The Reincarnationist (34 page)

“Is this where we found the gold watch?”

“Yes.”

Rachel's eyes were wide with wonder.

“Do you believe that you were my brother?”

“I think so.”

“It would be nice, wouldn't it, to think you were. That I found you again.”

He nodded.

“What happened to him? To Percy, do you know?”

“He was poisoned by his uncle.”

“Uncle…” She hesitated, thinking, remembering.
“Uncle Davenport,” Rachel said, slightly in awe of what she was realizing. But she was calmer. He could see it in her face, sense it.

“Josh, I don't want to put my life on the line for some legend that may or may not be true and that has nothing to do with me. Except I have this crazy feeling that I'm supposed to be doing this. I'm not making sense again, am I? What if I've gotten involved with…What if Harrison…Christ, if this reincarnation stuff is true and if he and I did this dance before, then we know what's going to happen next. He's going to kill me.”

“Or you're with him so he can make the past up to you.”

“Which is it?”

Josh felt another twinge of responsibility for her. Was it because of the sibling bond someone named Percy and someone named Esme had shared?

“You have to help me. I don't know what to do,” she cried.

“I can't do that.”

“You have to.”

What if she was right? What if she did need him to tell her? If that was part of this. The two of them finding each other. Not just him finding Sabina. But Percy finding Esme. He'd failed to protect her in the past but maybe he'd be able to protect her in the present.

“You love Harrison, don't you?”

“Does that matter?”

“Yeah, it does. Nothing happens by mistake. If we go by the theories, and if you love him, you need to give him a chance to do the right thing this time.”

“Walk right into this fucking fire? Who will save me this time if everything goes wrong again?”

There are no rules of engagement, Josh thought. No list of suggestions for how to deal with past-life experi
ences and present-life situations. Those who believe in reincarnation do not suggest that scenarios will ever repeat themselves exactly. But they could. We are products of our instincts. We can be dragged away from something that is dangerous only to turn around and return to it the minute we're free to. Maybe she needed to live this out. Maybe, Josh thought, he was full of shit and should encourage her to get away from all of them, even him, as fast as she could.

“I'll be there with you. I'll make sure nothing happens.”

Rachel looked at him with a sudden trusting smile and he felt, deeply felt, what those two people named Esme and Percy—who had lost their father and lived under the same roof with a vicious man named Davenport and a mother who didn't have the strength to stand up to him—what that brother and sister had meant to each other so very long ago.

“Even if I wanted to do this, to help you find the stones, to see if they're actually still there after all this time, I'm not a magician. I can't steal the painting out from under him.”

Josh considered Malachai, who was a magician. All his tricks were done in plain sight. “No, of course you can't. I'd never ask you to steal the painting—I don't need the painting—I just need five minutes alone with it. It wouldn't take longer than that to take the frame apart, would it?”

J
osh and Rachel went to a coffee shop to plan what to do next. It was two o'clock in the afternoon on Thursday, and in less than twenty-four hours, Gabriella would need to have a lot of answers for the man who was holding her child captive.

After they'd fleshed out the next steps, Rachel used her cell phone to call Harrison and put the scheme into motion, and Josh went out into the street to call Gabriella.

Answering on the first ring with a stressed hello, she sounded both relieved and disappointed at the sound of his voice. Briefly, he explained what had happened and what he was planning to do.

“You can't do that, Josh. I can't bear being responsible for you, too.”

As much as he believed her, he knew part of her didn't mean it. It was what she should say, but no one mattered to her the way Quinn did, and nothing would ever matter to her again if anything happened to Quinn.

“I'll drive right up to New Haven as soon as I'm finished in the city—and Gabriella…”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry for leaving you alone this long.”

“It's okay. I've been online with Rollins most of the day, working on the translations. Be careful, Josh—” Her voice broke on his name.

He winced, and even after he'd clicked his phone shut, he was still hearing her, seeing her in his mind: the way her light brown, almost-gold eyes flashed, and how she pulled her wild, honey-colored hair off her face whenever she thought hard about something.

