The Reincarnationist (32 page)

Rome, Italy—1884

E
verything changed after Wallace Neely's murder.

The playful lover who had taken her swimming at midnight in the villa's pool, had filled her bed with rose petals and had her serenaded by a La Scala singer, was gone, replaced by a nervous man who had become obsessed with buying art. During their last week in Rome, they met with half a dozen of the city's best dealers and Blackie bought a Botticelli, a Rembrandt, a Tintoretto and a Velázquez.

It seemed to Esme that he was collecting other treasures to make up for the one that he'd lost, but when they had dinner he didn't want to discuss the paintings. He didn't even appear interested in the history of the masterpieces he now owned. When she asked why he was spending such a fortune on artwork if it wasn't important to him, he told her that it was a good investment. She knew he was depressed over the robbery and murder and worried about what the Phoenix Club's reaction was going to be when he told his fellow members. He had,
after all, come to Rome expressly to watch over their excavation, and he'd failed.

Esme was relieved when he finally told her he was going to book his passage home and asked if she wanted to go with him. She was glad to get out of Rome early. Her grand tour had ceased to be an adventure. She was worried for her brother and missed her mother. She had nightmares about the archeologist's murder. Her painting lessons weren't going well; the teacher wasn't as qualified as he was supposed to be, and she preferred the Art Students League in New York. But worse than all that was that whenever Blackie touched her now, she grew cold and slightly afraid.

They set off on their transatlantic journey the following week, and once they were at sea her spirits rose a little. They'd be home soon.

* * *

The second night out, as they were leaving dinner, Blackie surprised her. “I bought a gift for you in Rome before we left. Would you like to see it?”

“Of course.” She was intrigued, despite her recent misgivings.

Inside his cabin, Blackie used a small gold key to open one of his three trunks. He rifled through the hanging clothes, finding and then pulling out a well-wrapped rectangular package approximately two-and-a-half feet wide and almost four feet tall.

Using his mother-of-pearl pocketknife, he cut the strings and slit open the rough wrapping, revealing a package covered in finer paper, which he gave to Esme to unwrap.

She had studied art with a passion since she was twelve, and she knew there were hundreds of thousands of paintings in the world. Her teacher had once told her
that of all those, maybe tens of thousands were breathtaking. Of them, thousands were masterpieces. Of those, perhaps a mere hundred or two hundred exhibited the rarest of talents—the ability to use a simple brush and pigment and re-create life. To present a moment of human suffering or madness or ecstasy and offer it up as a mirror. To show man how brutal he could be, how sublime, how passionate or how profound. Only a few dozen painters could make you forget for a moment that what you were looking at was not flesh and blood—that the coal eyes would not blink, that the pink lips would not part. Caravaggio was one of them. And so, Esme thought, the painting she was looking at must be one of his.

It depicted a young and sensual god whom she recognized from other paintings of his that she'd studied. Bacchus was creating havoc, invoking sex and debauchery, delight and deceit. The grapes hanging above his shoulder were so real, Esme was sure she could pluck one and eat it. The god's smile was so lascivious she was certain he'd blink at her any second.

All the color in the room was sucked up into the vortex of energy the painting imparted. She'd never held anything so amazing. When she gasped, Blackie gave her the first real smile he'd offered since the night Neely had died.

“What a treasure,” she whispered.

“You, dearest Esme, have no idea.” There was a glint in his eye, a sly look she knew. It foreshadowed a surprise of another kind: a sexual one.

He reached out and took her hand, not kindly, not as an apology, but rather as an invitation to a wicked evening of games that the god in the painting would approve of.

Esme wasn't sure how she felt. She still remembered what she'd glimpsed of his soul in Rome. But didn't he seem so much better now that they were on their way home?

With the Caravaggio Bacchus looking on, he pulled her close and whispered in her ear that he wanted her naked. That he wanted to see her flesh pucker in the cold and then make her burn.

His erection pressed against her thigh, and she assumed he was going to make love to her right there and then, but once she was undressed and positioned the way he wanted, on a chaise lounge, legs slightly spread, leaning on her side, facing him, he returned to the painting—but what he proceeded to do next made no sense.

He removed the canvas from its fancy frame and set it aside, almost as if he didn't care about it. Not care about a Caravaggio? Next, using his pocketknife, he jammed the blade into one of the frame's joints. When he'd loosened it, he moved on to the next one, and then the next.

