by Bunn, Davis
She asked, “Are you aware of the concept, perceptual illusion?”
“The words only, not their significance.”
“A perceptual illusion is an image that can be seen one of two ways. But if the illusion is complete, the two images can never be seen simultaneously. The most common is a drawing of two women facing each other or, seen another way, of two vases. A series of images have been designed to suggest particular mind-sets. The image that dominates indicates certain emotional and mental predispositions.”
“You are suggesting that the message is such an image?”
“I can’t be certain. For a perceptual illusion to work, there needs to be some parallel pattern to the two images that can be used to fit them together. In this case, it is the fact that we have both lost the person closest to us. And as a result, we have both retreated from the world. You left your bank. I …”
Only when the servant returned with a breakfast tray did Elena realize the impact her words were having upon Antonio. He had taken on a wounded expression. Angelica set the tray down with a clatter and spoke to him in Italian. He responded with a hoarseness she had not heard before. Angelica spoke more sharply. Antonio drew the world into focus and addressed her at length. The old woman cast Elena a very hard look, then walked away.
Antonio waited until they were alone. He said, “Forgive me.”
“No. It’s my fault.” Elena searched for a way to explain. “I’ve spent five years avoiding any discussion of my loss. But ever since this thing began, it seems like I’ve talked about nothing else. It’s impossible that I’ve forgotten how hard it was for me every time Jason’s name was brought up. But here I am, just tossing out the issue of our wounds with the same casual manner I might discuss the weather.”
Antonio said to the napkin in his lap, “I have forbidden the family to even speak Francesca’s name in my presence.”
Elena reached over and took his hand. “I’m so very, very sorry.”
He studied her hand for a moment, then said, “And yet they are here with us. The memories, I mean. All the time. Everywhere.”
Elena thought of her meeting with the priest and swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Then we should acknowledge this and make these memories welcome, yes? It is the least we can do on such a fine morning.”
Antonio rose and crossed the veranda to where the empty chairs were stacked. He picked up one and carried it back. He set it at the table’s other end and carefully positioned it so that it looked out over the railing to the city beyond. He then selected a second chair, which he carried over and set beside the first.
Through the veil of tears she saw him return to his chair, then reach over and take up her hand again. He said, “There. That is much better, don’t you agree?”
Antonio insisted upon driving her to the airport. They returned to the hotel, where she packed and checked out. Once they were back in his car, Antonio went silent. He descended the winding road, passed through a jumble of city streets, and joined with the main artery around Rome. There the traffic trapped them. Still he did not speak. Several times Elena started to inject a few words. She had a number of subtle hints she could use, things she had developed to help a patient open up and reveal the internal conflict. But Antonio was not a patient, and this was not a clinical appointment. Elena held back and waited with him.
The silence lasted over half an hour. When he spoke, it was to say, “I need to ask you what I should do.”
“That puts me in a very difficult position, Antonio. I’m not sure I can respond.”
“Explain, please.”
“I feel it is best only to tell you what I have received. Clearly and fully. Beyond that, it is just my opinion.”
“But you are a psychologist, yes? You counsel people as a profession.”
“Actually, my primary role is to help patients clarify their own internal situation. Normally I do not supply answers. I help them find their own.”
His accent was stronger now, the only hint he gave of internal conflict. “Yes. Of course. I understand that. But in this case, I have no clarity.”
“Would you like to explain?”
“You said it yourself. I have built a safe little existence here. I am very good at my job. I analyze possible investments, not just for profit but also for any underlying links to something that might taint the church. This is very important to my superiors. They trust my judgment. My work has merit.”
“But you do not feel you are living up to your full potential.”
“The week before Francesca died, I was asked to head up a new Europe-wide commission. I was what is called a compromise candidate. The Germans wanted a German, the French wanted the French, the English and the Danes wanted someone who was neither German nor French. So they chose me. A very European-style decision.”
“Then your wife died,” Elena said.
He tapped the steering wheel with his fingertips. “It is ironic to be sitting here with you, Elena. Discussing these events. My wife had her heart attack on this very road. Caught in traffic. Just like us.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Perhaps if I had been given some sort of warning. Francesca was in perfect health, you see. Or so we thought. Then she goes off to a meeting, and …” He gave a very Italian sort of gesture, part shrug, part dismissal. “It was all so long ago.”
“But very much a part of the here and now.”
A car horn sounded to their right. Then another. Abruptly the air was filled with an orchestra of blaring honks and angry voices. Antonio’s only response was to roll up his window and turn on the air-conditioning. With the outside din somewhat muted, Antonio went on, “The commission was designed to investigate the banking industry. Their aim was to avoid any threat of another financial collapse. To see what risks they were taking and design a legal framework that would prevent a repeat of this recent disaster.”
Elena struggled to keep her professional mask firmly in place. But something must have emerged, because Antonio turned to her and said, “You are surprised by this?”
