The Brahms Deception Read online

  “Everything looks fine,” she said to Elliott.

  “I told you,” he said sorrowfully. “It all looks fine. But as you see . . .” He gestured at Frederica, who looked, if it were possible, more still than ever. Bronwyn whimpered, and pressed her fingers to her lips.

  Frederick Bannister said, “What are you going to do, Lillian?”

  “Well,” Braunstein said, with an air of efficiency. “I slept on the plane. I’m ready.”

  Max pointed to the other transfer cot, and Elliott turned to pull his computer panel out of its slot. Braunstein slipped out of her jacket and her shoes and lay down. Max glanced back at the tense knot of people, and said with the air of a junior high school teacher disciplining a class, “Everybody out! We’re going to be working here.”

  Bronwyn began, “But I want to stay with Frederica—”

  Chiara took Bronwyn’s arm, murmuring something, and guided her gently out of the room. Frederick Bannister followed, face like a storm cloud. Kristian stood back to let them pass by him. Before he closed the door, he took a look back at Lillian Braunstein, grimacing as the cap’s sensors snaked through her gray hair. Max’s glance met Kristian’s, and Max gave a shrug.

  With an uneasy feeling that he should do something more, but with no idea what it might be, Kristian withdrew, and closed the door.

  Frederica had no experience of men except the sensuous joys of the past few days. She knew nothing of coquetry, and she couldn’t understand Hannes’s sudden coolness toward her. His craving for Clara had been so obvious, and so intense. She was at a loss to understand the change in him.

  She pondered it, standing alone in the garden as his music filtered out through the open French windows. She could not afford to doubt him. The slightest slacking of her confidence, the distraction his rejection had caused her, seemed to strengthen Clara. Frederica couldn’t allow that. She wouldn’t stand for it.

  She thought of several ploys to regain his attention. She could go up to the bedroom, on the pretense of a solitary afternoon rest, and hope he would follow her up the stairs. She could pretend faintness again, but he already thought her hysterical. She could simply stay where she was and wait to see what would happen next. She wondered what Clara would have done. But—she forced herself to face it—he would not have pulled away from Clara. He would have taken her in his arms, hurried her to bed at the slightest encouragement.

  So what was wrong? Nighttime lovemaking was not enough for him. He had made that clear when she first arrived.

  And it was not enough for Frederica. She felt decadent and sensuous, fulfilled and yet wanting more. She was hungry now, aching for him, impatient for night, and darkness, and bed.

  She gazed back over her shoulder at the curtains fluttering out into the garden, but the music continued. He was not going to come back.

  She might as well use this moment of solitude to her advantage, she decided. She walked to the gate, opened it, and went through, moving right to the edge of the transfer zone. She slid her right foot forward, as she had done before, and then her left. She concentrated as hard as she could on the scene around her, the trees, the gentle sunshine, the spill of roses over the stone wall as she walked on, another step, then another.

  With a little thrill, she realized she had moved a good yard beyond the perimeter and she felt nothing. Even the little electric thrill she had felt the first time had dissipated. What would the scientists make of that? She wanted to laugh aloud. They would make nothing of it, of course. They would not know. But it was amusing to think it was all because they had not reckoned with her.

  She was about to take another step, to dare even more, when she became aware of a presence near the gate. She whirled, and stared.

  As before—as when she had seen Kristian North appear in Casa Agosto—she perceived this new observer perfectly, and she recognized her. Frederica knew her bony silhouette, the blunt nose and chin, the iron gray hair and eyes to match. She supposed she should have expected her.

  Frederica stayed where she was, a smile on her lips, careful to look through the shade of Lillian Braunstein and not at her. She would not make the same mistake again.

  She was perfectly safe, in any case. Lillian could look right at the image of Clara Schumann, but she would never know who really inhabited her body.

  Lillian’s ignorance of Brahms and his time had surprised Frederica during her interviews. Lillian knew nothing about music, or composers, or even much of history beyond that which was required in high school. It was not history she was interested in but science and, even more specifically, her own creation. Frederica doubted she would recognize Clara Schumann’s name.

