The Reincarnationist
Page 26
Nothing came to him. No words, no sensations, no knowledge.
What was the secret of the stones?
Again, nothing.
His eyes opened, then his hands, and the stones spilled out onto the velvet cloth. The colors flashed at him, teasing him, promising him more than he might ever know unless he took action.
He’d tried it every other way; now he had no choice.
He turned his eyes to the computer screen and with weary fingers typed in a name, sure that at some point the young woman had been online and left her footprints in cyberspace. It only took seconds for the invisible vaults of information to open and give him what he needed.
Yes. Perfect. He had his key. She’d take him inside, where he’d find a very different treasure. One he could use to trade with: a life in exchange for information.
For mere words.
For sounds that meant nothing out of context.
It wouldn’t be hard for a mother to make that choice.
Would it?
Chapter 49
Finding myself to exist in the world, I believe I shall, in some shape or other, always exist.
—Benjamin Franklin
New York City—Tuesday, 2:00 p.m.
The next morning, Rachel Palmer had sounded so distraught on the phone that Josh agreed to meet her. She suggested the American Wing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He always felt at home and comfortable there. Josh was a city kid, and he and his father had spent endless afternoons at the Met over the years. But Rachel’s anxiety was pervasive and cast a pall over the afternoon.
“If someone is here, watching me,” Rachel said as they walked through the sun-filled gallery, “this doesn’t look very suspicious.”
“Who would be watching you?”
“I’m going to sound paranoid.”
“I won’t take it personally.”
She smiled. “My uncle Alex.”
“He’s having you followed?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“He thinks I’m in danger.”
“Well, isn’t that what you think, too?”
“Yes. But his reasons are specific. He’s done some research and uncovered a scandal or two surrounding some artwork and jewelry Harrison’s bought and sold over the years. It’s worrying him, although it’s nothing out of the ordinary, considering the business he’s in. It makes me think he’s not telling me everything he knows about Harrison.”
She stopped in front of the big, hulking marble sculpture of the Struggle of Two Natures of Man.
“He’s changed so much since my aunt died. I know that happens, of course, but this isn’t just mourning.”
“What else could it be?”
“Alex is obsessed with reincarnation. Always has been. You know he tried to buy the Phoenix Foundation a long time ago? Anyway, it’s been much worse since my aunt’s death, and then I made the mistake of describing what happened with Harrison. Now Alex believes I’m experiencing past-life memories and is obsessed with the idea that Harrison could be dangerous. And although I haven’t told him, I think he’s right.”
“You’ve had another episode?” Josh asked.
She sighed and described going to Harrison’s apartment the night before, seeing the gun and spiraling backward. “But there’s nothing specific I can tell you. I don’t know who the men were. Or where we were. Nothing, really—just pictures and a few phrases.”
They’d left the American Wing and were strolling through a series of galleries filled with religious artifacts. He noticed a huge ivory cross, a triptych of the Annunciation and birth of Jesus, and a glass case of reliquary objects. Josh had been there before so often they were all familiar.
“The problem is that no matter what I tell myself, and how determined I am to stay away from him, I feel drawn to him. As if this is out of my control. And I don’t like being out of control.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” he said as they passed over the threshold into the hall of Arms and Armor. Gleaming silver knights—their spears held aloft, banners flying above their heads—sat atop stationary horses in their own elaborate silver mesh suits.
“My father and I used to come to this hall when I was a kid…It’s been years since I’ve been back,” Josh said, remembering being here with Ben. It was magical then and still was, because, while everything around him had changed and altered, these knights were still there, in position, lifelike and waiting to hear the call to battle that would never come.
It was a different kind of stepping back in time, a safer kind, and he half expected to hear his father’s voice, so Rachel’s caught him by surprise.
“Here’s the deal, Josh. How much would you charge to hypnotize me and put me through a series of past-life regressions so I can get to the bottom of this mess?”
“It’s not a question of money. The foundation only—”
“What? Kids’ pain is more important?”
“No, but—”
“This morning he drove me to work,” she interrupted again. “When I was getting out of the car, I looked down. My shoes were old-fashioned boots with tiny buttons running up the front, nothing I’ve ever owned or worn. And the car had turned into a horse-drawn carriage. Harrison was wearing a morning coat.”
“And then what happened?”
“I heard my name called, and it was all over.”
“Which name?”
“What do you mean?”
“What name did you hear?”
“Rachel. What name could I have heard?”
“Your name from the past.”
“So you believe me?”
“I believe that you are seeing what you say you are seeing.”
“And you’ll help me?”
He shook his head. “I told you that the foundation—”
“I’m not asking to work with the foundation. I’m asking to work with you.”
They both turned as two boys—between eight and ten—ran wildly into the gallery, shouting as they pointed out the swords and shields and helmets to each other.
“I want to be that one,” screamed the smaller.
“And I’m that one.”
“We’re knights!”