Should he have told her about the possibility there was a second set of stones? Had it been cruel to have raised her spirits if, in fact, they didn't exist?

When he returned to Rachel, she was still on the phone. He couldn't help but hear her strained conversation.

“I don't understand. Either he's made an offer on the painting or he hasn't.” Pause. “Well, then, let my client see it—the worst that will happen is that you'll have a second offer to use as pressure.” Pause. “Good, we'll be there in less than an hour.” She smiled, but the smile was twisted with disillusionment.

* * *

The doorman of the apartment building on Park Avenue and Seventy-Ninth Street asked Josh for his name so he could be announced.

“Barton Lipper.”

They had planned carefully. Barton Lipper was a client of Rachel's who lived in Maryland. A recluse, he ordered pieces of jewelry from her every four or five months. An Internet search brought up stories about the man's billions, but no photographs.

The sunglasses Josh wore, despite the setting sun, hid his eyes, and he was grateful for their opaqueness. A man can see when you are lying—especially if the man was himself a liar. He didn't know for sure that's what
Harrison was. That he sold paintings that often had questionable provenance did not, in itself, brand him as a criminal. Sotheby's and Christie's had, over the years, sold paintings of questionable provenance, too. And in this case, the School of Caravaggio painting had never been stolen. The estate of Titus Blackwell had inherited it and it passed from generation to generation until six weeks before, when it had appeared on the market for the first time.

The question was, had it ever been taken apart?

The elevator man, who also wore white gloves, looked straight ahead while Josh watched the numbers light up on the board. It seemed as if the ride was taking too damn long. Finally, the bronzed doors opened.

“It's Penthouse A, on your right, sir.”

Inside, Terry, a young woman, greeted Josh, who introduced himself as Barton Lipper. Escorting him to the salon, she told him that Rachel Palmer wasn't there yet, but that Harrison would be with him in just a moment.

The room had a double-height ceiling and no windows. Three of the walls showcased oil paintings from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The fourth was empty except for a carpeted platform that sat like a small stage, waiting for the performance to start.

Terry asked Josh if he'd like anything to drink. He asked for water and she left to fetch it. A few moments passed. Josh didn't get up to inspect the paintings around him. He didn't need the distraction; he wanted to concentrate on what he was there to accomplish.

A few minutes after Terry returned with the water, Harrison came in. He was tall and imposing, physically a good match to Rachel's stunning looks.

“Mr. Lipper. It's a pleasure,” he said, and offered his hand.

The handshake was quick.

“Rachel called a few minutes ago. Her taxi is stuck in rush-hour traffic. Though, every hour in New York is now rush hour. In the meantime, would you like to wait for her or look at the painting?”

“I'd like to see the painting. I'm on a tight schedule.”

Harrison disappeared, returning a moment later with a framed canvas he held gingerly with its back facing out so that Josh couldn't yet see the painting. Harrison placed it on top of the uppermost step of the carpeted platform, stood in front of it, shielding it as he adjusted it, and then stepped back.

Rachel was right. This was not a masterpiece. It was a feat. A luminous, absorbing re-creation of reality, so intensely alive and powerful that within seconds of looking at it you forgot it was a flat surface covered with a mix of oil and pigment. This was a world unto itself. That it had been created by a brush and paint, that it was not a living, breathing man somehow frozen in that moment, seemed impossible.

“Amazing, isn't it?”

“Yes. It makes everything else—” Josh searched for something to say “—just a painting.”

Harrison nodded.

Josh rose and walked toward it. He'd planned on using these initial moments to look at and familiarize himself with the frame. He'd spent a half hour earlier taking apart four of the paintings on Rachel's walls. At best, if everything went right, he was only going to have a few minutes alone with this one, and he needed to be quick. But he couldn't focus on anything but the sensuous eyes, the voluptuous mouth and the invitation implicit in the Bacchus's gaze.

