The Brahms Deception (11 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

BOOK: The Brahms Deception
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“I don't know. I only had an hour.”
Max said, with evident caution, “It seems so, Mrs. Bannister. That's what we're trying to find out.”
Kristian said, “She was observing Brahms and—” He stopped.
Elliott said, “And what?”
Kristian cleared his throat, and said, “Could I have more water?”
“And what, Kris?” Elliott said, as Chiara took the glass to refill it from a large bottle of mineral water.
“There was another woman there, a cook, I think. Older, plump, gray haired. In an apron.” Kristian avoided Elliott's eyes, and when Chiara came back he concentrated on the glass of water, sipping it slowly, giving himself time to think. What was he doing? Why was he hiding Clara's presence in Castagno? Of course, she wasn't supposed to be there, but then neither was Brahms. And now, so many years later, did it matter?
It did. At least to him—it did.
It was hard to believe that now, in his own time, she had been gone more than a hundred years. She had looked so lovely, there before him only moments ago, subjectively . . . her skin so clear, her haunted eyes so beautiful, her small mouth softening as she bestowed that melancholy smile on Brahms. . . . Lucky Brahms!
“Frederica didn't see you, then,” Max said.
“No.”
“What do we do now?” Frederick Bannister spoke as if he were certain there was a next step, but Kristian saw the doubt in his eyes. He tried to take his wife's arm, but she moved, stepping just out of his reach.
Chiara said, “You two need to sleep. I can give you something, if you like.”
Mrs. Bannister said, “Oh, I couldn't! I want to sit with Frederica!”
Her husband tried again to reach for her. She pulled her arm away from his groping hand, and cast him a look of loathing. Kristian didn't know if she was about to erupt in fury or collapse in hysterics.
Bannister's mouth tightened. “Bronwyn, she doesn't know you're there, and we really do need to rest. Look at the clock. It's almost three in the morning. We've been up more than twenty-four hours.”
“Your room is ready,” Chiara said. “Come with me, and we'll let Elliott and Max decide what steps to take next.”
“You go on, Bronwyn,” Frederick Bannister said. He made a gesture with one hand, but he didn't attempt to touch his wife again. “Go with Dr. Belfiore. I'll be along in a few minutes.”
None of the men spoke until the two women had traversed the long room and gone out into the corridor. Elliott and Max edged closer to each other, as if girding themselves against the onslaught that was sure to come. Kristian folded his arms, and regarded the other three with bemusement.
Frederick Bannister broke the silence the moment the door closed behind the women. “This has gone on long enough. Enough of these short transfers! Give Mr. North the time he needs to find out what happened to my daughter.” His eyes glinted with anger despite the fatigue that dragged at their corners.
Max shook his head. “No. The time-lag effects could be serious.”
“I'll be okay,” Kris said.
Bannister said tightly, “It's his choice, isn't it?”
Elliott gave him a mournful look. “We've seen this before. He should have a couple of days to rest before he—”
Bannister turned to Kristian. His eyes were like chips of granite; gray, flat, and hard. He gripped Kristian's arm with one thick hand, and in an undertone he said, “If it's a question of money, I—”
Kristian's skin crawled beneath Bannister's hand. He only just stopped himself from ripping his arm free, as Bronwyn Bannister had just done. “I've already said I want to do it,” he said. He saw by the flicker of Bannister's eyes, the quick release of his arm, that Bannister knew he had offended him.
“Sorry, Mr. North,” Bannister said. “In my world, it's always money that makes things happen.”
“That's not going to work here,” Max said. “Let's be clear about this. Time lag is serious, and with at least one subject, it never completely went away.”
Elliott put in, “Time loss, confusion, balance problems. It's a question of disrupted synapses, we think, though we don't know yet if—”
“I'll take the chance,” Kristian said. “As I recall, I signed some sort of release that dealt with it.” He arched one eyebrow at Frederick Bannister. “I'm sure your daughter did, too.”
Max snorted. “The release is for one transfer, perhaps two. Not three, and not in a twenty-four-hour period.”
“You're wasting time,” Bannister growled. “Mine, and Mr. North's.”
“And Frederica's,” Kristian murmured. That won another glance from Bannister, and he thought the granite-chip eyes were a little softer.
“We'd have to get approval from Chicago,” Elliott said, but it was a weak protest.
“I'll handle them,” Bannister said.
Max gave him a quizzical look. “Can you do that?”
Frederick Bannister's voice was sharp and commanding. “Watch me.” He nodded to Kristian. “Mr. North, do you mean it? Can you go now?”
“I don't need to rest. I slept nearly twelve hours today.” Kristian glanced up at the big clock. “Yesterday. Whatever.”
“That's it, then,” Bannister said. “Mr. McDonald, Mr. Bailey, set it up.”
“We just need—,” Elliott began again.
Bannister turned on his heel, and went down the room with his short, impatient steps. He seized the phone and began punching numbers.
Max said, “Kris, how long do you want?”
It was like being asked what he wanted for Christmas. “How long can I have?”
Elliott heaved a doubtful sigh. “Eight hours would be easiest, I guess. It's the same as Frederica was supposed to have. I already have it programmed.”
Frederick Bannister's hard tenor carried from the far end of the room. Kristian glanced at him, and saw that he stood very still, the phone at his ear, his eyes intent on the blank wall before him. Another man, Kristian thought, would have gestured, or paced. Bannister's stillness gave the distinct impression of strength. Of authority.
Bannister finished his call, and replaced the receiver with a decisive motion. He looked back at the men around the transfer cot and gave a sharp nod.
“Jesus,” Max said. “That was easy. What's he got on Braunstein?”
