The Reincarnationist

by M. J. Rose

  “Yes, of course. I gave him last rites myself.”

  Chapter 40

  New York City—Saturday, 8:10 p.m.

  When Rachel Palmer arrived at the opening gala at the Metropolitan Museum, the building was ablaze with spotlights as tuxedo-clad men and women in chic evening gowns moved up the grand staircase. The flag flying above the stone entrance announced the show: “Tiffany Jewels—the First Century.”

  Inside, Rachel stopped in the entranceway to the American Wing, mesmerized by the three-story gallery decorated for a party. Candles flickered and cast a soft glow, the air was scented with the roses that graced every table, and a six-piece orchestra filled the room with cool jazz. Waiters in formal attire passed trays of champagne and canapés.

  Rachel stopped in front of a huge marble sculpture that she’d seen a hundred times before but had never really noticed. Two men were fighting, caught in a clash of wills. Her eyes traveled over their sinewy thighs and arms, their twisted torsos and their pained but proud expressions. She sucked in her breath and held it for a moment.

  They were so powerful. She longed to reach out and run her fingers down their satin skin and feel the well-defined muscles. By her side, her fingers itched. She looked at their groins, which were modestly desexualized, and yet she thought the marble men were more arousing than any of the flesh-and-blood men she had met in the past few years. She felt the oddest surge of physical excitement. She had a strong desire to kiss their marble lips and see if she could bring one of them to life. What would happen if she stepped up on the pedestal and did that? Probably be arrested, she thought. Her eyes dropped to the bronze placard beneath the white marble sculpture.

  Struggle of Two Natures of Man George Grey Barnard (1863–1938) Marble, 1894 First called “I feel two beings within me,” the work represents the forces of good and evil.

  Her heart raced inside her chest and chills raced down her back as she reread the date. 1894. But why the shiver of fear? What had happened in 1894?

  A waiter passed with a tray full of glasses, but she let him go by. She wanted a drink—not the silly champagne they were serving, but a real drink. Walking toward the bar, she saw a man lounging there, his back to her.

  He was instantly familiar although she couldn’t place him. She examined the long, lean body, the way he slouched, as if he was at home in the rarefied museum. Something about him made her angry. She wanted to get away from him, and at the same time, she was afraid of losing sight of him.

  A couple strolling by obscured him, and by the time they passed by, he was gone. Rachel looked around, but he really seemed to have vanished.

  Panic rose in her like bile.

  No. She couldn’t lose him again.

  Again?

  That didn’t make any sense.

  “What would you like?” the bartender asked, not looking up, not particularly interested in his next customer. It was a fancy gig, not a local bar; he wasn’t required to make conversation with these guests.

  “The best Scotch you have. Two ice cubes. No water. Please.”

  It was the “please” that made the bartender stop for just a minute, to look up, to smile at her, to take his time, to enjoy pouring her a drink, just the right amount with exactly as many ice cubes as she asked for.

  Six more people descended on the bar. He handed Rachel her Scotch and regretfully attended to the other requests.

  The couple standing next to her was talking about an article that would appear in the next morning’s New York Times. Clearly, they were curators.

  “Rudolfo was buried today, did you hear?”

  “It’s a real tragedy.”

  “Still no word on what was stolen?”

  “No. There are rumors pagan objects were found that could be of major significance.”

  “Any specifics?” the woman asked.

  “None. But the last time he was interviewed a reporter asked Rudolfo if it was true that the objects might challenge some basic precepts of Christianity. He came back with, ‘I’m a very religious man, I certainly hope not.’”

  Nearly every ancient excavation included jewelry, and Rachel had often taken inspiration from Roman, Greek and Egyptian finds, but every time she heard about the treasures at this site she reacted strangely, as if it were imperative that she see them.

  Feeling dizzy, she held on to the bar. Something they’d said had struck a chord that resonated within her. The hum started. Her body throbbed. She shut her eyes. Colorful flashes strobed behind her eyes. No, she couldn’t let this happen here, or now, and so, forcing her eyes open, she looked around to center herself.

  She should leave before it was too late, she thought.

  Too late for what?

  This was crazy.

  Sipping the Scotch, Rachel heard the sound of ice in her glass clinking against the crystal and wondered why it sounded threatening. The first taste stung the back of her throat, the second went down more smoothly, and as she took a third she scanned the crowd. Her eyes settled on the man who had been by the bar, who looked so familiar.

  “There you are,” her uncle Alex said as he came up behind her and kissed her softly on her cheek. He was in his early sixties but looked younger. Impeccable in his tuxedo, he exhibited no signs of jet lag or fatigue from his recent trip.

  “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” she said.

  “I couldn’t miss this opening,” he said warmly, and asked the bartender for the same drink his niece was having.

  A patron of the museum, he was also on its board of directors, and several pieces from his wife’s collection of Tiffany jewels were on display that night. “Nancy would have loved to see this,” he said, surveying the room, a twinge of melancholy in his voice.

  “Yes, she would have.”

  They both sipped their drinks. “Have you seen Davis yet?” Alex asked, his voice slightly huskier than normal.

  “No. But I’m sure he’ll find me sooner or later.”

