The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller

by Gregg Loomis

  "You're suggesting what, a four-year-old sexual predator? Besides, Wynn-Three literally shit his pants at the Pink Pig, remember? He drew that goddam picture of a prisoner at nursery school before Manfred came over here, too. If someone's head is screwed up, it's that fruitcake minder you saw this afternoon."

  "Okay, Mr. Realism, what do you suggest we do now?"

  Wynton refilled his glass, calmed slightly both by the passage of time and alcohol. "I suggest we tell the people at St. Philip's we're seeing their fucking head doctor and let Wynn-Three outgrow it."

  "And if he doesn't?"

  "He will."

  Paige wished she could be as certain.

  CHAPTER 19

  Oberkoenigsburg, Austria

  January 16

  FRIEDRICH GRATZ FUMED AS HE SIPPED his third cup of coffee. Not only was the stuff outrageously expensive, two euros a cup, but all he could do was wait, squandering his short supply of time and money. The image of an hourglass would not leave his mind. He had to wait until there were enough skiers so he would not be noticed and that might be somewhat later than he had anticipated.

  He had been at the lift when it began operation that morning. A quick glance around told him he had made a mistake: only the most enthusiastic skiers were out at this hour. The bulk of the resort's guests were no doubt enjoying the hotel's generous Frühstück, breakfast buffet, or were still sleeping off the whisky and schnapps from the night before.

  Shortly before noon, he decided he could wait no longer and set out for the summit.

  He was aware of the risk he was taking. No doubt the dead ski patrol's comrades would be searching for him and, if he were found near the hastily concealed body, he would certainly be detained and questioned by the local police. The Mauser had been dumped in the first trash receptacle he had passed after coming off the mountain yesterday, and there was no other way he could be linked with the killing other than his interest in an area closed to skiers.

  Or so he hoped.

  Forty-five minutes later, Friedrich, out of breath, leaned against a boulder, and surveyed the same landscape he had seen yesterday afternoon. Today, with the sun practically overhead, shadows claimed much less of the area. Shadows or not, there was still no visible clue as to the location of the mine shaft.

  There were a number of possibilities, none of them encouraging. As he had thought yesterday, the resort could well have covered the entrance, making entry impossible without heavy equipment. There was also the chance there was more than one mine in the surrounding mountains, each served by its own cog railroad. Equally frustrating was the chance Friedrich's father had simply gotten the location wrong. Or the onset of Alzheimer's had smudged the line between memory and fantasy. The old man had seemed so certain, so sure.

  As far as Friedrich knew, though, his father had never come here seeking what he said had been concealed in these hills. A reluctance to visit the past or uncertainty as to the location? Perhaps fear that he might somehow be connected to his job as a guard at a Nazi slave camp and face war crimes prosecution. Friedrich was beginning to suspect he would never be sure. He found only the brutal reality of the mountain, the rocks, scattered like Friedrich's dreams of a Caribbean Island.

  There had to be some method of finding what the world had apparently forgotten, had to be. Perhaps somewhere a map existed. Friedrich snorted. Only millions of documents from the war, many unindexed, and he was going to find a map? The map? Better chance of winning the lottery.

  He spent the next hour circling the summit, trying to visually probe each small crevice or hole in the rock's face. By midafternoon he had nothing to reward his efforts other than feet chafing from wet socks. He acknowledged that admitting defeat was the sensible thing to do, but the trade winds and easy Caribbean lifestyle were far too seductive to abandon that easily.

  No, he would not give up. But he was uncertain what his next move should be. His father had had friends, old men who occasionally gathered in the corners of local beer halls to savor the local brew and fading memories. Some of them must still be alive; or their children with whom they might have shared information. Perhaps a former Kamerad of his father's, perhaps their son or daughter. The search was not over; it had just begun.

  Friedrich checked out of the hotel and then stopped at a trash container near the parking lot. One or two young people gave him odd looks as he dug through empty bottles, food wrappers, and newspapers. No one noticed him retrieve the Mauser. He just might need it again.

