The Book of Lost Fragrances: A Novel of Suspense (35 page)

“You should have taken her up on her offer; you might have gotten to me sooner. She said she’s part of the center here in Paris?” He was excited.

“Yes, and she wants to meet with you.”

“Yes, fine. Bring her here.”

“Here?” Jac asked. She shook her head. Stood up. She walked to the chamber’s exit, put her hand on the lintel, felt the cold stone and looked into the space beyond it. She’d taken off her helmet, and there was no lamp lighting the way. All she saw before her was a dark walkway dropping off into black eternity. She inhaled dusty stone and fungus and imagined she’d smell this mineral and mold combination forever. Without realizing it, she was playing their old game. Jac turned back to her brother.

“If I had to create the Fragrance of Futility, I’d start here.”

He went to her and put his arm around her. “It is going to be all right.”

“No, Robbie. It’s not. We’re not children, and we can’t pretend.” She threw off his arm. “The world is falling down around us. Someone tried to rob you. Was willing to murder you. The police think you’re a killer. Our deadline with the banks is up in less than two weeks. We have to sell Rouge and Noir. There are no ghosts. No reincarnated souls. You are in danger and I’m having those—” She stopped herself. Telling him wouldn’t help. “You can’t stay down here till Saturday.”

He was staring at her, a look of wonderment in his eyes. “Something happened to you when you smelled the pottery, didn’t it?” He had lapsed into French and was talking rapidly.

“What do you mean?”

“You have a much more sensitive nose than I do. Than anyone I know. What happened when you smelled the pottery shards, Jac?”

“Nothing. You’re dreaming,” she said. “Like Papa.” Spat out the word like it was poison. “This isn’t the time for dreams.”

“What did you see?” Robbie insisted.

“You saw something?” Griffin asked.

She didn’t look at either of them. Part of her wanted to confess, to whisper it, because to say it out loud would be giving too much credence to the vision. But she couldn’t. It was only one small step from psychotic episodes to reincarnation memories if that’s what you wanted to believe. Malachai had been at Blixer Rath studying just that. He’d probably told Robbie and Griffin. They’d want to investigate. It would fuel the fire already burning so strongly in all of them.

“I didn’t see anything.”

But what if there was a connection? She’d been free of the horrific episodes all these years, but they’d returned now that she’d returned to Paris and the boutique. What was the link? Not a psychic paranormal connection. Not a spiritual one. But it was possible the hallucinations were a reaction to a scent. Some ingredient present both in the shop and in the shards? She’d wondered about it on Wednesday. Now it seemed even more likely. There were known cases of mental affliction triggered by sensory overload—why not olfactory overload?

Griffin had started to unpack one of the knapsacks, laying out the supplies they’d purchased earlier that morning. A roll of toilet paper. A high-powered lamp. Batteries.

Unwilling to argue anymore, Jac lifted up her knapsack too. She pulled out a baguette. A round of cheese. A knife. Four apples. A sack of hard-boiled eggs. Energy bars. Water.

“An embarrassment of riches.” Robbie laughed. “The only thing missing is wine.”

Griffin laughed. “Actually, there is wine. Decanted, too.” He pulled out a plastic bottle. “It’s filled with a Bordeaux from your cellar, so I’m assuming it’s good. Only drink it if you have a safe place to sleep it off.”

“I’m not going back up. I’m going to stay down here with you,” Jac suddenly announced. “It’s not safe for you to be alone down here.”

“That will be very helpful when the police notice that you are missing too.” Robbie shook his head. “Absolutely not. The best way to help me is to go back up there and keep the police busy following you around. And if there’s any way, try to find out who the curator at Christie’s told about the pottery. Because other than Griffin, no one else knew what I had.”

“That’s not true,” Jac said.

Both men looked at her.

“Malachai Samuels knew. You told him, Robbie. Remember?”

Robbie nodded. “He thinks I found a memory tool. But you don’t suspect him, do you? You’ve known him since you were a girl.”

“He’s eccentric, yes, but not dangerous. He’s a doctor. Works with children.”

