The Reincarnationist Read online

  “Of course it is, but there is something else, isn’t there? You felt something when you saw it. You connected to it. I heard it in your voice. What is it?”

  To anyone else who knew Alex Palmer, his interest in how his niece “felt” would have sounded strange. On the surface, the aspects and trappings of Alex’s life proved why stereotypes existed: his wealth, sophistication, education, business acumen, art collecting and philanthropy all belonged together and painted a picture of a corporate giant with few ties to the spiritual world.

  A scholarship to Harvard had put him in the same class as the son of a Goliath in the banking business. By the time both boys graduated, Ric Haslet had taken a liking to his son Christopher’s best friend and become his mentor.

  When Christopher died in a car accident a year later, Alex became a surrogate son. It was then that Ric became fascinated with reincarnation and came to believe that he and Alex—based on their past lives—had been destined to meet again at this later date.

  Alex remained skeptical until the day Ric related a nightmare he’d had several times in his life.

  He was a captain during the Civil War, and one night he came across a young soldier, hurt and bleeding by the side of a road. Looking down at the pale man in the moonlight, he sensed that if he didn’t stop the boy might bleed to death. But despite the pain twisting the soldier’s features and the pleading in his eyes, the captain walked on. The boy had been wearing the enemy’s colors.

  In an astonished voice, Alex told his mentor that when he was in grade school he’d become obsessed with the Civil War. For his ninth birthday his parents had organized a road trip to visit several important war sites.

  Walking across the Antietam battlefield, he’d become overwhelmed with sadness and broke down. When his father asked him what was wrong, Alex didn’t know how to tell him what he was feeling: that he had been left to die here in this place.

  It was the only past-life memory—if that was what it was, he told Ric—he’d ever had. And he’d never confessed it to anyone before.

  It cemented their relationship and his future.

  Rachel knew the story and understood her uncle’s fascination with intuition and his obsession with past-life regression. His questioning of Rachel’s feeling about the Bacchus was characteristic of how preoccupied he was—always on the lookout for moments he could collect, like the paintings on his walls, as proof that there was much we didn’t understand in a dimension he was certain existed.

  Ever since Rachel could remember, her uncle Alex had been searching for proof of soul migration. He’d donated huge sums of money to the Dalai Lama, invested in obscure research and once had tried to buy a foundation in New York that was dedicated to past-life study.

  Whenever Rachel questioned why he was so interested, he always gave her the same explanation. “If reincarnation exists, then I can leave myself all the things I’ve worked so hard for. Why should I start from scratch? I’ve been poor before. I don’t ever want to be poor again.”

  But she always wondered if that was the whole reason.

  Rachel had held back, as the price for the Bacchus rose quickly, reaching two and a half million dollars. Now there were only three bidders left: Douglas Martin, a well-known collector and public relations scion; Nick Loomis, curator at the Getty in Los Angeles and a friend of her uncle’s; and a man sitting three rows ahead of her with his back to her.

  Suddenly Rachel felt that strange humming—the same physical reaction she’d had while reading the article in the Times about the excavation. She fought to concentrate on the auctioneer. She couldn’t afford to lose track of what was going on around her; now was the time for her to enter the race.

  “The bid is at two million, five hundred thousand dollars. Do I hear seven hundred and fifty thousand?”

  Rachel watched the third man’s paddle go up.

  “I have two million, seven hundred and—”

  She raised her paddle.

  “I have three million—”

  Nick Loomis raised his.

  “I have three million, two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  Rachel felt a rush of excitement. She’d never bid anything near this amount for the stones she used in her jewelry designs. The bidding went back and forth until, at three million, seven hundred and fifty, the bid was with her.

  Eyes peeled on the back of the third man three rows ahead, waiting to see if he was going to outbid her, Rachel held her breath.

  He raised his paddle.

  In her ear her uncle said, “Go the limit. I want that painting.”

  Her heart beat faster as she upped the ante.

  Douglas Martin moved the price up another notch.

  “I have four million, five hundred thousand dollars, do I hear—”

  Rachel held up her paddle. She wanted to get this painting. She could picture herself standing in front of it, enthralled by the god’s smile and seductive eyes. She wanted to touch the frame and run her fingers down the intricately carved, gilded woodwork. She wanted all of it so badly the only word she could use to describe it was lust.

  “Four million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars with me on the left. Do I hear five million?” The auctioneer looked over at Nick Loomis, but the curator shook his head and put down his paddle.

  “Nick just dropped out,” she whispered into the phone.

  “You sound nervous.”

  More than half the jewels she bought came from sales like this one, but she had never been this anxious. It must be the money. It was a lot of responsibility. Yes, that was it.

  “We have four million, seven hundred—”

  Douglas Martin raised his paddle.

  “We have five million dollars with paddle 66. Do I hear five million, two hundred and fifty?” The auctioneer looked directly at Rachel now.

  She had only one more bid left. She raised the paddle.

  “Five and a quarter, do I hear five and a half?”