  CHAPTER 20

  Excerpt from The Scrolls of Issa

  (Translated from the Russian Translation

  by Nicholas Notovitch 1894)

  WHEN HE WAS IN HIS THIRTEENTH year, Issa came from a land far to the west called Judea where snow was unknown. He came with a trade caravan seeking silk and spices. But Issa sought not riches but wisdom. Departing from his comrades, he traveled (present-day Pakistan, Afghanistan, and northern India, ed.). He continued south into the country of the Gautamides among the followers of the Gautama Buddha where he studied the Vedas.

  So well did he master it that he left, traveling through the country of the five rivers to the Sind (lower Indus Valley, now southern Pakistan, ed.), spreading the power of prayer, of meditation, explaining the holy scriptures and driving out evil spirits from those so possessed.

  Came to him a woman with her child two days dead and Issa touched him, praying and the child arose, speaking to his mother and recognizing his brothers. And the people and the Brahman priests marveled but Issa said it was not he but the Supreme Spirit who had done such a thing because Issa believed as so should the people.

  And so they named him Issa from Isha, which means "lord" and was the name of the god Shiva.

  CHAPTER 21

  Marcie

  498 Rear Lafayette Drive

  Atlanta

  February 12

  MARCIE HAD QUALMS ABOUT WHAT SHE planned to do. Not enough to deter her, but qualms nonetheless. She had suggested Paige spend the afternoon at Spa Buckhead, get the massage, mud pack, the works. She felt good about that: her friend Paige had not done anything that self-indulgent since Marcie could remember and she deserved it, what with all the worrying over Wynn-Three. It was why she had suggested the spa that made Marcie just a little queasy somewhere down at the bottom of her stomach.

  With Paige enjoying her spa day, Wynn-Three had been entrusted to Marcie for the afternoon. Not all that unusual. When his mother planned an afternoon at the mall or had a luncheon with girlfriends, Marcie was the natural choice to look after Wynn-Three. Normally the little boy watched TV or took a nap while Marcie worked at the computer. On other occasions, when Marcie didn't have a deadline and the weather was nice, they might go play in the park.

  This afternoon would be very different.

  After walking back from Paige's house with Wynn-Three's hand in hers, she waited and watched behind drawn curtains until Paige's SUV pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the street.

  She watched Wynn-Three finish a glass of orange juice at the kitchen table before she bundled him up against the day's blustery cold and loaded him into her Honda.

  "Where we go, Marwie?" Wynn-Three asked as she strapped him into the car seat she had bought for the occasion. "We not go in Marwie's car before."

  "Special treat today," she said laconically as she shut the door and went around to the front. "It'll be a surprise."

  That didn't make her feel any better.

  In fact, the deeper she got into her plan, the worse she felt. But why? she wondered. She wasn't going to harm Wynn-Three, she told herself, not really. And what she might accomplish would make her journalistic bones, put her right up there with the big boys. Maybe even an appearance on Today or 60 Minutes. And Paige wouldn't mind, not really. Neither would that asshole lawyer husband of hers. He was too busy with that big deal law practice of his to even notice. Besides, if she, Marcie, accomplished what she thought she might, Paige and Wynton might get on televis
ion as well. There was nothing lawyers loved more than having their names and faces on TV, real TV, not the ambulance chasers on those late-night commercials.

  A few minutes later she was driving down Moreland Avenue along the city's eastern edge. Then she was in Atlanta's Little Five Points, an edgy area with funky bars and stores that sold scented candles, health food, and used clothing. She turned onto Euclid Avenue and into Inman Park, Atlanta's oldest subdivision, a mix of Craftsman cottages and Victorian mansions. One had been built in the early twentieth century by Coca-Cola's founder, Asa Candler. It featured a two-story stained glass of the former owner feeding the pigeons in San Marco Square in Venice.

  In the mid part of the century, most of the homes had suffered from urban blight. Large homes were turned into cheap rooming houses or left to decay as the area became decidedly unfashionable. But in the '70s and '80s, a renaissance of restoration had drawn young people wanting spacious rooms, hardwood floors, and proximity to downtown. The new paint, well-kept lawns, and a relentless homeowner's association transformed the neighborhood. Pride in ownership revitalized its down-at-the-heels aura. Yet there were still some holdouts that attested to the area's seedier past. It was in front of one of those houses that Marcie parked her Honda. A small hand-painted sign announced, DR. I. J. BALISHA: HYPNOTISM FOR A BETTER LIFE.

