The Reincarnationist (23 page)

“You spoke to her—why didn't you ask her yourself?”

“She was with her little girl and didn't want to stay on the phone. Besides, I think she'd be more receptive to you asking.”

“Why?”

“I'm not the one who thinks she's might be my long-lost
inamorata.
”

“Neither am I. There were no memory darts, nothing that would lead me to think she is.” Although, he thought but didn't say, he had wished it.

“Really? Nothing? I thought I sensed a bond, a spark.”

“How much are you prepared to pay for the stones?” Josh changed the subject.

Malachai put the cards down on the leather-topped desk, fanned them out and said, “Pick one.”

Josh went to reach for one, then changed his mind and chose another.

“Five million,” Malachai said before Josh turned it over.

When he did, the card was the five of diamonds.

J
osh's insanity, or whatever it was, didn't wait for an invitation. Nor did it care that it was unwanted. Being at its mercy left him in a state of low-level anxiety. Knowing that at any time, for reasons he didn't understand and had no control over, he might be zapped by a lurch, kept him on edge. There was no warning, just as there was no way to cut a lurch short, or bring one on. He hoped Malachai was right, but he had his doubts. That, plus jet lag, exacerbated his state of mind that morning. He didn't want to sit in the foundation and wait; he wanted to see Gabriella right away and find out about the burglary in Rome and the one in New Haven, find out if she was really okay. But when he called, he still got a recording.

Just before ten, he felt a migraine coming on and swallowed two pills that were supposed to stave off the brutal headache. He rubbed his temples. It was quiet in his office—too quiet. Before his head injury he always had music playing. Jazz singers, old-fashioned crooners he'd heard growing up or driving rock. What had been keen appreciation had in the past sixteen months turned into a necessity. Silence exacerbated the lurches.

He pulled out a pair of headphones he kept close, but he was too late. The jasmine-and-sandalwood scent that precipitated an episode was in the air. He was spiraling down toward flickering candlelight. Pleasure and excitement bubbled up inside him.

And then fear. The present disappeared and he slipped back more than a hundred years into the past.

Women in low-cut gowns and men in tails mingled, chatting and sipping cups of punch or flutes of champagne that a white-gloved waiter was handing out. Old-fashioned music edged into his mind. There was a long table against the wall being used for a buffet of delicacies: pyramids of oysters, bowls of glistening caviar, dishes of olives, platters of roasted meat and fowl.

Percy Talmage refused the champagne, asked the waiter to bring him a glass of port, and made his way through the room, listening to snippets of frivolous conversation and gossip. Only his uncle Davenport, who stood in a corner with Stephen Cavendish, appeared to be having a serious discussion. Inching closer, Percy was careful not to draw attention to himself. He'd learned the art of being invisible and was quite good at spying on his uncle. A few years before, he never could have imagined he'd be capable of the deceptions he now practiced daily. The hidden passages his father had the architects build into the house for his own amusement had become as familiar to Percy as his own bedroom, and the magic arts he and his father had studied as a diversion were now invaluable tools. It had been all the rage to play parlor tricks, and his father had delighted in them. How surprised he'd be to learn about the way Percy was using them now. His breath caught in his throat. He still missed his father even though it had been eight years since he'd died, but this wasn't the time for grief. The dossier of
evidence he was building was growing fat. He didn't understand what was going on, but he knew that he was getting close, just another few pieces to the puzzle and then he would be able to—

“How on earth do you think a nineteen-year-old girl is going to protect our investment, Davenport? I expected more from you than this,” Cavendish growled.

“Don't make the mistake of underestimating my plan. In its simplicity is its genius.”

“It's not a plan, it's a folly. Blackie is a dangerous man.”

“But he's also a man with one particular weakness, and that's what I'm taking advantage of.”

“Does your wife know you've thrown her daughter to the wolves—or, in this case, wolf—on our behalf?”

Davenport leaned forward and murmured a response that Percy couldn't hear, but the lurid laughter that followed chilled him.

