“I’ve never heard of any doctor seeing patients at night. Are you sure he’s on the up and up, Bolt?”
“He often arranges appointments at night for working people. I told him I had to be in court all this week, so we both thought tonight would be best when I explained how anxious you are to meet with him.”
She grimaced. The word “anxious” certainly described her feelings—eager, but with pronounced fear. Why had she let Bolt talk her into this?
“Here’s his place,” he announced, turning into a wide driveway that terminated under a carriage drive at the side of the massive stone mansion.
Mary Scarlett stared up at the turrets, gargoyles, and the many-hued gleam of light shining through stained glass windows.
“Isn’t this some place?” Bolt asked. “It was about to be demolished when Dr. Schlager moved to Savannah a few years ago. He came to me for help to stop the wrecker’s ball. We saved it with a last-minute stay of execution. Schlager says it reminds him of the castles along the Rhine that he remembers from his childhood.”
“He grew up in a castle?”
“No, no! Peasant stock all the way, he insists.”
“For a peasant, he’s done well for himself,” she mused, staring up at his imposing home with its fancy stone, brick, and terra-cotta ornamentation. “Who in the world would build a house like this? It must have cost millions!”
“It’s one of the masterpieces of the post-Reconstruction era, built around 1887, I believe. The Victorian Age. There was lots of money here then, huge fortunes based on cotton, lumber, naval stores, and phosphates. That’s when your family recovered its fortune, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “I guess you could say we were lucky. At least my family still had a home at the end of the war, even if all the money was gone. Granny Boo’s husband, my Great-grandaddy Horace, was the business-wizard on Mama’s side of the family. He was in lumber. He owned thousands of acres of ‘worthless’ timberland west of Savannah. When he went into the lumber business, he made a fortune practically overnight.”
“Hey, I’ll bet Granny Boo and old Horace used to come to parties here. According to Dr. Schlager, this house was the center of social and cultural activity back in the 1890s.”
At Bolt’s words, the scene shifted for a moment as if a haze had drifted over the great house. Mary Scarlett heard music and the laughter of guests at a party. She thought she saw a beautiful young woman peering out of the front parlor window. Granny Boo! she thought.
The magical mist faded when Bolt squeezed Mary Scarlett’s arm. He had led her around to the front of the Gothic mansion.
“You aren’t shivering, are you? There’s nothing to be nervous about, honey. You’ll like Dr. Schlager. He’s been everywhere, done everything. He’s quite the Renaissance man. You’ll probably fall madly in love with him.”
“Yeah, right,” she muttered grimly.
“Come on, Mary Scarlett. You’ve always been thirsty for new experiences. Think about this as another of life’s exciting adventures.”
She had no time to respond—they were at the huge, iron-banded front door. Bolt gripped the ring that hung from the mouth of a hideous brass gargoyle and rapped sharply. Immediately, an attractive woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties answered.
“Good evening, Mr. Conrad,” she said warmly. “You are right on time. And this must be Miss Lamar.”
She extended her hand to Mary Scarlett, who hesitated only briefly before she accepted the tall, blond woman’s firm handshake.
“I am Helga,” she said. “Please, won’t you come in.”
Mary Scarlett shot a questioning glance at Bolt. He hadn’t mentioned Helga. Who was she? Dr. Schlager’s wife, daughter, assistant, mistress?
Before she could ask, the doctor himself appeared in the hallway. “Ah, good. You have arrived. Come! Come! Everything is ready in my library.”
When the short man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard turned toward Helga and asked her to bring tea and join them, the gleam in his charcoal eyes ruled out her possible roles as daughter or mere assistant. There was obvious passion between the two.
Manfred Schlager, Mary Scarlett noted, was not a handsome man, but he had a warm, paternal charm. That thought amused her. How could she tag him that way when the only measuring stick she had was Big Dick, who had been anything but paternal? She concluded that the doctor was the kind of man she had always wished she had for a father. She began to relax, but not completely. Her fear of the unknown refused to be banished.
Noting Mary Scarlett’s obvious nervousness, the doctor turned his attention to Bolt. “So, how goes the lawyering trade, my friend?”
