The Reincarnationist (24 page)

Since coming to the foundation, he'd heard those fears from several of the older children Malachai and Dr. Talmage worked with. He'd seen the manifestation of their agonizing need to resolve their past, expressed in the haunted look in their eyes. He saw it in the mirror. He saw it in Rachel's eyes now.

She lifted her hand to wipe away fresh tears and exposed her bracelet. It was a circle of thick gold links—too massive for her fragile wrist. Hanging from the links were oval gems in vibrant colors that picked up the sunlight coming through the window and reflected it back, momentarily blinding Josh.

He could barely breathe for the intense scents of jasmine and sandalwood that overwhelmed him. He blinked. The lights were gone, so was the feeling and the smell. All that was left was Rachel, staring at him, imploring him with fearful eyes.

D
r. Talmage sat behind her desk so the wheelchair was invisible. When she was seated like that, there was nothing to suggest she had MS. Her timeless grace, forged with determination and intelligence, reminded Josh of a John Singer Sargent portrait in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

A pediatric surgeon who also had a Ph.D. in religious studies and another in psychology, she'd retired from the medical profession thirty years ago, when she was just thirty-five, to work with her father at the foundation. At this point, she was renowned for her work with thousands of children who had had past-life experiences.

“I know how much you want to work with this woman, but no, Josh.” Dr. Talmage was thin to the point of brittleness, and her legs might be too weak to support her, but when she spoke her whole being took on a power and strength that belied any illness. “We just can't take on the responsibility,” she said with a finality that suggested she was done with the conversation.

But Josh wasn't. He'd help Rachel himself, outside of the foundation if he thought he'd had enough training. But
what if he tried to hypnotize her and something went wrong?

“It's not the responsibility that's the problem. It's that you care more about being accepted by the scientific community than you do about helping people,” he said, not only continuing the argument but exacerbating it.

“You have no idea what you're saying.”

“Yes, I do.”

She wheeled out from behind the desk and over to where he sat. Two bright spots of red had appeared high on her cheekbones. “You don't come in here and lecture me about how I run the foundation. You haven't ever presented a paper in front of your colleagues and heard people snickering behind your back. It took me twenty-five years to reach the point where I'm tolerated…where my papers are read. So, no, you're right. I don't want to work with adults who think they were Cleopatra in a previous life. Do you know how many people out there have delusions of past-life grandeur? How do you propose we figure out who's on the level and who is just a little bit psychotic?”

“The way you did with me.”

“
I
didn't take you on as a patient, my nephew did. All I did was agree to open my library to you in exchange for your making a photographic report of the work we do. You're not my
pet project
.”

Josh winced but didn't falter. “You're right. You haven't helped me. And that's another crime. You are a fucking living encyclopedia of reincarnation theory, but you sit there like some Buddha, not saying a word, offering cryptic koans about letting the water reveal its secrets in time. In what time? In whose time?”

The frustration that he had been living with every single day for sixteen months was too close to the
surface. He wanted to go see Gabriella. He was tired. Jet lagged. He had witnessed two murders, had been in jail, had been—as Malachai kept pointing out—might
still
be in danger and was still remembering the pain and suffering and fears of people who had died long before he, Josh, had even been born. If anything, his confusion was greater than it had been before he came to the foundation. Today he'd sat face-to-face with a woman who, from every sign, was experiencing the same thing he was, and all he could offer were some useless platitudes.

“You came here and knew things about us and about this house that no one else could possibly know. You wanted to study what we study. You wanted to learn what we were learning. That's what you asked for and that's what my nephew and I have been giving you. As an intern, Josh, not as a patient. There's a difference. You weren't in trauma, you weren't phobic to the point that it interfered with your ability to function. You didn't need extreme measures.”

“But this woman might.”

“We've tried what you're asking and were burned time after time. Between the lawsuits, the liars and the ridicule, we made a decision. We don't work with adults. And as long as you're here, you won't, either.”

He didn't respond.

Her dog, Cleo, a five-year-old dark gray Basenji—a breed that dated back to ancient Egypt—trotted over to her and licked her hand. Beryl petted the top of her head. “I don't like being pushed, Josh.”