“What are you doing—”

“Don't fret. Just watch.”

With the gold frame disassembled, he inspected each arm, up and down, prodding, pushing, searching for and finding what he was looking for. He touched a small notch. Then, using the edge of the knife, he unscrewed the threaded wooden pin.

A spring creaked.

A hiding place was revealed.

Reaching in with two fingers, Blackie pulled out a white tissue-paper package, unwrapped it and held it up.

More extravagant than the gold frame or the rich oil paint, the emerald glittered and gleamed. He reached inside again. He retrieved a second package and unwrapped a sapphire. Another. Then two additional emeralds. Finally, a single ruby.

These were the stones from the tomb that she'd glimpsed through the window the night Neely had been robbed, and killed.

Esme was afraid to breathe.

Leaving the gilt frame in pieces—holding the stones loosely, the way a boy might hold a handful of marbles—Blackie looked down at her. The only noise was the stones hitting one another as he shook them.

“Now lie still.”

Humming, he reached out with one finger and drew invisible
X
's on Esme's body. Six of them. And then taking one stone at a time, he placed each in a row, starting with the hollow space where her clavicles met, down the flat area between her breasts, one in her belly button and then a line of three following her hip curve.

“Don't move,” he whispered. Grabbing a silver oval mirror off the dresser, he angled it so that he could show Esme her own body, decorated with the gems.

Nothing made sense to her anymore. How had he gotten these? Why were they hidden in the frame?

“Look,” he commanded.

In the mirror she saw the stones sparkling on her skin. Blackie picked up the ruby and held it to the light. “I'm going to move this one to your lips. And we are going to make love. If you can keep your mouth closed, and keep the ruby right there, no matter what I do to you, I'll give it to you. I'm betting on myself this time. No matter how good it feels, Esme, you must keep silent, you must keep your mouth closed,” he said as he placed the ruby on her lips.

The gem was cold and surprisingly light for its size. Esme held her head still. She couldn't say anything, but she could try to figure out what had happened and how her lover had wound up with these stones.

Had he found the thief and paid him off? Why hadn't he told her? Had he told the members of the Phoenix Club? Did her brother know?

She felt Blackie's breath between her legs and the pressure of his fingers as he pushed her thighs farther apart.

Of course she could keep silent, she thought as his silky hair brushed against her skin. After all, she wasn't susceptible to him anymore. He might be evil. She
wouldn't
respond to him.

He was between her legs, blowing gently on her nether lips.

Hot air, hot, hot air.

Nothing. She felt nothing.

He did it again.

She focused on everything but how it felt.

He blew on her again and again.

Esme arched her back.

“Don't move,” he whispered.

She felt his words against her and it was an even more arousing sensation. Words being spoken into her. Words gliding inside her, disappearing into her darkness.

“If the ruby falls off, you lose,” he joked, and went back to work, teasing and tempting her with such dedication she wasn't quite sure what his motivation was—to make sure the ruby stayed in his possession—or that she did?

E
sme woke up sometime later in Blackie's bed with a blanket thrown over her and no sign of him. She walked out to the sitting room and found him putting the painting back together. Rejoining the last arm of the frame, all the stones hidden again.

“Where did you get the stones, Blackie?”

He looked up, startled.

And in that one second, when he had not expected to see her and so had not pasted on a benign expression for her benefit, she saw what she'd seen that night at the villa when he was getting Neely drunk and she'd questioned him about it.

There was a coldness to his gaze. Anger. Dismissal. No remnants of their recent passion remained. How could someone's eyes be so empty? So distant?

“Where did I get what? The painting? I bought it in Rome. One of the days you were off being fitted for a gown.”

“No, the stones.”

“I picked them up from a dealer, too.”

The ship moved through a calm sea that night and the
sound of waves breaking against the boat was not loud enough to muffle his disingenuous tone.

She became aware of what she really had known since she'd first glimpsed the stones.

“You arranged it…you got him drunk. You're responsible for Neely's murder…aren't you? You did it to get the stones. To keep them from the club…You're going to keep them yourself?”

“I think I underestimated you. I knew you were bright, but I didn't think you would figure all that out. But you're not bright enough. I also overestimated you. I never thought you'd be so foolish as to involve yourself in something that isn't any of your affair.”

“You had a man killed!”

“No. That was an accident. I had a man robbed.”

“But he died.”