  “And that bores you?”

  “Do I sound bored?” Rachel tried for a smile but it didn’t mask the lackluster look in her eyes.

  “You do, dear. Are you?”

  “I suppose so, but I’ll live.”

  “You might as well be one of these stone sculptures,” Alex mused out loud. “Immune to falling in love. No one has ever made your eyes shine the way a stunning unset gem can.”

  “Stop worrying.”

  “One day you will stop believing in the possibility of heroes, accept the reality of the people you meet, deal with their limitations and learn to make the best of it.”

  “Why should I do that? You didn’t. Aunt Nancy didn’t.”

  Alex chortled. “I see Davis over there. Let’s go and congratulate him.”

  The curator stood in front of the facade of the Long Island home of Louis Comfort Tiffany, which had been transplanted to the museum in the 1980s. He was talking to a man whose back was to them, the two of them framed by the wisteria-festooned stained-glass arch.

  Although she could only see the other man’s back, Rachel knew it was the same man she’d been noticing all night, the one she was tying to find and at the same time trying to stay away from. But how could she recognize him just by the way he stood and the tilt of his head when she didn’t know him?

  Rachel’s instinct was to turn and walk away, but she was nothing if not logical, and this irrational thought was an anathema to her. So, arm in arm with her uncle, she approached.

  “Rachel Palmer, Alex Palmer, this is Harrison Shoals,” Davis said, making the introductions.

  Rachel was in front of the warm light; it rocked her, and she heard the humming. She focused on her uncle. He looked slightly displeased, but he wasn’t acting as if reality was breaking apart and fragmenting.

  “Actually, Mr. Shoals and I have met before,” Alex was saying as he thrust out his hand to Harrison, who shook it. “Nice to see you again, Harrison.” But he didn’t sound as if it was nice at all. He turned to Rachel. “
Harrison is the dealer who won the Bacchus from us at the auction.” From his tone, he still regretted it.

  Rachel reeled as she processed this information. This was the man who had bought her painting?

  “It’s a pleasure to see your generosity on display,” Harrison responded in a charming, polished voice.

  “I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that one of the pleasures of collecting is showing off how smart you were to buy when you did.”

  Rachel heard their conversation louder than it was. The phrase, a liar, reverberated in her head, and she was still thinking about it when Harrison turned to her and offered his hand.

  With what seemed like an excruciating effort, she reciprocated. His eyes were a frosty green, the color of the sea in the winter. And then their fingers met.

  Alex and Davis were discussing the jewelry on display, which the curator was trying to convince the collector to permanently loan to the museum, and she didn’t think either of them noticed the surprise on Rachel’s face or the confusion on Harrison’s as they touched.

  The searing heat soldered their flesh together. It was so real and immediate that both of them, at the same time she found out later, thought of the phrase “spontaneous combustion,” but neither said it out loud.

  Harrison Shoal’s eyes looked worried. For her? For himself?

  Rachel felt a gut-wrenching pull so strong, she wondered if she had stepped forward, but no, there was still a good twelve inches separating them.

  Then that damned humming returned. She tried to fight it. To hold on to her equilibrium. To stop herself from slipping into the warm void. To resist. Her vision clouded, just for a second. When it cleared it was as if the tears that had filled her eyes had been blown away by a wind.

  The room was darker than it had been only moments before. The candlelight shimmered with a phosphorescent glow. The atmosphere grew warmer, and the scent of the roses intensified into a heady perfume that made her dizzy. It was becoming hard to breathe, harder still to stand up.

  The song the band was playing segued into a slow, seductive waltz. The air undulated and wavered, and it seemed to Rachel she was looking through a blaze.

  This man was dancing with her, and where his arms touched her body she felt she was being indelibly marked by his fingertips. As he moved her around the room, her body screamed where she was in contact with him.

  People around her were talking in Italian. She wasn’t in the museum anymore. This was a grand palace in a foreign country. She could see the tips of her shoes; they weren’t the silver sling-backs she’d put on earlier that evening but kid boots, and her gown was now rose-colored and swept the floor. She felt air on the back of her neck where her hair was pinned up…but she never wore it up.

  “We must keep the secret for a while longer. Will you promise to do that? Otherwise, it might be dangerous.”

  Suddenly frightened, she nodded.

  He spun her around and the room streaked by, a haze of colors. And then she blinked and everything—the lights, the music, the scent of the flowers—returned to the way it had been before. She touched her own cheek, needing to understand the sudden fever she felt, but her skin was cool to the touch.

  Chapter 41

  But it sometimes happens that the Angel of Forgetfulness himself forgets to remove from our memories the records of the former world and then our senses are haunted by fragmentary recollections of another life. They drift like torn clouds above the hills and valleys of our mind and weave themselves in the incidents of our current existence.

  —Sholem Asch, The Nazarene

  New York City—Monday, 7:15 a.m.

  The sky was gray and menacing—matching Josh’s mood. Leaving his apartment on West Fifty-Third Street, he walked four blocks uptown, and entered Central Park through Merchants’ Gate at Columbus Circle and continued north, waiting for some of his anxiety to lessen. For the past four months, before his trip to Rome, this morning walk to the Phoenix Foundation had been one of the few things that calmed him. A few hundred yards in, he stopped and breathed in deeply, smelling the freshly cut grass and the heavy humidity, but his sense of unrest didn’t lessen.

