was doing as ordered in a voice he was working hard to keep steady, the terrorist turned to Tyler Weil. “The only way to protect this place and these people is to do exactly what we tell you to do. You’re in charge, so this is up to you. Do you understand?”

  “What do you want?” Weil asked. There was a touch of defiance in his voice.

  “Do you understand?”

  Lucian answered for Weil. “Yes, he understands.”

  Talbot focused on Lucian, who looked right into the man’s brown eyes. They gave away nothing. Lucian pressed his arm against his Glock. There were too many people in the gallery to use the gun, too many terrorists, too many unknowns. But there would come a moment when it would be time to act. And he’d be ready.

  Olshling switched off his radio.

  “You done?” the leader asked.

  “Yes.”

  “They understood?”

  “Yes, but if you—” Olshling said nervously.

  “Just answer the fucking question that I’m asking. They understood everything?”

  “Yes.”

  From out of the crowd one of the other hooded men struggled toward the podium dragging Nina Keyes with him. A little girl was holding her hand but Nina was trying to break the child’s grip and push her away.

  “Veronica, don’t stay with me. Let go. Run.”

  “No.” The little girl shook her head, and the brown curls bobbed violently.

  “Baby, I want you to go.” Nina was frantic.

  “I won’t…I won’t leave you,” she cried.

  This had to be the child Lucian had heard crying. Her little face was filled with fear but with determination, too.

  Nina was still trying to pull her hand out of the child’s viselike grip, but Veronica held tight to her grandmother and wouldn’t leave her side.

  It’s as if she thinks she can save the older woman’s life, Lucian thought.

  The man dragging Nina took the suicide belt off his own waist and strapped it around hers.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to resist.

  “Shut up!” he shouted.

  The brute was putting explosives on Nina? Lucian’s insides tightened as he realized what these men were planning.

  Just then the largest of the masked men arrived at the staging area hauling two women with him as if they were garbage: Deborah Mitchell, with tears streaming down her cheeks, and Marie Grimshaw, whose lips were set into a slash of anger as she cursed her handler with a string of invectives. The man spat. She screeched more foul language. Letting go of her for a moment, the man slapped Marie so hard she fell into Deborah, who tumbled onto the hard floor. When the younger woman started audibly crying, the terrorist kicked her, shouting at her to shut up. When she didn’t, the bully kicked Deborah again, and then kicked at Marie. “Get up, both of you. Now.”

  Lucian found the abuse impossible to watch without taking action but he had to hold back until he could have an effect.

  Taking off his suicide belt, the brute buckled it around Marie’s waist. The lead terrorist removed his and strapped it on Deborah. A fourth terrorist delivered two more hostages. Unbuckling his belt, he wrapped it around Emeline Jacobs’s middle. It was too big and he had to tie it, violently pulling it tighter than necessary, so it would stay. The diamonds in her ears glinted with each tremble of her slim body as she withstood his ministrations without making a sound. Andre Jacobs just stood there, by her side, weeping silent tears from his rheumy eyes as he watched, helpless and frail.

  A rush of conflicting emotions broke over Lucian, too complicated for the time and the place.

  “Don’t any of you know how to count, for fuck’s sake? Five belts. Five hostages.” The ringleader screamed at his men. “Why drag this old man up here?”

  Up till now everything had been brilliantly executed, but here was a snafu. An innocuous mistake for sure, but maybe, Lucian thought, there was a way to take advantage of the momentary distraction. Thinking, planning, he looked from each of the hooded men to each of the women who’d been transformed into a human bomb. From Marie Grimshaw, to Nina Keyes, to Veronica and to Deborah Mitchell, all he saw in their eyes was terror.<
br />
  Emeline alone looked strong. She was looking at him, and in her eyes he saw determination and faith—faith in him.

  “Now—” Talbot turned to Weil “—you’re going to help us take what we came for out of here. Or else we’ll step outside—” he pointed to the exit doors “—and before you can say boo or unbuckle a single belt, we’ll detonate the explosives…” He pointed at the women and the child. “One lovely lady at a time.”

  Chapter

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Lucian stepped forward and spoke directly to the ringleader. “No hostages,” he said with an air of authority. “We’ll help you but only after you get those belts off all these women, now.”

  The blue-jeaned man laughed, turned his back on Lucian, motioned to his men and carved a slash mark in the air. One of the team stayed with the group of captive women. The other three marauders approached the exhibition.

  So they were going to steal the paintings. The thought infuriated Lucian. So many people had worked so hard and risked so much to bring them here, only to have them taken, now, like this.

  But none of them touched the paintings. The men surrounded Hypnos and were manipulating the sculpture onto a ready dolly.

  Hypnos? Was it possible? Who was behind this? Malachai? Wouldn’t Elgin Barindra have picked up on something about this? Wasn’t it too fast for Malachai to have planned it? The answers mattered but not now, not as much as the more crucial issue: how to get the suicide belts off the hostages and get all these people out of here before anything went wrong. Because things always did go wrong, even when no one wanted them to. Situations like this escalated. The police wouldn’t wait on the perimeter for long. Someone would get anxious and push too far, too fast. And it was going to happen any second. He had to do something now.

  “There’s a problem,” Lucian said, trying not to taunt the leader as much as engage him.

  “Your only problem is that you need to shut the fuck up.”