The Reincarnationist (5 page)

T
he man sat in the leather chair, his hands resting on the arm pads, his fingers circling the smooth nail heads. Around and around the cold metal circles as if this one movement was enough to keep him occupied forever. His eyes were shut. The gold drapes were drawn, and the room's rich decor was cloaked in darkness.

He was satisfied to sit and do nothing but wait. Long pauses in the plan didn't bother him. Not after all this time. From the moment he'd first heard the legend of the Memory Stones he knew that one day whatever power they held would be his. Needed to be his. No price was too high and no effort was too great to find out about the past.

His past.

His present.

And so, too, his future.

The idea that the stones might work, that they could, in fact, enable people to remember their previous lives, was unbearably pleasurable to him. He fantasized about the stones the way other men fantasized about women. His daydreams about what would happen once they were in his possession elevated his blood pressure, took away
his breath and made him feel weak and strong at the same time in an utterly satisfying way. And because he'd been taught to be disciplined, he gave in to the temptation of dreaming about them only when he felt he deserved the indulgence.

He deserved it now.

Were they emeralds? Sapphires the color of the night skies? Lapis? Obsidian? Were they rough? Polished? What would they feel like? Small and smooth? Larger? Like glass? Would they be luminescent? Or dull, ordinary-looking things that didn't begin to suggest their power?

He didn't mind waiting, but it seemed to him that he should have heard by now.

He had an appointment he had to keep. No, it was premature to worry. He wouldn't contemplate any kind of failure. He disliked that he'd involved other people in his plan. No one you hired, no matter how much you paid them, was entirely trustworthy. Regardless of how well he'd tried to plan for the mistakes that could happen along the way, he was certain to have overlooked at least a few. He felt a new wave of anxiety start to build deep in his chest and took several deep breaths.

Relax.
You 've reached this point
. You'll succeed.

But so much is at stake.

He picked up the well-worn book he'd been reading last night when his anticipation of what today would bring had kept him awake,
Theosophy
by the nineteenth-century philosopher Rudolf Steiner. There were always new books being published on the subject that mattered so much to him—he bought and read them all—but it was the thinkers of the past centuries whom he responded to and returned to so often: the poetry of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Walt Whitman, Longfellow; the prose of Ralph Waldo Emerson, George Sand,
Victor Hugo, Honoré de Balzac and so many more who engaged, reassured and aided him in amending and revising his own ever-evolving theories. They were his touchstones, these great minds that he could only know through their words. So many brilliant men and women who had believed what he believed.

He let the book fall open to the soft leather bookmark with his initials stamped on the cordovan in gold, at the beginning of a chapter titled “The Soul in the World of Souls after Death.” He'd underlined several paragraphs and he reread them now.

There follows after death a period for the human spirit in which the soul casts off its weakness for its physical existence in order then to behave in accordance with the laws of the world of the spirit and the soul alone, and to free the mind. It is to be expected that the longer the soul was bound to the physical the longer this period will last….

His right hand returned to the brass buttons on the chair. The metal was cool to the touch. There was not much he'd ever lusted after the way he craved these stones. Once he had them, oh, the knowledge he would gain. The mysteries he would solve. The history he could learn. And more than that.

He read the next paragraph, in which Steiner described how great a pain the soul suffered through its loss of physical gratification and how that condition would continue until the soul had learned to stop longing for things that only a human body could experience.

What would it be like to reach the level of not longing? A pure level of thought, of experiencing the oneness of the universe? The ultimate goal of being reincarnated?

He looked up from the page and over at the phone, as if willing the call to come. It was a simple burglary:
the professor was elderly. He would be there alone. It was just a matter of overpowering him and taking the box. A child could accomplish it. And if a child could do it, an expert could certainly do it. And he was only hiring experts at every step of the way. The most expensive experts money could buy. For a treasure, for this treasure, was any price too high?

There was no reason to worry. The call would come when the job was done. The round brass buttons were warm once more. He moved his fingers over to the next two, relieved by the cold metal on his skin, and returned to the book.

Having reached this highest degree of sympathy with the rest of the world of the soul, the soul will dissolve in it, will become one with it….

