The Reincarnationist (18 page)

T
he phone was ringing when he came out of the bathroom, and this time Josh answered it. Malachai apologized if he had woken him up, and asked Josh to meet him for breakfast in a half hour in the hotel's restaurant.

“We have plans to make,” he said.

The same phrase that the Pontifex had used in the dream.

Plans to make
.

“Josh? Are you there?”

* * *

There was a basket of bakery-fresh rolls on the table along with tiny dishes of jewel-colored jams and jellies and a plate of butter balls, but Josh ignored the food as he told Malachai what had happened the night before: how he'd been chased, how the thief had been shot, how the shooter had fled and about the elusive dreams of ancient Rome that had amalgamated with his waking nightmare.

Malachai, his face set in angry lines, asked Josh if he was all right. Yes. If he was sure he didn't need to see a doctor. Yes, he was sure. If he'd called the police and reported the crime. Yes, last night when he got back to the
hotel. If he'd slept at all. No, not much. And then a dozen more exacting questions about what had happened.

Josh explained it all, including how the lurch had broken through and how Julius had tried to help Josh find a hiding place. When he'd finally finished answering all of Malachai's questions, he had one of his own.

“I want to know how you and Beryl authenticate the cases of reincarnation the foundation investigates.”

“Why do you want to know that now?”

“I can't just keep wondering if Julius and Sabina existed. I need to find out for sure.”

Malachai put down the roll he was buttering and leaned back a little in his chair. “We use all the historical data available to us. And when there isn't any we do everything we can to make sure that the child we're dealing with hasn't been coached and that his or her parents aren't trying to exploit the child. It's one of the benefits of our training as psychologists.”

“But how exactly do you know these kids haven't been preprogrammed or spoon-fed their stories? Or that they're not making them up, influenced by what they've seen on television? Children understand what they hear way before they can speak or articulate for themselves. Maybe their parents believe in past-life experiences and talk about them in front of the kids—even when they're babies or toddlers.”

“Maybe. We're not dealing with material objects that we can examine in concrete terms. Sometimes, we just have to trust our training, our experience.” He picked up his coffee cup, sipped at it and put it down. “You're not done yet, are you? You always have more questions than I have answers.”

“There's one case Beryl wrote about where a mother was convinced her daughter was a reincarnation of an earlier child who had died at a young age.”

“I remember that.”

“Maybe the mother was so bereft she invented the idea that the new baby had the soul of the dead daughter, and…”

Malachai pressed his lips together, just enough for Josh to notice.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, go on,” the psychologist encouraged.

Josh wondered if something about the case had been a problem for Malachai, but he took the man at his word and proceeded.

“Maybe the mother told her little girl stories about the other daughter and the child intuited that she would make her mother happier if she took on those attributes and reenacted those stories. There are always other ways that these kids could have learned…that I could have learned the stories I'm seeing?”

“Of course there are other ways.”

“Can all of this be wishful thinking?”

“Yes.”

“That's your entire answer?”

“For now. We can go back to that if we need to. What's your next question?”

“The majority of the foundation's cases come from countries and cultures where reincarnation is part of the belief system. Why is that?”

“It's far easier for people to come forward when they know they won't be ostracized. In India, a child talking about her past life will be taken seriously. In America that same child will be told she's ‘making that up.' Most people in our country can't and don't recognize past-life memories as such when they hear them, because they aren't yet aware of the possibility that's what they are.” Malachai leaned forward.

“If we are going to discuss possibilities, we need to also address the one that reincarnation does exist. Let me
ask you something. In the Old Testament, Moses heard voices telling him what to do. If that wasn't a metaphor—and many people believe it wasn't—then was Moses insane or did he have psychic ability? I'll give you another one. Christianity is built around Jesus being resurrected. Millions of people believe this as—pardon the pun—gospel. But what does that say about the apostles who witnessed it? Did someone who had died reappear in front of their eyes? Or was it a mystical experience? Was it wish fulfillment? Or did it really happen? I could go on and on, Josh. Almost every religion is based on experiences that scientists can't explain. Is everyone who believes wrong?”

“No, but believing may be a panacea.”

“Of course it could be, it can be. You're not the first one to use Occam's razor reasoning on me. Given two equally predictive theories, choose the simpler. Yes, certainly, that's one way to deal with this.”

“I just want objective proof.”

“I know. You want a photograph of auras. You want to see angels dancing on the head of a pin.”

“Don't patronize me.”

Malachai sat back in his chair. “I'm sorry if that's how you perceived it. It's just as frustrating to me as it is to you. I thought that by now you'd experienced enough that you wouldn't be susceptible to this kind of parsing.”

Before Josh could respond, Inspector Tatti arrived at their table. He wasn't expected; he hadn't called. He just showed up, pulled out a chair, sat down, waved to a waiter and ordered an espresso.

“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Malachai asked with a tone Josh didn't think he was capable of. “And how did you know where to find us?”

“I called both of your rooms. The concierge said he had
not seen either of you leave. He was kind enough to phone up here and confirm you were having breakfast. It is early still, so it was logical reasoning.” He looked pleased with himself as he took a sip of the coffee the waiter had just put down. “Professor Rudolfo died this morning.”

Josh's reaction was instantaneous. He thought of Gabriella finding out and fought the urge to get up, go downstairs, hail a cab and rush to her side. She shouldn't be alone now. This was going to hit her hard. Of course, she'd blame him. Perhaps he deserved it. In effect it
was
his fault. He hadn't been quick enough. He'd been in the damn tunnel when he should have been in the main room of the tomb.

Malachai told the detective how sorry he was and there was no question his sympathy was heartfelt. He suddenly looked exhausted. This was a great blow to the foundation.

