The Reincarnation of Peter Proud (21 page)

Peter studied the photograph. The face smiled up at him. It was faded and a little blurred, but even so it seemed alive.

It was a handsome face, virile, rugged. Dark eyes, black hair cut in the short haircut popular in the forties. The nose a little hawk-like. The hint of high cheekbones. Good jaw. He wore a tennis sweater. But it was the half-smile playing around the rather thin mouth that fascinated Peter. There was something mocking about it. Amused. Even a little cruel. It seemed to be saying:
Once, I was you, And now, you are me
.

For a long time he studied the face of the man he had been. Then he took a nail file from his wallet and carefully cut out the article. He folded the clipping and stuffed it into his wallet. He felt a little guilty at this small vandalism. But then, he thought, they’ll never miss it.

He closed the heavy volume and put it back on the shelf. He walked down the narrow alleys between the shelves until he emerged near the door. As he started to go out he heard the voice.

“One moment, sir.”

He turned. Through a blur he saw the librarian sitting at the desk.

Peter hadn’t even noticed him. The man looked a little annoyed. Of course—at the very least, he had expected some kind of thanks. The old man pointed to a register on his desk.

“You’ll have to sign here.”

“Sign?”

“Your name. All visitors who use the morgue have to sign in.”

Peter went back to the desk. The librarian handed him a pen. He signed his name and started to walk out again.

“Hey, mister!” He turned. The old man was staring at him. “This some kind of joke or something?”

“What?”

“You better come back and sign again.”

The name he had just signed was:
Jeffrey Chapin
.

He crossed it out and wrote “Peter Proud” over it. Then he mumbled his thanks to the librarian and went out.

Taking the elevator down, he walked through the busy lobby and onto the street. He got into the car. He checked his city map, and then headed up Main Street.

He knew exactly where he had to go.

I have been here before
,

But when or how I cannot tell;

I know the grass beyond the door
,

The sweet keen smell
,

The sighing sound, the lights around the shore
.

You have been mine before—

How long ago I may not know;

But just when at that swallow’s soar

Your neck turned so
,

Some veil did fall—I knew it all of yore
.

—D
ANTE
G
ABRIEL
R
OSSETTI

Hillside Cemetery was located about a mile beyond the city limits.

The approach to it was up a long hill. When he reached the crest, Peter could see the entire spread of the cemetery below him. It was big, much bigger than he had expected, and surrounded by a high stone fence. He could see the rows upon rows of headstones, the statues, the small marble tombs, the angels with outstretched arms and wings. Now they seemed like a silent white army, standing at attention on a lush green parade ground.

It seemed strange that his other body should be buried somewhere down there.

The sky had darkened, and now and then there was the ominous roll of thunder. Lean black clouds raced along under a backdrop of gray, bending low and running hard, like stealthy guerrillas. The wind had freshened; it whispered a wet word—rain. Peter looked at his wristwatch. It was a few minutes after six. Soon it would be getting dark. He had to hurry.

He drove to the main entrance. Two iron gates, now locked, blocked the entry road into the graveyard. The door to the cemetery office next to the gates was locked. He began to pound on the door. Nobody answered. The office was closed for the day.

He came around to the side and looked into the window. He could see, through the Venetian blinds, a couple of desks, and a big map of the cemetery on the wall. Somewhere inside, he knew, there would be some record of each grave, and who was lying in it.

For a moment he contemplated breaking the window and crawling in. But the traffic moving up and down this road caused him to think better of it. He went to the gates; they were barred from the inside. The rear half of the cemetery office protruded into the graveyard, and there was a back door there. Someone from the office must open the gates from the inside each morning.

A peal of thunder startled him. He stood there indecisively. He could come back tomorrow, of course. But he knew he could not wait. His grave was somewhere inside. He wanted to see it
now
.

He studied the wall. He could see that it was too high for him to climb over. He got into the car and drove it across the grass, parking it parallel to the wall. Then he got out and clambered up on top of the hood. It was easy for him now to grasp the top of the wall, swing over, and drop to the other side.

He stopped and stared at the gravestones ahead of him. There seemed to be a thousand of them stretching over the horizon to infinity. Square stones, rectangular stones, some massive, some slender, and some small, for little children.

He began to walk past one row of stones and then another, looking for his grave. He had absolutely no idea where it was. All he could do was keep looking through this maze, looking at every stone in this damned graveyard till he found it.

The thunder continued to rumble, but the rain held off. The wind whipped up higher, spinning dead leaves in front of him in little vortices. He walked up one row, and down another. Then up the next row, and down the one after that….

Where the hell was it, anyway?

He became angry, frustrated. He must have looked at hundreds of gravestones. His eyes ached from peering at the inscriptions as he walked by. He had to check every one; otherwise, he might miss it. After a while he estimated that he had covered perhaps a quarter of the cemetery.

He thought he felt a drop of rain. It was getting late now. The
lead-gray sky and the oncoming night conspired to wreathe the graveyard in an eerie twilight. It was getting very hard to see. In fifteen minutes it would be too dark….

Then he saw it. It was a square stone. Massive. Made of polished granite. The inscription was simple:

He walked over and caressed the stone with his hand. He ran his fingers over the graven letters.

Jeffrey Chapin. Loving husband and father.