  Rachel didn’t breathe. She just stared at the space above the third man’s head, waiting to see if his paddle would rise. To see if she’d won.

  She was going to win. She was going to get this painting.

  “Going once…twice.”

  Damn. He’d raised his paddle.

  “We have five million, five hundred thousand dollars. Do I hear five seventy-five?” The auctioneer looked at Douglas Martin, who shook his head.

  Into the phone Rachel whispered that Martin had just dropped out.

  “So it’s just you and one other bidder?”

  “Yes.”

  And then the line went dead. Her heart lurched. She hit redial and heard electronic tones but no ringing.

  She knew her uncle wanted the painting. She wanted him to have it; wanted, without knowing why, to keep it away from anyone else.

  The auctioneer looked at her. The call still wasn’t connecting. What would her uncle want her to do? Her uncle usually set a limit and didn’t go past it. He was disciplined when it came to his collecting. It wasn’t her money. She couldn’t decide for him. What would he want her to do? Damn, why wasn’t the call going through?

  The auctioneer shook his head, understanding her dilemma but unable to postpone, and announced the sale.

  “Sold to paddle number 516 for five million, five hundred thousand dollars. And now, moving on to our next lot we have…”

  She got up and walked out of the room, stumbling by the time she reached the doors. She didn’t usually cry, but her vision blurred with tears. Something had gone very wrong. Yes, her uncle would be disappointed—he didn’t like to lose—but he had a huge collection. One more painting wouldn’t matter to him enough for him to be upset with her.

  Rachel’s phone vibrated. She looked down at the LED readout. It was Alex, calling back too late.

  “Hello? Rachel? What happened? Did we get the painting?”

  “No…I didn’t know what to do. I tried calling you back but couldn’t get through.”

  “Damn
it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Who got it?”

  “I don’t know, I couldn’t see him.”

  “What was his paddle number?”

  “Why does it matter now?”

  “What was his paddle number, Rachel?”

  “Number 516. Uncle Alex, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d want me to go any higher.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  But he was worried about it, she could hear it in his voice. What was it about this painting that mattered so much to him and affected her so strongly?

  Chapter 18

  As the stars looked to me when I was a shepherd in Assyria, they look to me now in New England.

  —Henry David Thoreau in a letter to Harrison Blake, February 27, 1853

  Rome, Italy—Tuesday, 4:50 p.m.

  Never having been incarcerated before, Josh would have imagined that every hour spent waiting to know what was going to happen would be interminable. But the time went by even more slowly than that. If not for the church bells, he wouldn’t have any idea how long he’d been in jail.

  He’d been interrogated for at least an hour when he first arrived, giving a detailed physical description of the thief, glad that there was something he could tell the police that might help them find the man. But no matter how much he was able to tell Tatti, it was what he couldn’t tell him that angered the detective.

  “I still don’t understand too many things, so I think it would be wise to keep you here, Mr. Ryder. Maybe you’ll think of something you’ve forgotten or at least decide to explain why you were at the scene when you had no reason to be there.”

  “Am I being held as a suspect?”

  The detective ignored the question. “You know that if you are telling the truth and you saw the guard, then you are in danger. Maybe mortal danger.” He spoke like a movie character again, and it was infuriating Josh. “This may not be the most comfortable bed in Rome tonight, but it is the safest.”

  “What are my rights here, as an American? Can I talk to a lawyer? Make a phone call?”

  “Yes, of course. All in due time. Absolutely, you can.”

  That had been two hours ago.

  Fatigue, frustration and fear mixed together in an unholy combination that left Josh nervous and exhausted and unable to sleep on the least comfortable cot he’d ever sat on. He remembered every news story he had ever read about foreigners being detained unfairly and for long periods of time for crimes they did not commit as well as the entire plots of several movies that started out with just that premise: an innocent man is imprisoned in a country other than his own.

  In his case, what made it worse was that Josh knew that he’d never be able to completely exonerate himself if it meant explaining to the Italian police how he’d wound up inside the tomb at the same time that it was robbed. The lurch that sent him walking through the streets of the city before daybreak was suspicious all on its own. But to try to rationalize how he had known where to go based on some innate intuition? No. The best choice was not to say anything and sit it out, because surely by now Malachai had gone to the American embassy and asked for their help. Or he’d called Beryl and she was in the process of making arrangements to have Josh released. One way or the other, someone would be there soon. Any minute.

  He stared at the four walls of the windowless, grimy cell and his mind went back to Sabina’s burial site, that square underground cell that was also windowless and also a jail. Josh wished he could access his past at will. That would pass the time while he was here. He had so many questions about what he’d found out since the morning. About the tomb. About the past. Especially Julius’s loyalty to a religion that punished a nun who broke her vows of chastity by death when he could instead align himself with the emperor and save both of their lives. What was it like to be so devoted? To be willing to sacrifice so much rather than betray his beliefs?

  Josh thought of the image of the young priest in the gutter with his guts cut open and his eyes cut out. What proof had there been for Julius that the new religion would offer sanctuary to him or Sabina? Was it as simple as going with the devil he knew? It just didn’t make sense.

