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Michael paced back and forth in his office, avoiding the large crate of Egyptian artifacts he’d been examining. He hadn’t heard from Anne since the night they’d discovered the break-in at her apartment, and now it was Monday, the day after Christmas. He’d forced himself to wait through the Christmas holiday, but his patience was completely worn out. He had to know how she was and what had been discovered about the break-in, but most of all he needed to find a way to tell her he would be leaving the country soon. How could he ever explain to her that she needed to come, too? He hadn’t yet revealed to her the depth of his own involvement in the task ahead. Maybe he could start with the astrological configuration in February. But how could he impress on her that the crystal holders had to be in Egypt on that day?
Shortly after nine, he took out the card she’d given him and dialed her home number. He thought she might be there since many people took off the whole week between Christmas and New Year. The phone rang twice, then switched to a series of familiar beeps and a recorded message, “We’re sorry, but the number you have reached has been disconnected. Please check the number—” Michael hung up and redialed, carefully watching his fingers as he punched the buttons. He looked at the phone display and saw Anne’s number lit up in green. This time he knew he’d dialed correctly, but the same thing happened. The number had been disconnected. Frustrated, he turned her business card over and called her office.
A brisk voice answered, “Ms. Le Clair’s office.”
“Yes, can I speak with Anne, please?”
“May I ask who is calling?”
“Michael Levy.”
There was a short silence. “I’m sorry, Mr. Levy, which case are you calling about?”
“I’m not a client. This is a personal call.”
“I see. Hold, please.”
Michael expected to hear Anne’s voice next, but instead he found himself listening to recorded music. He swung around in his chair and looked out the windows of his office. Sparrows and pigeons often visited the ledge, but today it was empty. He was on hold for a full five minutes. He was about to hang up and redial when a male voice suddenly addressed him. “May I help you?”
Stifling his frustration, Michael smoothed his voice. “Yes, Anne Le Clair, please.”
“And who is calling?”
Michael repeated his name in measured tones.
“I see. I hope you’ll pardon the question, Mr. Levy. Do I know you?”
A sigh of frustration escaped Michael. “I’m not really in a position to answer that question, sir, since I don’t know who I am speaking with.”
The man gave a short bark of a laugh. “This is Roger Abernathy. I’m a senior partner in this firm.”
I see.” Michael did not see, but he introduced himself anyway. “I was accompanying Anne the night she discovered the break-in. She attended my lecture that night. I didn’t have the opportunity to introduce myself then. You were busy with the police and Anne. I was concerned about her.”
“Anne is fine. She is taking a leave of absence to attend to other matters.”
“I see. But . . .” Michael hesitated. “. . . her phone has been disconnected. Is there a way I can reach her?”
“Mr. Levy, I hope you’ll pardon the inquiry, but in light of recent events, I’m sure you will understand. Are you associated with the Zohar Group?”
Michael was stunned. This was not a group many people knew existed, and he’d only discussed his consultation with them inside his own spiritual association. They would never have divulged this information. “Excuse me?”
“Cynthia Le Clair Middleton visited with the Zohar Group shortly before her death. And I find you with Anne Le Clair the night her apartment is broken into.” Dr. Abernathy paused for effect. “You can see my problem.”
Michael burst out with a retort before he could gather himself. “If I was with her, how could I have broken into her apartment?”
“I assume you didn’t work alone.”
“What are you—I never—how can you even suggest such a thing?”
“We will be investigating you, Mr. Levy, rest assured. In the meantime, I highly recommend you avoid the Le Clair family.” The phone clicked as Dr. Abernathy hung up.
Michael was left staring at the receiver. Slowly, he returned it to the cradle, but continued to stare at the telephone for a few minutes. How anyone could have leapt to such a profoundly ludicrous assumption was beyond his imagination. He stood up and started to pace. On the second turn, he ran smack into the crate.
“Damn.” Michael grabbed his leg and sat in a side chair, grimacing. He inspected the leg and found a lump forming. The skin wasn’t broken.
Sitting back in the chair, he tried to make sense of the situation. Why would he want to break into Anne’s apartment? And this Abernathy character had implied there was something suspicious about Cynthia’s death. This could mean his own life might be in jeopardy.
He jumped up and began pacing again, this time avoiding the box. What was he going to do? He had to speak with Anne. He needed to tell her what he knew. After this demonstration of ineptitude, he no longer trusted that the Le Clairs had the same information.
A flash of inspiration sent him back to his desk. He dialed the fundraising office for the museum. He introduced himself to the woman who answered, then said, “I understand the Le Clair family is interested in donating some jewelry from their collection, but I’ve misplaced the message. Do you have the number for Elizabeth Le Clair?”
“I’ll have to check.” After a pause, the woman gave it to him, emphasizing it was unlisted.
He thanked her, pressed for a dial tone, then called the number. After two rings, a neutral female voice answered, “Le Clair residence.”
“Yes, I’m calling for Anne Le Clair. Her secretary suggested I try her here. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“I’ll check to see if she is here, sir. Your name, please?”
