The Hypnotist

THIRTY

When Elgin Barindra returned from taking a walk during his lunch hour on Monday, even though it was seventy-five degrees outside, as soon as he got back to his desk he put on a brown wool cardigan sweater. It was always just a little too cool in the suite of library rooms in the subbasement of the Phoenix Foundation.

Seated at the stainless steel table, he studied an elaborate Egyptian stamp postmarked 1881 affixed to a thick, cream-colored envelope. This was the tenth letter he’d examined today, one of the hundreds written during the second half of the nineteenth century, none of which had been properly archived. The paper had yellowed, and the corners and edges flaked off so easily there was antique confetti left on the tabletop every night when he was done.

The envelope was addressed only to Davenport Talmage at the Phoenix Club, New York City, New York, in an old-fashioned spidery script, written by someone who’d studied penmanship. There was no street name or number or zip code on the envelope, which was something to marvel at in itself-to think that once Manhattan had been that small a town.

Dear Davenport,

I am writing to let you know about papers I will soon be publishing that should create some controversy. Here in Egypt, I have seen accounts of objects including amulets, ornaments and stones, which suggest that the ancient Memory Tools you are so interested in are indeed fact, not legend. I believe I have found proof they were smuggled out of India and brought into Egypt well before 1500 BC, which, you realize, suggests that present-day historians are incorrect about when the trade routes opened. This is going to create quite a bit of debate among the professors at my alma mater and yours when I publish my findings-but I do love a good fight, as I know you do.

I will be in New York at the end of the month upon my return to the States and will stop by the club and give you a preview of what I’ve discovered. I think you’ll be very interested.

Best Wishes,

John Macgregor

Luxor, Egypt, 1881

Tantalizing but nonspecific. Barindra made notes on a legal pad, then logged the letter in and filed it away. Moving on, he repeated the process with six more letters over the next hour. Most of the correspondence was addressed to either Trevor Talmage or his brother, Davenport, who were both prolific writers and communicated with scientists, philosophers, historians, explorers, archaeologists and theologists all over the world. Elgin had made his way through five boxes so far, and there were at least fifteen more to go.

Halfway into the next post, he heard the door open and then Malachai Samuels’s cultured voice. “Good afternoon, Elgin. How are we doing?”

Pulling up a chair, Malachai sat beside the librarian and pored over the last letter Elgin had logged in. “I would love to know how this news was received.” He paused, glanced at the shelves of still-untouched ephemera and smiled enigmatically. “It will be amazing to see what treasures you find. There could be extremely important information in here. Perhaps real proof…” His voice slipped into a sigh. “Can you imagine what that would be like-how the world would respond to the knowledge?”

“But isn’t that what you’ve been doing here all these years? Collecting proof?”

“We’ve documented and researched the past-life memories of over three thousand children. Extremely carefully, I might add. We’ve discovered coincidences too amazing to be anything but evidence and confirmation of past lives. But there’s always a way to cast suspicion on our results. My aunt and I thought we were collecting proof, but the scientific community hasn’t regarded it as such.”

“That must be frustrating.”

Malachai’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve accomplished more than any other scientists and still are not given the respect we deserve. I thought Vienna was going to change all that…” His words drifted off as he again scrutinized the letter in front of him. “I’ll be damned if anyone gets to the next tool before me.” In his lap, Malachai’s hands tightened.

“How many of your own past lives have you accessed?” Elgin asked.

Malachai pushed his chair back and stood up too quickly. “You, my friend, have very important work to do, and I don’t want to detain you. There is much resting on what you can find. So very, very much.” With a forced, enigmatic smile, he gave Elgin a formal little bow and left.

None. The word hung in the air like a miasma even though it had not been uttered out loud. None. Why else wouldn’t he have answered? None. Was that what motivated Malachai Samuels and pushed him so far into desperation that he’d embraced malevolence? None.