They were discussing Percy's younger sister. Esme had left for Europe several weeks before to study painting in Rome for six months with a private instructor. Along with the teacher, Davenport had arranged a villa and a chaperone—in the guise of his elderly spinster sister. He'd even reassured their mother that Titus Blackwell, who would be in Rome supervising the club's archaeological dig at the same time, would look out for her.

What did this new piece of information mean? How did it fit in with everything else Percy had learned? When the answer came to him he felt stupid. Why hadn't he connected Blackwell's presence in Rome with his sister's trip before now? He had seen the financier talking to Esme at parties, but everyone talked to Esme. She was vivacious and funny. Yes, she flirted, but it was innocent. Wasn't it? Esme couldn't be involved with Titus. With a married man.

But the expression on Davenport's face had suggested something else.

Could Esme be in love with Titus?

Was that what the cryptic comments in her letter referred to? She certainly was happy in Rome, and she had always been an iconoclast.

Percy backed away from the conversation. He would get his sister home even if it meant going to Rome himself. This was one too many travesties in a string of betrayals that Davenport had brought upon his own brother's family, his legacy and his home.

As a young man, Trevor Talmage had founded the Phoenix Club in 1847 along with Henry David Thoreau, Walt Whitman, Fredrick Law Olmstead and other well-known transcendentalists. But their original mission—the search for knowledge and enlightenment—had been abandoned in favor of a single-minded quest for power and wealth when, after Trevor's death, Percy's uncle Davenport had usurped everything, including his brother's marriage bed.

And now he was using his niece and had embroiled her in his treacherous plans.

What kind of danger was she in?

Percy sipped the port that had once been his father's drink of choice. Now he was the only man in the house to touch the amber bottles imported from Spain. Uncle Davenport had laughed at his nephew's choice of drink, asking him how he could ingest that sweet syrup. That was fine with Percy; it pleased him that his uncle would never touch the reserved stock. This particular shipment had been exceptional and there were at least three bottles left.

Another sip. And then a stab of pain. The sickening twist in his stomach he'd had several times in the past few days.
Sweat broke out on his forehead. He needed to lie down, in his own bedroom, away from the crowd and the music.

On his way out of the ballroom, Percy saw his uncle watching him with dark, sparkling eyes. Examining him. He must see that Percy was ill; surely, he could tell that from where he stood. But he wasn't making an effort to come to his aid.

And then Percy doubled over with pain.

When he opened his eyes, he found he was in his bed; his teeth chattering, his forehead burning and his stomach cramping in pain so intense he was whimpering like a dog.

His mother, her skin so pale she looked as if she'd been sculpted from marble, sat beside him, wiping his face with a damp towel, ignoring the tears that were coursing down her own cheeks.

Percy fought against the spasms, trying to form words. If only he could catch his breath and get a reprieve from the attack long enough to tell his mother what he'd discovered.

“Davenport, he's trying to talk,” his mother said to his uncle. The man's hand came down to rest on her shoulder; Percy saw bony fingers and a gleaming wedding band.

“Poor, poor boy,” he said.

She was leaning down, her face only inches from his.

“What is it, Percy?”

He tried to speak, but all that escaped was an agonized moan. His eyes shut against the unbearable cramps.

“He's getting worse. We're losing him.”

Percy forced open his eyes—at least he could warn her with a look—but it wasn't his mother's face he saw. It was his uncle's, peering down at him, his steel eyes glittering with victory.

“Mother…” he managed.

She bent over him again, pressing a cool, cool cloth to his forehead. She was crying.

“Josh?”

He reached up to touch his mother's cheek. To wipe away her tears.

“Josh?”

Like a stretched rubber band snapping back to its original shape, Josh rebounded. But for a few seconds he was overwhelmed with pathos, watching his mother's pain.

No. Not
his
mother. Percy's mother.

“Are you all right?” Frances asked. She stood in the doorway to his office with a takeout bag from the deli up the street. “I brought you some breakfast,” she said, smiling. She knew he never remembered to pick anything up for himself and had taken to getting him whatever she got for herself.