“What are we going to fight for?”
“To kill the bad guys!”
The children who’d described their past-life experiences to Malachai and Beryl never explained how they knew when someone they met in the present had been someone they’d known in the past. And they didn’t doubt their feelings. Children didn’t need to be convinced. They didn’t need to educate themselves about the concepts of reincarnation in order to believe that what they were feeling was real. They didn’t become obsessed by the philosophy of their nightmares; they just experienced them.
Rachel turned away from watching the boys and back to Josh.
There was something there. He felt it. Almost impossible to detect, but palpable. And different from what he expected. Since the accident, he’d come into contact with many women, and he’d looked into their eyes—the way he was doing with Rachel—searched for some glimmer of familiarity, and waited; but she was the only one with whom the connection existed. And persisted. She wasn’t Sabina, but she was someone he’d known.
Selfishly, he realized that he wanted to work with this woman and find out if his life and hers intersected. Where they intersected. What it might mean to him, how it might help him.
“It’s happening,” Rachel said in a soft, low voice.
“What?”
“My body is humming and I hear that far-off music, but it doesn’t have anything to do with tones or keys or chords or melody. It’s pure rhythm.”
“Where are you?”
“With you. In the museum, of course.”
Josh wasn’t sure if she was in the present or the past. Before he could ask, she said, “Can we go? Isn’t it time for tea?”
“Tea?”
He knew what was happening.
“Yes, of course. Where would you like
to go?”
“Home,” she said, surprised, as if he should have known that. “Where else would we go?” She seemed to know him so well. But who was she seeing?
“To a coffee shop? A hotel?”
“Delmonico’s.”
“I don’t know where that is.”
“Of course you do. Why are you teasing me?”
“I wasn’t. I haven’t heard of it. Is it nearby?”
She blinked and shook her head as if she were trying to find focus. “You haven’t heard of what?”
“Delmonico’s.”
“What’s that?”
Josh knew then for sure that whoever had suggested tea hadn’t been Rachel Palmer.
Chapter 50
New Haven, Connecticut—3:06 p.m.
Carl watched the house from across the street. Inside the rented car, slumped down in the driver’s seat, he appeared to be talking on a cell phone, but in fact it wasn’t turned on, so to anyone who noticed him, he looked like he was parked for a benign reason.
Taking his eyes off the house, he checked the cheap drugstore watch that irritated his wrist. The nanny should be getting home anytime. He’d followed her to the park, watched her talking to the other nannies while the kids played with one another, and, when she got up to come home, he’d taken off so he’d be here waiting for her. He preferred sustained surveillance before he started a job, but he hadn’t had the luxury. He’d gotten the call at three in the morning, which gave him far too little time.
He’d wanted to complain that it was no way to start a job, except the money was too good. How could he afford to turn that much down?
“Not this month. Hell, not this year,” he said out loud. If you’re going to feign being on the phone, you might as well be on the phone.
Narrowing his focus, he concentrated on the street from one end to the other. There wasn’t a soul coming or going, and no sign of activity in any of the houses. Carl closed the phone and shook his head as if he had finished the call and was disturbed by it. Easy enough to fake—he just imagined he was listening to his wife. Damn, he was getting antsy.
This was the one part of the job that sucked: waiting to make the initial contact.
He’d been at attention from the time he left his apartment at six that morning, when he’d taken a train from Grand Central to Thirty-Third, and from there to Hoboken, New Jersey, where he rented the car. The woman behind the counter barely looked at him as she went through the process of setting him up. He made small talk with her, asking what part of Maine she was from. She told him Manchester and seemed a little surprised that he’d guessed. But Carl had an ear for voices and accents. He only had to talk to someone once to recognize them the very next time he spoke to them. Only had to meet one person from a region of the country and then he’d be able to identify it again.
He didn’t tell her that, though. It might make him too memorable. Instead he told her his wife’s family was from there.
Altogether he was pleased with his effort: he’d looked and acted normal enough to be completely unremarkable. For this job he’d become a middle-aged man of medium height with a slightly bumpy nose, glasses, sandy hair and mustache, wearing nice slacks and a sports jacket that had seen better days but was by no means shabby. He enjoyed building a disguise. As the layers and wigs and contacts and makeup went on, he’d disappeared into the man he was becoming, so that by the time he was ready to go, he couldn’t recognize himself in the mirror.
Opening the phone again, Carl pantomimed talking while mentally going over the plans one more time. There was no such thing as being too careful. What he always had to be prepared for—the one thing he could never be prepared for—was the unexpected. At that moment, he saw movement at the end of the block. There she was! Coming around the corner, pushing the stroller, she was ambling slowly, disappearing twice in the shadows cast by heavy maple trees.
Carl waited until she was closer, then shut the phone, patted his pocket, felt his wallet and detective’s badge, got out of the car and crossed the street.