“I know that.”

“So why are you pushing me?”

“Because I think this woman is connected to the stones in some way. People are dead, Beryl. Three of them. Murdered. And it's because of what you and I and
Malachai think was in that tomb. If we're right, we can't afford to risk losing one piece of knowledge. There's too much we don't know. There's so much we need to know.”

“I can't take chances with our reputations. I'm sorry. I really am.”

“With all you know, you don't have any flashbacks yourself, do you? You and Malachai. You don't know this kind of hell, and I hope you never ever discover what it's like. Because if you do, this decision will haunt you. I swear it will.”

* * *

After leaving a message for Malachai to meet him at the Town Green restaurant in New Haven at seven, Josh left the foundation—glad to get away from there after the argument with Beryl—rented a car and headed out of the city. He was anxious to see Gabriella, even if he wasn't sure why.

It was raining again, and the storm intensified the farther Josh traveled out of the city. The wind blew leaves mercilessly across the highway, and traffic was heavy on the Hutch and then on the I–95. Thunder cracked and bolts of lightning lit up a purple-gray sky. Tree branches flew, making the ride seem treacherous. By the time he got to Stamford, he'd passed three accidents. Five by the time he got to New Haven.

Parking the car in a spot he found after driving around the block twice, he hurried across the quad toward the building where Gabriella worked.

The campus was almost deserted, partly because of the rain, but also because the summer session had ended and the fall semester hadn't yet started. The gloomy day made the emptiness disturbing.

Reaching 51 Hillhouse Avenue, Josh walked inside, appreciative of the dry interior, glad to be leaving the worst of the squall behind him.

When Gabriella opened the door and saw him, the right corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile. Behind her, Josh glimpsed a tall, gray-haired man.

“I'm a little early—I thought we could have a drink. Unless you're busy?” Josh asked.

“No. That would be nice. Come in,” she said, and introduced him to her father, Peter Chase. The two men shook hands as the elder professor inspected Josh, frowning when she explained how she knew him.

Peter turned back to his daughter. “If this isn't going to take long, I can wait for you downstairs and we can get a bite to eat before my faculty meeting tonight.”

“Thanks, but I'm having dinner with Josh and Dr. Samuels. Remember?”

“You are still getting over the shock of what happened here. I think you need to come home where it's quiet,” her father insisted.

“I think the quiet might drive Gabriella crazy, Professor Chase,” Josh said.

Peter frowned.

Was it because Josh had butted in and was claiming to know his daughter that well? Or had contradicting Peter Chase been presumptuous?

Josh was surprised himself. Not that he'd interfered, but that he'd had such a strong sense of what the night would be like for her if she went home. The sound of the rain. A sleeping child. An empty bedroom. A melancholy night. No. It would all only increase her anxiety.

“And how the hell do you know what my daughter needs?”

Gabriella winked at Josh. “He's right, Dad. The last thing I need is to sit at home and overthink what's been going on. I'll be okay.”

“I'll cancel my meeting,” Peter offered.

She shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, okay, but I'll be home by nine,” he said gruffly.

“Don't rush because of me.”

“I don't like the idea of you driving at night in this storm.”

“I'll follow her home in my car, Professor Chase. She can leave her car there and then I'll drive her to dinner and back.” He wasn't sure if this made Gabriella's father more or less upset. Obviously, it was safer, but he still didn't look happy.

“Go ahead, Dad, don't be late for your meeting. I'll be fine. Josh will take care of me.” She kissed her father good-night and he left, but not without giving Josh a long, hard stare that he'd probably been torturing men with since his daughter had gone out on her first date.

On the way to the restaurant Josh asked her distracting questions about Quinn, and Gabriella seemed delighted to relate the ordinary day-to-day events that are small miracles when your child is almost three years old. Speaking about the little girl, she seemed to relax and the restive tenseness disappeared from her voice.

“How is it having your father live with you?”

“It's been good for him and for Quinn.”

“And for you?”

