The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (12 page)

     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.

Excerpt from The Scrolls of Issa

(Translated from the Russian Translation
by Nicholas Notovitch 1894)

W
HEN 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.

Marcie

498 Rear Lafayette Drive

Atlanta

February 12

M
ARCIE 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 television 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 elbow. "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."

480 Lafayette Drive

Atlanta

Three Hours Later

"Y
OU 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?"