The Hypnotist (4 page)

Twilight was settling over the city, casting it in a grayish haze. Dr. Malachai Samuels always loved this time of day, the hour lost between darkness and light, when everything became indistinct. Slowly he eased himself out of the chauffeur-driven Mercedes and stood for a moment to catch his breath. He was still sore. He’d been shot—by accident—in Vienna three and a half weeks ago. The bullet had missed his vital organs, but he’d suffered a severe loss of blood. There was little satisfaction that the man who had inflicted this wound on him had been arrested and would spend years in jail. Malachai had lost what he had almost, finally, found—an intact Memory Tool—and that loss was proving to be a wound that refused to heal.

The lugubrious strains of Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata
followed him out of the car, the appropriate accompaniment to
the dusk. Standing under the shadows of the linden trees with all their bright new green leaves, he inspected the Queen Anne–style villa he’d last seen on April 27, when he’d departed for what he’d hoped was going to be a short but successful trip. Warm light glowed through the glass sunburst above the door, but all the windows downstairs, where the offices were, and upstairs, where his aunt lived, were dark. At least no one would be here to witness his ignominious return.

It was demoralizing to return without a Memory Tool, but emotion was a weakness to be conquered, not indulged in, so he buttoned his suit, squared his shoulders and proceeded toward the front door. Although an average-looking man of medium height with unremarkable features and a receding hairline, he was impeccably groomed, wore expensive clothing and carried himself like an old-world aristocrat. His father—his detested, distant father, who’d favored his firstborn, now deceased son—had always berated Malachai for putting on airs and pretending to be a Brit, even though his mother had been English and he’d grown up in the UK after their divorce. It was there, as a lonely and insecure little boy, that Malachai had discovered the study of magic. Mastering tricks had taken patience, a virtue which served him well even today in his work with children. But taking it slow and steady wasn’t an option any longer. His father was an old man. Malachai was going to have to prove what he’d always suspected about his own past life soon if he wanted his father to spend his last days suffering and regretting the indifference he’d shown his second-born son.

Before tackling the steps to the front door, Malachai paused to catch his breath. Even in this murkiness, the elaborate building with its gables, scrolled wrought-iron railing and dozens of gargoyles tucked under the eaves was an impressive sight. It was a symbol of power and wealth that had been standing on this
spot since 1847, when Malachai’s ancestor, Trevor Talmage, had founded the Phoenix Club along with Henry David Thoreau, Walt Whitman, Bronson Alcott and other well-known transcendentalists. Their mission, the search for intellectual and spiritual enlightenment, had been narrowed to reincarnation research and practice when in 1876 Talmage’s brother became obsessed with protecting his wealth for his future lives.

With a burst of energy that promised full recovery, Malachai hurried up the last two steps, opened the front door, with its bas-relief coat of arms of a giant phoenix rising from a pyre, and stepped inside.

Yes, it was good to return and to do it standing on his own, unassisted. It was important to concentrate on the positive instead of being consumed by the all-pervasive negative truth—that for the second time he’d failed at obtaining a Memory Tool. Next time, he
would
succeed. And next time might be fairly soon if all had gone according to plan and the instrument he needed to begin a new search was here waiting for him.

The foyer’s priceless Tiffany chandelier cast soft light on the gleaming wood paneling and the polished black-and-white marble floor. This was where the present and the past came together and created an oasis out of time devoted to an ageless belief system which he’d dedicated his life to proving.

“Hello, Dr. Samuels.”

Malachai was surprised to find the receptionist at her desk. “Good evening, Frances. It’s late. You shouldn’t still be here.”

He’d planned his arrival for when all the employees would be gone for the day and his aunt would be tucked upstairs in her apartment.

“You have an appointment.”

“I don’t believe I do.”

She nodded to the waiting area where an anxious-looking
man sat at the child-size table beside a little girl of about seven who was busy playing with a wooden puzzle.