He focused on her, tried to clear his head. It was all a riddle inside of an enigma, and he was at its center. Lost.

New York City—Monday, 10:50 a.m.

T
he rash of articles in the news regarding the opening of the Vestal Virgin's tomb, the shooting, the two murders and the theft of ancient artifacts had apparently triggered trans-life episodes in men and women all over the world. People who'd never experienced anything like them before were having odd, disturbing hallucinations and looking for someone to talk to. Because the Phoenix Foundation and Josh Ryder were mentioned by name in the articles—no thanks to Charlie Billings—there was a steady stream of calls from early that morning that continued into the afternoon.

Fielding requests from adults who wanted help with apparent past-life memories was part of Josh's responsibility. He'd explain what Malachai had first explained to him when he'd shown up: the foundation has a longstanding policy not to work with adults. They were simply a research facility that documents childhood cases of past-life experiences. Adults, Dr. Beryl Talmage felt, had too many years of stored visual imagery that could have
been processed and confused with memories. And then Josh offered the names of counselors who could help with meditation techniques to control the callers' episodes.

But the conversations he had that morning were more difficult for Josh; he understood all too well how dazed and desperate the callers were. He was personally involved now.

Many of them described scenes that fit like jigsaw pieces into Josh's own puzzle. One man said he was having dreams of being a farmer in some ancient country when a fire razed his house and killed him and his brother. A second was having flashbacks about being a high-ranking soldier in a time he couldn't exactly identify but that was in the early days of Christianity, and the methods he'd used to quell the crowds that he was supposed to control were brutal and unsettling. A woman remembered creating mosaics on the floors of temples and said she was going to try to draw what she saw and send them to Josh.

He was deeply affected by the idea that if reincarnation was possible he might have crossed paths with some of those people in their earlier incarnations. He wanted to help; he wished he could meet with each one of them on the off chance that they would know something he didn't, shed some light on the dimly lit scenes that hovered in his mind and teased him.

Yet, as fascinating as all of their stories were, and as tempted as Josh was to break the rules and agree to work with them, he didn't. It wasn't his choice to make. Beryl and Malachai were adamant: the foundation did not work with adults. He'd been the only exception in years. So all he could do was commiserate and offer the names of the recommended meditation coaches.

At lunchtime, he finally talked to Gabriella, and, while
she insisted she was fine and agreed to see him and Malachai that night for dinner, he could hear stress and tension underlying her words. Her tone left him feeling uneasy; and so, at three-thirty in the afternoon, he decided to rent a car and drive to New Haven early.

Downstairs, as Josh walked through the conservancy toward the front door, he heard a woman's angry voice. Turning the corner into the reception area, he saw her. Wearing a pale pink suit and high-heeled shoes, she stood in front of the receptionist's desk, bedraggled and distraught. Without thinking about what he was doing, Josh lifted his ever-present camera up to his eyes and saw—through his lens, around her head, emanating out from her shoulders—shears of light that made him shiver. For a moment he didn't breathe, afraid even the slightest movement would alter the spectral effect.

Sensing someone was looking at her, the woman turned. Josh lowered the camera. And met her eyes.

The sensation only lasted a second. It wasn't déjà vu. She wasn't someone who seemed familiar. This time there was no doubt. Josh knew, so fucking deep in his gut that it couldn't go any deeper—they had known each other before. During that other time where Josh's memory held back more than it gave up.

As he walked toward her, she opened her mouth in a surprised O and Josh knew she recognized him, too.

They faced each other, the air around them stilled, the traffic noises outside filled in the silence. Her eyes—red from crying—showed astonishment. “Do we know each other?” she finally asked. “You seem so familiar.”

“I'm not sure.”

Then she frowned a little. “No. My mistake. I thought…” She shook her head.

Josh took in her damp hair, the creased skirt and the
rivulets of mascara on her face that either her tears or the rain outside had caused. He looked at Frances, who shook her head in exasperation.

“What's going on?”

“I've explained our policy. She won't leave without getting an appointment.”