She didn't answer right away. “It's important for Quinn to have a man around, and I never could go back and forth to Rome if it wasn't for my father.” There was something she wasn't saying, but Josh didn't press her.

“I thought you told me you had a nanny.”

“I do. I've had a few nannies, but I wouldn't be comfortable leaving Quinn overnight without my father being there, too.”

“Why a few nannies? Are you difficult?”

There were so many other things he wanted to ask her, but he knew she wasn't ready for his questions yet.

“Very difficult,” she said in a teasing voice.

He liked the way it washed over him and lifted his spirits.

“I can't imagine that.”

“And I can't imagine
that
.” She laughed.

That was an even better sound.

If the laughter resonated inside of him, if it made him realize that he'd been waiting since the first time he met her to hear her laugh like that, if it gave him real pleasure to know that he'd alleviated some of her stress and had brought her to a more relaxed place, he chose not to think about those things. They were dangerous thoughts for a man determined not to get involved until he'd found the answers to some very difficult questions for himself.

“My father still thinks I'm seventeen,” she said.

“Yeah, he looked at me as if you were seventeen.”

“He did?”

Josh nodded.

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“No, you're not.”

“Actually, it was easier when I was seventeen. My dates expected that look then.”

Josh took notice that she had, in an oblique way, put him in the category of her dates, and it made him inexplicably happy.

He'd stopped at a red light. Its ambient glow warmed her face and lit up her long hair with fiery highlights. She caught his glance. Her eyes were a light, lovely gold, the color of fall leaves. The rain pelted on the windshield, beating down in a steady, comforting rhythm. What if he kept driving? Drove all the way back to Manhattan? What if he took her to his apartment and made them both drinks and put on a John Coltrane CD? What if he told her that he had
wanted
to be put in that category and understood
why her father glared at the men whom he thought might be interested in his daughter?

No. Stay away. You're not free. Not really. You're haunted.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see her left hand in her lap. He wanted to reach over and take it. Feel her skin. Learn the landscape of her bones. See if what he sensed was all on his side or if she felt it, too.

You can't touch her—touch anyone—until you've figured out why the past and the present are colliding.

The restaurant was on Chapel Street in an old Victorian building that had been renovated down to the crown moldings and tiled floors. The weather had kept a lot of people home, so they had one of the smallest of the four dining rooms to themselves. In the hour before Malachai arrived, they discussed their lives before Rome as if by some silent agreement they'd decided to avoid the one subject that was loaded for both of them and enjoy their time alone.

He'd ordered a Johnnie Walker Blue Label and she'd asked for a vodka and tonic with lime. In the soft lights her skin glowed and her hair reflected the light. Josh stopped himself from reaching out to touch her. He liked watching her face when she talked, how the shadows played off her strong bones, how the right corner of her mouth always lifted slightly more than the left when she smiled—and how, more than once, when he looked away and then back, he caught her starting at him. In a not-altogether-unpleasant way.

When Malachai arrived, Josh was sorry to see him. He watched Gabriella's face to see if she was, too, but he couldn't read her expression. They all exchanged pleasantries, and after ordering a Campari and soda, Malachai asked Gabriella about the robbery in Rome and the one
in her office. What had been taken? Did the police have any leads?

Josh watched as her face fell and her body language changed. She looked as if Malachai had just wrenched her back to the recent past. He regretted that he couldn't have prolonged her respite, and his.

She started with the last night she'd spent in Rome and explained how she'd come home from the hospital, late, after the professor had died, to find her window broken and her papers ransacked. “They took one of my notebooks that had some freehand maps I'd drawn of the tomb, some notes on the excavation and a batch of photographs of the mummy. But I don't know why anyone would want those things. If the tomb hadn't been robbed, if the professor hadn't been shot, it might have made sense, but since the stones had already been taken, I don't understand.”

“And that's when you decided to leave?” Josh asked.

“It was so unnerving. I'm a single parent—I couldn't risk my safety and stay. I called the airport, booked the first flight out the next day, packed a bag and checked into a hotel for the night. So much about this dig has been disturbing right from the start. There are always stories that excavations are cursed, but this is the first one I've worked on that really might be.”