“Dr. Talmage asked if you would see her new patient,” she said, lowering her voice, “if she didn’t get back in time from the doctor.”

“Is something wrong?” His aunt, who was the co-director of the foundation, had MS but had been doing well for the past six months.

“Nothing too serious. Just some back pain she didn’t want to ignore, and she couldn’t get away during regular office hours today. She’s lucky to have a doctor who will stay late for her.”

“Yes, she is. Please just give me five minutes,” he said, and started to walk away.

“Dr. Samuels…”

Malachai turned.

“I wanted to tell you…” She was having a hard time. “We’re all glad you’re back,” she blurted out.

“I appreciate that very much, Frances.”

“We were all very concerned.”

“Thank you.”

It was a short but tiring walk down the hall to his office, which once had been the manse’s library. Opening the door, Malachai heard the familiar ticking of the ormolu clock on the marble mantel.
Back. At last.
Easing into his leather chair, he winced, but there was no time now for pain. On top of his desk were two large cordovan leather boxes that contained the mail that had accumulated in his absence. This was why he’d disobeyed his doctor’s orders and come back to work two days early: to see if the package from the bookshop on the Left Bank in Paris had come. During his recuperation its whereabouts had been on his mind, but there’d been no way to inquire without calling undue attention to it.

There it was. But before he could open it, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Malachai called out as he moved the leather boxes to the side of his desk.

Frances introduced Robert Keyes and his daughter, Veronica, who examined Malachai with troubled deep blue eyes.

The children mattered to him. Their problems came first, and so, as he crossed the room, he wasn’t thinking about the parcel from Paris, but what was upsetting this little girl. Acute past-life memories manifested themselves in different ways in different children—some relished each remembrance; others were frightened by what they glimpsed. Malachai, like his aunt, believed he had a duty to offer unconditional understanding, to suspend all disbelief no matter how unbelievable the children’s tales and to try to help them navigate through the cloudy memories to find meaning and closure.

“I’m Malachai,” he said, extending his hand to Veronica.

She cocked her head slightly and then frowned as if confused by something. “Can’t you take some medicine?”

“What do you mean?” Malachai asked.

“You have the hurt face. My son used to have it all the time.”

Malachai glanced over at the girl’s father, who was frowning.

“In one of the other times before this one,” Veronica continued, explaining as if expecting him to be confused. But he wasn’t.

Malachai nodded. “Why don’t we all sit down so we can talk about it,” he said, and indicated the couch.

Robert sat beside his daughter and put his arm around her little shoulders.

Malachai pulled up a chair, trying not to wince with the effort. “I think I know what you mean,” he said to Veronica conspiratorially. “You remember a time before now when you had a son and he used to have bad pain.”

“They’re more like dreams. But most of them are scary. Grandma Nina thinks they’re incarnation memories.”

Nina Keyes? Was this her granddaughter? Malachai had met the philanthropist several times. Not only was she one of his aunt’s acquaintances, she also donated yearly to the foundation. He wished Frances had given him some background.

“Reincarnation memories?”

She nodded.

“A lot of people have them,” Malachai said.

“My grandma says that if I talk about the incarnations here then maybe I’ll get them out of my system. I don’t really know what my system is, though.”

“She means get them out of your mind,” Robert offered, leaning over and kissing his daughter on her forehead.

“Do they bother you, Veronica?” Malachai asked.

She nodded.

“Can you tell me?”

She leaned toward him. “They’re scary,” she whispered.

Her father’s anxious face told the rest of the story. “For the past few months Veronica has been having really bad dreams and hasn’t wanted us to leave her alone. She needs one of us—her mom or me or her grandmother—with her all the time. It’s been a problem at school.”

“Being alone can be very scary,” Malachai said, commiserating with her.

“That’s not what’s scary.”

Her father looked confused. “But, honey, that’s what you’ve been saying.”

“What’s scary, Veronica?” Malachai asked.