Josh wondered which of them felt worse. Which of them was more desperate for proof that reincarnation existed? The stones had held out hope that the robbery, and now the professor's death, had destroyed. The stones were once again legend, as much a fable as they had ever been.

“You didn't come all the way here just to tell us that, did you? What is it, Detective? What else do you want from us?” Josh asked. He was sick of talking to the police.

When he'd gotten back to his hotel the night before, he'd called Tatti, who had sent two officers who spoke passable English to the hotel to take his statement about the shooting while at the same time
carabinieri
had gone out in search of the body.

“Josh is too upset to follow the rules of polite conversation,” Malachai apologized for him. “Last night was quite an ordeal, as I'm sure you can imagine. What did you find out about the man who was chasing him?”

Tatti looked up from under his lashes to stare at Josh through narrowed eyes. Instead of Clouseau, he was channeling a Pacino-type, hard-edged cop. “Nothing conclusive yet, but this is now a triple homicide and we still are in the dark about certain pieces of critical information.”

“Of course you are.” Malachai's voice had returned to soothing.

Josh wasn't listening anymore. Back in the tomb, he watched Professor Rudolfo fall to the ground, smelled the graphite, the blood, felt it, wet and sticky on his fingers, then saw the man who'd pulled that trigger, falling forward last night, now spilling his own blood.

“Mr. Ryder?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about what happened in the tomb or what was taken?”

“Haven't we gone over this?”

“Yes. And now we need to go over it one more time. Will you tell me where you were, what you saw and what it was that was taken?”

Josh repeated everything he'd told Tatti two days before.

“And you didn't see the beads?”

“No, but Professor Chase saw them. Isn't she better equipped to help you with this than I am?”

Tatti ignored the question. “How did you know that what was inside that wooden box had been stolen?”

“Because afterward, I saw the broken box on the floor and made an assumption.”

“But you did not see what was in the box?”

“No.” It was the damn truth. How he wished he had seen the stones.

The detective stopped to take a roll, break it apart, spear a ball of butter, spread it carefully with his knife, spoon some of the jelly onto his plate and transfer that
to the roll. The inappropriate operation complete, he took a bite, chewed slowly and washed it all down with coffee. Then he resumed the interrogation.

“The two of you work for a foundation in New York, is that correct?”

Josh nodded. Malachai said yes.

“And in our first interview you told me that you, Mr. Ryder, are a photographer and you, Mr. Samuels, are a psychologist. But neither of you was very forthcoming about that, so I had one of my officers do some research and I found out what you photograph and who you work with.” His eyes glittered with his cleverness. Oh, he was proud of his skill at detection. Josh badly wanted to burst his bubble and tell him anyone could have found that out online in less than two minutes.

“And…” he said, leaning forward, “I'm now certain that there is a connection between who you work for and what was taken in the crypt. Otherwise, why would you be in Rome? Why would the story of the discovery have brought you here, if not because it had something to do with the field you both study?”

Josh didn't answer—it was a rhetorical question, and the last thing he wanted to do was give the detective additional information. Malachai must have been thinking something similar, because he didn't respond, either.

“Tell me, this reincarnation that you study, isn't it antireligion?”

“Hardly,” Malachai answered. “Leaders of all Western religions have conveniently forgotten that until sixteen hundred years ago reincarnation was part of all theologies, Judaism and Christianity included. It's not very threatening to the Jews and they don't preach against it, but it is very dangerous and threatening to the Church because the notion of karma steals power from the insti
tution. Only the clergy can give absolution and offer you heaven, they say. It's unthinkable that man could be in control of his own soul, lifetime after lifetime, and achieve nirvana without their help.”

Josh was becoming more and more agitated. This was taking too much time. He wanted to get to Gabriella. “What does the subject of reincarnation have to do with your inquiry, Detective?” he interrupted.

“I think reincarnation has something to do with what you expected to see in the crypt. Mr. Samuels, would you care to go first? I don't want to play games. What did you come to Rome to see?”

Malachai had a photographic memory. He'd been studying the field of reincarnation for more than fifteen years. He was obsessed with death and dying rituals, legends, myths and religious services and beliefs. For the next few minutes he regaled the detective with tales relating to bodies that had been buried without any embalming and yet had survived more or less intact. He explained the importance of these incorruptibles to certain religions that regarded such phenomena as miraculous.

“For instance, did you know that in the Catholic Church such a body is often one of the signs of sainthood?”

“Of course I know that. I live in Rome. I am Catholic.” The detective nodded, but he was becoming impatient. “How is all this connected to why you are both here?”

Malachai gave him a surprised look. “Naturally, we came to see the body.” As if there had been nothing else in the tomb other than the body. “For anyone interested in past-life experiences, these bodies hold endless fascination.”

Tatti seemed disappointed. “Is that the only reason you two were here?”

“Yes. We had heard about the woman's condition.”

“You didn't know anything about what was found in the tomb other than the body?”

Malachai shook his head. The detective turned to Josh.

“And you are sure you saw nothing when you were down there that might have been worth taking—worth killing a man for?”

“I'm sure.”

Josh knew he'd been curt. He didn't care. Malachai could be the diplomat. He didn't want to sit here and be interrogated anymore. He'd had more than enough of the annoying detective. Gabriella shouldn't be alone.

“Detective,” he said, “I really think you need to be talking to Professor Chase. Not us.”

“I agree with you. But Professor Chase can't help me any longer.”

“Why not?” Josh's mind reeled. The stones were missing. Rudolfo was dead. If something had happened to Gabriella…

Tatti plucked a second roll out of the breadbasket and was going through the endless process of dressing it first with butter, then jam, taking his time answering, waiting to see what reaction he raised from the two men opposite him. He took a bite, swallowed, and then took another. A dollop of ruby jam fell onto his white china plate.