The Reincarnationist

by M. J. Rose

  The plane landed on time, and he shuffled through the airport. He felt dirty. His long black coat, baggy black pants and white shirt were wrinkled and smelled stale. Being unkempt displeased him, and the way people stared at his clothes, beard and peyos was annoying to him. Orthodox Jews often drew sidelong glances even in New York City, despite there being such a large population of them there, but it was still unsettling to feel eyes following him in the line, staring at the hair on his face and at his clothes.

  But the visibility would work in his favor; he knew that. It was just that he preferred the pristine priest’s cassock as a disguise.

  The immigration line took more than an hour, even though he was an American citizen with a valid passport. Everyone around him looked sleepy. Although he was wide awake, he faked one yawn, and then another, going over his mental checklist of all the possible questions and his answers. Yes, he was prepared.

  But he was also worried. He couldn’t help it.

  Too much had gone into this plan. Too much depended on it.

  Too much had gone wrong already.

  Finally it was his turn to go through Customs. He presented his tax declaration along with his opened briefcase to the man in uniform whose name tag read Bill Raleigh.

  “Will you open this pouch for me?” Raleigh asked, pointing to a navy felt bag after reading the customs declaration.

  Meyerowitz opened it and pulled out six smaller felt pouches.

  “Open this one,” Raleigh said, pointing.

  Like a mantra, Meyerowitz kept thinking one thought over and over as he unwrapped the stone and laid it out for inspection.

  The United States has no import duties on loose gemstones.

  The United States has no import duties on loose gemstones.

  The United States has no import duties on loose gemstones.

  He was pleased his fingers weren’t shaking. Anyone’s would, he thought. Even if they hadn’t done anything wrong. Just being questioned was nerve-racking. But Meyerowitz stayed calm. He hadn’t expected any problems. He knew the rules. Only gemstone imports from certain countries were prohibited, and from his passport it was clear he had not been in Myanmar, Cuba, Iran, Iraq or North Korea.

  He laid the sapphire gingerly on a yellow pad in his briefcase.

  Raleigh barely glanced at it as he next pointed to a small white envelope. “And that packet along with your receipts?”

  Meyerowitz opened it, pulled out a folded sheet of tissue paper, unfolded it and revealed seven small loose diamonds, each less than one and one-half carats. Then he reached into a pocket on the inside of the briefcase and withdrew two sheets of paper that constituted the invoice for all the stones.

  “And what is in these pouches?”

  “Those are fake pieces I picked up in Rome. Good quality. My brother-in-law does costume. I wanted him to see.”

  “Can you open them, please?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?” he said as he opened them and pulled out cheap imitation Gucci necklaces with their faux precious stones.

  Despite the law, despite the fact that everything was in order, something concerned the customs official enough for him to call over a supervisor. It took the second man thirty seconds to complete his walk across the room, and by the time he reached them, Meyerowitz’s heart was beating so hard in his chest he was worried they might hear it. He focused on relaxing himself. Any sign that he was overly concerned would be detected by the trained guard.

  There is no reason to worry. There is nothing illegal about what you are doing. Breathe. In. Breathe. Out. They are just being cautious. They fear terrorists and check random people constantly. This is routine.

  But what if Interpol has put out a report? What if someone is looking for this cache of jewels? What if the precious gems and diamonds didn’t disguise the real treasures? What if he said the wrong thing? What if they confiscate the stones? No, remember, no one has seen the stones but the two professors. The police don’t necessarily know what they are looking for.

  “Are you Mr. Irving Meyerowitz?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Your profession?”

  “I am a jeweler.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Here. Here in New York. On West Forty-Seventh Street. Number ten.”

  “And what was the purpose of your trip abroad?”

  “It was a buying trip.”

  The official was square-faced with pockmarked skin, and smelled slightly of tobacco. His fingers were thick and stubby and also graceless as they examined the dozen gems and the papers.

  Meyerowitz tried not to contemplate the possibility that something was going wrong or the power of this petty official who was capable of ruining everything.

  Behave normally.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked with a slight irritation in his voice. This was in character. Who wouldn’t ask this? He hadn’t done anything wrong, after all. He was acting within the law; he knew that.

  “Just a minute, please.” The guard read the rest of the receipts.

  He read the man’s name tag. “Mr. Church? I don’t understand what the issue could be?”

  “Do you have anything else to declare?” Church asked.

  “No. Just what is here.”

  “Do you have—”

  There was a loud noise behind them. Everyone turned. A man had tripped over a suitcase and fallen onto a metal cart. He seemed to be hurt; blood poured out of his nose. He screamed out in pain. Everyone looked over—Raleigh, Church, all the people in line. No one was paying attention to Meyerowitz anymore. He wanted to grab the gems and run out of the terminal. But that would be foolish.

  Church gave quick instructions to Raleigh as he walked off toward the accident. “Let him through.”