  Lillian drifted forward, just as Frederica had done on that first day. She moved tentatively, peering around her as if afraid she might get caught. She exhibited none of the joy Frederica had felt. In fact, Lillian looked—

  She looked afraid.

  It caused Frederica a moment’s pause. This woman, this scientist—had she never tried her own invention? Was this her first transfer experience?

  The tension in Lillian’s face, the hesitant way she moved toward the house, gave Frederica her answer. Frederica had met Lillian several times at their home in Chicago. Her father was funding the Foundation’s research as part of some tax protection arrangement, and Lillian had not evinced the slightest self-doubt or anxiety. She was, in fact, very like Frederick Bannister—imperious, driven, focused on what she wanted.

  Very like Frederica herself, in fact. But here, and very much unlike Frederica, Lillian Braunstein was frightened.

  Feeling daring, Frederica walked back toward the garden gate. She opened it, and passed through, walking on toward the open French windows as if oblivious to her observer. She glanced back once over her shoulder, as if in appreciation of the sun on the roses, and saw Lillian hovering, arms out as if somehow she needed to balance herself. Her face was a study in anxiety.

  Frederica felt giddy with triumph. Lillian being here was their last attempt to find her. And that meant that Kristian North would not be coming again. She was safe. She had succeeded.

  She only had to get rid of Clara, once and for all, and there would be nothing to stand between her and the life she wanted.

  As she moved into the salon, passing Hannes hunched over his manuscript at the fortepiano, she conceived an idea. She began to formulate a plan. She would not let compunction weaken her, or prolong things unnecessarily. Her action would be quick, and fatal. And permanent.

  14

  Chiara herded the Bannisters into the kitchen. Kristian turned the other way, back to the reception room behind the stairs, and the battered piano. The dustcover was still folded back. He pulled the bench into position, and sat down.

  It was beginning to worry him that he couldn’t remember the song Erika had asked about. He played a few bars of a different Schumann song, one he had only played a few times, but which was clear in his mind. He heard Catherine’s dark soprano singing the melody, remembered her teacher criticizing her German pronunciation. He recalled how they had worked out the phrasing and the dynamics. So why couldn’t he remember the encore?

  He began a different tune, one he also associated with Catherine’s voice. She had sung it that night in Angel’s, leaning on the piano bar, laughing with Rosie and with the patrons. He remembered how Catherine’s hair reflected the bad neon lighting, and how confidently she sang the old Gershwin song “Someone to Watch Over Me.” It gave him chills to hear her, to listen to her turn simple rhymes and even simpler tunes into art.

  He had been so happy that night. Catherine was at her best, as she always was when she had an audience, glowing with charisma, eyes sparkling. Her voice was like dark chocolate, winding around the old melody with as much love and respect as if it had been Puccini, as if the words were profound. She found meaning in them, and briefly—very briefly—he had allowed himself to believe that he was the one, that she had been waiting just for him, had found the one she longed for.
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  They had smiled at each other across the piano, delighted to be together, to be making music, to have the whole world at their feet.

  It was silly, of course. Catherine, of all people, needed no one to watch over her. She was more than capable of watching over herself.

  It was Clara Schumann who needed someone. She desperately needed someone. And Kristian felt certain Lillian Braunstein wasn’t the one.

  He jumped up from the piano, not bothering to close the lid. He left the reception room, and walked swiftly back to the transfer room. Quietly, he opened the door and slipped in.

  It was eerie, seeing Braunstein lying so still on the cot, almost as still as Frederica. Braunstein’s eyelids twitched, and her narrow chest rose and fell with her breathing. Elliott was staring at his computer screen. Max was watching the lights on the panel above her head. Silently, Kristian moved toward them and slid onto the chair beside the cot.

  “Her heart rate’s high,” Max muttered, half to himself.

  Elliott said, “She’s terrified.”