“No, well, yes. I mean, the other individual I …”
“The other person you met with regarding dreams,” Antonio supplied. When she remained silent, he added, “This other person was also in the banking industry?”
“I really can’t say. They came to me as a patient.” It sounded weak to her own ears. “I’m sorry.”
“But their work was related to the world’s current financial crisis?”
Despite herself, she nodded. “Yes.”
He let out a long breath. The blaring horns and shouting people might have belonged to a different universe. Antonio said, “Last Friday, three days before you arrived, I received a phone call from Brussels. The woman who had agreed to become the commission’s chairperson had withdrawn her name due to health issues. I was again asked if I would accept the position.”
“I can’t help you with this, Antonio.”
“But I need guidance.”
“I’m sorry. Even if that’s true, it is not my guidance you need. Do you understand? I came to deliver a very specific message. I have been given nothing else. To suggest otherwise would shift things away from God, and toward me. I may be new at all this, but I know that would be very wrong.”
A man with a huge paunch emerged from the car ahead of theirs and shook his fist at the road. Antonio gave no sign he saw the man at all. “This commission, it has the potential to do important work. For any financial watchdog to be successful, it must coordinate with other regions of the world. We must show the banks a unified front, otherwise they will merely shift their high-risk operations from one region to another. Such transactions are international by their very nature.”
“We’re moving, Antonio.”
“Excuse me?”
“The traffic.”
“Oh. Thank you.” He started forward. “The United States is establishing a similar oversight commission. Or perhaps you already know this.”
/> Elena did not respond.
He accepted her silence with a nod. “Japan and Singapore and Australia are also in serious discussions. There are problems, of course. The international financial community is fighting this ferociously. They claim there is already oversight in place.”
“Is there?”
“In theory. But in the high-risk areas, derivatives and hedge operations, the banks police themselves.” He gave her a very sad smile. “Look where that got us.”
The traffic sped up as they joined the main highway leading to the airport. Antonio did not speak again until he pulled into the short-term parking garage. He cut the motor, hesitated a moment, then asked, “Would you be willing to pray with me?”
Her professionalism rebelled at the thought of sitting here, parked in such a public place, and praying with a man she hardly knew. Prayer was for her a private matter. And yet this entire journey was all about moving outside her comfort zone. So all she said was, “I would be honored. Here, give me your hand.”
Elena shut her eyes to the passing throngs. She prayed for guidance, and protection, and wisdom, and strength. For both of them. She prayed for answers, for the ability to carry through whatever divine purpose might be at work. She hesitated, then thanked God for bringing her to Rome. She thanked God for the chance to meet this fine man. She found herself wanting to pray that they might somehow have another chance to meet again. When she finished praying, she discovered that her face was hot. Antonio refused to release her hand, and her face grew hotter still.
20
Antonio’s presence lingered during the two-hour flight from Rome back to London. Elena could hear his melodious accent more clearly now than when they had been together. The man seated next to her was broad-shouldered and kept brushing up against her. Elena shut her eyes and tried to block out the uncomfortable seat and the cramped flight. Then she landed and exited the airport into a cold rain, and felt the soft Italian sunshine shoved aside by the blustering wind.
She took the bus from Heathrow to Oxford’s central station. The highway was a long concrete ribbon through a wet and colorless world. Elena took a taxi to her home. She unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and coded off the alarm.
Then she froze in the process of shutting her front door.
Someone had been here. Or perhaps still was.
How she could be so sure, Elena had no idea. But she was certain her home had been broken into.
Elena stepped back onto the front porch and waved to the taxi, but the driver was focused upon the rain-swept road ahead. Elena turned back and searched through the front door. From her position she could see part of the living room and kitchen. She detected nothing out of place. Yet the sense of foreboding could not be denied.
She reached through the doorway, picked up her case, and set it on the narrow front porch beside her. Then she shut and relocked the door. She searched through her shoulder bag and came up with a card she never thought she would need. She called the number and said, “Detective Mehan, please.”
“It’s probably nothing at all.”
“Describe for me precisely what happened.”
“I opened my front door. I felt something was terribly wrong. That’s all.”
“Did you see anything in particular that might have alarmed you?”
“No. Nothing.”
The detective was dressed in the same tan suit he had worn when they had last met, only now he also wore a rain-spackled overcoat. His hair was cropped in an impatient way that matched the rest of him. His manner was brusque without being rude. He studied her in a detached manner. Elena knew he was thinking this was probably a waste of time. Elena said, “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’m sorry.”
“Your office was recently discovered to hold a number of highly sensitive monitoring devices. You have a senior diplomatic official as a client.”
“Patient,” Elena corrected, glancing at the uniformed police-woman standing behind the detective. “And that is highly confidential information.”
“Her Majesty’s constabulary are quite experienced at holding secrets.” He turned to the young policewoman standing on the front walk. “Isn’t that so, Officer.”
“Quite correct, sir.”