“Michael Levy.”
“Just a minute, please.”
Again, Michael was put on hold. He stared at the green display on his phone, wondering what he would say to her. After a minute, the same woman’s voice came back on the line, “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t locate Miss Anne. May I take a message?”
Michael suppressed a sigh, gave both his office and home number, and asked to have her call as soon as possible. “This matter is urgent.”
“I’ll relay the message, sir.”
Michael hung up the phone. What a pretty mess this was.
☥☥☥
On Wednesday evening, Michael made his way down an alley on the Lower East Side and knocked three times on a door with peeling brown paint. A faded curtain moved slightly behind the grilled window. Then Michael heard the bolts being pulled back. The door opened.
He was greeted formally with, “Shalom aleichem.”
“Aleichem shalom, Reb Mordechai,” he replied.
“Come in out of the cold, Michael,” the man said, pronouncing his name as it would be spoken in Hebrew, with the accent on the last syllable.
At one time, the old rabbi must have been about six feet tall and powerfully built. Now his shoulders were permanently stooped and he walked with a slight limp. His hair and beard, mostly a whitish gray, showed occasional strands of red. A royal blue yarmulke was almost lost in his mass of curls. He gestured at the only couch in the room, surrounded by a diverse assortment of armchairs, all in various states of disrepair.
Michael sat on the vinyl couch, which made a small squeak when he leaned back. An old oak teacher’s desk stood in the corner of the room. The walls were filled with an assortment of bookcases, all jam-packed.
“Tea?” The man shuffled toward a side table that held a hot plate, tea kettle, and tin of sugar cookies.
“No thank you, Rebbe. I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Are the others coming?”
“No, I wanted to speak with you alone.” Rabbi Mordechai walked slowly to the oak desk and rummaged through a pile of papers. “Here we are.” He walked back to a chair next to the couch and carefully sank onto it.
Michael moved over quickly. “Please, sit here.”
This chair is good for my back.” The old rabbi spread an astrological chart on the stained coffee table. “I don’t know if your group has noticed, but a Mogen David alignment is forming on February first.” He pointed to the chart.
“Guy mentioned this, but he said it’s even more elaborate than the Star.”
Rabbi Mordechai smiled. “Excellent, yes. Neptune and Pluto are forming strong aspects as well. I think this is the Day of Opening. And you, Michael—your own chart is aspected very auspiciously by these alignments.” He pulled a second astrology chart from the tattered folder and spread it next to the first. He pointed a finger, the joints swollen with arthritis, at the top of the page.
Michael leaned forward and put on his reading glasses.
“Already you need these?” Rabbi Mordechai chided.
“I do a lot of close work.”
“Uranus will be making its final pass over your tenth house, which rules your career, in late January. On February first, Pluto, Saturn, and Neptune all aspect your Sun, indicating this is an important day for your life’s mission. Pluto is directly conjunct your Mercury, allowing you to see into the great mystery. All these planets are either involved in or aspect the Mogen David alignment.”
Michael nodded. “There have been many signs.”
“Good, then you are aware of what is unfolding.”
“Yes, but you’ve added some new information.”
“Excellent. Now, have you been able to discover the identity of Cynthia Le Clair’s contact in Egypt?”
“No.” Michael sat back on the couch, which let out another squeak. “And I’m not going to make any progress with the Le Clairs.” He told Rabbi Mordechai about his last phone conversation with Roger Abernathy. “Who is this man?”
The rabbi smiled. “A man with a sacred trust, one in a long lineage.”
“But he isn’t a Le Clair.”
“No, but one sworn to protect them.”
“Oh.” Michael’s eyes widened as he realized Abernathy’s status. “Then I’d better be careful. I was striking up a friendship with the new crystal bearer, Anne, but she hasn’t returned my calls since her apartment was broken into, and now I don’t believe she will. I’m going to try to make contact with her again.”
“You must hurry. Who Cynthia saw in Egypt we do not know, but I gave her the name of the man who does. He’s a second cousin, an obscure Kabbalist and historian in old Jerusalem, also a member of the Zohar Group. His name is Moishe ben Zvi. Moishe understands the route the knowledge took, and he knows there are those who still keep the wisdom in Al Khem.”
Rabbi Mordechai looked around for a clean piece of paper. Not finding one, he started to stand up, but Michael gestured for him to stay. He walked over to the desk and rummaged around, finally finding a smudged piece that was otherwise blank. Mordechai took it and carefully wrote out an address, then started to draw a map at the bottom of the page. After a minute, he stopped. “There are too many turns and I am old. This is the name and address and general neighborhood. You are a young man. You will find him.”
The old rabbi blew on the paper to dry the ink, then carefully folded it and handed it to Michael. Michael took the paper, but Rabbi Mordechai did not release it. He looked deeply into Michael’s eyes. “May the Abbisher, Baruch Hashem, guard your steps, my son, for now is the darkest night and the sunrise rests in your hands.”