If he had proof of past lives, actual reassurance of future lives, what would he do with the knowledge first? Not torture or punish; he had no desire to cause pain or sorrow. Find lost treasure? Discover truths that had been turned into lies through history? Yes, all that in time, but the first thing he would—

The sound startled him, although he was expecting it, and he jerked forward in the chair. As much as he wanted to, he didn't pick up on the first ring. He put the bookmark back in the book and closed it. Listening to the second ring, he took a satisfying breath. He'd waited for this for so long.

Lifting the receiver, he held it up to his ear.

“Yes?”

“It's done,” said the man in heavily accented Italian.

“You'll proceed to the next step?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

He was ready to hang up, but the man spoke quickly. “There's something I should tell you.”

He braced himself.

“We had a small accident, and—”

“No. Not on the phone. Report it through your contact.” He hung up and stood.

People were fools. He'd explained a dozen times how important it was that nothing revealing be discussed over the phone. Anyone could be listening. Besides, it didn't matter if there'd been a small accident. Accidents happened, didn't they? What mattered was that the stones were almost in his possession, at last.

“A
re you hurt?” Josh asked the professor.

“No, stunned, not hurt.”

He was on his back, lying on the mosaic floor, at the foot of the ladder.

“Here, let me help you. Are you sure he didn't hit you?”

“It was so odd, looking up into the barrel of the gun, it was like looking into the night. Except a night as big as all the nights I've ever known. As big as all the nights Bella has slept all these sixteen hundred years.”

Rudolfo was having trouble straightening up; he was favoring one side of his body.

“Are you sure you are all right?”

He nodded. Concentrated. Frowned. And then looked down at his stomach.

The professor was wearing a dark blue shirt, and until that moment, in the low light inside the tomb, Josh had missed the spreading stain. But now they both saw it at the same time.

As carefully as he could, Josh pulled the professor's shirt away from his body. The wound seeped blood. Snaking his fingers around Rudolfo's back, he checked
for an exit wound. He couldn't find one. The bullet was still inside him.

Meanwhile, the professor kept talking. “Good timing for you,” he said. “If you hadn't been in the tunnel you would be bleeding like a pig, too, eh?”

Except, Josh thought, if he'd been quicker, he might have prevented this. Hadn't he thought this before?

“Bad timing for me,” the professor rambled. “I would have liked to have lived long enough to find out if what Gabriella and I have found…Find out if what Bella has been protecting all these years…is…is…as important as we think.”

“Nothing's going to happen to you.” Josh put his fingers on the man's wrist, looked at his own watch and counted.

“If I'd had a daughter…” the professor said, “she'd be just like her…tough as nails…with that one soft streak. She's too much alone, though…all the time alone….”

“Bella?” Josh asked, only half listening. The professor was losing blood too quickly; his pulse was too slow.

Rudolfo tried to laugh but only managed a grimace. “No. Gabby. This find…Her find…Something no one believed existed. But she was as cool as…What is your expression…Cool as…What is it?”

“Cool as? Oh. Cool as a cucumber.”

Rudolfo smiled faintly; he was visibly failing.

“Professor, I need to call for help. Do you have a phone?”

“Now we know…dangerous…what we found…. You'll tell her, dangerous….”

“Professor, do you have a phone? I need to call for help.”

“Did he take…all of the box, too?”

“The box?” Josh looked around and saw the pieces of it on the ground. “No. It's still here. Professor, can you hear me? Do you have a phone? I need to call for help. We need to get you to a hospital.”

“The box…is here?” The idea seemed to buoy him.

“Yes. Professor, do you have a phone?”

“Jacket. Pocket.”

Finding the phone, Josh checked for a signal and then dialed 911. Nothing. He stared at the LED panel. 911? Why did he think the number would be the same in Italy?

He hit zero and was connected in seconds with an operator.

“Medical emergency,” he shouted as soon as he heard another human voice, hoping the words were similar enough in Italian for her to understand. They must have been because the woman said
sì
and switched him over. While he waited he wondered what he would do if the next operator didn't speak English. But that turned out to be the least of his problems.

“Yes, I understand. An ambulance. Where is your location?” the next operator asked.

An address. A simple thing, really. Except Josh had no idea where he was. He looked down; the professor's eyes were shut.

