The Last Equation of Isaac Severy(58)

“So it is a predictor.”

“Of a very specific kind.”

“Then why not destroy the whole thing and be done with it?”

“Should we scrap particle physics because it produced the H-bomb?” His voice dropped again. “There is value in the equation, even if we don’t use it to forecast the future. All brilliant math has jewels locked inside that can be harnessed. When Andrew Wiles proved Fermat’s Last Theorem in 1994, he did so on the backs of other great theorems. I have a German colleague who coined a term for the phenomenon—genieschultern—‘on the shoulders of genius.’ And so it goes, on and on.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Raspanti. But it doesn’t really matter because I don’t have the equation.”

“Or you have it and don’t know where to look.”

She wondered if she should just hand over the contents of the hotel room to him—Here, you figure it out—even though Isaac had expressly asked her to destroy everything. But then, where was this alleged equation if not on the computer or the map?

The map. She pulled out her phone and swiped through the images she had snapped on her trip: a wide shot of the Beachwood house, her old bedroom, Drew smelling a flower, Gregory frowning at her. But the photos she was looking for were not there. She searched the trash. Gone. Feeling suddenly unsteady, she leaned on a nearby panel display for support.

“Is something wrong?” Raspanti asked.

“I took photos of his map—four of them—but they’re gone.”

“A map!” Raspanti said in a loud whisper. “With specific points, predicting events down to the day and minute?”

She looked up. “How did you know?”

“He showed me a similar map for Milan, a kind of test run. He was anticipating events there like a seismologist predicts earthquakes.” Raspanti shook his head. “No, like a seismologist wishes he could predict earthquakes.”

“And by events, you mean . . . ?”

Raspanti didn’t answer. He was staring at the mammoth again.

“Isaac’s own death was on the map,” she continued. “And my cousin’s, who died in a recent accident.”

He turned sharply. “Isaac’s death was on the map?”

“Yes. It is a death map, isn’t it?”

Raspanti grabbed his head, as if reevaluating everything. “No, no. Your grandfather wasn’t predicting just any kind of death. That would have been too broad. Pointless, even. People die every day in the most unremarkable ways.”

“Then what?”

“Can’t you guess?”

She could, but she didn’t want to say it out loud because it was too heavy, too terrifying. She wanted this all to be over so she could go home.

The joints of the ancient elephant began to grind and shift, and when the animal thundered to life again, she said, “I have something to show you.”

*

Thirty minutes later, with Raspanti right behind her, Hazel unlocked room 137. As she pushed open the door and led him down the hall, she knew something was off. She took one step into the living room and stopped. The computer was gone, the map was gone. Otherwise the room appeared untouched. There were no overturned tables or tossed sofa cushions, just the quiet absence of her grandfather’s work. Raspanti glanced around, unsure of what he was supposed to be looking for.

Hazel stared at the now-blank wall and swallowed hard, not wanting to see what she was seeing. “It was all here,” she said finally. “No one else had the key.”

The Italian ran a hand through his hair, suddenly understanding. He moved to the window leading to the roof. “How difficult would it be to break in?”

Hazel flushed. There was only one other person who knew about the room. She couldn’t bring herself to admit what a moron she’d been that night. Drunk, giddy, and foolish.

Raspanti instinctively moved to the spot where the computer had been. “What’s this?”

She joined him at the desk and looked down. In the center of the glass-topped oak sat a shaggy white wig and mustache. They appeared not to have been carelessly left behind, but to have been placed there deliberately. The mustache was turned upside down in the shape of a smile.

“Looks like Einstein left his calling card,” Raspanti said sourly.

“Twain,” she corrected him. “Mark Twain.”





–?19?–


The Offer


On Saturday morning, Philip drove Silas and Sidney to their tennis lesson and forced himself to sit courtside through the entire instruction. Though he had found excuses to slip away to Anitka’s cottage every day for the past week, he had recently made a point to be more present for his sons.

Philip tried to concentrate on the boys’ practice, but he had taken two of his emergency Vicodin at breakfast, on top of his migraine medication, and was now feeling a bit high. So while he appeared to be studying the twins and their sylphlike instructor, he was really seeing Anitka’s figure spring about the court, dark hair catching auburn highlights in the sun. Anitka didn’t even play tennis, but he actually clapped after watching his lovely phantom slice a drop shot that Silas couldn’t return.

He stopped clapping when he looked across the court and swore he saw Nellie Stone in the bleachers. She was sitting next to a large man whose face, masked in shadow, Philip couldn’t quite make out. When he blinked and they both disappeared, he promised himself he’d cut back on the pills.