I am confident that there truly is such a thing as living again, that the living spring from the dead, and that the souls of the dead are in existence.
– Socrates
Vienna, Austria
Friday, May 2nd-11:00 a.m.
The doctor came through the double swinging doors and into the waiting room. “Miss Logan?”
She nodded and stood up, trying to prepare herself for the news. Beside her, Lucian Glass stood too. They’d spent the night in the hospital, in the intensive care waiting room, while Malachai underwent surgery to save his life. Each of them was there for very different reasons.
“He’s out of the woods. It’s going to take some time but he should make a complete recovery,” the doctor reported.
“Can I see him?” Meer’s voice trembled with relief that she wouldn’t lose him, too.
“He’s still unconscious but should be able to have visitors early this evening. He’ll be in quite a bit of pain for the next few days.”
“At least there’ll be one recovery,” Meer said to Lucian after the doctor left. She was thinking about her father. About Ruth and Smettering. And Nicolas. While she’d been waiting for news about Malachai she’d checked at Steinhof; Sebastian’s son hadn’t had any reaction to the flute music. He was still locked in his own world. Both Fremont and Sebastian had been arrested and would each likely wind up in prison for years. There were other casualties, too. The news reported that thousands of radio listeners had suffered horrific flashback sequences and many of them had been hurt. In addition, hundreds of concertgoers had been injured in the chaos and were here in this hospital.
“A complete enough recovery,” Lucian said, still talking about Malachai, “for him to try again.”
She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”
“I know you don’t want to believe me but he’s dangerous. Malachai wants the memory tools and will do whatever he has to in order to get them. I’m still convinced he was responsible for trying to steal the stones that were discovered last year in Rome. Several people died as a result of that robbery, too.”
“Do you have proof of his involvement?”
He didn’t need to answer. If they’d had proof, Malachai wouldn’t be a free man.
“I’ve known him almost my whole life. Do you have any idea how many children he’s helped?”
“One thing doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the other.”
She stood to leave.
“My partner is downstairs,” Lucian said, standing with her. “We’ve been asked to give you a lift to the cemetery.”
“I don’t need an escort.”
“The FBI would prefer it if you had one, though. At least until the case is officially closed, which should happen sometime in the next forty-eight hours. We won’t get in your way.”
They went down in the elevator and when the doors opened in the lobby they walked out into what appeared to be a press conference. Reporters, photographers and cameramen crammed around an officious-looking doctor with a dour face who was reading a statement.
Meer and Lucian kept to the edges of the gathering and had almost reached the front door when someone approached her.
“Excuse me.”
Meer turned toward the accented voice.
After being swept away in the crowd outside the concert hall, David Yalom had made it back to his hotel room in time to cancel the e-mail he’d programmed his computer to send to his editor. He read each line in the overzealous manifesto as he expunged it and found himself worried for the soul of the man who’d written it.
David had sat up all night thinking about what he’d experienced when he’d seen the dark-haired woman in the crowd who’d called him Devadas. He was awake at dawn when his editor called him to request he cover a breaking story: the night before, the Vice President of the United States had attended a concert that had erupted into chaos and had been hurt and hospitalized. There was going to be a press conference at the hospital at 11:00 that morning on his condition and on some of the other VIPs who’d also been hurt in the melee.
“Excuse me, I’m David Yalom-”
“I’m sorry.” Lucian Glass protectively inserted himself between Yalom and Meer. “Miss Logan doesn’t have any comments.”
Meer took in the dark hair and eyes, the notebook and pen. “It’s okay,” Meer said as she stepped around Lucian so she could face Devadas-no-he’d said his name was David. David Yalom. “I know him,” she told Lucian.
Listening to her, David’s face underwent a change. Nothing as obvious as a smile, but from one moment to the next, he looked different. As if he’d allowed himself a deep breath finally, and it had almost felt good.
“Thank you for trying to help me last night,” she said.
“You weren’t hurt, were you?”
She shook her head. “No. Malachai, the man I was with-he was shot-they operated on him.”
“Is he all right?”
She nodded.
There was so much to say and no way either of them knew where to begin.
“We should go,” Lucian said.
David put his hand in his pocket and as he withdrew it Lucian quickly stepped forward again, instantly suspicious and on guard. David shook his head, silently admonishing him as he pulled out a business card and offered it to Meer. “If you ever…” he started, then stopped, as if he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.
Meer reached out. As she took the card between her fingers she felt the raised letters that spelled out his name and contact information embossed on the smooth satiny stock. Slipping it into her pocket, she kept her hand there, as if protecting it.
Outside, Kalfus sat waiting in the parked car. Lucian opened her door for Meer. Sliding in, she lowered her handbag to the floor, then noticed she’d put it on top of a black notebook, which she picked up to move out of the way. As she did it fell open to an unfinished pencil sketch.
“Let me get that,” Lucian said quickly and reached for it.
She looked up at Lucian, then back at the drawing; it was the face of a woman she’d never seen before, except in the woman’s eyes she saw herself-her very soul, looking up at her from the page.