  Marcie was unsure how hypnotism could lead to a better life of the subject even though she hoped it might indirectly improve her own. Besides, Dr. I. J. Balisha was the only hypnotist in the Yellow Pages who had agreed to see her without referrals or a lengthy interview. She led Wynn-Three up a cracked cement walk to a low front porch. A number of boards were missing, and the one-story cottage could have used a painting years ago. Even the little boy's unusual silence seemed to note the air of neglect.

  The idea had come from Marcie's computer research.

  In 1952 an amateur hypnotist named Morey Bernstein had put Virginia Tighe, a neighbor in Pueblo, Colorado, under hypnosis, regressing from her present life to her childhood. The session had not ended with infancy as expected. Instead, Tighe had developed a thick brogue accent and identified herself as Bridey Murphy, a nineteenth-century housewife in County Cork, Ireland. Although Tighe had never traveled to the Emerald Isle, Bridey gave descriptions of streets, landmarks, and homes that subsequently proved to be accurate.

  Subsequent hypnotic regressions revealed Bridey's children, friends, and descriptions of daily life, as well as local expressions, customs, and legends of the age. Bernstein wrote a bestselling book about it, published in 1956, entitled The Search for Bridey Murphy.

  Bernstein could not have anticipated the subsequent firestorm. The Catholic Church condemned the work not only as pure fiction but also as an attack on the Christian belief in the Resurrection of the body. During his fifteen minutes of fame, Bernstein almost rivaled Martin Luther on the Church's all-time enemies list. Other religious leaders from the Aga Khan to Wiccans expressed passionate opinions both pro and con. Southwest Ireland was flooded with investigative reporters eager to debunk or verify Bridey's story. As is usually the case in such disputes, each clue's value depended on which side of the controversy one belonged.

  Though the firestorm burnt out as quickly as it started, no verdict was ever rendered. Virginia Tighe may have been Bridey Murphy in a previous life.

  If Virginia Tighe, why not Wynn-Three?

  Marcie was reaching for the doorbell when the door swung open. A man, perhaps six feet, stood at the threshold in a Nehru jacket that reached below the knees and thong sandals. He might have stepped out of one of Kipling's stories. Her imagination had no problems placing a turban on his head with a baseball-sized ruby in the center.

  He flashed white teeth made even brighter in contrast with his dark skin. "You are Ms. Rollens?"

  Marcie nodded. "And you are Dr. Balisha?"

  He in turn nodded as he motioned Marcie and Wynn-Three inside. "If you will follow me . . ."

  The hallway had a smell Marcie recognized but could not quite identify. The muted strains of jangling music reminded her of an Indian restaurant. That placed the odor: curry. Balisha opened a door at the back of the house. Blinds pulled, the room was illuminated by what resembled two old-fashioned oil lamps. Three ornately carved chairs were in a semicircle around an equally elaborate couch and an anomalous government surplus desk.

  Shutting the door, Balisha indicated the chairs. "Perhaps you might tell me exactly how I may be of service. On the phone you mentioned a regression."

  Marcie could not hold Wynn-Three's uneasy stare. "Er, yeah. This is Wynton Charles III, Wynn-Three."

  The hypnotist flashed those teeth again, this time at the little boy. Marcie had an image of the wolf smiling at the three little pigs. "And how are you today, Wynn-Three?"

  It was clear Wynn-Three was not getting any more comfortable. He whispered something that sounded like a rehearsed, "Well, thank you."

  Balisha turned back to Marcie. "You failed to tell me the subject was a small child."

  "That makes a difference?"