“Stop acting so shocked. What would you have me do? I needed to accomplish something. Was I supposed to pray for Providence to send a solution?” Blackie returned to wrapping the frame. “Why don't you put on some clothes, darling. They are serving midnight supper on the upper deck. Aren't you hungry? Wear the blue frock and the sapphires I bought you. Don't take all this so seriously. I didn't have anyone killed. Neely's death was an unfortunate accident.” It wasn't an invitation; it was an order, and she was afraid to ignore it.

They went to the bar, where Blackie ordered champagne and caviar, which they served with blinis, finely chopped onions and thick sour cream.

Esme couldn't eat anything, but he gorged himself. The champagne, however, was a different story. Esme wanted to get drunk. She wanted to stop focusing on this man and her uncle and to stop worrying about her brother.

Blackie kept refilling her glass, and she kept drinking it down.

When she realized that he was pouring for her the same way he'd poured for Neely the night he got him drunk, it was too late, she was already feeling the champagne.

After the bottle was emptied and all the blinis were gone, Blackie took her arm and walked her out on deck. It was very late by then and no one was around. The sky was studded with glinting stars that circled back deeper and deeper, and for just a minute Esme could almost see the dimensions of the space up above her.

The water was rougher than it had been earlier, and a series of swells beat against the side of the ship. The wind had picked up, and it howled around them.

“I wish you hadn't found out.” He put his arm around her waist.

In the moonlight, Esme watched the now-heavy clouds roll in. She was sad when they covered up some of the stars. Another wave hit. The ship was huge; how big were these waves?

In a surprising moment of passion, Blackie grabbed Esme and pulled her to him. She felt his hardness on her thigh. And then she felt another hardness pressing into her ribs.

This one was metal, not flesh.

Despite the champagne, she knew what it was without having to look. She had seen it before in his possession; its image and shape had been burned into her consciousness.

This was not Blackie, her lover, who was holding her. It was Blackie, the thief…the thief he'd always been.

Esme put her arms around his neck and held on to him tightly, pretending that she was embracing him back, that she didn't know what was going to happen. And then, when she felt his finger start to move on the trigger, she
quickly reached down and tried to twist his hand around so the shot would enter his rib cage, not hers.

She didn't hear the sound over the pounding waves and the wailing wind but she felt the sting. Reflexively, she grabbed on to Blackie and held tightly. As she held on to her lover she could see in his eyes that this hadn't been easy for him.

At least she had that.

The mountainous waves beat against the ship endlessly, it seemed, filling the air with foam and spray. In the sky she could see the eyes of the Caravaggio god, and he was smiling and winking at her. Or was it just a star breaking through the storm clouds?

Pain radiating from Esme's side saturated her senses.

He was so sorry, he said. It was all a mistake. He was going to take her back to the cabin and call the ship's doctor and save her after all. His voice sounded very far away.

Just then, the ship listed hard to the left and Blackie shifted, sliding into the railing. The deck was slippery. With her blood? Ocean water? He was having a hard time both holding Esme and keeping his balance. Another massive wave hit. Blackie slithered backward, then righted himself. She was a heavy, dead weight, dragging on him. Good, she thought. Good. She didn't want to be light for him; didn't want this to be easy.

A crack of lightning.

Bright white light shone in his eyes.

Malevolent eyes. Not her lover's eyes. She could read his eyes and knew they were not going back to the room. No, he had no intention of saving her. That had been another lie. The last lie.

He leaned up against the railing, trying to keep his balance.

The ship listed to the starboard side.

Then reversed.

He managed to get some traction and lifted her up, and she knew then what he was planning. The water was going to be cold. But at least then it would be over. The pain would be gone. She still had one arm around his neck, and now she reached up with her other arm and pulled his head down toward her face with a force that she hadn't had a moment before.

“One last kiss,” she whispered.

He kissed her, whether it was out of pity or real emotion or guilt didn't matter; she needed those few seconds to get a better grip on him—not realizing he was using them to get a better grip on her.

With one last, great effort, fighting against the swaying ship, trying to keep his footing, he lifted her up and moved closer to the railing, then he leaned over and let go.

A last great wave buffeted the boat. The wind gusted and sprayed them with a shock of cold salty water. He lost his footing. She held tight around his neck.

They were both flying through the air, holding on to each other, neither of them letting go, not now, not in death, lovers of a sort to the last: they disappeared from the bow of the ship on a night that had started out with a calm, calm sea.