“Mr. Shoals?” Terry was at the door.

“Yes?”

“Rachel is downstairs. She's tripped on the sidewalk getting out of the cab. She'd appreciate it if you would come down.”

“Oh, no, this is my fault. She's here because of me—let me go,” Josh offered, trying for sincere concern.

“No, that's not necessary. These things happen. I'll leave you with Bacchus. I'm sure you'll be in excellent company.”

* * *

Josh's heart was pounding so loudly he worried Terry might be able to hear it and come running. He took the painting off the stand and turned it around. Some of the energy drained from the room. Now it was just rough canvas and four pieces of wood mitered together.

Rachel had seen the back of the painting when she'd inspected it at the auction house and had explained that removing the painting from its frame would be a simple procedure.

All he had to do was pull out the four clips that secured the canvas to the wood.

He fumbled as he worked out the first clip, but did better with the second, and his speed improved with the third and fourth, so in less than sixty seconds he had the canvas safely put aside and stared at an empty gold baroque frame.

Working more quickly, almost recklessly now, not caring if he chipped the wood or gold leaf, he took the frame apart, remembering how Esme had described this process while Rachel was under hypnosis.

Josh inspected each arm, up and down, prodding, pushing, searching. Nothing on the first arm or second. He was running out of time. Just as he picked up the third, he heard sounds outside. Was that Rachel? Already?

The third arm looked the same as the first two.

Yes, the sound was Rachel, asking for something. Water? It didn't matter. He picked up the fourth arm and found what he was looking for.

Digging at it with the edge of the smallest of the tools he'd brought with him, he tried to pull it. No. It wouldn't work like that. He looked closer. Where the grain of the wood ran left to right was a small ridge.

Maybe…

Using the edge of the knife, he unscrewed the threaded wooden pin.

A spring creaked.

A hiding place was revealed.

Josh was afraid to breathe.

The room around him had closed in. There was nothing but the piece of wood and the hollow space inside of it. The glorious painting wasn't there. There were no people outside. He tipped the wooden arm over and shook it.

“W
hat are you doing?” Harrison asked. He stood by the door, trying to hold back his anger.

How much had he seen? What was he thinking?

Rachel laughed. The sound of light crystal. Of water splashing. “You know, Barton, you can't just take apart a painting without asking.”

Josh shrugged. “I can if I'm considering spending this kind of money for it. I always look at paintings out of the frame. Frames are a distraction, to say the least.”

Rachel had schooled him on this just an hour before. Many collectors insisted on seeing the canvas out of the frame to inspect it. If he used this excuse, it would be plausible.

“But you took the frame apart?”

“To judge its authenticity.”

Harrison was kneeling down, inspecting his painting. His eyes swept the surface from right to left and then back again, ignoring Josh and Rachel, and the wooden arms on the ground.

“What were you really doing?” he said as he picked up one of the arms and looked at it.

Josh didn't know how long Harrison had been standing behind him. Had he seen something? What would Harrison do if Josh tried to leave? Was he in danger? Was Rachel? She'd told Josh that Harrison had a gun. Was he carrying it? Probably. If you are showing a four-million-dollar painting to someone and you own a gun, you probably don't leave it in a drawer.

“It's a beautiful painting. But the frame is inappropriate,” Josh said.

Now Harrison looked at him as if he was insane.

“Who cares about the frame? The painting is a Caravaggio.”

“It does appear to be from the
school
of Caravaggio. But the frame isn't original.” Josh knew the comment was irrational. That was the point. He needed to convince Harrison he was eccentric and make the disassemblage convincing. He had what he'd come for, and it was time to leave.

“Thank you for showing it to me.” He nodded and walked to the door. Put his fingers on the knob. Turned it. He was about to open the door when—

“You're not going to want to do that, Mr. Lipper.”

The gun was a snub-nosed revolver, icy-black and compact. And it was trained on Josh.