“Except,” Griffin said, “he’s desperate to find proof of reincarnation. It’s his life goal. He was there in Rome when the first set of memory tools were found and then stolen. He was in Vienna when a second tool—a flute made of a human bone—was discovered. Maybe it’s not Malachai, but maybe someone is following him.”

There was a sound. Distant.

“Shut off all the lights, fast,” Robbie hissed.

In seconds they were all plunged into darkness.

“What do you—” Jac started to whisper.

“Shhh!”
Robbie chided.

The footsteps were closer now. And Jac could hear voices.

“Shouldn’t we leave?” she whispered again.

“No time,” her brother said.

The low murmurs were clearly chanting. Not French. Or Latin. Not a language Jac had ever heard. Low pitched and steady, it sounded both melodious and otherworldly.

A scent wafted in with the sound: paraffin, sulfur and smoke.

Suddenly in the solid darkness of the chamber, a pinprick of light appeared in the west wall.

Robbie crept toward it. Jac and Griffin followed.

He put his eye up to the hole. It was barely big enough for a mouse to crawl through. He watched for a few seconds, then stepped back and let Jac look.

It was the same six people—four women and two men—Jac and Griffin had seen before. But this time they had reached their destination.

As she watched, they arranged themselves in a circle around a pentagram of candles. Their faces were in shadows, hidden by their black hoods. They swayed in time to the indecipherable chant.

Jac turned back to her brother. “What do we do?” she whispered.

“We wait,” Robbie said and smiled ruefully.

Patience had never been Jac’s strong suit.

Forty-four

2:05 P.M.

Jac and Griffin navigated a complicated passageway in silence. If time had passed slowly on their way into the catacombs, it was interminable on their way out. It was psychological. On the way in, she had been so anxious about finding her brother that she hadn’t focused on the potential hazards as much as the end result. Now, even though she knew Robbie was alive, the danger he was in was more complicated than she could have imagined. And it wasn’t over. They had to get through the next two days.

“My brother’s idealistic goal could turn out to be a suicide mission.”

“He has to do this.”

“Regardless of the consequences?” she asked.

“Because of the consequences.”

“And you’re determined to help him.”

“Aren’t you?” Griffin asked.

“Someone tried to kill him. Isn’t that more important than a legend written on the side of a pot?”

“Not to Robbie.”

They didn’t talk for the rest of the journey, and when they emerged in the garden, the glare of the afternoon sun hurt Jac’s eyes. She stumbled.

“It’s always tough to readjust to the light when you’ve been in the dark for so long,” Griffin said as he caught her.

His fingers, sure on her arm, held her for a moment longer than necessary. She didn’t pull away. For a few seconds, they stood in the fragrant boxwood puzzle. Jac’s head ached and her throat was dry. Thinking about Robbie made it hard for her to breathe.

She’d been frightened when the police had called to say that Robbie was missing. But because the two of them were so connected, she was certain that if something were truly wrong, she would have sensed it. It had been about finding a logical solution before. Now reason didn’t enter into it.

In the stories she read and researched and retold, fate and destiny set you on a path. It was in your power to choose to follow or step off. The tales that were told and retold through time and became archetypes were the ones where following the road, despite risk and fear, led to greatness. Great tragedy, or great victory. These were the tales that utilized metaphors most dramatically and offered the deepest insight into the human spirit.

There must have been other stories, though—those lost to us—where a man stepped off the path and nothing dramatic occurred. Life just went on. These stories weren’t repeated. The people who had lived them hadn’t experienced high drama. No lessons learned. Nothing terrific or terrible occurred.

It would be a relief if her life and Robbie’s could be uneventful like that. If Robbie could just crawl out of the cave and let the police take over. Turn over the shards of pottery to a museum. Or to Malachai. Or just smash them into dust and go back to making pretty fragrances.

Malachai Samuels was in the living room. A concerto by Tomaso Giovanni Albinoni played on the stereo. As they entered, he put down his book.

“Did you find him?” he asked, rushing his words as if to get to the answer quicker.

Griffin nodded. “Yes, he’s all right.”

“Thank God.”

“Did anything happen while we were gone?”

