A 3rd Time to Die

by George A Bernstein

  Craig sighed, looked the man in the eyes, and shrugged.

  “My new friend, I guess.”

  “Ahh. The horsewoman?”

  “Yeah. The wonderful, compassionate, warm-hearted, exciting Ashley. The wholesome girl-next-door beauty of every man’s dreams.”

  “Those are a lot of adjectives, Craig. You have strong feelings for her?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. We’ve just been good friends for months, enjoying the horses together. I’ve had this strange feeling, as if I’ve known her forever. She says the same thing. Then suddenly, everything changed after the fox hunt.”

  “She rode in a hunt with you?”

  “Yeah. We were talking afterwards, and next thing I knew, we were kissing. It was so… so scary.”

  “Because you were cheating?”

  “No. I don’t give a damn about that. Fuck Toni! It was something else. I… I felt… nervous, I guess. Scared, maybe. Like something bad was going to happen.”

  “Like what? That someone might see you?”

  “More like someone might kill me!”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I kept looking around, expecting someone to come out of the shadows and attack us. I wouldn’t put it past Toni to put a contract on me if she saw us together. Ashley seemed just as nervous. It’s weird.”

  “Do you think Toni hired someone to spy on you?”

  “I doubt it. Just being paranoid.” He waved a dismissive hand.

  “Okay, so you were nervous. What’s developed since then?”

  “We’re not rushing into anything physical, if that’s what you mean. We’re both married to cheaters, but we don’t feel that licenses us to do it, too. We’ve kissed a few more time, and it’s wonderful. But, it also terrifies me.”

  “You feel physically threatened?”

  “Yeah. It frustrating. I’m flooded with this fear… terror, actually… of mortal danger, when I should be reveling in the bliss of loving such a terrific gal.”

  “So, you feel you’ve fallen in love with her, and somehow that terrifies you?”

  “No. Loving her doesn’t scare me. Just the opposite. It’s just being there that feels so threatening. I can’t explain it any better than that.”

  “You’ve never experienced this fear before?”

  “Never.”

  The doctor rubbed his temples, trying to short-circuit a growing headache. This was going nowhere. He had treated Craig for several years and could think of no basis for this sudden new anxiety. Time to try something else.

  “Well, this is probably the results of something buried deep inside your subconscious. The aftermath of some trauma from long ago, possibly as a child. It’s the first time it’s come up in all the time we’ve worked together. Maybe finding what you perceive as real love triggered it.

  “We can dig for this in conventional fashion, which could take months, or we can try to speed things up through hypno-regression.”

  “Hypnotism? I don’t know…”

  “It’s perfectly safe. Once you’re under, we'll regress you to your youth, or wherever the incident occurred. You’ll view it from the outside, like watching TV, never actually re-experiencing whatever it was that’s causing the problem now. Most people find it very rewarding.”

  “All right. I’m game, if it can really help. When do we start.”

  “Not today,” the psychiatrist said, standing. “We’re about out of time. Next session. We’ll get right to it, so we have plenty of time.”

  “Okay,” Craig said, heaving himself out of the chair. “Now, I can hardly wait.”

  “I’ll set an appointment for you day after tomorrow. AM or PM?”

  “After lunch. I’ve got a catalog meeting in the morning.”

  “Done. See you then.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  “You are being pulled back, back, back in time.”

  Craig lay on the couch, eyes closed, hands loosely clasped across his stomach, locked in the peaceful depths of hypnotic trance. They had already explored his teenage years in the last session, finding no basis for his new fears.

  “You are flowing back, all the way back to the time, whenever it was, that this anxiety first arose. Can you see yourself there?”

  “Aye. Careful, there. Take the tree to your right. ‘Tis better footing.”

  “What do you see?”

  “We’re riding to the hounds, hot after that furry bugger.”

  Ah, good. So the trauma was far more recent, if he’s on a fox hunt. Strangely, his voice took on a different tone. Some sort of accent. The doctor edged forward in his chair.