  "Ms. Rollens," he began without the slightest effort to keep his tone from being patronizing, "small children are a constant source of energy; they are difficult to relax. Their karma is still fitful. To hypnotize this little boy . . ." He cleared his throat. "Most adults operate on what is known as the beta brain wave during normal activity, about twenty to thirty cycles per second. Hypnosis is possible at the alpha level, about four to seven cycles per second. To go from beta to alpha, serious relaxation is necessary. Hypnosis reacts with the subconscious which is about 88 percent of the mind, the part that tells us to breath, our heart to keep pumping, et cetera. The subconscious has no reasoning ability, no ability to fabricate. That is why retrogressions are possible. At least with a child, the subject does not have sufficient experience to confuse memory with facts he has read or seen on TV. But getting them from beta to alpha is the problem."

  Marcie didn't know much about subconscious or karma, but she recognized a shake-down when she saw it. She lifted her purse from the floor and held up a hundred dollar bill. "This is what you said your fee for one hour would be."

  Balisha licked his lips, his eyes glued to the money. "That is true but you did not inform me . . ."

  Another bill joined the first, the last bit of cash from her savings account. She would never buy those shoes. "Take it or leave it."

  He eyed those two green Ben Franklins like a starving man in front of a bakery shop's window. She started to stand up and his hand touched hers as he slipped the money from her grasp. It disappeared into a pocket she hadn't seen.

  "Very well, but your hour has started."

  He rummaged around in the desk, producing a mangy teddy bear and gave it to Wynn-Three. "His name is Kurdal. Do you like him?"

  The little boy nodded tentatively.

  At the hypnotist's instruction, Wynn-Three lay down on the couch. It took a bit of soothing requests from Marcie to get him to be still. Only then did Balisha begin.

  "I want you to look carefully at Kurdal, study him, his face, his arms, his legs, and I will tell you a story."

  With a rhythmic monotone, he droned on, simply speaking to Wynn-Three in a voice so soothing even Marcie had to fight to keep her eyelids open.

  It seemed as if only seconds had passed before the hypnotist turned to Marcie. "He is asleep. Hypnotized. Where shall I begin?"

  Marcie's hand went to her purse again, this time pressing the start button on the small recorder. "Start? Start with Wynton Charles III? You are sure he is hypnotized?"

  "Quite," came the reply. "You wanted to regress his memory. Where do you wish to begin?"

  A few questions that brought a murmured response. A dark, warm place. Water.

  "Womb," whispered Balisha before returning to his subject. "And before that, tell us what you remember before that."

  Abruptly, Wynn-Three's expression changed from the neutrality of sleep to one of pain. He drew up his legs and hugged his elbo
w. "Cold. So cold."

  Marcie glanced around the room, expecting some sort of trick. The voice had changed even more than the expression. She was hearing a grown man, someone to whom English was not a first language.

  "Who are you?" Balisha asked gently.

  At first Marcie didn't understand the answer. "Who?" she whispered. "Who does he say he is?"

  "Someone calling himself Solomon Mustawitz."

  CHAPTER 22

  480 Lafayette Drive

  Atlanta

  Three Hours Later

  "YOU DID WHAT?"

  "It's called a regression," Marcie said, trying not to notice how upset Paige was becoming. "See, it's not that Wynn-Three has some sort of mental problems, he's simply remembering a former life."

  Paige was having a hard time accepting what she was hearing, but she was becoming convinced Marcie had subjected her son to God only knew what. At the moment, fury, pure and simple, was overcoming disbelief. "You talked me into going to a spa so you could take him to some crackpot who hypnotized him? You knew damn well I never would have agreed. And now you're telling me he was a prisoner in some kind of Nazi death camp?"

  Marcie held up a cassette as though that explained everything. "I made you a copy. You can listen to the session yourself."

  Paige wanted to scream, to slap sense into Marcie. Instead, she glanced to the chair where Wynn-Three sat quietly. Compared to his normal restless, boisterous self, the child was nearly catatonic.

  She inhaled, her newly shaped nails digging into the palms of her hands. "Hypnosis. I suppose your next idea will be an exorcism. He isn't going to get over whatever is disturbing him because you think he had a prior life or is in contact with someone by telepathy or whatever. You may well have made his problems worse. You sure as hell aren't helping." She stopped to breathe deeply again, just the way the women's magazines said to manage anger. "Do you have any idea what damage you might have done?"