“Excuse me, you’re Miss Winston, aren’t you? You work for Professor Chase?”
The woman was in her early twenties. Short and sweet-looking with round, bright eyes that had suddenly become cautious. He glanced at the stroller. The little girl was sleeping. Perfect.
“Yes, is something wrong?”
He pulled out the badge and his identification.
“I’m Detective Hudson. I’m going to need you to come with me.”
“Why?”
“I can explain everything once you get in the car.”
“Did something happen to my parents?”
“No, there’s absolutely no reason to panic.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Bettina whimpered, and the little girl stirred. That wasn’t good. He didn’t want her to wake up now.
“Of course you didn’t. Please, Miss Winston.” Very gently, he put his fingertips on her elbow and moved her toward the curb. “But I do need you to come with me across the street. My car is over there.” He pointed.
“Right now? Can’t I go into the house first and—”
Leaning down toward her just enough to be inclusive but not enough to suggest intimacy, he spoke in a grave voice. “Mrs. Chase has received a letter threatening her child, and after the recent robbery in her office, we don’t want to take any chances. We want to get you and Quinn someplace safe.”
“That’s just horrible.” Bettina’s fingers tightened on the stroller, and she pulled it closer. “Why would anyone want to take Quinn? What does that have to do with—”
“We’ll explain everything, but right now I need you to come with me.”
As he led her across the street toward the car, Carl could feel Bettina trembling slightly. Good. If she was nervous, this would be easier. He opened the door for her and she looked inside.
“I can’t—we need the baby seat.”
Damn, something he’d missed. This was the problem with a job that involved a child; he usually avoided them. There was too much information that wasn’t intuitive to him.
“Can you hold the stroller?” she said. Before he could answer, she had run back across the street toward the car parked in the driveway. As she opened the back door, he looked up the street and then down in the other direction. The road was clear, the sidewalk still empty, but it was taking too long for her to unclip the seat, and the little girl was stirring. Then, just his luck, a silver sedan turned onto the block.
From this distance it looked like Mr. Chase’s car.
Bettina had gotten the seat out and was coming toward him. Carl rushed to meet her, grabbed it and went to work strapping it in. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the car looming closer. He fumbled with the baby seat. The sedan turned into a driveway halfway up the block. He breathed easier.
After strapping Quinn in, Bettina started to get in beside her. “I’d like you up front with me, so I can explain everything to you without twisting around.”
After they were both inside the car, he turned on the ignition and was pulling out when he saw a second car, an SUV, turn the corner at the opposite end of the block. In the shadows cast from the tall elm trees he couldn’t tell if it was black or dark blue. Mrs. Chase had a dark blue Jeep. Which way to go? Risk passing the car or make a U-turn and risk the driver seeing his license plate. Carl made the U-turn. Checking the rearview mirror, he still couldn’t tell what color or make the car was from this distance. If it was her, she was hours early. Was she close enough to see the plates? Probably not. Besides, she wouldn’t be paying attention. A car driving down the street wasn’t suspect in itself. Even if it was Mrs. Chase and she found the nanny out, she wouldn’t question that right away. Not yet. Not for a few hours.
“Do you have a cell phone?” Carl asked Bettina.
“Yes.”
He made a right at the corner. No one was following. “Can I have it?”
“Why?”
“Procedure.”
He didn’t answer. She stared at his profile. Looked around at the car. Noticed now for the first time that there was nothing in it. Totally empty. And that struck her as odd. Didn’t detectives practically live in their cars?
She’d learned this kind of thinking at drama school. The details of a character brought him to life.
“Can you tell me why you need my phone?”
He didn’t answer.
And that didn’t make sense, either. Why wouldn’t he tell her? He was there to help her and Quinn and Mrs. Chase.
“Oh, God,” she said in a voice that quaked with fear. “You’re not the police, are you?”
Chapter 51
New York City—Tuesday, 4:30 p.m.
One day Josh would understand why he rushed back to the foundation, borrowed Malachai’s car without checking if it was all right, and drove out to New Haven without calling Gabriella to make sure she’d see him.
Later, Beryl Talmage would give him two different explanations. Rationally, she argued that, having recently been in jeopardy, he was overprotective of everyone he cared about and of course he’d want to check on her.
But intuitively she thought the strong karmic bond that Josh shared with Gabriella propelled him to her.
As soon as he saw the front door to Gabriella’s house wide open, adrenaline surged through Josh, and he raced inside, afraid of what he was going to find.
She was leaning against the staircase wearing a damp raincoat, her umbrella and pocketbook at her feet, a sheet of paper trembling in her hand.
“Gabriella? Are you all right?”
She looked up. Her golden eyes shone like glass; all other color was drained from her face. Her lips were pale except for one drop of blood where it looked like she’d bitten herself.
“What’s wrong?”
“My baby…”
“What?”
All she could do was repeat, “My baby, my baby…”
Josh took the paper from her.