He asked the policewoman, “Did you bring the equipment I requested?”
“In the boot.”
“Be so good as to fetch it.”
“Sir.”
Detective Mehan went on, “I’m not asking because I doubt you, Dr. Burroughs. I am simply being thorough. Now I want you to describe precisely what you found upon entering your home.”
“That’s just it. I didn’t really enter at all. The taxi dropped me off and—”
He held up his hand. “You are returning from a trip.”
“To Rome.”
“How long were you away?”
“Two days.”
“All right. So you unlocked your door.”
“I stepped inside. Turned on the light. Coded off the alarm.”
“You’re certain the alarm was set?”
“It pinged when I opened the door. And pinged again when I entered the code.”
“Fine. Then something triggered such a sense of apprehension that you did not remain inside.” He gave her a moment, then said, “Describe for me the instant you sensed something was wrong.”
“I …” Elena stopped. She had been on the point of saying she had no idea what she had noticed. Then she realized that was not true. She watched the constable return up the walk, carrying a black plastic case. “I just thought of something.”
“Do share it with me.”
“There was a smell. And the kitchen table wasn’t like I had left it. The chairs were out of place. And the light …”
Detective Mehan accepted a black plastic case from the young officer. “You were saying.”
“The kitchen has a Tiffany lamp over the table. The shade was tilted.”
“Like someone had checked it,” Detective Mehan said. “Or perhaps inserted a listening device.”
Elena shivered. “Yes.”
“All right. Now the smell. Describe it, please.”
She could taste it on the air now. The detective’s intensity sparked her own memories. “Smoke. Old. Not fresh. Like from a used ashtray. But it wasn’t a tobacco type of smell.”
“Very good, Dr. Burroughs. Does your home have a rear entrance?”
“Off the kitchen.”
The detective said to the constable, “Have a look around back.” He opened the door. “Is the alarm still off?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you would be so good as to wait here.” The detective left the plastic case on the porch beside her own suitcase and stepped inside. He hugged the side wall as he walked the hall and then disappeared into the living room. A few minutes later he reappeared and entered the kitchen, where he unlocked the rear door. The constable spoke too softly for Elena to catch the words. The detective stepped outside and studied something at his feet. He then reentered the kitchen and called to her, “Have you had visitors around back recently, Dr. Burroughs?”
“No.”
“What about a gardener. A cleaner or repairman, perhaps.”
“No. Nobody.”
“Stay where you are, please.”
After calling the detective, Elena had unlocked her car and waited inside, out of the cold and rain. She had felt increasingly foolish at the time. Now she stood as far under the small front alcove as she could manage, feeling the wind blow rain fine as mist over her, shivering from far more than the chill.
“All right, Dr. Burroughs. You can come in now.” Detective Mehan reentered the front hall. He gave the house’s alarm controls a careful examination, then turned and said to the constable, “Get your fingerprint kit and give this a brush.”
“Sir.”
“Doubt we’ll find anything of use, but you never know.” He pointed to the controls. “See here, the paint around the screw heads has been broken.
And we found what appears to be two sets of footprints in the mud by your rear door. One looks to be smaller than your own foot, hard to be certain with all this rain. But the other definitely belonged to a man.”
Elena felt the chill bite deeper. “Someone was really here.”
“Your powers of observation would do credit to an experienced officer of the law,” Detective Mehan said. “Have a careful look around, Dr. Burroughs. Try not to touch anything more than absolutely necessary. Tell me what has been disturbed. See if anything is missing.”
Elena headed straight for the chest of drawers in the living room. It was Victorian oak and fronted in ebony and rosewood, forming a series of interlinked hearts. Elena had found it in a junk shop soon after she and Jason had arrived in England. She had spent two months sanding off the old varnish and making it shine once more. Even before she opened the drawer, she knew. The left handle was tilted upward, out of sync. It was something she would never do, particularly since it had become the repository of her newest prize.
Her heart sinking, she pulled open the drawer. Elena stared at the empty space.
Detective Mehan stepped up beside her. “Something is missing.”
She nodded, her entire body numb.
“Describe it, please.”
She swallowed. “A book. In a pouch. Of silk. Very old.”
He photographed the empty drawer, then drew a pad and pen from his pocket. “Details would be helpful.”
Elena described the book and its cover. The detective paused several times in his writing to stare at her. When she was done, he said, “Am I right in assuming the book is valuable?”
To her surprise, Elena discovered she was weeping. “Priceless.”
He stepped away from her, pulled out his cell phone, punched in a number, then said, “Mehan here. I need you to send up a serious-crimes squad.”
Detective Mehan urged her to make a pot of coffee. He and the constable had a cup with her.
Another police car arrived, sliding almost apologetically through the rain and slipping into her driveway. A police technician erected a minitent over the mud by her back step and began taking clay molds from the footprints. Darkness fell. The rain turned heavy as the wind died.
