The Hypnotist

FORTY-TWO

It was late, and Elgin Barindra should have already left the Phoenix Foundation. He only had a few more letters left in this box and was ready for the next discovery. He’d become fascinated by the world unfolding in the missives. New York City at the turn of the century was a rich stage for the spiritualists, philosophers and scientists involved in the Phoenix Club. For someone who loved history as much as Elgin, the hours he’d spent poring over these century-old letters was less like work than an indulgence. He was, in fact, spending so much time down in the subbasement immersed in the correspondence from people long since dead that he often found himself slightly dazed when he left the nineteenth-century Queen Anne-style building and exited into the midst of the bustle and commotion of the present day.

His favorite letters were those Trevor Talmage’s wife sent her husband while he was on archaeological digs. Sarah Talmage reported on their children, Esme and Perry, in so much detail and with such love that there were moments Elgin was almost positive he could hear a boy and girl playing in the next room, or thought he’d caught a glimpse of them running down one of the hallways upstairs, roughhousing, as their mother referred to it in her letters.

When he came across a black-bordered letter expressing sorrow over the death of Trevor Talmage, Elgin felt grief that turned to anger when he learned, in yet another condolence note, that Trevor had been murdered by an intruder in this very building and found by his wife and children when they came home from seeing a musical. He became first indignant and then suspicious when he read about the scandal that ensued when Trevor’s younger brother, Davenport, took over the club and married his brother’s widow only eleven months later.

None of today’s letters had either progressed the story of the lives of those who lived in the townhouse or shed any more light on the mysterious Memory Tools, and he’d reached the bottom of the box. There were only two envelopes left.

He picked up one, opened it, pulled out a sheet of thick, creamy paper and recognized the by now familiar signature of Frederick L. Lennox, a regular correspondent of both Talmage brothers. There were already two dozen letters from the financier and art collector; this would make the twenty-fifth.

Dear Davenport,

I am fairly certain that I have found the pot of gold at the end of the proverbial rainbow. It turns out to actually be made of gold and silver and ivory and several kinds of precious stones. Serge Fouquelle, an archaeologist who has been working for Marcel and Jeanne Diolafoa in Persia, specifically in Shush, on the ancient site of Susa, has just completed his first excavation on his own and has made a curious discovery; he’s found a cache of Greek treasures that date back to the time of Pythagoras and might have connections to the great philosopher. All the signs point to it. As I write this, Fouquelle is traveling to New York and bringing with him a colossal sculpture of a Greek god that I am purchasing. Based on all the legends, this could very well be the receptacle for one of our fabled Memory Tools.

I plan to do something noble with the sculpture itself once I have rescued what it hides, perhaps offer the giant to the new museum. Goodness knows, from Fouquelle’s description, I don’t have a suitable place for it.

But what matters most is that now I may finally be able to prove reincarnation and by doing so prove that my son Albert’s soul has indeed migrated into the new child my wife and I have been blessed with.

Yours,

Frederick L. Lennox

“I didn’t know you were still here,” Malachai Samuels said.

Elgin was startled and not for the first time. The co-director of the foundation moved around stealthily, almost slithering, the agent thought. Raising his left hand, Malachai glanced at his wrist. “It’s already nine.”

“I didn’t realize it had gotten that late,” Elgin said, honestly surprised.

“That must be very interesting.”

“Every letter is…they make the past seem so close.”

Malachai nodded as if he understood exactly what his librarian meant as he sat down and began reading the missive.

It was so quiet in the subbasement, Elgin could hear Malachai’s wristwatch ticking. Looking over, he noted that the square mother-of-pearl face had oversize black Roman numerals and fittings that had to be platinum because it was unlikely Malachai would wear ordinary stainless steel. This must have been the seventh or eighth watch he’d seen the reincarnationist wear. Nothing about him escaped the librarian’s notice. That was his job, to pay attention to everything Malachai said or did and never forget that the man sitting next to him was most probably a ruthless criminal responsible for multiple robberies and the deaths of at least five people.

Malachai let out a long, slow breath.

“Is it something important?” Elgin asked, trying for a believable mixture of professional interest and personal detachment.

“One of the most fascinating aspects of reincarnation theory is the concept of coincidence. Are you familiar with it?”

Elgin said he wasn’t and sat back in anticipation of Malachai’s explanation. The possibility that this man might be a criminal didn’t stop him from being interested in what the reincarnationist knew.

“Nothing is an accident or a coincidence, according to past-life theories that go back though history, through the centuries, circling through cultures. If we were in the East, being skeptical about these moments that seem to be part of a bigger plan would be as unusual as questioning the wetness of water.” A look of delightful anticipation sparkled in his dark eyes. “You finding this letter now…” Unlike other people, when Malachai smiled, his expression was always framed by mystery. “You finding this letter now,” he repeated, “is nothing short of astonishing, Elgin.”