“Over four thousand years ago in ancient Egypt,” he said, “there was an Egyptian priest named Imhotep who healed people in a sleep temple. Have you ever read the stories of the miraculous cures he was responsible for?”
Malachai shook the snow globe once more, agitating the sand again, then watching as the grains swirled, floated and then started to settle.
“No,” Iris said.
“Have you ever been to Egypt?”
“I haven’t been, no. My parents brought that back for me. I’ve always wanted to go.”
“When I was there I saw what’s left of those sleep temples. Dream temples, they’re sometimes called. Priests lulled people who were sick into a trancelike state with a process that’s not very different from the process you and I use today to hypnotize our patients.” He shook the snow globe again. The grains churned violently, then slowed. “They were priests, we are doctors, but we’re all after the same thing-to help people who are in pain and troubled. Four thousand years ago, those priests used hypnosis and religious rituals and kept their patients in a trance for as long as three days while they prayed to their gods to heal them. We work with our patients for a few months and pray our own training will help them. But how different are our jobs from the priests’?”
Once again Malachai repeated the ritual of shaking the globe and watching the disturbed sands calm. “Those ancient priests claimed they succeeded in casting bad spirits from the mind and body. I’m sure they were telling the truth as they saw it. But what really happened? Was it just the power of suggestion? I don’t think so. I’ve read their writings. You believe, and I do, too, that so much of what causes our pain and suffering are unresolved past-life issues carried over into the present. There are tools, Iris, tools that can help us do our jobs, that could help us help our patients. Tools we could utilize in order to prove reincarnation is real, to prove that you and I and all of us are part of the past and the present and will forever be part of the future. That our souls are part of each other.”
He was shaking the globe more slowly now, back and forth, not allowing the sand to settle at all, keeping it in constant motion. “Did you ever stop to really think about what it would mean to us if we could prove it? Really prove it, Iris. We might end wars, murder and crime… If people truly believed that we are all connected, that karma must be paid back, they might not be so quick to harm and hurt. Think about that. And think about how you and I and Beryl could become the heroes of this revolution. The ones who found the proof. The Marco Polos and Columbuses of our day. Who are we to deny the power that might help people far more than we ever will be able to by ourselves?”
As she watched the to-and-fro movement of the snow globe, as she stared at the way the lamplight glanced off its rounded glass surface and glinted with each half rotation, she felt his passion and excitement stir up inside of her. Yes, it would be amazing if there was a tool, and if they could be the ones to find it-if there was a way to help people slip into past-life memories with even more ease, if she was part of the discovery of that tool.
Malachai rolled the globe to the right, to the left, to the right, to the left. “Iris, please give me James Ryan’s tapes.”
Slightly swaying to the rhythm of the right, left, right, left spinning, Iris rose and walked to the file cabinet behind her desk. She unlocked it with a small key on a silver ring she withdrew from her pocket.
After closing it and relocking it she walked around the desk and over to the man she worked for, who was still playing with the gift her parents had brought back from Egypt.
“I want to be part of the discovery,” she said, and handed two small black cassette tapes to Malachai Samuels.
It wasn’t until after he put the sandy pyramid back down and she heard its base knock against her wood desk that she realized what she’d done. “Wait,” she called to Malachai as he walked out of her office, but he didn’t turn around.
FIFTY-NINE
The bulk of the estates on Round Hill Road in Greenwich, Connecticut, were on four- to ten-acre lots and set far back from the road, so few neighbors noticed the unmarked Crown Victoria driving through the iron gates of the Canton property that morning.
The housekeeper who looked at the agents’ badges was frightened and scurried off to find her employer.
Seconds later, Oliver Canton blustered down the hall. The red-faced, overweight man was wearing a bad toupee and an old-fashioned silk smoking jacket. “What the hell is going on here?” he shouted as he came toward the agents, who introduced themselves and showed him their search warrant.
“You are not looking through anything in my house until I call my attorney.”
“By all means, call your attorney. But make sure you tell him we have this,” Richmond instructed, holding up the legal document. “He’ll tell you that if you don’t cooperate it’s within our right to look around on our own.”
Not succumbing to the threat without a fight, Canton pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, dialed a number and explained the situation. As he listened, sweat popped out on his upper lip, and after a few seconds he hung up. His face was drained of all color.
“What do you want to see?” he asked.
The agents followed Canton into his library, where he grudgingly offered them seats at a round mahogany table.
“I assume you want to stay in business?” Lucian asked without preamble.
“Is there a reason I wouldn’t be able to stay in business?” Canton asked with a false bravado as see-through as cellophane.
Shabaz must have already been in touch with him.
“That all depends on you and your willingness to cooperate,” Richmond said. “We know you were involved in selling two paintings to Darius Shabaz. He’s given us the bills of sale and all the documentation on their provenance that you gave him. Everything was in order.”
Canton looked slightly relieved, then confused, and Lucian imagined he was wondering why they were here if the paperwork was in order.
“Everything, until we got to the last owner of each painting. At that point the owners had bogus names. Who did you purchase those paintings from? What are their real names? Did they come to you to fence the paintings, or did you put out the word that you were looking for works from those artists?”
“Those were the names the sellers gave me. I had no idea they weren’t their real names. How can I be responsible for people lying to me? The paintings were authentic, and that’s all that mattered.”
“Bullshit,” Lucian spat out. “You knew exactly what you were doing. Who did you buy the Matisse and the Van Gogh from? Real names. Now.” He banged his fist down on the table. Lucian was tired and jetlagged, his head hurt and he was absolutely certain this man was lying through his teeth. Canton not only knew he’d bought stolen artwork, but had probably orchestrated the thefts.
“My lawyer said you have a search warrant but that doesn’t mean I have to answer your questions. I was just trying to help out.”
Lucian stood up. Richmond followed, and together they started pulling out file cabinet drawers and piling stacks of paperwork on the table.