“Busy as ever,” Bolt answered with a laugh. “Too many divorces, too many petty quarrels, and far too many murder cases, to my way of thinking.”
Dr. Schlager shook his head and clucked his tongue as he stood back and raised his arm in invitation at the door of his den. “The drugs,” he sighed, “always the drugs and the shootings and the knifings. It is most distressing. The plague of our times.”
“With no cure in sight,” Bolt agreed.
Mary Scarlett felt surprisingly calm and comfortable, listening to the two men. She realized what the doctor was doing—pointing out to her, without saying it in so many words, that her problems were dwarfed by those of the city and the world. Even though she understood the tack, it worked. Suddenly, the plagues in her life seemed small by comparison.
They entered the doctor’s office-den, a large room, lined with books, hung with expensive paintings and tapestries. It could have been a castle on the Rhine.
“How have things been going for you, Dr. Schlager? Is Savannah still to your liking?” Bolt asked.
“Oh, good, good!” Schlager nodded. “I have had some luck tracing my former self recently.”
That caught Mary Scarlett’s attention. His former self?
“I told Mary Scarlett you had come here by an unusual route. Is there time to explain to her briefly?”
The doctor smiled broadly. “There is always time to speak of Prophet Jones. I have followed him this far—from the darkest part of Africa, to where the Portuguese slave traders captured him at Brazzaville, to take him on board the vessel Wanderer, and on to Jekyll Island. Now it looks as if I might soon locate his grave right here in Savannah.”
“The Wanderer?” Now Dr. Schlager had Mary Scarlett’s full attention.
“Yes. It was a slave ship, owned by—”
“Charles Augustus Lafayette Lamar,” she cut in. “He was one of my own ancestors.” Her excitement faded when she realized that Charley Lamar had sold Prophet Jones—Dr. Schlager’s former self—into slavery.
“Ah, you know your history well.” Schlager beamed at her. “It seems that in my most recent past life, I was a prince among my own people, but a slave once Lamar transported me to America. Many died on that voyage, my own sisters among them. It was a sad time, but not such a sad life for Jones. You see, Prophet, as he was named by his owners, brought great knowledge with him from his land. Some called it magic. Some called it voodoo. But no one denied that he had a special sight, a gift for healing. Even now, I am studying the old ways to try to learn all that I knew in that past life. He fathered many children, too. I am in search of some of his descendants who might still live in the Savannah area.” He leaned back, his face aglow. “Imagine meeting my own grandson from a previous life. What a marvel that would be! He might even have known old Prophet and heard tales from his own lips of those old days back in Africa.” He paused and closed his eyes as if he had drifted off. Then he jerked back, all business again. “How I ramble! You have not come to hear about my lives. You are here to find out more about your lives.”
Bolt tried to hide a smile as he shook his head. Schlager saw his reaction.
“Always the skeptic, eh, Conrad?”
“I just find it hard to believe that I’ve lived more than once. Maybe this is my first time around
. Did you ever think of that?”
“Not a likely theory. From my dealings with you, I believe you to be an old soul. Old and very wise.”
Bolt laughed aloud at this. “How I wish!”
While the two men talked Mary Scarlett had been giving the room a closer examination. She noticed one of Bolt’s seascapes among the old European masterpieces on the walls. Bolt’s painting held her attention. It disturbed her. The style was unmistakably his, but the hues contrasted starkly with the usual rich colors he favored. The fierce, angry sea was done in grays, black, and somber shades of purple and ultramarine. She wondered when Bolt could have painted this tortured scene and what had so troubled him at the time.
“Ah, Helga is here with our tea.” Dr. Schlager rose from his desk chair to take the heavy tray from her. “You will join us, of course, my dear.”
Helga smiled and passed the cups of fragrant Darjeeling, then took a seat on the sofa beside Mary Scarlett.
“I see you recognize Bolton’s work,” Schlager said to Mary Scarlett.
“It’s hard to mistake his unique style,” she said. “But this one is different from any of his others. More violent, jarring to the senses.”
