The Reincarnationist (29 page)

Denver, Colorado—Wednesday morning, 8:24 a.m
.

T
he call came a few minutes after they landed at the airport. The flight attendant had just announced that they could turn on their cell phones while they taxied in to a gate. Gabriella pulled hers open, said a frantic hello, and then listened, rapt, not moving, her eyes focused on the seat back in front of her.

For a few seconds she didn't say anything, and then, “Please, tell me, how is Quinn? Why can't I talk to her? Where are they? Yes, yes, I'm trying…I'm on the plane still—”

Whatever the man on the other end of the phone said, it frightened her and she looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to her. “No. I won't. No. I understand.” Her voice was lower, painfully controlled.

“But why can't I talk to Quinn?” she whispered.

Pause.

“What if I can't? Friday is only…What if it takes longer?”

Her voice was laced with fear, her eyes were closed
and her fingers gripped the small silver cell phone so tightly it looked as if they might snap.

“Wait…Hello? Hello? Please, don't—”

The line must have gone dead.

Panicking, she shut the phone, then opened it, located the incoming call and hit Send.

While she waited, Josh wasn't sure she breathed. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead and her eyes filled up, but her expression remained one of fury and force.

“I can't get him back.”

“Damn it, Gabriella, let's go to the police.”

“No. No.” She was wildly hitting the redial button.

“It's not too late. They know how to—”

She interrupted. “Don't you understand? I can't take that chance. You know who these men are. You know the professor is dead. That Tony is dead. Christ, you were almost killed. I can't take the chance that—” Her voice broke, and for a few minutes she stared out of her window, quietly sobbing.

“Did you talk to Quinn?” he asked when she was calm again.

“No, but he played me a recording of her and Bettina. He said they're both fine. ‘Safe and sound' was what he said. But he's only giving me until Friday to get the translations. Only three days to figure out a mystery that's more than three thousand years old.”

Josh had a fleeting image, like an old, scratchy mezzotint, of Sabina handing her baby to her sister, but it flickered and disappeared like a candle snuffed out. He looked at Gabriella, watching grief overwhelm her again, knowing there was nothing he could do. He wanted to comfort her—at least offer some solace—but the door had just opened and they needed to go; they had a second plane to catch.

They were in Denver to catch a plane to Salt Lake City, to drive to San Rafael Swell to meet with Larry Rollins, an archeologist both she and Alice knew, who, it turned out, had recently made significant breakthroughs in Indus. They'd tried to contact him only to find out he was on location, unreachable by cell phone or wireless technology. If they wanted to talk to him to enlist his help, they had no choice but to go to him.

“If Rollins can't help…What am I going to do if he can't help? I think I'm going crazy, Josh. I don't know how to hold on.”

He wondered how many times in the past twelve hours he'd tried but failed to find a way to give her succor. He just wasn't well versed in issues of faith and didn't know what to offer up. In the midst of the world's brutality, he had seen grace in the tiny dot of an airplane coming to bring supplies to a bombed-out village, glimpsed hope in the eyes of a soldier when he made it back to camp after a mission, witnessed mercy in the way a nurse bent over a wounded man and for a moment made him forget the hell of his pain. But faith? Prayer? The world Josh had lived in for the past dozen years had not wanted for either, but he had never been sure what good they had done. Gabriella was the one who went to churches and temples, who lit candles, kneeled in pews, who prayed to every religion's god, and still she was suffering. What could he say?

“You know how to believe, you know how to pray. You need to believe and pray that Rollins will help.”

Scranton, Pennsylvania—12:15 p.m
.

“C
ome on, baby, eat some grilled cheese,” Bettina said to Quinn. “It's good. Look.” She took a bite herself and gagged. She was too scared to be hungry, but she had to eat, she knew that, just like Quinn did.

“It's cold,” the little girl complained. “Can you make it hot?”

“No, this is a new way to eat it. Come on, please?” She was pleading with the child as if the one bite would be a sign, as if Quinn eating would mean they were going to get out of this alive. “Please?”