  The bells tolled another three hours but still no one came for him. Questions of another kind plagued him now. What kind of court system did they have here? Were you innocent until proven guilty in Italy? Without any proof, could they continue to hold him just for being at the scene? And what about a motive?

  He looked around the stinking cell, the stained walls, felt the hard cot. He heard the sounds of other prisoners yelling and phones ringing. He knew he’d never sleep because if Tatti did any real investigating, he’d find out that Josh did have a motive for stealing those stones.

  * * *

  The next morning, it wasn’t Malachai who came to bail Josh out, but Gabriella. While she watched, the policeman on duty gave him back his camera, pillbox, watch and the money he’d been carrying—everything but his passport. This he held on to. He told him in Italian, which Gabriella translated, that Josh would need to stay in Rome until they had completely ruled him out as a suspect.

  “And there’s another thing,” Gabriella said, translating.

  “Yes?”

  “He wants you to know you could be in danger because you saw the man who committed this crime. You’re a stranger here in Rome, you should be careful.”

  Gabriella grimaced, spooked by the warning.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Josh said, turning his back on the policeman.

  Stiff and sore from his workout the day before in the tomb’s tunnel, as well as eighteen hours spent in the cell, he followed her out into the sunshine and was amazed at how sweet the air smelled, until he realized it was Gabriella’s perfume.

  “My car is a few blocks from here—parking is impossible in Rome. So if you don’t mind walking, I can drive you back to your hotel,” she said. “Unless you think you should stay inside and let me go get the car and pull it up. If what the carabiniere said is true, maybe—”

  “I’ll walk. No one is going to come after me in broad daylight, especially a man already wanted by the police. Now, tell me, how is the professor?” There were other questions he wanted to ask, but none was as important.

  “He made it through the surgery, but he’d lost so much blood…he’s still getting transfusions. At least he’s stable. We’ll know more in the next twelve hours.”

  “I wish I’d been able to prevent what happened, but I was just too far away. I’m so sorry, Gabriella.”

  She didn’t say anything and Josh didn’t doubt that she blamed him. Hell, he blamed himself. He felt awful. A man might die because he hadn’t been able to get to him fast enough. And by failing him, he’d let her down. No. That didn’t make sense. He didn’t know Gabriella.

  Except he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was history repeating itself.

  They walked half a block more, and he checked again over his shoulder, wondering whether, if anyone was following him, he would spot him. “They’ll get whoever did this,” he said, hoping it was true without having any reason to believe it.

  “You think so?” her voice was laced with sarcasm. “And will he still have what he stole? You know he won’t. That treasure is long, long gone. Sold, probably on the black market—damn it! I just can’t believe this happened. That was the whole reason for having those guards. I knew them all. I can’t believe any one of them was capable of doing this.”

  “For money? Come on, for money you can always find someone who’s for sale.”

  She looked up toward the heavens as if there might be an answer there, or as if someone looking down would relieve her of her anger. The highlights in her hair glinted gold.

  A few seconds went by. “Why were you in that tunnel? Why weren’t you in the tomb with the professor, where you could have stopped that man, whoever he was, from taking my stones?”

  She wasn’t just asking, she was pleading fo
r an answer that would explain and justify what had happened.

  He looked at her. In the sun, her eyes glittered with that same golden light. “I tried, Gabriella.” He opened his hands in a gesture of impotence. The cross-hatched threads of blood and small puncture wounds had dried into dark maroon scabs.

  “But you didn’t get there fast enough. If you had, you might have stopped him.”

  You didn’t get there fast enough.

  Her words echoed in a crease in his mind. This had happened to him before. Here. In this city. Here with this woman. Or was he crazy? No, just overtired. He’d been in jail too many hours. He was starving, splattered with blood and he needed a shower.

  You didn’t get there fast enough.

  His mind was playing tricks. He was too sensitive now to the suggestion of déjà vu. “If you think this is all my fault, why did you come get me?” He hadn’t meant to sound so prickly, but he left it at that.

  “Because while I was at the hospital last night, the professor woke up for a little while and I got to talk to him. He told me I should trust you. That you would help me. He said you’d talked to him—”

  “Not about anything important.” In the past twenty-four hours Josh had denied so many things it was becoming second nature. But he couldn’t tell her what he’d confessed to the professor just before he’d found the tunnel. The time wasn’t right. She wouldn’t believe him. He didn’t need, on top of everything else, for her to think he was a freak.

  Gabriella sighed. “I know that’s not true. Rudolfo told me that you confided in him and he believed what you said. He told me you saved his life. That’s what the paramedics told me yesterday, too. You didn’t leave his side and you were the one who stopped him from bleeding out. Like the police, I wondered if you had something to do with the robbery, and I told him that. But he said that if you had, you never would have stayed. You would have run. You would have let him die.”

  They had reached the end of a long block. She nodded at the church across the street. “Do you mind a detour? I’d just like to light a candle. It won’t take long. Although the professor has left the formal church, he’s a deeply religious man. Maybe his god is listening.”