  “Good. Where are you?”

  “In the woods of Devonshire. Where else?”

  Devonshire? England? Bruce Feldman hitched around in his chair, his hands suddenly sweaty. This had a familiar ring. Oh, shit! Didn’t he say the woman’s name was Ashley?

  “What is the year?”

  “ ‘Tis 1695, of course.” Feldman flinched, lurching back. What the Hell was this? As Craig spoke, the doctor realized the change in inflection and accent were British.

  This couldn’t be happening again. He gritted his teeth.

  “Tell me what’s going on. Who are you with?”

  “We’ve split the party. The French angel and I lead the chase. Gore! She rides like a bloody demon. No obstacle gives her fright.”

  “Who is this woman?” He bit his lip, already sure of the answer.

  “A goddess. She’s set an inferno in my heart, and methinks, I in hers. T’will be a task, finding a way around our vows, but I must have her. Never before ‘ave I felt like this.”

  “Who are you? Your name?” The therapist was strangling the arms of his chair.

  “Charles Wallace, Earl of Devonshire.”

  Ooofff. Dr. Bruce Feldman slumped back in his seat as if taking a bolo punch to the midriff, though the statement was no real surprise. Struggling for breath, he asked the question he didn’t think he really wanted answered.

  “And the woman? Her name?”

  “Ahhh. The exquisite Victoria. Victoria du Chevalier, Countess du Beaujolais. A woman like none other!”

  The doctor slouched, head down, both hands pressed against his temple, quivering with epileptic intensity, slowly filling with a blinding rage, as the familiar story again begins to unfold.

  He sees them through his eyes, lying naked in the secluded glen, coupling with an intensity he’s never known. He and his companion are moving through the trees, stalking the unsuspecting pair. Through the blinding red miasma of his rage, his Twenty-First Century professional mind calls out to him. Stop this before it’s too late.

  “Stop!” It’s a barely audible croak.

  “Stop.” Louder this time.

  “We’ve seen enough in this life, Craig. You must stop. It’s time to move on.” His head was about to split open. No amount of aspirin would kill this thumper. His patient sighed softly.

  “She was so beautiful. So vibrant.”

  “That’s all right, but it’s time to move ahead.” He was fighting to keep himself together. He had to know everything.

  “Now, you are moving toward the present, safe in your protective bubble. Moving to another time you may have felt danger. Can you see yourself there?”

  “Yes. I’m in Philadelphia.”

  Damn! It wasn’t possible!

  “Who are you here, and what is the year?”

  “ ‘Tis 1845. I am Robert Isaac, a Jew. ‘Tis a miracle of God that this doesn’t matter to her. We are so in love.”

  “Who is the woman? Her name?”

  Feldman’s stomach roiled, knotting. Sour bile rose in his throat. He was going to be sick again, but it had to stick this out. This was more important.

  “She is Morgana Quincy, a goddess of wonder. I am her deceased father’s barrister. We’re about to picnic in a peaceful little meadow I’ve discovered just outside the city.”

  God, will this never end? This can’t be! And how in the Hell did
I end up with both of them on my couch? Stop this now, before losing control again. Fighting through the excruciating pain trampling his head and gouging his eyes, he spoke.

  “All right. It’s time to come back to the present. Back to your peacefully resting body. Back, back, back...

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  “…Three, two, one, and you are awake. How do you feel?”

  “Confused. What was that, Bruce? Were those really… Past Lives?”

  “You know I don’t believe in Past Lives, Craig. Those were just dreams… fantasies of your subconscious.” His voice was barely a raspy whisper.

  “Jesus. Whatever, they were so wonderful. Why did you pull me away so quickly?”

  “We were running out of time, and I could see they weren’t taking us anywhere helpful.” The lie was a bone lodged in his throat. He swallowed hard to hold down his rising gorge.

