The Reincarnation of Peter Proud (30 page)

He heard someone calling a name from far off. A woman’s voice calling a name, but not his name. It sounded something like
Pete, Pete
. It came nearer and nearer, across the lake, and he wondered who the hell this could be, and why
Pete
?

“Pete, for God’s sake. Wake up!”

He opened his eyes. Ann Chapin, in the seat next to him, was tugging at his arm. Her face was pale, her eyes wide in horror.

“What is it?”

“You were talking in your sleep just now.
Yelling
.”

He looked around, bewildered. He caught a glimpse of Marcia, who had left her seat and was running up the aisle toward the exit. Her face was chalk white. The hall was in an uproar. People were on their feet all around him, their faces shocked, trying to get a glimpse of the shouter. On the stage, a few of the musicians bravely tried to carry on in a ragged fashion, but the result was pitiful, Most of them were standing blinking in the light, trying to see who owned the voice. Sergei Pavlik stood, still holding the violin under his chin, the hand holding the bow still held high, frozen into place. There was a look of amazement on his face.

“All right, you. Come out of there.”

He turned to see two ushers, who motioned angrily for him to come out into the aisle. He rose and, with Ann, bumped past the knees in the row. He heard a man swear under his breath as he passed. When they. finally got into the aisle, the two young ushers grabbed him roughly,

“Let’s go, mister.”

They pinioned his arms and hustled him up the aisle toward the nearest exit. Ann followed. Necks craned; a sea of heads turned to look at him. The conductor turned back to his musicians and tried to rally them back into the Mozart. They fumbled valiantly to find a new starting point in the middle of the concerto.

In the foyer, Ann inquired about her mother. An usher said a lady in green had come running out of the concert hall, hysterical. She had hailed a taxi and left. People surrounded Ann and him—an official of the Civic Center, a newspaper reporter, a uniformed policeman. Dazed, he heard them talking. Something about preferring charges. Disorderly conduct. Disturbing the peace in a public place. He heard Ann trying to argue with them. Something about having this problem, talking in his sleep. No, he was not drunk.

He began to emerge from his daze. He told them he was terribly sorry, that he had been having some kind of nightmare. He had simply dozed off, and he was completely unaware of what had happened. He apologized again, profusely. And suddenly he was outside with Ann. They sat on a rail near one of the fountains.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Pete, what came over you?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

She shuddered. “It wasn’t your voice at all. It was somebody else’s, some other man’s entirely. It was horrible. You started to mumble these words … something about being sorry for what you’d done or said … and then you suddenly called Mother’s name.”

“I did?”

“You said something about being sorry for what you’d said and
done, and then you said something about loving her, and then all of a sudden you yelled out, ‘Don’t, Marcia, don’t, don’t …’ Right in front of God and the Boston Symphony and everybody. In this crazy, wild voice …”

“
I
did that?”

“And that wasn’t all. Mother was looking at you as though you were some kind of ghost. Then she started to scream,
‘Jeff, Jeff!’
 ” Ann stared at him. “Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know,” he lied. “I just don’t know,”

“I tell you, it made my blood curdle. The look on her face. Do you often talk in your sleep?”

He lied again. “No.”

“Well, whatever you call it, it was sensational. It’ll probably be in the newspapers tomorrow.” Suddenly she smiled faintly. “Poor Sergei Pavlik. You should have seen the look on his face. And, of course, we missed the Mahler.”

“I’m sorry about that too,”

“We’d better go right home. I’m worried about Mother.”

They went down into the garage and got into the car. He was still shaking. He raced the car out of the garage and into the street, forgetting the stop sign at the exit. There was the scream of brakes. A big Buick on the road stopped inches away from the side of his Pontiac.

“You’d better let me drive,” Ann said quietly. On the way home, he thought it through. He knew what he had to do next. And it had to be done immediately.

The next morning he drove out to Lake Nipmuck. He found a real estate office dealing in lakeshore cottage rentals.