The doctor gave a quick nod. “It is!” he said emphatically. “Tell me more about this difference you observe. How does the painting make you feel, Miss Lamar?”
She thought through her words carefully before she answered. She didn’t want Bolt to think she hated his painting. “I believe he was angry or depressed when he did this one. His fury flowed into his strokes.” She stood and walked over to the painting, completely caught up in her explanation and in Bolt’s stormy sea. “Look here.” She touched the canvas gently. “His strokes are always bold, but these go beyond that. Slashes, jabs, strikes. It makes me think that if he had held a real knife in his hand instead of a palette knife, he might have committed murder instead of creating art.” Embarrassed by her own dramatic words, Mary Scarlett uttered a nervous laugh. “I’d say he was mad as hell at somebody when he painted this.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. She resumed her seat and sipped her tea, trying not to meet Bolt’s stare.
“You hit the nail on the head, honey,” he muttered under his breath.
“Explain to her, Bolton,” the doctor urged. “This could be a good starting point for our first session.”
Mary Scarlett saw Bolt flash Schlager a dark look. “We’re not here to discuss my problems. Mary Scarlett is the one who needs your help.”
“It has been my experience,” the doctor said, “that one’s problems are most often intertwined with the problems of those closest. Miss Lamar might take hope from learning that others have suffered because of her own suffering. No one is alone in life, isolated from those around them.”
Hanging on the doctor’s every word, Mary Scarlett stared right at Bolt’s profile. What did this painting of pain and fury have to do with her?
“Won’t you at least tell us the title of this work?” Dr. Schlager prodded gently.
Bolt shrugged. “I called it ‘Gone To Hell.’ Bad title,” he added. “Means nothing.”
“And when did you execute this unusual work?” Schlager pressed.
Bolt was losing patience, something rare for him. “Listen, we didn’t come here to discuss art, especially bad art.”
“When did you paint it?” Mary Scarlett begged softly. “Tell me, Bolt. I really want to know.”
He turned slowly, until he was facing her. When she saw the pain in his eyes, she had to look away. It was too much to bear. The suffering on the canvas mirrored some dark, hidden place within him, some scar on his soul.
“I painted that the day after you left Savannah,” he said bluntly, tonelessly.
Mary Scarlett gasped. Never, until this minute, had she realized the depth of Bolt’s angry hurt. And she had caused it by leaving without a word of explanation.
“It’s my worst nightmare,” he said. “You have Raul; I have this hell of sea and sky. I’ve painted it over and over— endlessly in my dreams—for the past eight years. I gave it to you, Dr. Schlager, because I thought getting it out of my sight might end the nightmares. And you were the only one who ever liked it. I hate the thing!”
Again, silence descended over the four people in the room. Mary Scarlett felt tears near the surface. She had been relieved when Dr. Schlager began this seemingly innocuous discussion of Bolt’s artwork, thinking this would shield her from becoming the main topic for a time. Now she wanted to blurt out all her own problems. She would tell the doctor anything he wanted to know. Anything! But she could not bear to see Bolt’s pain—pain she had caused.
Helga finally broke the brittle tension in the room. “We are all linked to one special other in each life,” she said quietly. “We share that partner’s pain as well as his joy. Neither man nor woman was created to exist alone. Manfred and I were lucky enough to discover the link between us. We have shared many lives and many relationships through all eternity.”
The doctor nodded gravely and stroked his beard. “Helga speaks the universal truth,” he answered solemnly. “She and I once fought side by side in Hannibal’s elephant corps. We existed as brother and sister in the ancient Mayan civilization. In China long ago, when Helga was a poor peasant woman, I was her eldest son.”
“And the dearest of my children,” she answered meekly, eyes cast down as if she was remembering.
“Lovers we have been in many lives. Most recently, when I was Prophet Jones and she was the Princess Zoldza. We came from the same village and were betrothed from birth. We shared passage on the Wanderer. We shared shame and pain, but always love.”
It was on the tip of Mary Scarlett’s tongue to ask if the same was true in this life, but she kept the question to herself. The answer seemed obvious.