“I don’t want everyone else to be alone.”

“Why?”

“Something bad could happen.”

“Do you know what that something is?”

“No.”

“Well, maybe I can help you figure it out so you can stop being scared. Are you willing to try?”

“Yes, Grandma said if I tried I could have hot dogs and hot chocolate and we could go to the store and get anything I wanted.”

“The toy store?”

“No. The store at the museum.”

“You like the museum?” It had to be the same Nina Keyes; she’d donated an entire wing to the Metropolitan Museum.

“More than anyplace.” She sighed. “Except…”

“Yes?”

She didn’t answer.

“Veronica has always loved the museum, but a few times lately she’s had…” He struggled to find the word.

“What happens at the museum, Veronica?”

She pursed her lips together. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t happen every time.”

“What doesn’t happen?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Malachai said. “Do you like looking at old things in the museum?”

Veronica nodded vigorously.

Fishing in his pocket, Malachai pulled out a coin. “Why don’t I show you something that could be in a museum? It’s an ancient Roman coin.” He handed it to her. She inspected it with real curiosity and then gave it back.

“Now watch,” Malachai said as he rolled it through his fingers, making it appear and disappear. “Do you know where the coin is?”

She shook her head.

Holding out first his right, empty hand and then the other, Malachai proceeded to find the coin behind Veronica’s right ear, making her squeal.

“I want you to watch the coin. Follow the sweep that it makes in the air, and let it fill up your eyes.”

The child was riveted to the moving golden orb he shifted back and forth in front of her in an even, measured motion. After thirty seconds she had the fixed, unblinking gaze of someone under hypnosis.

Malachai’s father had thought his son’s desire to learn magic tricks was pointless, but the knowledge helped immeasurably with the children. In minutes, instead of the hours it would otherwise take, he was able to relax them and help them open up.

“Now let’s try to remember,” Malachai said. “Can you find yourself in another time…the time of one of the bad dreams?”

For a few seconds Veronica was quiet and then, suddenly, startling both Malachai and her father, she jerked back in her chair, put her hand out as if reaching for someone and screamed out, “No!”

“What is it? Where are you?”

“No, please.” It was a plaintive whimper, full of fear.

“What’s happening?”

Veronica moaned, her eyes fixed on a faraway spot. She wasn’t there in the room anymore, but lost in the memory she was seeing in her mind. She started to cry.

Robert Keyes made a move to comfort his daughter, but Malachai put an arm out to stop him.
It’s okay,
he mouthed.

“Veronica, listen to me. You’re all right. You’re safe. What you’re seeing is something that happened a long time ago. You don’t have to stay there if you want to leave. All right?”

Veronica’s voice was hard to understand through her sobbing, but Malachai could just make out the words.
It’s my fault,
she’d said.

“What is?”

Her only answer was continued sobs.

“Veronica? You don’t have to stay there anymore. Come back to your father. Come back now.”

Veronica opened her eyes. There were still fat tears sliding down her cheeks, but she wasn’t crying anymore. Malachai asked her if she remembered anything. Scrunching up her face, she tried to think. “No.” She sounded frustrated.

Malachai picked up a copy of
Curious George,
which he kept handy for this kind of situation. “It’s like this book,” he said to Veronica, and showed her the cover.

She smiled a little. “I have that,” she said.

“Have you read it?”

She nodded.

“So you probably know we have to start here, on the first page, if we’re going to understand the whole story.” He flipped to the middle. “It wouldn’t make much sense if we started here, would it? We’d miss everything that came first and never understand what was going on afterward, right?”

Veronica nodded.

“We just haven’t found the first page of your story yet. That can take a little time. Are you willing to try again another day?”

She nodded and hiccuped a last small sob.

The session was over, and Malachai led them to the door.

Richard Keyes put his arm lovingly around his daughter’s shoulders, offering her the kind of support and comfort only a father can, and Malachai watched them walk away.