The Memory Painter

He identified the formula before she did. “That page.”


Linz pulled it out. Turning on the car’s interior light, she studied both formulas: the one Bryan had written and the one Michael had written. They looked identical down to the last pen mark. “You’re saying you just wrote this? Right now.”

He saw the skepticism on her face, along with something else—burgeoning belief—and shook his head with a smile. “God, you drive me crazy.”

He reached across her and pulled another piece of paper from her bag and wrote the formula out again. “I remembered Michael’s entire life while I was in Canada, including his work.” He handed the page to her.

Like a schoolteacher, she checked the new page against the other two. Every notation was once again identical, including the penmanship. “My God,” she said, her voice barely audible.

Bryan waited, unwilling to let himself believe he had gotten through to her. “You believe me.”

She sat there for the longest time, staring at the formula. Her eyes filled with wonder. When she spoke, her voice quivered. “I believe you.”

Bryan was overwhelmed. He had done it. She was with him now. He was no longer alone.

He kissed her with everything in his heart. Finally Linz broke away and hugged him, resting her cheek against his. But her mind was filled with questions—she needed to know what this meant. “Where do we go from here?” she whispered. “I already tried to speak to my father, but he refuses to talk about anything related to Renovo. We could try together.”

“There’s someone else I think we should talk to first.” He didn’t want to get into Conrad, not yet.

“Who?”

“Just trust me.”

She pulled away. “Why go to a total stranger over my father? Michael was like a brother to him. He’d want to know that … whatever they did had ramifications for you.”

For us, Bryan thought. She still wasn’t ready to embrace the whole truth. He would have preferred to tell her everything, but he knew it would only put up a wall—possibly one that he couldn’t tear down again. “Please trust me.” He promised, “I will talk to Conrad, just not yet.”

“Who else could be so important?”

“Their other partner.”



THIRTY-ONE

Bryan had researched Finn along with Conrad. He had found out that, after the accident, Finn had spent a year recovering at a burn center in Houston. His name had resurfaced ten years ago when The Kauffman Foundation, a private research foundation with offices in both Boston and New York, announced him as its new director.

The Kauffman Foundation was a well-funded private biomedical research company; and judging by the residential address that Bryan had located for Finn in Beacon Hill, it seemed like his old colleague had done well for himself. Bryan and Linz tried not to feel conspicuous in front of the well-lit brownstone. With its antique lampposts and brick masonry, the entire neighborhood had the feel of Old London to it. Finn’s home was the biggest one on the block—it almost was the block. Bryan wondered what Finn would think of them showing up at his door.

His butler could well have been a bouncer blocking the entry to a club. The six-foot, three-hundred-pound Japanese man looked more sumo wrestler than domestic worker. “Dr. Rigby doesn’t see strangers.”

Linz nodded and inched backward. Bryan put his arm around her, anchoring her to his side and apologized. “I’m sorry we didn’t call first, but it’s very important we see him. Tell him Mandu is here.”

“Mandu?” the man and Linz both said at the same time.

“Yes.” Bryan gave an innocent smile. The man nodded and shut the door.

“Mandu?” Linz’s tone demanded an explanation.

“You’ll see.”