  Kristian looked down at her, and saw that her fingertips twitched against the blanket that covered her. “You really think she’s afraid?” he asked quietly. “It’s her process. Her invention.”

  “She’s never tried it herself, though,” Elliott said, with a sad shake of the head.

  “How could that be? I would have thought she’d be the first.”

  “No. Not her style. She had people for that.”

  “Who was first, then?”

  Max, who was adjusting one of the sensors, gave Kristian a glance over his shoulder. “That would be me,” he said.

  Kristian’s eyebrows rose. “Really, Max? I had no idea. Where did you go?”

  “My parents’ wedding.” His smile was both amused and affectionate. “We didn’t want to go too far back, that first time.”

  “We were still figuring it out,” Elliott said. “But everything went perfectly, even with that first transfer.”

  Kristian said, “How was it? Were you surprised?”

  “Surprised at how old-fashioned everything seemed,” Max said. “Clothes, music, everything. They’ve been married for forty years.” He chuckled. “Hippie wedding, out on a beach on the Oregon coast. Flowers in their hair—both of them—and guitars. It was crazy.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Kristian said.

  Max smiled. “It was great. Mom was gorgeous, and Dad looked just like I did when I was that age. They were pretty happy, the two of them. Well, everyone was, I think.”

  Elliott, with a rare flash of humor, said, “There was a lot of marijuana.”

  Max laughed. “Oh, yes. There was plenty of that.”

  One of the sensors beeped, drawing Max to the panel. “Time’s almost up,” he said. “You should give her the warning, Elliott.”

  “Okay.” Elliott touched a key on his computer, and they watched as Braunstein’s eyes flickered again. Five minutes later, Elliott reversed the transfer.

  It was interesting, Kristian thought, to watch how instantaneous the effect was. One minute she was somewhere else, and the next moment she opened her eyes, wide awake.

  “She’s not there,” she said.

  Kristian’s mood changed in an instant. “She is,” he said. “You should have watched her arrive.”

  “Layering—,” she began.

  Kristian stood up. “That’s all there is left to try,” he said. “Layering. Whatever. Let me go back and do it.”

  Elliott and Max began freeing her from the tubes and wires. Elliott lifted off the transfer cap, and she said, with a twist of her lips, “We have to do something about that. It feels nasty.”

  “You get used to it,” Kristian said impatiently. “Dr. Braunstein, did you—”

  He didn’t get to finish his question. Frederick Bannister came into the transfer room, and was marching toward them with his short, urgent steps. “What did you see?” He glanced at his unmoving daughter, then back at Braunstein. “Dammit, Lillian, what’s going on?”

  Her voice was rough. “I tell you, Frederick, she’s not there. I looked everywhere. I could find no sign of her.”

  “I told you you should have gone back to the moment when she arrived. North did that. He saw her, but then he lost her.”

  “I’m worried about layering,” Braunstein said. “I told you—”

  “North didn’t have any trouble with that.”

  “How do you know?” Bronwyn and Chiara had come in. Chiara looked a question at Kristian, and he shook his head. Bronwyn stood beside Frederica’s cot, wringing her thin hands. “Maybe that’s what went wrong! If there was this layering thing, maybe Kris’s being there caused Frederica to—to—”

  “To what?” her husband snapped, with what seemed to Kristian a brutal lack of sympathy.

  “I don’t know!” Bronwyn wailed. “How would I know? All of you are supposed to understand this transfer process, and even you don’t know what’s gone wrong!”

  The truth of this statement silenced everyone for a moment. Braunstein stood up, trying to rearrange her hair with her fingers. “Mr. North. I want a word with you.”

  “I’m right here.”

  “In private, please.” Her tone was peremptory, and though he saw white strain lines around her mouth, she seemed much as she had in her Chicago office, short-tempered, abrasive, imperious.

  “Wherever you like.”

  She walked down the room, gesturing for Kristian to follow her. With a shrug, and a raised eyebrow at Max and Elliott, he strolled after her.

