The Reincarnationist (21 page)

New Haven, Connecticut—Saturday, 11:19 a.m.

G
abriella Chase sat on the floor of her office, surrounded by a maelstrom of books, papers and wet leaves that were blowing in with the wind and the rain through the open window.

She'd thought she'd feel safer at home, thought that she'd left the fear on the ground in Rome when she'd boarded the plane to bring her back. And in fact, last night, sleeping under the same roof as her father and her daughter, she had felt as if the worst of the crisis was behind her. But now, looking around her, at the clear signs of the intrusion, at the details of the chaos, she realized she'd been wrong. There wasn't anywhere she could go that would be safe until whoever had done this had found what he wanted.

Unless he already had.

The wind picked up and howled. The window. She needed to shut the window. But she wasn't sure she could get up yet.

“Professor Chase?”

She twisted around. Two men in campus security uniforms were standing at the door. She recognized the older one but couldn't think of his name. How was that possible? He'd been working here since before she had.

Think.

Think.

Her eyes, usually bright with curiosity, were dull and her hair, usually wild but winsome, was tangled and matted.

The guard she knew walked over to her. “Are you all right?”

She focused on him and his question. “Yes. I'm fine, Alan.” Yes, that was his name. Alan. And the other guard was Lou.

With a bang, the window crashed into the sill.

The noise alarmed Alan and almost made him jump, but Gabriella seemed unaffected.

“It does that,” she said in a bland voice. “I keep meaning to have the janitor fix it.” She was still sitting on the floor.

Alan put his arm around the professor's back and helped her up. She was so easy to lift; there was no resistance. As he led her to the chair behind her desk, she started visibly shivering. After she sat down, he looked around, found a sweater on the back of her door that had been far enough away from the window to still be dry, and draped it around her.

“Professor Chase, what happened here?” Lou asked. “Can you tell us?”

“I don't know. I was in the library. I just got back five minutes ago.” She looked at her watch. Shook her head. “No, almost fifteen minutes ago. Everything was like this. All over the place. Blowing everywhere. I tried to catch the papers. All my papers. Years of papers. The window must have been open awhile. There's water on
the floor. I didn't see it and slipped. I hit my knee on the desk…” She brushed her damp hair back off her face.

“I don't imagine you know yet if anything was taken,” Lou said.

She shook her head. “No. I don't know. I can't—” She indicated the mess around her. “It's such a mess. I don't know where to start. But I'm okay. Really.”

“I think we should call the New Haven police and report this ASAP,” Lou said, and opened his cell phone.

Ten minutes later, Officer Mossier, a very serious but baby-faced policeman showed up with his partner, Officer Warner, an older cranky veteran.

Mossier took out his notebook and started asking Gabriella what had happened since she'd come back to the office.

“Was the door locked when you got back?”

“Yes.”

“Had it been locked when you left?”

“Yes.”

“Were the windows locked when you left?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you normally lock the windows?”

“No…not often.”

“What about today?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Do you have any idea what's missing?”

“I have years of files in this office.” She gestured to the soggy mess of papers littering the floor. “But I don't know why anyone would want them.”

“Do you have a disgruntled student from last semester? From the summer session?”

“No. Yes. Well, there are always students who are upset by marks they get on papers, but there's no one I can think of who would be this upset….” She shook her
head and hair fell onto her face. She pushed it away again. “No, no student that I can think of.”

“What do you teach?”

“Archeology.”

“You go on digs?” Mossier asked.

Gabriella nodded.

“Now, that's something I always wanted to do. Go on a dig. I've done some spelunking and always thought that—”

Warner interrupted. “Was there anything you had in here from a dig? Any antiquities? Something worth breaking in for?” He looked around at the shelves, which were mostly filled with books and framed photos.

“Nothing of any value, no. Some shards of pottery, some pieces of glass, but debris, mementos, that's all. Nothing of real value…”

Mossier didn't seem to pay attention to how she'd let the rest of the sentence drift off, but the senior cop did.

“We'll write this up. Ask around and find out if anyone witnessed anything. In the meantime, I'd like you to try to put your papers back in order in the next few days, and if you notice anything amiss, will you let us know?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right? Would you like us to drive you home, or to the hospital?”

She nodded. “No. I'm okay, but thank you.”

“Is there anyone we could call to come and get you? I don't think you should be alone just yet,” Mossier said.

She nodded. “My father.”