  “Too bad. My love for these two women was indescribable. Like with Ashley. Gee, it was almost as if they were Ashley. It felt so familiar. Strange, she’s found past lives in therapy, too”

  Feldman shuddered, rubbing his temples. Demons were in there with picks and hammers, pounding their way through his skull. And now his lunch was looking for a way out, but he had to hang on for a few more minutes.

  “I have to cut today’s session a little short, Craig. I’m not feeling well.”

  “Okay. You do look a little peaked. But tell me, these fantasies, how does seeing them help with this new anxiety when I’m with Ashley?”

  “I… I don’t know yet. We’ll have to explore that next time.” He moaned, expecting his head to detonate any minute. One more thing to confirm before ending the session.

  “Have you talked to anyone about this type of regression recently. Anything that might have put the idea in your head.”

  “Uh, yeah. I guess I did. Ashley told me about hers, but few details. Funny, she was riding on a fox hunt, too. Her guy agrees with you, that they’re not real.”

  “She didn’t give you names, places, things like that?”

  “Just that she was on a hunt. Oh, and she was French. Gee, that’s a coincidence.”

  Feldman doubted that. Chance seemed less and less likely.

  “Okay. That’ll be all for today. See you next week.” He rose on new colt legs, a thunderstorm raging between his ears, and said a hurried good-bye. As Craig opened the door, the doctor threw him one final question.

  “This woman, Ashley, what is her full name?”

  “Easton. Ashley Easton.”

  No surprise there!

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Bruce Feldman lay on his couch, trying to think… not an easy task with kettle drums still doing a crescendo in his head. Two problems needed attention. The first… and easiest… was passing off one of his patients to another therapist. He would never treat two people separately who were intimately involved with each other. And it appeared that Craig Thornton and Ashley Easton were much more deeply connected than even they suspected.

  Since he had a long-standing relationship with Craig, he’d refer Ashley. Rachel Caslow was a perfect choice, if she had room in her schedule. She was an experienced hypno-therapist, more open to the possibilities of Past Lives. They’d had many heated debates on the subject. He’d be in for a lot of teasing, once she learned the main reasons for the referral.

  Good-natured teasing from Rachel was the least of his worries. Despite previous doubts, it appeared these two knew each other… intimately… in some previous incarnations. Twice!

  Or they were pulling an elaborate prank, and that seemed very unlikely, especially since he saw himself there both times, through his eyes, not theirs, and he saw more than they did.

  Not only did he see their murders, he may have committed them.

  Bruce Feldman was afraid… the most afraid he’d ever been during his usually well-ordered life. If he were to figure this out, he had to do some really comprehensive research. See if these things really did happen 150 and 300 years ago (did he really retain any doubt?).

  He needed to return to therapy, the first time since beginning private practice… probably the only way to discover how he was actually involved. He’d call Anton Krause first thing in the morning.

  There was one other call he could no longer put off, if he were going to learn the truth. He’d do that tomorrow, too.

  Then back to the library for more research, now that he had more to work with.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Ashley scanned the park, scattered with jungle-gyms, a sand box and slides. Stately elms and a few oaks shaded the walks. She located him sitting on a bench, reading some papers.

  “Mr. McNeely?”

  He looked up and smiled.

  “Mrs. Easton. Have any trouble finding me?”

  “No. But why are we meeting here?”

  “I’m avoiding someone I don’t want to see today. Please, have a seat.”

  She perched next to him on the wooden slats. Staring out over the grassy glade, her gaze found young mothers with small children playing on climbing bars and in the artificial beach. It was so peaceful in this cool oasis of a shaded meadow.

  She had a fleeting vision of a similar glade in the woods of Devonshire, splattered with crimson stains. She shuddered.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  “No. Just an unpleasant memory of a pleasant place.” She glanced at him, sitting patiently beside her.

  “It’s only been four days. Surely you’re not finished.”

  “Finished enough for your purposes. Here’s my report.”

