The Memorist

Chapter 77

Thursday, May 1^st-11:22 a.m.

Standing across the street from the police station at Deutschmeisterplatz 3 on the busy Schottenring, Malachai weighed his options. He didn’t know what to do and that wasn’t a feeling he was used to. All he knew was that there was no way he could conduct a proper search for either Meer or Jeremy by himself. Not in a foreign country where he barely spoke the language. And there was no time to hire anyone. There was too much at stake to risk anything but a full-out effort with the local authorities. There were simply too many questions he didn’t have answers to.

Who else knew that Meer found the flute yesterday? And Jeremy? What had happened to his friend? Had he found out Meer was missing and checked himself out of the hospital to try to find her? He’d do anything to save his daughter; endangering himself wouldn’t be of any consequence. But who had he called? The nurse said he’d left with a man. Maybe Sebastian? But Sebastian wasn’t answering his cell phone.

Despite the traffic, few car horns honked and the morning was deceptively lovely. There were red and purple flowers in the pots in front of the clothing store next to the station house. On the other side of the street the early nineteenth century building showed off a sculptured frieze of Pan playing his pipe.

Everywhere in Vienna there were monuments to music. This particular one being on this particular corner would seem to be a coincidence to anyone else but not to him. He’d spent the last thirty years refuting coincidences.

If he didn’t walk across the street and through the large glass doors to file a report, he could be endangering both Jeremy’s and Meer’s lives. That they were both missing couldn’t be chance. But by making the report he would certainly be opening himself up to scrutiny he didn’t want. The circumstantial evidence would be against him yet again. It didn’t take a leap of imagination to construct the argument the FBI and Interpol would make: for the second time in less than a year an ancient artifact worth hundreds of thousands of dollars that could challenge the belief systems of millions of people and many scientific precepts had been stolen, and Malachai Samuels was not only at the scene of the crime again but was also a close friend of the missing persons involved.

Except weren’t there hundreds of people who would want the item besides him? He could name several himself. It wasn’t about money for Malachai and he doubted it was about money for whoever else was involved at this point. He knew the limits of his own conscience, but how far would the board of directors of the Memorist Society go to get the flute?

How badly did Fremont Brecht want to prove reincarnation? Last night he said he’d hired someone to find the gaming box but his contacts hadn’t been able to locate it yet. Was he lying? Had he found out that Meer had discovered the flute? Had he kidnapped her?

How desperate was Dr. Erika Alderman to prove the potential of binaural beats?

She’d been studying the idea of harmonic resonance for the last thirty years. He’d seen determination flare in her eyes last night when she talked about proving her theories and establishing her place in the scientific community.

And for all Malachai knew there were other Memorists he hadn’t met who coveted the flute. Certainly by now there were dozens of people who would know what he’d known all along: if there was any chance of the flute and the memory song being found, Meer Logan would be instrumental in that discovery. Conversely, if anything happened to her, any chances for access to the flute would disappear.

In his life, the opportunity to actually prove the existence of reincarnation would not come that many times. It had already slipped out of his grasp once. He couldn’t allow it to happen again. But willingly talking to the police?

He imagined Detective Barry Branch back at home smiling smugly at hearing the news. The baby-faced member of New York’s Finest who’d been the investigating officer on the memory stones case from the beginning would reopen that case, and Malachai would be under intense investigation once again. Except there was no evidence to use against him. None found to date. None that they would ever find.

The steel handle was cold to the touch and the glass door was heavier than he expected. Inside there was so much activity no one even noticed him until he’d been standing at the front desk more than five minutes. Finally, the officer on duty turned to him and, in rudimentary German, Malachai explained that he needed to talk to an inspector who could speak English.

Waiting on an uncomfortable wooden bench, Malachai pulled out a deck of cards and shuffled them, letting the slapping sound soothe him. Not paying attention to how many times he performed the activity, he went over and over what he would tell the police and what he’d keep to himself. It was important to be prepared and only give as much information as necessary.

The story he’d offer was that he’d come to Vienna to meet with his old friend Jeremy Logan and inspect the treasure Logan had found. As head of the Phoenix Foundation he had many reasons to do that.

The cards moved so quickly they blurred.

Maybe he shouldn’t stay. He wasn’t used to vacillating and was annoyed with himself that he was second-guessing his decision. Besides, having come this far, if he didn’t report Jeremy and Meer as missing and left now, it would be even more suspicious; he’d already given his name to the officer on duty. Clumsily he mixed the deck and the cards flew out of his hand and spilled onto the floor. The last thing he wanted to do was get down on his hands and knees and pick them up, but the only alternative was to leave them there like litter.

“Dr. Samuels? I’m Inspector Kalfus. You asked for someone who could speak English. How may I help you?”