  Bronwyn sank back into her chair and covered her face with both hands. Chiara was beside her in a moment. Above her head, as Chiara laid a hand on the woman’s quivering shoulder, her eyes pled with Kristian’s. He nodded to her as he reached the door. Something had to be done. This stasis couldn’t continue, or poor Bronwyn Bannister was going to collapse.

  Braunstein led the way out of the transfer room, then hesitated in the corridor, looking right and left. Kristian pointed to the kitchen door. “We can go in there,” he said.

  He started toward it, and she brushed past him, the hard soles of her flat-heeled shoes clicking against the floor. Kristian took his time, letting her push through the door on her own, giving it time to swing shut behind her. By the time he came into the kitchen, she had already poured herself a cup of coffee and was standing in the open door of the Sub-Zero looking for cream.

  He filled a cup for himself, then slid onto one of the stools at the island. He folded his hands on the counter, and waited.

  When she sat down, she stirred her coffee with a spoon for a moment before she spoke. “I should have tried it before.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t.”

  She looked up at him. “A doctor doesn’t practice surgery on himself.”

  “Bad analogy, I think.” He spoke sharply, his tone nearly as dry as her own. “The process works, Dr. Braunstein. It’s brilliant. I can’t think why you’re afraid of it.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “No? Then go back again, watch Frederica arrive.”

  She grimaced, and took a sip of her coffee. Abruptly, she said, “How’s the time lag?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What?” It wasn’t the question he had expected.

  “You’re having trouble keeping track of the time of day? Losing time?”

  He wanted to prevaricate, but a moment’s reflection convinced him there were enough secrets being held in this situation. He was damned sure his wasn’t the only one. He said, “I was having trouble yesterday. I slept well, though, and I feel fine today.”

  “There can be permanent damage,” she said.

  He nodded appreciation of her bluntness. “I know.”

  “I don’t want harm to another young person on my conscience.”

  For a moment he couldn’t think how to respond. He hadn’t detected any note of guilt or concern when they were in the transfer room. She caught his expression of surprise, and her lips twisted
as she picked up her cup. “You think I’m a coldhearted bitch.”

  “I wouldn’t have used that word exactly.” He gave her a frank look. “Ruthless, maybe.” She nodded acknowledgment of the word. “Was it you who chose Frederica over me?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes met his without hesitation.

  “But you made Dr. Gregson call.”

  “It’s his job.”

  “Now you’ve let me come all the way here and you’re not going to let me finish.”

  “Come on, Mr. North. What you want is to finish your dissertation. Frederica’s getting lost is your chance.”

  “And what you want, Dr. Braunstein, is to cover your ass.”

  “That’s a bit harsh,” she said. “I’ve known Frederica since she was a child. I care about what happens to her.”

  “Then let me go back. I think I can find her.”

  “What makes you think so? You said she disappeared.”

  Kristian set his teeth for a moment, thinking. He felt Braunstein’s gaze on him sharpen, and he shook his head. “No, not time lag. I’m okay.” He spun his coffee cup with one finger. “Look, Dr. Braunstein. What’s happened—what Frederica did—I’m sure she did it on purpose. I have to talk her out of it.”

  “What do you mean, on purpose? Why would she do that?”

  He was on safe ground here. He lifted both shoulders, and spread his hands. “I don’t know her. You do.”

  “She’s perfectly sane, if that’s what you mean.”

  “A sane person can do something insane.”

  “Tell me exactly what you saw,” she said.

  “You’ve already heard this.” He had to force himself to meet her gaze, to keep his eyes steady. One of these days, he thought, he should really learn to tell a lie without squirming inside.

  “Yes. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not sending you back. It’s not safe.”

  “You’re just going to leave her there?” Kristian thought of Clara and that moment of shock stiffening her fragile body. “You can’t!” His voice rose, reverberating in the high-ceilinged kitchen.

  “There’s that temper,” Braunstein said evenly. “You should learn to control it.”