“It's all right. I'll take care of this.” He turned from Frances back to the woman. “I work here. I'll try to help you. But first why don't you come inside and dry off.”

The woman was silent as she followed Josh through the door and down the hall. He gave her a sideways glance, noticing how intently she was examining everything they passed. The paintings, the chandeliers and the rugs. As if there was something about them that she didn't understand. Before he could question her, she started chattering nervously.

“I can't believe how upset I got down there. Or that I started crying. I'm not normally like this. I never fall apart. Except lately.” She was flustered. “I'm sorry.”

Josh shook his head, dismissing the apology. “What happened?”

As they walked up the staircase she explained, and at the same time, continued to explore her surroundings.

“The receptionist asked how she could help me, and then, once she heard what I wanted, she said that they—that you only deal with children. I said I understood, but asked if there wasn't someone I could talk to, anyway. Maybe get a recommendation for another place that could help me. Miss Ice Cube told me someone to call, someone named…” She paused, trying to remember. “Someone named Jack Ryder or Joe Ryder handled that, and I asked if I couldn't just see him.”

They'd reached the landing and Josh made a right toward his office. “This way.”

As she walked, she picked up the explanation where she'd left off. “Your receptionist made it clear that it wasn't possible to see him without an appointment but that I should feel free to call. I got angry. She asked me to leave. We played verbal ping-pong for a while, and that's when I burst into tears. And as I said, that's just not like me. But then, I haven't been myself for the past few weeks. I just don't know what to do.”

His office was in the mansion's turret. She stood on the threshold, cocked her head and stared at him. “What the hell am I doing telling all this to a perfect stranger? I really am losing my mind.”

Know her or not, Josh recognized her desperation.

“I'm Josh Ryder. Maybe I can help you.”

The rain had stopped, the sun had reappeared and pastel light spilled into the circular aerie through the green, violet and blue stained-glass windows. The woman's gaze darted around the room and rested on the window seat. Patches of colored light created a pattern on her pale jacket and her face.

“Would you like some coffee? A towel?”

She looked down at her wrinkled and wet clothes, as if noticing them for the first time.

“A towel, yes, and a bathroom?”

When she returned a few minutes later, her hair was brushed, the rivers of mascara had been removed and she'd cleaned herself up.

“Thanks. I needed that.”

“Feel better?”

“Much.”

“Would you like to sit down?”

As he'd guessed she chose to perch on the window seat.

“So, what brings you here—” He realized he didn't know her name and asked her what it was.

“Rachel Palmer.”

“Nice to meet you, Rachel,” he said, wondering in another part of his mind if it really was the first time they'd ever met.

“I'm having…I don't know what to call them…hallucinations, I guess. I don't understand what's happening to me.”

“It's very disconcerting, I know.”

She looked at him gratefully. “You believe me? You don't think I'm crazy?”

“Of course I believe you. That's what we do here. Believe the unbelievable.” Josh smiled.

“But it's all so crazy.”

Josh nodded. Not surprisingly, this was how most conversations with those burdened by inexplicable memories began.

“Don't worry. I'm not at all judgmental. What's so crazy?”

“In the past week I've been to my own doctor, who couldn't find anything wrong, and a psychiatrist prescribed an anti-anxiety pill—but this isn't anxiety. I'm normally very stable. The hallucinations aren't in the present. They're not even here in New York. But in Rome. And I'm not me…I'm someone else. They're like dreams, but I'm awake. Or it seems like I'm awake. Isn't that insane?”

That morning, several callers had mentioned Rome. Each time it had raised his hopes that someone else out there might have more information about the past, his past, than he did.

“It's not insane at all,” he said, “and I know about the referral syndrome and the prescriptions. They didn't help, did they?”

“Not at all.”

“Can you describe the hallucinations themselves?”

Josh's encouragement helped, and she continued. “I've been a jewelry designer for years, but for the past few days, maybe a week, the colors of the gemstones seem to be affecting me in some bizarre way. As if they're hypnotizing me. My body begins to hum….” She broke off. “Even I can't believe how stupid this sounds.”

