The Hypnotist

FOURTEEN

Robert Keyes made sure the oversize black umbrella shielded his daughter as they walked west on Eighty-Third Street. Last night Veronica’s nightmare had been vicious. He’d heard her wrenching screams and run into her room, finding her thrashing in her bed, twisted up in the sheets, fighting off an invisible evil she couldn’t name. Her hair was plastered to her forehead and tears wet her flushed cheeks. Except for telling him that everything was dark in the dream, she couldn’t recall who or what was scaring her. The night terror didn’t seem to be bothering her now though, as the seven-year-old continued telling him about her class trip to the Metropolitan Museum earlier that day.

“And then Mr. Weil’s phone rang, and then he talked to someone, and then he got really quiet for a loooong time and then he had to leave,” she complained. “Right when we were looking at the rocodial.”

Robert stopped worrying to try to figure out the word. “Crocodile?”

“Uh-huh.”

As they approached the Phoenix Foundation with its turret, stained-glass windows and fancy ironwork railing, Robert spied dozens of gargoyles.

“Look, Veronica.” He pointed.

“Monster spouts!” she shouted out, and then laughed.

Robert smiled. Veronica renamed everything using more descriptive terms: their dog was a “furry four-legger” and grilled-cheese sandwiches-her favorites-were “melted cheese toasts.” Only the nightmares didn’t have names.

Once Frances buzzed the father and daughter inside, Veronica started hopping from black marble square to black marble square up and down the hall, avoiding the whites in some game of her own devising.

“You’re early,” Frances said after she greeted them.

“I picked Veronica up at school and planned on walking here, but the rain was too heavy. Is it a problem?”

“No.” Frances indicated the seating area set up with its child-size seats, a plastic castle and several toy chests overflowing with games, books and puzzles. “There’s lots for Veronica to do. I just wanted you to know that Dr. Samuels is out but he’ll be back in time for your appointment.”

Deep inside Central Park, just west of the Dairy on West Sixty-Fifth Street, Malachai Samuels sat at a stone table inside the otherwise empty Chess and Checkers House. He’d set up the ivory and black pieces over a half hour ago. Since then he’d been playing both sides and checking his watch every few minutes, like any man annoyed that his partner was late-which was exactly how he wanted it to look, even though no one else was there or anywhere near enough to watch.

Malachai had his office swept for bugs every week, but he knew there could be directional mikes aimed at the foundation, and he preferred to have certain conversations out of doors. Frances believed he was at a physical therapy appointment.

A clean-cut man in his mid-thirties wearing chinos, loafers and a blue button-down shirt walked inside the gaming house.

Malachai swept the chess pieces into a wooden box and stood up as Reed Winston approached.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” Reed smiled sheepishly.

“So am I, since I have to leave. But I played a good game without you,” Malachai said, continuing the charade.

Winston followed his employer outside. The rain was just letting up, and neither of them needed to open an umbrella. Once they were out of earshot of the Chess House, Malachai asked if Winston had any news.

“There hasn’t been any activity in Vienna. No one at the society has made any attempt to reach out to any art experts, archaeologists or historians.”

“What about linguists?”

Winston shook his head. “Everyone is still pretty shaken up over Alderman’s death. They haven’t appointed a new director yet, and no one seems focused on the missing list.”

“What about the Austrian police?”

“They haven’t made any headway.” He grinned.

Malachai thought his spy’s smile was unseemly but refrained from mentioning it. They’d reached a fork in the path, and the logical way to proceed was to turn right onto the main path and head for Central Park West. Instead, Malachai took a left and Winston followed him into the shadows under a stone arch.

Malachai knew that habits made you easier to track, so he tried to change his often. And he knew it was better to hire a half-dozen men who knew nothing about each other’s jobs than to have one with enough information to piece it all together, but he’d made an exception with Winston. Knowing everything allowed the ex-Interpol agent to monitor all aspects of the investigation. If there were connections, he’d be able to recognize them. Malachai couldn’t play it as safe as he wished he could. Even if the Memory Tools catalogued on the list had survived, they could be hidden from view or in plain sight, buried in a ruin, on display in a museum, sitting in an antique store or in someone’s grandmother’s curio cabinet. His search could take years, but his father might not have that long. And Malachai wanted to know about his own past lives. If what he guessed was true, he wanted to shove it in the old man’s face.

“I’m going to be hiring a librarian to go through the archived correspondence at the foundation,” Malachai said, “to see if we can find any information about the whereabouts of the missing tools. We have documents that go back to the mid-1800s, when we were financing digs all over the Middle East and the Mediterranean. I came across information in those papers about the tools we found in Rome. Maybe there’s more information about these others.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Make sure the candidates are clean.”

Avoiding a puddle, Malachai checked his watch. “I need to get back to the foundation. One more thing. Have you found out anything else about the Agent Glass who was hurt in the robbery? Is he working on this case now that he’s back in New York?”

“I’m not sure.”

Malachai stopped, forcing Winston to stop also. “What do you mean?”

“He’s been trained in all the surveillance techniques I’ve been trained in. I can’t track him as if he were an ordinary citizen.”

“I need to know what he knows and what he’s doing about finding out what he doesn’t know.” Malachai spoke in a level voice, as if he were requesting lemon, not cream, with his tea.

Two elderly, white-haired women walked by. Were they in disguise and really there to watch him? Was the man walking the gray French poodle? Or the woman pushing a baby carriage? Paranoia was annoying, but, perversely, it made him feel safe.

“I’m doing my best to get better information for you.”

“I’m going to need better than your best.”