His head seemed to explode. He had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. Nearby, he saw an open grave. It had been newly dug, prepared for the next day. The grave diggers had left their shovels sticking in the fresh mound of sand.

For a moment he had a crazy impulse. He wanted to grab one of the shovels and, like some ghoul, dig down deep, into his own grave. He wanted to reach the casket and open the cover.

And look at himself.

He did not know how long he had been standing there. It was dark now. A raindrop hit him in the face, then another. His pores oozed sweat. He could barely make out some of the gravestones around him. He thought of all the rotting bodies below them. Bodies like his, whose souls had left long ago to find some other house. All these stones, he thought, suitably inscribed. They seemed such a waste. They marked nothing but the organic or chemical remains of the dear departed.

Reason came to him again. He was an idiot, standing around the cemetery like this in the darkness. He stumbled back to the narrow cemetery drive, walked to the gates, opened them, and got into the car. His next move now was very clear.

As he drove, he thought of himself and Jeffrey Chapin. Their karmic resemblance was remarkable. Bits and pieces of the puzzle became clear now. There was the matter of the strange and painful attacks he would sometimes get in his hip. He knew the answer to that now. And the Prison Dream. Of course it hadn’t been a prison at all. It had been a teller’s cage at the Puritan Bank. Now the cage was separated from the public area by a glass partition. But at one time it must have been protected by bars or some kind of iron grill. The fact that he dreamed he was counting money spoke for itself.

He knew now that, as Jeffrey Chapin, he had died on September 25, 1946. As Peter Proud, he had been born on October 10 of that same year. It had been a quick reincarnation. And, of course, there was the Baby Dream. In his previous incarnation he had been the father of a three-month-old baby daughter, Ann. He and his daughter would be about the same age now. Or, to be accurate, his daughter, if alive, would be three months older than he was.

He came down the long slope, and at the foot of it he saw a gas station. It was drizzling now. He got out and went into the telephone booth in the station parking lot. A Riverside directory hung from a chain. He fumbled through the pages, his fingers trembling. He turned to the names beginning with “C.”

Then he found it, as he had known he would.

Without thinking, he dropped a coin into the slot and dialed the number. A woman’s voice answered, soft, melodious, a little blurred.

“Hello?”

He did not answer. He couldn’t.
Say it to yourself and see how foolish it sounds
. “My name is Peter Proud. I’m the reincarnation of your dead husband. The man you murdered at Lake Nipmuck …”

“Hello? Hello? Who is this?”

He hung up.

Vista Drive. Lush and quiet and exclusive. Streets lined with maples and elms. Post lanterns at the gates, huge manicured lawns fronting columned Georgian homes, Colonials, and here and there a contemporary. Streets named not as streets but rather Lanes, Drives, Ways, and Roads. Masses of hollyhock and forsythia in the corners of the gardens, and spruces to green the winter. Classic street lamps with fat globes throwing off yellow light. Each house with an attached garage and big patio. A place of garden clubs, black maids, low speed limits. Big watchdogs and watchful police.

It had stopped drizzling when he arrived. No. 16 Vista Drive was a Colonial, and typical—white with yellow shutters, brick and stone and wood in the upper stories, post lantern in the driveway, a sweep of manicured lawn.

He parked the car across the street. Through the open garage door he could see the rear ends of a Cadillac and what appeared to be a Jaguar XKE. My love lives well, he thought. Very appropriate for a banker’s daughter.

The lights were on in the house, although the drapes were drawn. In one window on the ground floor, light came through an aperture between the drapes. Curiosity overwhelmed him. He was tempted to get out of the car, run across the lawn, crouch under the window, and look in. Maybe she would be in there now. Maybe he could get a look at her.

It took all his willpower not to try. Reason kept his car door closed. A certain amount of light spilled out onto the lawn. There might be a dog in there. They might pick him up as a voyeur. He’d have a hell of a time explaining what he was doing there. He
couldn’t
explain it. Even sitting here in the car and staring at the house made him conspicuous.

He started the car and began to move down the street. Tomorrow, he decided, was another day. He had just turned the comer when he passed a cruising police car turning into Vista Drive. The men in the car glanced at him curiously as they passed.

When he got back to the hotel a message was waiting for him: Hall Bentley had called and wanted him to call back.

He dialed Bentley’s private number.

“Pete. Haven’t heard from you.” Then eagerly: “What’s happened?”

Peter hesitated a moment. “Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not even a clue. At least not yet.”

“Damn,” said Bentley.

He had been on the verge of telling Bentley what had happened. But he pulled back at the last minute. He didn’t want the parapsychologist in this just now. Bentley would only complicate things. Bentley was too eager; he’d want to blow this thing sky-high immediately. But Peter wanted to wait. He wanted to know more about himself. About Marcia. About everything.

“Pete, you’re keeping that diary?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t leave out a thing. Not a single detail. It’ll be important later, part of the general mass of evidence. I’ve already started to block out a report of my own.”

“What kind of report?”

“A blow-by-blow description of what took place, from my point of view. How you came to me, why you came to me. No speculation, no projection. Simply telling it the way it is. Later, when you find out who Marcia is—and I say when, not if—then I’ll get statements from Sam Goodman and Nora and the psychiatrist. Factual testimony as to their consultations and discussions with you …”

“Hall.”

“Yes?”

“What if I
do
find who Marcia is? What happens then?”