“As for you and Bolton Conrad, Miss Lamar, I believe it is the same with you. I sense a closeness between you, a sharing, and deep affection. But I see a wide gulf that could swallow you both. There is danger between you—and misunderstanding.”
The doctor’s words sent a shiver through Mary Scarlett. How could he tell all this from simply looking at them? And, if he was right, what could they do about it?
As if sensing her unspoken question, Schlager said, “Through dual hypnosis and regression to past lives, we can discover the truth and so patch the wounds from previous existences.”
Bolt’s head shot up. His eyes narrowed. “Dual? I didn’t know I was going to be a part of this. You never mentioned that, Schlager.” His voice rose as he spoke.
Mary Scarlett put her hand on his arm. “Hear him out, Bolt. What can it hurt?”
“Yes, do hear me out, Bolton,” the doctor said, still calm and quiet. “You asked me to see your friend, to help her. You must be willing to submit to this if you truly wish Miss Lamar to be able to work through her problems—problems that have come with both of you as excess baggage through time.” He smiled warmly. “It will be most enlightening. And painless. I promise.”
Mary Scarlett squeezed Bolt’s hand in a silent plea. Suddenly, she was no longer nervous, but eager to begin.
“Well, Conrad?” he asked.
All eyes turned to Bolt. He looked uncomfortable under the fierce scrutiny. Finally, he heaved a great sigh. “Okay. You win, Doc. I’ll do it. But only for Mary Scarlett’s sake. To tell you the truth, I don’t believe all this reincarnation bunk.”
Schlager smiled benignly and tented his fingers in front of his beard. “I, too, was a skeptic long ago. Understanding and knowledge will come through experience. A whole new world is about to open up for both of you. A world that has been with you all your lives without your realizing it. I envy you that joy of first knowledge. It will be a journey of beauty and light.”
Mary Scarlett glanced toward Helga. Her face glowed with intense joy. Her eyes never left those of Dr. Schlager. In that moment, Mary Scarlett wanted desperately to feel what Helga was feeling. She wante
d to know that each time she looked at Bolt he was seeing her with that overwhelming light of love shining through her whole being.
“What do we have to do, Dr. Schlager?” she asked, leaning toward him, more than eager now.
“Bolton?” It was the doctor’s final plea for permission. “You must be as willing as Miss Lamar for this to work.”
Bolt only nodded in reply.
Dr. Schlager smiled at them. “Then let us waste no more time. Shall we begin?” He motioned to his assistant. “Helga, if you please.”
She rose and walked quickly to open a door at the back of the room. She looked at Mary Scarlett, then at Bolt. “Come with me, please.”
They rose, still holding hands, and followed Helga into the unknown.
Eleven
Bolt hadn’t bargained for this. Schlager had set him up, but good! Helga was definitely in on it, and maybe Mary Scarlett was, too. She had had plenty of time and opportunity while he was at work today to call the doctor and have a cozy chat.
As they followed Helga into the adjoining room, he gave Mary Scarlett a quick glance. No, he decided, she hadn’t been in on the scheme. She was too caught up in her own problems to do any behind-the-scenes plotting.
It’s Schlager, he thought, and that damn painting!
Bolt knew he never should have shown that horror to the good doctor. He certainly shouldn’t have given it to the man, even though he had admired it. And as much as Schlager had wanted it, Bolt had wanted it out of his sight even more. He dreamed about it often enough—he didn’t need the original hanging around to haunt him. He should have burned the damn thing right after he poured his guts out onto that canvas. Now he was caught… in a trap of his own creation.
For more reasons than one, he didn’t want to submit to hypnosis, either alone or with Mary Scarlett. This wasn’t one of those deals where he feared the doctor’s control over him once he was in a hypnotic state. No, his was a fear that ran deeper than that. There were things about his early life that he never wanted to relive. He certainly didn’t want anyone to know about his “good ole days,” especially not Mary Scarlett. She had enough skeletons in her own closet; she didn’t need his rattling around. Besides, he loved Mary Scarlett—always had, always would. In spite of everything, he still wanted to marry her.
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