The Hypnotist

SIXTY-TWO

The lights in his office were off except for a table lamp, and so Beryl’s face was in shadow, but Malachai could read her expression from the way she was gripping her cane-not for support but like a weapon.

“How dare you laugh at me?” Her voice strained with rage.

“But what you’re saying is surely a joke, isn’t it? What can you think I’m planning? Betraying our patients? Relax, Beryl, please. I’d never do anything to risk the reputation of the foundation.”

“You wouldn’t? But you have. I can’t allow you to do it again. I can’t take a chance you’ll put us back in the news and harm us further. I’ve called our lawyers, Malachai. As of an hour ago your name has been removed from the deed of the building, I’ve stopped your salary and you are no longer co-director of the institute. You’re on a temporary leave of absence.”

He stood up quickly, his hands clenched at his sides, a muscle twitching in his neck. “You can’t do that.”

“I most certainly can. I’m the chairman of the board, and I have the unanimous support of the other board members.”

“I’m a member of that board.”

“You’ve been outvoted.”

“Whatever it is, you owe it to me to listen to what-”

“Here’s what I’m offering you,” she said, not waiting for him to explain. “If you stay away from Veronica Keyes and James Ryan and make no attempt to use therapy or hypnosis to delve into their psyches to find out more about this sculpture you’re obsessed with, then six months from now you can come back to work and start receiving your salary again. Six months after that, your name can go back on the lease. And six months after that, if everything is still status quo, you can resume your duties as co-director. I’m serious, Malachai. I’ve put up with more than I can stand-and I can’t stand that well anymore.”

“You bitch.” He said it low and deep, and the single word rushed out of his mouth so quickly and came at her so hard she flinched as if it were a physical blow.

“I want you to understand something else. If anything happens to me, or to Iris Bellmer, the directors have instructions to tell the police you are the prime suspect. You’re ill, Malachai. You’re obsessed to the point that it’s threatening your own mental health. My last stipulation is for you to see a therapist. Not a past-life therapist, but a psychiatrist. You need help, even if you can’t see it. You are a world-renowned reincarnationist and have everything a man could want in terms of prestige and money. It should be enough, but it’s not, and-”

“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.