“Professor Rudolfo? Can you hear me? I need to tell them where we are. An address. Can you hear me?”

No response.

Josh explained what was going on to the sympathetic woman on the other end of the phone. “He's not responsive. I'm afraid he's dying. And I don't know where we are.”

“Are there any landmarks?”

“I'm sixteen feet under the ground!”

“Go outside, look for something, some sign, a name, a building. Anything.”

“I'll have to leave him.”

“Yes, but you have no choice.”

He leaned down to the professor. “I'm going outside for a minute.”

Rudolfo opened his eyes and Josh thought he'd heard the question and was going to tell him where they were, but he wasn't focused on Josh. Searching the room frantically, his eyes settled on the body of the woman who had died here so many years ago. Then he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Josh looked over at her, too. “Keep him safe,” he whispered, oblivious of how strange a thing that was for him to do.

Even though he climbed up the ladder as quickly as he could, he didn't think he was moving fast enough. Reaching the surface, he scanned the area.

“I'm in a damn field. I see…there are cypress trees…oak trees…” He turned. “A hill behind me. About five hundred yards away there's a piece of a gate or a building, very old….”

“That doesn't help. No signs?”

“If there was a sign, goddamn it—” His voice was strained and loud.

“There is probably a road, sir. Find the road if you can,” she interrupted.

“Right. Stay with me. I'll find something.”

Josh jogged down the slight hill. Looked left, right. It was just a stretch of two-lane highway. To his right there was a bend blocking the view. To the left, more of the same vista: cypress tress, lush verdant fields with terracotta rooftops far in the background. Nothing specific to help him tell her where they were.

Someone must know where the hell this place was. Someone other than the man who lay dying in the crypt.

“Tell me your name,” Josh said to the woman on the phone. “There's someone I can call to get the address. I'll call you right back.”

“My name is Rosa Montanari, but I can stay on the line and connect you. Give me the number, sir.”

Ninety seconds later, Malachai Samuels answered his cell phone on the second ring. “Hello?”

“I don't have any time to explain this to you, but quick, I need you to find Gabriella Chase and get me the exact address of the dig.”

“I just this minute sat down with Gabriella Chase. For breakfast. Aren't you coming?”

“Put her on the phone.”

“Why don't you tell me what—”

“I can't now,” he interrupted. “This is an emergency.”

There was a brief pause during which Josh heard Malachai repeating what he'd said. Then he heard a woman's voice, deep, silvery and anxious.

“Hello, this is Gabriella Chase. Is something wrong?”

Josh stayed on the line while Gabriella dictated the address and then while the operator ordered the ambulance. He didn't understand what was being said, but it was reassuring to know that help was on its way.

When she finished talking to the paramedics, Rosa told Josh she'd stay on the phone with him until they got there and suggested he check on the professor so she could keep the ambulance drivers updated.

Rudolfo's breathing was even shallower and he had less color than minutes before.

“Professor Rudolfo? Professor?”

His lips parted and he whispered a few unintelligible syllables.

“Mr. Ryder? Are you there?”

Josh almost forgot he was still holding the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

“How is the
professore?
” Rosa asked.

“Very bad. He's unconscious.”

“The ambulance should arrive in eight to ten minutes.”

“I don't know if he can make it that long. He's still bleeding. I thought it had stopped. Is there anything I can do until they get here?”

“I have a doctor standing by.”

This wondrous woman had an emergency room doctor on another line, and for the next interminable few minutes, with Rosa translating, Dr. Fallachi helped Josh keep the professor alive and stop the blood loss. It would take approximately twenty minutes for someone to bleed out and die from a wound like the one the professor sustained, the doctor said. Josh judged ten to twelve minutes had already passed. It was going to be close.

From the corner, Sabina, because now that was how he thought of her, looked over at them with her sightless eyes, and under her ghostly gaze he felt the full force of his failure. If this man died, it was his fault. If he hadn't been in the tunnel, he would have been able to help Rudolfo. Instead, he'd been deep in the earth, bathed in sweat, almost paralyzed with anxiety, crawling toward some long-forgotten remembrance or some insane man's delirium.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. But only the bones heard him. Sabina's bones.