“No, it doesn't, at all.”

“Are you going to be able to help me? I can't stand this.” While she'd been talking to him, she'd nervously been picking at her cuticles. Now one of them started to bleed. She didn't seem to notice.

“I can't promise you that I can help, but I'll listen, and then we can figure it out.”

Listening wasn't breaking the rules, was it? Damn it, he didn't care if it was. He wanted to know who she was. Rachel Palmer was the first person he'd met whom he sensed he'd known before. Long before. When he was someone else. The little girl in Rome, Natalie, had known him, but he hadn't connected to her. Was it possible that Rachel was the incarnation of Sabina? No, without knowing why, he was almost certain she wasn't.

“Nothing like that can happen just from touching someone's hand, can it? A room can't change. You can't remember an incident that you don't know occurred, can you?” Rachel asked after she finished describing the auction at Christie's, the painting, the stranger who days later turned out to be Harrison Shoals and whom she was drawn to despite, or because of, the strange effect he had on her.

“Many people think everything you're experiencing is entirely possible.”

“I know my uncle Alex does. He's been fascinated with reincarnation for years. But I never paid much attention to it before. Do you believe it's possible?”

“It doesn't matter if I do or not. What matters is that you're disturbed by it.”

“And now we're back to where we started. Will you help me figure this out? I'm scared. It's not just that I'm not in control anymore, but I have this urgent sense that there's something I'm supposed to be learning from all this. That there's something I need to do now, to prevent…a tragedy. Now. Oh, shit, I sound like an idiot again.”

“No. You don't. Not at all.”

She looked at Josh full on. The sound of water rushing in filled his head, he smelled jasmine, tasted honey. It was a lurch, happening here in front of this woman and he couldn't stop it. He felt as if he were slipping. He fought back. He couldn't lose control now. Focusing on the feeling of the wooden chair arms under his fingers, he pushed up through the blue sea, caught hold of the sound of Rachel's voice and hung on to it like a life preserver.

“Can you help me?”

“I want to…” Josh heard his own voice coming up through the water—he didn't know how many seconds later.

“Yes, please, please.” It was a cry, plaintive and so very familiar.

He stood and walked to the window to get away from her pleading eyes. Pleading not just for her, but for whoever she had been before.

No, he couldn't do this. He would drown in this woman's eyes if he worked with her. How could he do anything for her when he still hadn't helped himself?

“I want to. But I can't.”

“What is it you do? Why can't you do it with me?”

“Either through simple meditation techniques or through hypnosis, we make it possible for the children who come to the foundation to reach their deeply buried
past-life memories and bring them to the surface. To remember. Then we can look at the issues and work out why these particular memories are pinging them, disturbing them.”

“So do that with me.”

“I would, but the foundation's policy is to only work with children.”

“But you said you understood…I'm desperate. I've met a man I feel bound to after knowing him only a few days. Since meeting him the flashes have become more frequent and more intense. I decide not to see him because it's so upsetting and feels dangerous, but then I can't seem to stay away. Oh, great. Now I sound like some stupid lovesick teenager as well as a crazy lunatic.”

“What do you mean by dangerous?”

“I have a feeling of terrible dread. That something is going to happen to us. Or that it already has happened. And I'm frightened.” She was worrying her cuticles again.

“I need to get to the end of this weird story that's unraveling,” she continued. “I need to find out who I was before. Please, you have no idea how hard this is for me.”

He felt a wave of sympathy for her.

Since his last trip to Rome, Josh's own lurches had been more frequent and intense. Never before had he felt such an urgent need to find out if reincarnation was legend or fact. The idea that Sabina's soul had been reborn into a new body that was here on earth, an idea that had haunted him before, now tortured him. He shouldn't be doing anything but trying to find her, even if that meant he'd be flying into the eye of a storm. He had the same apprehensions as Rachel. Would he and the woman who had been Sabina repeat the damage they'd done to each other? And why, instead of excitement, did the idea of that potential rendezvous fill him with dread?