It was easy enough for the agent to identify the cottage, knowing that Jeffrey Chapin was the original builder. The agent said, “Some people named Swanson own it now. But it’s never been on our master list for summer rentals. The Swansons always spend
the summer there themselves.” Then the man brightened. “The lake’s pretty full up this year. This is the first of June, and practically everything’s been rented. However, I do have one or two left you might be interested in …”

“No,” insisted Peter. “I want this one. And I don’t need it for the summer. What about the next two weeks?”

“I could try. But people here usually rent by the month.”

“All right. Make it for a month.”

The agent studied him. “The going rate’s about a thousand a month.”

“Okay. But I’d like to know right away.”

The agent looked up a number, got on the phone. He talked briefly with the owner. Then he held his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Peter, “They’re not interested. They expect to use the cottage in June themselves.”

“Tell you what to do,” said Peter. “Offer them two thousand.”

The agent stared at him. His mouth dropped open a little. “Mr. Proud, you must be kidding! For that kind of money I could get you …”

“Go ahead. Tell them two thousand.”

The agent quoted the new price. He put his hand over the mouthpiece again and grinned. “This time you’ve made them an offer they can’t refuse. When do you want to move in?”

“Tonight,” said Peter.

“Tonight?”

“Better than that. I’d like to go over and take a look at the place now.”

The agent talked to Swanson again. The owner of the cottage relayed the information that there was a key hidden in a loose brick under the porch stairs. If Peter wanted immediate possession, he could use the key.

The agent located the cottage for him on a lakefront map.

In the dream, he had seen the cottage only at night. He had
no idea how it would look in the daytime. Or what changes it might have undergone in over thirty years. Yet, when he got there, he recognized it immediately, Surprisingly, there was hardly any change at all. There was a bigger and more elaborate dock. Some of the trees he remembered had been cut down, and now there were cottages, on each side of it that had not been there before. The cottage was freshly painted and trimmed in green. Across the lake he saw the same grove of pines, but now the tall sign above it read: Holiday Inn.

He found the key and went in. Here, everything was unfamiliar. The furniture was cheap maple. The place had a chintzy look, a musty smell. He threw open the curtains to air it out. The telephone was still connected. The Swansons must use the place on weekends.

He telephoned Ann and told her what he had done. It was his idea, he said, to finish the book there, away from all distractions. She was astonished to find he had rented the same cottage that her father had built years ago. He said he’d had no idea it used to be the Chapin’s cottage. It was simply a remarkable coincidence; the agent he had spoken to had it listed, and he had taken it.

“Pete, sometimes I don’t understand you. Why did you do a crazy thing like this, all of a sudden?”

“Just an impulse.”

“But the same cottage my father used to own. The place where—well you know. Where it happened. Of all the cottages out there …”

“I told you, it was just a coincidence.”

“I know. But just the thought makes me shiver.”

“Look,” he said. “I decided I’d like a place by the lake, and so I rented one. I thought we’d both enjoy it out there during the summer. But if it bothers you that much, I’ll get rid of it.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” she said. I guess I’m just being silly.”

“I’m moving some things out there from town tonight. How about joining me? It looks as though it’s going to be a beautiful weekend.”

“All right,” she said. “But I can’t get there before eleven o’clock. I’ve got a board meeting at the store. After that, I want to stop in and look at Mother before I come out. She’s been in a terrible state ever since the concert.”

“Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll expect you late. You know where it is?”

She sounded surprised. “I ought to. Mother’s pointed it out to me often enough.” Then softly: “You know what, darling?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He hung up. So Ann would get there late. That was all right with him. He would have plenty of time to do what he had to do.

He was packing a weekend bag to take to the lake when there was a knock on his door.

“Hello, Pete.”

“Oh. Hall.”

Bentley’s huge bulk filled the doorway. He was smiling.

“Surprised?”

“No,”

“Then you expected me.”

“I suppose I did. Sooner or later. When did you get in?”

Bentley slumped in a chair. He lit a cigarette very deliberately. His gray eyes studied Peter. They were not accusing, merely curious. He grinned affably.