  Outside, Meyerowitz tried to walk slowly, not to rush, not to draw any attention to himself as he headed for the taxi stand where he got in line, cursing over how long it was. He wished that he’d hired a car to greet him. But that would have left too much of a trail. A limo driver wasn’t like a taxi driver. A limo driver would pay too much attention to the old man. He’d remember where he dropped him off. As it was, Meyerowitz would need to take one cab somewhere that he could use a men’s room so he could change before feeling safe enough to take another to go home.

  It wasn’t until he was safely in the cab that he allowed himself to wonder what had alerted Raleigh? He went over every step of the interrogation again. All routine. No, it couldn’t have been anything he’d said. Was it something he’d done?

  He shifted in the seat, smoothed out his black coat, felt the coarse wool, thought about how glad he’d be to get out of these foul clothes. And that’s when he realized his mistake.

  It was Friday night.

  Remember the Sabbath and to keep it holy.

  No Orthodox Jew would travel on the Sabbath.

  How could he have been so stupid?

  Chapter 39

  New Haven, Connecticut—Saturday, 11:19 a.m.

  Gabriella Chase sat on the floor of her office, surrounded by a maelstrom of books, papers and wet leaves that were blowing in with the wind and the rain through the open window.

  She’d thought she’d feel safer at home, thought that she’d left the fear on the ground in Rome when she’d boarded the plane to bring her back. And in fact, last night, sleeping under the same roof as her father and her daughter, she had felt as if the worst of the crisis was behind her. But now, looking around her, at the clear signs of the intrusion, at the details of the chaos, she realized she’d been wrong. There wasn’t anywhere she could go that would be safe until whoever had done this had found what he wanted.

  Unless he already had.

  The wind picked up and howled. The window. She needed to shut the window. But she wasn’t sure she could get up yet.

  “Professor Chase?”

  She twisted around. Two men in campus security uniforms were standing at the door. She recognized the older one but couldn’t think
of his name. How was that possible? He’d been working here since before she had.

  Think.

  Think.

  Her eyes, usually bright with curiosity, were dull and her hair, usually wild but winsome, was tangled and matted.

  The guard she knew walked over to her. “Are you all right?”

  She focused on him and his question. “Yes. I’m fine, Alan.” Yes, that was his name. Alan. And the other guard was Lou.

  With a bang, the window crashed into the sill.

  The noise alarmed Alan and almost made him jump, but Gabriella seemed unaffected.

  “It does that,” she said in a bland voice. “I keep meaning to have the janitor fix it.” She was still sitting on the floor.

  Alan put his arm around the professor’s back and helped her up. She was so easy to lift; there was no resistance. As he led her to the chair behind her desk, she started visibly shivering. After she sat down, he looked around, found a sweater on the back of her door that had been far enough away from the window to still be dry, and draped it around her.

  “Professor Chase, what happened here?” Lou asked. “Can you tell us?”

  “I don’t know. I was in the library. I just got back five minutes ago.” She looked at her watch. Shook her head. “No, almost fifteen minutes ago. Everything was like this. All over the place. Blowing everywhere. I tried to catch the papers. All my papers. Years of papers. The window must have been open awhile. There’s water on the floor. I didn’t see it and slipped. I hit my knee on the desk…” She brushed her damp hair back off her face.

  “I don’t imagine you know yet if anything was taken,” Lou said.

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t know. I can’t—” She indicated the mess around her. “It’s such a mess. I don’t know where to start. But I’m okay. Really.”

  “I think we should call the New Haven police and report this ASAP,” Lou said, and opened his cell phone.

  Ten minutes later, Officer Mossier, a very serious but baby-faced policeman showed up with his partner, Officer Warner, an older cranky veteran.

  Mossier took out his notebook and started asking Gabriella what had happened since she’d come back to the office.

  “Was the door locked when you got back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had it been locked when you left?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were the windows locked when you left?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you normally lock the windows?”

  “No…not often.”

  “What about today?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do you have any idea what’s missing?”

  “I have years of files in this office.” She gestured to the soggy mess of papers littering the floor. “But I don’t know why anyone would want them.”

  “Do you have a disgruntled student from last semester? From the summer session?”

  “No. Yes. Well, there are always students who are upset by marks they get on papers, but there’s no one I can think of who would be this upset….” She shook her head and hair fell onto her face. She pushed it away again. “No, no student that I can think of.”

  “What do you teach?”

  “Archeology.”

  “You go on digs?” Mossier asked.

  Gabriella nodded.

  “Now, that’s something I always wanted to do. Go on a dig. I’ve done some spelunking and always thought that—”

  Warner interrupted. “Was there anything you had in here from a dig? Any antiquities? Something worth breaking in for?” He looked around at the shelves, which were mostly filled with books and framed photos.

  “Nothing of any value, no. Some shards of pottery, some pieces of glass, but debris, mementos, that’s all. Nothing of real value…”

  Mossier didn’t seem to pay attention to how she’d let the rest of the sentence drift off, but the senior cop did.