Malachai shook his head. “The phone rang a few times—nothing else. And both of you are all right?”

“All right?” Jac shook her head. “I’m scared. I don’t know what’s more terrifying—what’s already happened or what’s going to happen next.”

“For you, Jac, what’s going to happen next is always the greater threat,” Griffin answered. “Your imagination is your own worst enemy.”

“I don’t have to work hard to imagine these threats,” she said. “I could take Argus, with his hundred eyes all over his body. Cerberus, guardian of the underworld, with his three gigantic heads. The Minotaur, a man-eating monster. But this . . .” She felt sick. Felt the dust clogging her pores. “I’m going to take a shower.” Jac nodded at Griffin. “He can fill you in,” she said to Malachai. “Tell you all about my stubborn brother and the insane artifact he’s willing to risk his life for.”

As she left the room, she heard Malachai ask, “Does he have the shards with him, Griffin? Does Robbie still have the shards?”

Forty-five

3:45 P.M.

The bald Asian woman in amber robes looked at the LED readout on her cell phone, recognized the number, and answered it.

It was an incongruous sight: a holy woman talking into a state-of-the-art piece of electronic equipment. The picture had nothing to do with simplicity or mindfulness.

“What’s happening?” the man on the other end asked without any salutation.

“The archaeologist was just here. He’s asked me for my help.”

The temple was empty as far as she knew. There had been only one visitor so far that afternoon, and he had left ten minutes ago, but still she walked outside and hid in a thicket of locust trees so she could see anyone who might be approaching.

Each morning before she got out of bed and each night before she fell asleep, she meditated on ridding herself of anxiety. She couldn’t be out of her self if she was not one with her self. At the retreat, she’d learned deep meditation, and it had proved a worthwhile gift. The lamas might be disappointed to learn how she chose to use it, but the old ways belonged to history.

The future had to be honored, not just the past.

“What did he say?” the man asked, his voice insistent, stern.

“Robbie L’Etoile is safe and is asking for assistance in setting up a meeting with His Holiness.” She smiled. “He also gave me a list of items I’ll need to get in order to make the trip.”

“The trip?”

The sky was clear. Only a few puffs of clouds moved across the blue canvas. There were no birds flying, but she could hear them chirping just on the edge of her consciousness.

“In order to see L’Etoile. He didn’t explain.”

“What are they?”

The woman in the saffron robes listed the items.

“So he’s underground,” the caller observed.

“It seems so.”

“We should discuss next steps.”

The birds were unrelenting. So loud that she was distracted. Their song set her teeth on edge. Picking up a handful of pebbles and dirt, she threw it into the tree to the right. Then another handful into the tree to the left. There was a flurry of wings and a cessation of song. Quiet. She could concentrate again.

As they described the plan, she felt confident it would work.

“Conviction but not certainty,” she could hear her mentor warn. “Pride interferes with the task at hand. Plays havoc with concentration. Dilutes effort.”

It was one of the lessons he’d tried to teach her—one that she’d never quite conquered. To transform pride in her work into pride in
their
work. To be truly selfless. Ego would get in her way. It was a conundrum, because growth only fed her ego more.

“We’re counting on you,” her superior said. “What L’Etoile has is very important.”

“I understand.”

“It’s critical it not fall into the wrong hands.”

“Yes, yes.” She knew this much but little beyond it. She had been taught to accept what she didn’t know. “I’d like to know why this pottery matters.”

There was a moment of silence on the line. She always asked too many questions. Her mentor used to warn her about that, too.

“This isn’t about you understanding, it is about you obeying.”

Her curiosity, like her pride, needed more work.

“You are certain you can do this?”

“I’ve accepted every difficult task asked of me. And accomplished them,” she said, trying to keep her tone deferential but secure. Except she hadn’t often worked on her own. Now the operation was about to enter into its second phase. It made her heart race. Years had led her to this point. Now she could finally prove her worth. Reach her potential.

The call over, she leaned her back against the lotus trunk. Felt its solid, unmoving mass. The wind rustled. A lama at the retreat had said every time the breeze blew, the leaves bowed in thanksgiving.