“Money,” Elliott said dourly. His cheeks drooped, and Kristian thought, irrelevantly, that Elliott was beginning to look like a basset hound. “It's always about money. The Bannisters are rolling in it.”
Kristian stared at the unprepossessing figure of Frederica's father, and wondered if it could really be money, or if there was something else. What was it Bannister did? Some sort of business—finance of some kind. And a trusteeship with the University of Chicago. And, Kristian felt sure, a list of heavy-hitting lawyers to draw on.
He thought of Erika and himself, penniless, powerless. Parentless. They could hardly be more different from Frederica Bannister.
“This is going to take some time.” Elliott turned toward the bank of instruments, pulled a keyboard out of a slot, and began to tap commands into it.
Max said, “Kris, you'd better eat something. Maybe take a shower. That's a long time to be out. You'll get pretty tired. To say nothing of time-lagged.”
Kristian grinned at him. “Put some espresso in the IV. I'll be fine.”
Max laughed, but Elliott shook his head. “I don't like it.”
“I don't care who likes it or who doesn't,” Bannister said tightly. “Get it ready. And call me when you're going to start. I want to be here.”
He turned to Frederica's cot, and the lines in his face deepened. He hesitated, looking down at her. For a moment, Kristian thought Bannister was going to bend, kiss her perhaps. Instead, he brushed away a strand of hair from her cheek, awkwardly, as if he wasn't used to doing it. He straightened, and stamped away down the long room to the door. Anger in place of fear. Kristian got that.
Chiara returned, and after she had been informed of the plan she led Kristian off to find something to eat. She opened the door into a dark room. She felt her way along the wall to a bank of light switches, and flicked one. One end of a vast, cold kitchen brightened.
The contrast with the colorful, crowded kitchen of Casa Agosto was so intense it took Kristian's breath away. This one was filled with modern equipment, a huge Sub-Zero refrigerator, two stainless-steel ovens, a wide gas range with an assortment of pans and utensils hanging from a rack above it. The floor was an institutional linoleum, nothing like the worn flagstones of the kitchen of 1861. Kristian eyed everything doubtfully. There was no actual food to be seen.
Chiara said, “Sit there, please,” pointing to a metal-topped counter with bar stools arranged around it. “I will make you some pasta.”
She delved into the Sub-Zero, her small figure dwarfed by its big doors. She emerged with a covered dish and a jar in her hands, and a pint of cream under one elbow. Kristian leaped up to help her, but she shook her head. “No, no. It's better I do it myself.” She deposited everything on the counter, and took two saucepans from their hooks.
“You seem to know your way around this place,” Kristian said.
“I have been here one week today. Frederica arrived last Monday, and we have kept very odd hours since then, Elliott and Max and I. We do our own cooking. That is—” She smiled. “
I
do the cooking. I am—how do you say it in English—very pickup.”
“Picky.”
“Oh,
sì, sì, sì.
Thank you. Picky.”
Kristian laughed. “A pickup is a truck. A sort of small truck, with an open back.”
“Oh, yes? Pickup. Picky. I will remember.” While she talked, she was setting water to boil. When it began to roll, she spilled ravioli out of the dish into the pan. Into the other saucepan she emptied a jar of sauce. “Sauce from a jar is not so good, but it is all I have.” She stirred a bit of cream into it, and went back to the refrigerator for a wedge of cheese. He liked watching her neat little figure, the nimble gestures of her hands. He tried to imagine her with a scalpel or a hypodermic, and he thought he could see that. She would be just as efficient in a hospital room or a medical office, quick, deft, comforting. Of course, she wouldn't be wearing those jeans, and that fitted tee shirt that made her look like she was still a college girl.
He chided himself for thinking of her that way. This was hardly the time, but the moment felt intimate, the two of them in a pool of light, the rest of the kitchen as dark as the night outside. As she grated cheese onto a cutting board, she said, “What do you think you can do in the transfer? It is a very strange problem.”
“I don't know yet. But there's something—I noticed something odd, when I was first there. I hope I can figure it out.”
“What was this odd thing?”
He hesitated. It was tempting to tell her, but he wasn't sure he was ready to do that. That he would ever be ready. He said carefully, “I can't even describe it. I hope I'll be able to understand it when I go back.”
“You will be careful? It will not help to lose two of you.”
“I'll be careful.”
She drained the ravioli, slid them into a large, shallow bowl, and drizzled them with the tomato sauce, now a lovely pink color. She set the bowl before him with a spoon and a fork, and moved the cutting board with its mound of fragrant cheese close to his elbow. He pinched up cheese with his fingers and sprinkled it over the pasta.
At his first bite, he said, “This is good! How is it a doctor is also a cook?”
She smiled at him, and pulled a stool up next to his. “Everyone in Italy is a cook. You didn't know that?”
He answered with his mouth full: “I didn't know that. All I know is that you have the best food in the world.”
“Yes,” she said complacently. “We do.” She watched him eat for a moment, then hopped up to get him a glass of water. As he sipped, she said, “Your family must be very worried about you.”
“There's only my sister, in Boston. I should call her before the transfer, but I don't know what time it is there.”
She glanced at an enormous clock in the shadows beyond their little circle of light. “It is in the afternoon, I think. Sunday.”
“It's so strange, all this shifting about in time. I hardly know where—no, when—I am.”
“Are you feeling time lag?”
“Nope. Just jet lag.” He laughed. “Hardly the same thing.”
“I think it may be similar, though I have not experienced this time lag.” She propped her chin on her fist. The light gleamed in her dark eyes. “I would like to transfer someday.”

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