  “We’ll write this up. Ask around and find out if anyone witnessed anything. In the meantime, I’d like you to try to put your papers back in order in the next few days, and if you notice anything amiss, will you let us know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right? Would you like us to drive you home, or to the hospital?”

  She nodded. “No. I’m okay, but thank you.”

  “Is there anyone we could call to come and get you? I don’t think you should be alone just yet,” Mossier said.

  She nodded. “My father.”

  * * *

  It only took Professor Peter Chase less than ten minutes to get to his daughter’s office. Rushing in, he ignored the police and went straight to Gabriella.

  He was an older man with heavy jowls, a thick head of white hair and intense, and alarmed, dark eyes. “What happened?”

  As soon as she saw him she started to cry. Not loud sobs; rather, tightly controlled, quiet weeping, but the tears fell quickly, wetting her cheek in a matter of seconds.

  Peter pulled out a handkerchief, gave it to her and put his arm around her. Over her head he looked at the two policemen and asked them if they’d stay for a few minutes longer since he had some questions he’d like to ask them. “I’m Professor Chase. I’m Gabriella’s father,” he said, forgetting for the moment that they’d called him at Gabriella’s request. “Have you figured out what happened here?”

  Warner took over. “Not yet, sir, but we’re going to do the best we can to find out.”

  “And in the meantime, what are you going to do to protect her?”

  “We’re going to do everything we can to figure out what happened here,” Officer Warner repeated.

  “Do you have a daughter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hold old is she?”

  “I have two. One is twelve, the other is fifteen.”

  “Would that be a good enough answer for you if this happened to one of them? Everything we can to figure out what happened here? What about telling me how you’re going to protect her?”

  “If you knew how seriously I take my job, you’d know that it is enough.”

  “Can’t you put a detail on her?”

  “Not unless someone has threatened her, sir. I wish I could.”

  “So do I, damn it.” The professor tried to stare him down and intimidate him, but the officer wasn’t flinching. It was a stand-off. Finally Gabriella broke the silence.

  “Dad, let them go. I’m not in danger. No one wants me. Just something that they thought was in here.”

  “How do you know that?” her father asked.

  Officer Warner was on the threshold but turned around, alerted.

  “I don’t know it for sure. But it certainly appears that way, doesn’t it?” She looked from her father to the two policemen. “I appreciate your help. Will you let me know if you find out anything?”

  Warner didn’t leave.

  It looked as if he was waiting to hear Gabriella’s answer to her father, but she wasn’t going to talk in front of him.

  “Thank you,” she repeated to Warner.

  The cops had no choice. They left.

  Once the door closed after them, the elder Professor Chase repeated his question. “How do you know that no one is after you?”

  He waited. In the silence, he faintly heard two sets of footsteps retreating.

  “Gabriella?” he insisted.

  “I know because the same thing happened to my apartment in Rome. Someone broke in the last night I was there. That’s why I left.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before now?” her father asked, his voice straining.

  She shrugged.

  “Was anything taken in Rome?”

  “A notebook. Some photographs.”

  “What the hell have you gotten yourself mixed up in?” her father asked.

  “Something very old, Dad. Something very powerful. Or at least that’s what we think. What we thought. No, not we…me…Rudolfo is gone…What I think.”

  Last night, once
she had checked on her daughter, once she had changed into jeans and an old, comfortable sweatshirt that had belonged to her husband, and poured herself a vodka and tonic, once she’d filled her father in on what had happened in Rome—or at least most of it—she’d gone into the room that doubled as her home office and library combined and rifled through a drawer, looking for a card that she’d kept there for the past three and a half years.

  Nervously she picked up the phone, noticed her hand was shaking and hung up. She’d thought about making this call before but had never followed through. As curious as she’d been, she hadn’t wanted to risk the dig and who knew what might happen if she contacted the priest who’d brought her the site plans. After everything that had gone wrong in those past few years, it had felt so good to be excited about something again, she hadn’t wanted anything to spoil the thrill of the excavation.

  But that was all over now.

  Several times after that snowy Sunday four years before when Father Dougherty had first given Gabriella the papers in the Battell Chapel, Rudolfo had wanted her to get in touch with Father Dougherty and plead with him to show them the rest of the journal.

  There are so many unanswered questions, Rudolfo had said.

  Now there were more. Too many more.

  Her hand shook as she dialed the number. The phone rang three times before it was answered by a friendly voice who identified himself as Father Francis and asked how he could help her.

  “My name is Gabriella Chase. I’m sorry to call so late, but could I talk to Father Dougherty, please?”

  “Father Ted Dougherty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, he’s no longer with us.”

  “Can you tell me where I could reach him?”

  “Hopefully in heaven, my dear. Father Dougherty died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s terrible. When did he die?”

  “Let’s see, it was seven, no, it was eight years ago now.”

  “Eight years ago? Are you sure?”