“About all, hour ago. Checked in at a hotel and came right over. Normally I would have phoned, but you haven’t been returning my phone calls lately. Naturally there had to be a reason, and I began to wonder what it was. It occurred to me that maybe you knew something I didn’t know. And didn’t want to tell me….”

“I’m sorry. I was planning to return to the Coast next week to tell you about it.”

“All right. I’m here. Tell me about it now.”

He knew there was no denying Bentley. There was no further point in it. He told him, leaving out nothing. When he had finished, Bentley was silent for a while. Then:

“You knew all this weeks ago, and you didn’t tell me. Why not?”

“It took me some time to think it through.”

“Why don’t you just put it on the line?” said Bentley. “What you really mean is that you’ve decided not to go through with it.”

“That’s right.”

“I see.” Bentley’s voice was flat, controlled. “Just like that. All you do is say ‘no,’ and this whole thing goes away.”

“I’m sorry, Hall. I’ve made my decision.”

“Suppose you tell me why?”

“I think you can guess. I’ve had certain misgivings all along. I dismissed them, because I never really believed all this would happen. But it has. I know my limitations, Hall. I don’t want to become a world institution; I don’t want to play Superfreak. I want to keep both my identity and my sanity. If people are looking for a prophet, let them look in the Bible. I’m not cut out for it.”

“Just as simple as that.”

“Not quite. It isn’t just me. There are others to consider.”

“A murderess, for instance.”

“All right. It happened a long time ago. She’s paid heavily for what she did. She’s taken more punishment from herself than the Commonwealth of Massachusetts could ever give her. And she had some reason to do what she did. Jeff Chapin was a first-class bastard. You could say he got what he deserved … If all this is exposed, she’ll go insane. She’s almost on the edge now. Then, there’s Ann …”

“Ah,” said Bentley. He smiled frostily. “Now we’re getting to it.”

“All right,” said Peter. He was angry at Bentley’s remark, but he kept his temper. “I’m in love with her. I plan to marry her, and take her back to Los Angeles, and live quietly with her, and even have children. She doesn’t ever have to know her mother was a murderess. Or who I was before I was born into this life. Once this thing broke, her life wouldn’t be her own, either. She’d become just as big a freak as I would. She’d become just another clown in this big worldwide circus you’re talking about hatching. It not only would ruin her, it would destroy any chance we’d have for a quiet and decent life.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s all of it. I like who I am and the future I intend to have, and I’m not going to blow all of it to play Christ the Second, or outdo Bridey Murphy, or get your name and mine engraved in stone.”

Bentley stared at him. “Are you implying I can’t wait till I ride to glory on your coattails? That I can’t wait to bask in all this lovely publicity? I’ll be goddamned. You really think I’m looking forward to all this?”

“Well, aren’t you? Look, I’m not blaming you. I know you have a personal stake in this. You’ve been ridiculed by your peers for years, and you can’t wait to go after the skeptics who have been laughing at you. You’re a scientist, and this could mean not only vindication, but your name in all the journals …”

“Pete,” Bentley interrupted quietly. “You’re wrong,”

“Oh?”

“You’re so wrong. I happen to be a quiet man. I feel the way you do. I like my life just as it is. If I seem gung ho about this, it’s for other reasons. This circus, as you call it, scares hell out of me too. Remember, what happens to you also happens to me. I become Superfreak Number Two. I agree that the notoriety, the controversy, the pressure may be too much for any man to bear. That applies to me too. Nobody can introduce a whole new religion without getting rocks thrown at him. And the rocks they throw at you will hit me as well. In the end, we may
both
be nailed up on crosses, side by side. You really think I want all that?”

Bentley was silent for a moment. Peter knew he was telling the truth. Then the parapsychologist went on.

“You’ve lost your perspective, Pete. I feel for the three people who are going to be hurt by all this. But I’m talking about billions. The world itself. The whole damned human race. There’s simply no comparison. I think I told you before, you don’t even have the right of choice. You’re in too deep; you’re committed. And so am I. We may be a couple of reluctant martyrs, but we owe the world
what we know. I can’t think of any other way to put it. You think we have the right to bury a message like this? No!