* * *

It only took Professor Peter Chase less than ten minutes to get to his daughter's office. Rushing in, he ignored the police and went straight to Gabriella.

He was an older man with heavy jowls, a thick head
of white hair and intense, and alarmed, dark eyes. “What happened?”

As soon as she saw him she started to cry. Not loud sobs; rather, tightly controlled, quiet weeping, but the tears fell quickly, wetting her cheek in a matter of seconds.

Peter pulled out a handkerchief, gave it to her and put his arm around her. Over her head he looked at the two policemen and asked them if they'd stay for a few minutes longer since he had some questions he'd like to ask them. “I'm Professor Chase. I'm Gabriella's father,” he said, forgetting for the moment that they'd called him at Gabriella's request. “Have you figured out what happened here?”

Warner took over. “Not yet, sir, but we're going to do the best we can to find out.”

“And in the meantime, what are you going to do to protect her?”

“We're going to do everything we can to figure out what happened here,” Officer Warner repeated.

“Do you have a daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hold old is she?”

“I have two. One is twelve, the other is fifteen.”

“Would that be a good enough answer for you if this happened to one of them?
Everything we can to figure out what happened here?
What about telling me how you're going to protect her?”

“If you knew how seriously I take my job, you'd know that it is enough.”

“Can't you put a detail on her?”

“Not unless someone has threatened her, sir. I wish I could.”

“So do I, damn it.” The professor tried to stare him
down and intimidate him, but the officer wasn't flinching. It was a stand-off. Finally Gabriella broke the silence.

“Dad, let them go. I'm not in danger. No one wants me. Just something that they thought was in here.”

“How do you know that?” her father asked.

Officer Warner was on the threshold but turned around, alerted.

“I don't know it for sure. But it certainly appears that way, doesn't it?” She looked from her father to the two policemen. “I appreciate your help. Will you let me know if you find out anything?”

Warner didn't leave.

It looked as if he was waiting to hear Gabriella's answer to her father, but she wasn't going to talk in front of him.

“Thank you,” she repeated to Warner.

The cops had no choice. They left.

Once the door closed after them, the elder Professor Chase repeated his question. “How do you know that no one is after you?”

He waited. In the silence, he faintly heard two sets of footsteps retreating.

“Gabriella?” he insisted.

“I know because the same thing happened to my apartment in Rome. Someone broke in the last night I was there. That's why I left.”

“Why didn't you tell me that before now?” her father asked, his voice straining.

She shrugged.

“Was anything taken in Rome?”

“A notebook. Some photographs.”

“What the hell have you gotten yourself mixed up in?” her father asked.

“Something very old, Dad. Something very powerful.
Or at least that's what we think. What we thought. No, not we…me…Rudolfo is gone…What I think.”

Last night, once she had checked on her daughter, once she had changed into jeans and an old, comfortable sweatshirt that had belonged to her husband, and poured herself a vodka and tonic, once she'd filled her father in on what had happened in Rome—or at least most of it—she'd gone into the room that doubled as her home office and library combined and rifled through a drawer, looking for a card that she'd kept there for the past three and a half years.

Nervously she picked up the phone, noticed her hand was shaking and hung up. She'd thought about making this call before but had never followed through. As curious as she'd been, she hadn't wanted to risk the dig and who knew what might happen if she contacted the priest who'd brought her the site plans. After everything that had gone wrong in those past few years, it had felt so good to be excited about something again, she hadn't wanted anything to spoil the thrill of the excavation.

But that was all over now.

Several times after that snowy Sunday four years before when Father Dougherty had first given Gabriella the papers in the Battell Chapel, Rudolfo had wanted her to get in touch with Father Dougherty and plead with him to show them the rest of the journal.

There are so many unanswered questions, Rudolfo had said.

Now there were more. Too many more.

Her hand shook as she dialed the number. The phone rang three times before it was answered by a friendly voice who identified himself as Father Francis and asked how he could help her.

“My name is Gabriella Chase. I'm sorry to call so late, but could I talk to Father Dougherty, please?”

“Father Ted Dougherty?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, he's no longer with us.”

“Can you tell me where I could reach him?”

“Hopefully in heaven, my dear. Father Dougherty died.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. That's terrible. When did he die?”

“Let's see, it was seven, no, it was eight years ago now.”

“Eight years ago? Are you sure?”

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

New York City—Saturday, 8:10 p.m.

W
hen 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.