  She stared at the small folder, probably fifteen pages thick, and was suddenly loath to touch it.

  “Why don’t you summarize it for me?”

  “Sure. Well, your suspicions were correct, as far as they went. It’s a lot more complicated than I think you guessed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s had a long term affair going with Ms. Phillips. They have an apartment together on the Near North Side, and she travels with him to Louisiana, where they’ve rented a small house. Folks down there think she’s his wife.”

  “The bastard. Well, she may get the chance.”

  Ashley shook her head, amazed at his arrogance. The detective’s eyebrows arched at her quiet acceptance of the news.

  “I took the liberty of checking her out, as well. As you’ve seen for yourself, she’s incredibly gorgeous, and very conniving. She’d already used those assets to work herself into quite a comfortable position before she met your husband. Mostly through illicit relationships with wealthy, older men. She would let things mature for a while, then pushes them to divorce their wives. Acquired several very generous ‘gifts’ to move on.”

  “She’s trying to find a wealthy husband?”

  “I doubt she intended to marry any of her lovers… until now. Just an erotic form of extortion. Your husband’s the first guy she’s hooked up with that’s anywhere near her age.

  They’ve been having a very… uh… hot time together, if you catch my drift. I’m guessing she really wants to destroy your marriage and marry him herself. It’s a strong lure… hot sex and lots of money.”

  “Ha. The dumb bitch is in for a rude surprise.”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “Got the proof I need? Photos? Everything?”

  “Yeah. Videos, audio tapes, copies of hotel registrations and leases. Everything you’ll need to chop him off at the knees in a divorce. But that’s what Nicole Phillips wants. You to cut him free for her.”

  “Until she learns he doesn’t have much of his own.”

  “What?”

  “Never bothered to check out his finances, huh?”

  “No. I just presumed...”

  “I understand. Well, he doesn’t have any. Not much, at least.”

  “How’s that possible? His family business, the house?”

  “Their company’s in serious trouble. Leveraged to the hilt to build and equip this new factory. The
y’re pinning everything on its success. I’ve been busy, too. My accountant says one small glitch anywhere will probably push them into bankruptcy. One modest, unexpected expense. Murphy’s Law will see to that, don’t you think?”

  “Probably. Nothing ever goes smoothly. Especially a new factory in a rural, non-industrial area like Crowley, Louisiana. Jesus, that is the heart of Cajun land.”

  “See what I mean? Even his BMW is leased. The house is a gift from my father, but it’s held in trust. Never understood why… until now. Dad was apparently a better judge of character than I.”

  She rose, walking in slow circles as she talked. She stopped in front of him, hands jammed in her slacks pockets, grinning, clearly enjoying herself.

  “What about joint property. All your wealth. I know who Michael Bradford was.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of money. More than enough to satisfy Nicole Phillips, I’m sure. But she isn’t going to see much of that, either. The unlucky bitch.”

  “In trusts, huh?”

  She gave a wicked laugh, and danced a little jig.

  “Yes. Beautiful, impenetrable trusts. He won’t see a penny from them. Good old dad to the rescue.”

  He looked at her happily beaming face and smiled.

  “It’s tough, seeing you so broken up like this.”

  She laughed almost hysterically, doing a quick spin and a curtsey. Emotional floodgates burst, sweeping away months, even years of damned up tension and anxiety. She was relieved to finally have it out in the open.

  There may already be another man in the picture. Might it be Craig Thornton. She couldn’t do better than him, if he ever got around to divorcing his tramp. What a terror she was. He stood and withdrew a large manila envelope from his briefcase.

  “Here’s all the evidence. More than enough to do the job. And my invoice. Four days is $3,000.00, and $1,500.00 expenses. That a balance of two thousand. I’m guessing you’re happy with the service.”

  “Ecstatic.” She plucked a check, already written, from her purse. “There’s something a little extra in there for such fast, thorough work.”