With a bit of effort, D.D. heaved herself onto the fourth-floor platform, staggering to her feet. Her hands hurt from gripping the rusty metal fire escape, not to mention her heart was pounding painfully in her chest.
Then she looked up.
“Holy crap!”
Buddhas. Everywhere. Judy Chan’s fourth-floor unit was covered in images of the Laughing Buddha. Buddha paintings, Buddha statues, Buddha-embroidered pillows, even tiny gold and jade and silver Buddha figurines. Everywhere D.D. looked, for as far as the eye could see, was yet another image of the Buddha.
Then, as she stood there still openmouthed, the front door of Chan’s apartment opened. John Wen’s former assistant entered her home.
Accompanied by Dr. Malachai Samuels.
Malachai felt good about his day.
Indeed, after learning that Mr. John Wen had been killed, taking with him any clues the man might have possessed regarding the location of the legendary list of lost Memory Tools, Malachai had been forced to reconsider his strategy.
The police, including that blond Boston detective D.D. Warren, would be watching him, which ruled out any overt acts, such as searching Wen’s antiquities shop or personal residence. Then it had occurred to Malachai that he didn’t need to engage in such base acts, when a simple gesture of courtesy would suffice.
He had called Wen’s assistant, a beautiful woman he’d met once when she’d accompanied Wen to the Phoenix Foundation in New York, and extended his deepest condolences. If there was anything he could do to help Miss Chan during this time of sadness, he was available. In fact, he’d be in Boston by the end of the week. Perhaps they could meet for a cup of tea, share reminiscences of a man they had both respected and admired.
Malachai’s father had long ago taught him the value of a well-cut suit, impeccable social standing, and a cultured voice. Miss Judy Chan had agreed nearly immediately. The morning tea progressed to a casual stroll around Boston’s Chinatown — an amazing cultural center, third largest in the country — and then, finally, to Malachai’s delicate request to visit Wen’s store one last time.
Miss Chan had been happy to comply. If they could simply stop by her apartment first, in order to retrieve the key…
Malachai had followed her up the four flights of stairs without complaining despite the discomfort in his leg. An incident in Vienna years before had left a permanent disability that he did his best to ignore. Standing beside her, he waited as the young woman opened the door to her residence. And then he received his first shock of the day. Buddhas. Figurines, carvings, paintings, embroideries, silk washings. Images of a kind, benevolent Buddha everywhere one looked.
Miss Chan, her tailored knee-length camel-colored coat still buttoned to her chin, paused, glanced at him self-consciously.
“I am a collector,” she said.
“Indeed.” Malachai raised his hands to assist the lady with her coat. Suddenly, he was not in a hurry to continue on to Wen’s shop. The truth, he realized, the key to the secret he had sought for so long, was here. One modern-day woman’s obsession. A trained therapist’s insight into a reincarnated soul.
“Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” he suggested now. “I’m afraid the walk up the stairs has left me parched.”
“Of course.” Freed of her coat, Judy headed smartly toward the modest galley kitchen. Alone in the room, Malachai started in on the buttons of his own immense black wool greatcoat, while taking a quick inventory of the room.
Was it his imagination, or did he just see a shadow flash behind the window? No matter. He could already feel his blood quicken, a familiar thrumming in his veins.
All these years later, the Buddha, with his enigmatic smile and numerous teachings on karma and reincarnation, held the key.
“When did you first start collecting Buddhas?” he asked, as Judy reentered the room. She handed him a tumbler of water, and he could detect a faint tremor in her fingers as the glass passed from her to him.
“I’m not really sure. All my life, I suppose.”
“Did Mr. Wen know?”
“Of course.” She flushed, her hand resting self-consciously on her chest. “He even gifted me with a jade Buddha medallion. A talisman of sorts.”
“Did Mr. Wen ever speak of his sessions with me?”
“I know he was seeing you about his own… collecting issues. His terrible need at times to acquire items whether they made sound business sense or not. He said you believed he was a reincarnated soul, still looking for something he had lost many lives ago.”
“And you?”
The young woman stilled, then twisted her head slightly to take in the full surroundings of her apartment. Her hair moved with her, a black silk curtain that obscured her face from him. “I do not know why I do what I do,” she whispered finally. “A born-again soul, still searching to right a wrong? It makes as much sense to me as anything.”
“Might I suggest a short hypnosis session?” Malachai offered quietly. “It won’t take more than thirty, forty minutes of your time, and might very well provide you with some of the answers you seek. In fact, I could do it right here, in the comfort of your home.”
She didn’t answer him, so much as she moved closer to the couch, then, after another moment of hesitation, took a seat.
Malachai didn’t wait for a second invitation. He slipped off his coat, eased into a dainty bamboo-framed chair across from her, and incredibly aware of the Buddhas’ watching eyes, he began, by using a simple backward-counting technique, to slowly lead his patient through the curling ribbons of time.
“Where are you?” he asked five minutes later.
Judy described a mansion, partially hidden behind linden trees.
What? Malachai leaned forward, not sure he could yet make the assumption he was yearning to make.
“Tell me, what do you see? What do you hear?”
“A carriage driving by. Horses’ hooves. It’s twilight and people are arriving home from their day’s work. I hear strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.”
“Do you know the street where this mansion is?”
“Of course. Eighty-third Street off of Central Park West.”
She was describing his ancestral home, Malachai realized, his excitement growing as he sought to maintain an even composure, a soothing, rhythmic voice. Judy Chan had returned to what was now the Phoenix Foundation, in New York City, sometime in the late nineteenth century.
This was truly fascinating because the first time he’d put John Wen under, the antiques dealer had returned to the exact same place and time. To anyone else it would have been a coincidence but not to Malachai. There were no coincidences when you were dealing with reincarnation. Every act had repercussions, every encounter a purpose. We return to be with the same people in similar circumstances to complete the karmic circle, to right our wrongs, to be given another chance. Souls whose fates were forever intertwined, finding each other, again and again and again. Following a repeating pattern of doom.
Every time Malachai witnessed a patient travel he felt privileged to be part of the journey. But this time he also felt ebullient. His own family history — complicated and mysterious — might finally be resolved.
John Wen had been shot and killed by an intruder in his study, just as Malachai’s ancestor Trevor Talmage had been shot and killed over one hundred years ago. Murdered in his own study by an intruder, according to family lore.