  What had happened in Rome had put him in danger—danger that might have followed him home and had raised too many questions. Where were the stones? What were they capable of? Why had the thief been killed? By whom? What had happened to Gabriella?

  While he was still in Rome, he’d tried to reach her but could only get the number for her office at Yale, and although he’d left messages there, he hadn’t heard back. He’d tried several more times since returning home but still hadn’t made contact, which had exacerbated his anxiety.

  Josh hurried past a row of weeping pine trees that stood like ominous sentinels along the paths. He was rushing, but didn’t have to. The foundation was only a mile’s walk, at this rate he’d reach it before eight, which was still too early to start making phone calls and locate her.

  At West Drive near Strawberry Fields, Josh turned right toward the bridle path, a rarely used area of the park with little pedestrian traffic since so few people went horseback riding, especially on a weekday morning. If he had the time, Josh always took this detour so he could walk by the Riftstone Arch.

  In the mid-1800s, when Fredrick Law Olmstead had sculpted the park out of rampant woodlands, he’d brought in several architects to work on the project. One of them, Calvert Vaux, had built Riftstone in 1862 using Manhattan schist stone and created one of the park’s few bridges that appeared to be a natural arch. Big outcroppings of boulders, tall trees and overgrown shrubs concealed the brick supports that held it up, and the sloping hillside on either side obscured its elevations.

  When he was a kid, Josh had visited every area of the park, including this one, but rediscovering the arch on one of his first walks to the foundation, he’d discovered it was now a trigger. Walking here in the past few months, he’d had several lurches that threw him back to the late nineteenth century and into encounters with a young man named Percy Talmage who’d often come here with his sister, Esme. First, as children, to play and later, as young adults, to get away from the untenable atmosphere in their home. Unlike Josh, they didn’t walk through the park to find the arch. The Talmages reached the Riftstone Arch by way of a hidden passage built into the rocks that led to a tunnel connecting the park to their home: the building that now housed the Phoenix Foundation.

  At their first meeting, Malachai had been taken aback when Josh told him he knew about Percy and Esme. Beryl less so. When it came to past life experiences and present-life incidents there were no coincidences. But then, when Josh had described the tunnel, even she had been astounded. There was nothing on record or in the architectural drawings of either the mansion or the park that included the secret underground thoroughfare that had collapsed on itself sometime in the early 1920s and had been closed up.

  Several times, Josh had tried but failed to locate the entrance to the tunnel somewhere near the arch.

  Percy’s memories of being there with Esme, though, were not as difficult to find.

  * * *

  Malachai was on the phone when Josh stuck his head in his office doorway, but he motioned for Josh to come in and sit down.

  While he waited for the call to end, Josh noticed an antiquarian book lying on the large partners desk, light from the green glass lamp illuminating the gilt lettering on the cover: Breakthroughs in Translife Detection.

  Opening it, he almost thought he could hear sighs escaping. How long had it been since these pages had been exposed to the air?

  Breakthroughs in Translife Detection By Christopher Drew First Edition 1867 Ackitson and Kidd Publishers New York City

  The first page had extensive water damage, but Josh had no trouble reading from the introduction.

  In the history of mankind, never before has there been a less spiritual age. Never before have we paid so little attention to the soul. Never have we been more obsessed with the material world and less connected t
o the metaphysical one. The result is a generation of unhappy men who disguise their melancholy with the quest for power and material wealth.

  The questions of who we are cannot be asked without first asking who we were. Not to do so is to walk away from the past knowledge that has future implications. What this book aims to do is help the reader to discover his past so that he can—

  “I’m sorry that took so long,” Malachai said as he hung up. “How was your trip back?”

  Josh filled him in and then asked him the same question.

  “I took a sleeping pill and dreamed about gladiators.” Malachai smiled, and without asking poured Josh a cup of coffee. “You look like you could use this.”

  Josh sipped at the steaming liquid, not caring if he burned his mouth. Malachai was right. He did need it. “We shouldn’t have left Rome,” he said in a tense, strained voice. “If we’d stayed we might have been able to get a lead on who orchestrated the robbery and where the stones are, and find out from the detective where—”

  Malachai interrupted, “We were strangers in a strange land, Josh. Two men were dead. You were in jail for twenty-four hours. You were the only witness to two homicides. Your life was in danger there. We’re damn lucky we got out as fast as we did and they didn’t keep us there—or you there—as a material witness.”

  “We gave up too fast.”

  “Didn’t you hear anything I just said? Someone killed the professor and stole the stones, and you saw him.”

  “I saw a shadow and then I saw that shadow killed.”

  “But who killed him? And why? The danger is still out there, Josh.”

  “A possible threat isn’t as disturbing as the idea that we’ve lost the stones. I need to know who I am, who I was…and I thought I was going to finally find out. God, I’d kill to get those stones.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t say that in front of Inspector Tatti. We never would have gotten out of the country.” Malachai stared at him.