“'Kay,” the girl said, and took a bite. She chewed and then wrinkled her nose, but she was eating.

Bettina glanced over at Carl, who sat in the easy chair in front of the door reading a paperback book. The curtains were drawn, but she could see a strip of light slipping in under the dingy motel-room curtains. She'd stopped trying to figure out where they were—he never opened the drapes—but she was still trying to listen for some signs of activity beyond the walls of this room,
although he kept the television on all day and all night and it was impossible to hear anything outside with the constant noise.

“Now, drink some milk.”

“Warm.”

Bettina made an effort to smile. “The sandwich is too cold and the milk isn't cold enough, huh?”

Quinn laughed, which, in this pathetic place, was a miracle.

At least it was still daylight. Bettina dreaded another night. She started sweating just thinking about the heavy blindfold he'd wrap around her head and the feel of the handcuffs he'd clamp on her wrists again. But it was the rag that he stuffed in her mouth that terrified her most. He'd told her it was all necessary so he could get some sleep. He needed to sleep, too, didn't he?

She'd lain there last night, uncomfortable, scared, barely able to swallow, sick to her stomach and had tried to recite her parts from plays she'd acted in, but the feel of the cotton on her tongue made her gag; the rough fabric on the blindfold scratched her eyes and the constriction of the cuffs kept her conscious. She should be tired, she thought; the only actual sleep she'd gotten in the past thirty-six hours was when she drifted off without knowing it while Quinn napped.

Bettina looked around the room one more time, hoping she'd spot something important. But there was only the big bed with sheets and a quilt that smelled of mold, a dresser with one of its drawers missing, a cheap mirror, a fake wood table and two big chairs, one of which he had commandeered, the tiny bathroom with its stall shower, two tiny bars of soap and thin terry-cloth towels. There was no phone, just a jack. But there must be a phone somewhere. Carl must have unplugged and
hidden it. All she needed was five minutes to search, find it and just—but he never left her alone without incapacitating her.

“Just another sip of milk, baby.”

“And then cookies?”

“And then two whole cookies.”

At least he'd gotten the right food. He'd asked her for a list and gone out while she was supposedly sleeping. The second she heard the door close she went to work, trying to push the blindfold off by rubbing her forehead against the mildewed pillows, managing only to dislodge it enough to let in some light. And had gotten a nasty sheet burn on her cheek in the process.

He'd noticed the mark when he untied her and asked her what it was. She shrugged. Every time he came close to her she held her breath, afraid, for some reason, to smell him, yet at the same time trying to get up the courage to lean forward and bite him, to throw him off guard for just long enough that she could get the gun out of his waistband. But then what? What if she bumbled it and just wound up annoying him more? What would he do to her then?

The news came on the television, and Bettina hoped that there would be something on about her and Quinn missing. They did that all the time on the news. There was that Amber Alert.

“You think you're going to see yourself?” Carl shook his head. “Be careful what you wish for. The only chance you've got at getting out of this is if she
doesn't
go to the police. I've got my instructions. Word gets out…” He shook his head, knowing he was scaring her by what he wasn't saying.

The newscaster was discussing a new bill that the Senate had just passed. Why weren't they showing Quinn's picture? Her picture?

His phone rang and she felt herself jerk. His ring-tone was a few bars of a really popular song from the seventies or the eighties that her parents used to listen to sometimes. She knew that if she ever got out of here, those few bars of melody would torture her whenever she heard them again.

“Everything is fine,” Carl said. There was a pause. Bettina tried very hard to hear the voice on the other end so maybe when this was over she could help the police, but all she knew was that it was a man calling.

“What time?” Carl was drawing a circle with his finger on his pant leg while he listened. “Yeah. Got it. Listen, I—” The man must have interrupted. “Distract them how?” Pause. “What do you mean, start a fight with you?” Carl frowned. “But if you take my gun away from me I won't be able to—” He paused. “No. I don't like that. I'm not some fucking actor in a cop show. No way. I'm not gonna stand there long enough for you to act like some fucking hero. No fucking way. This isn't how we planned it. I take the package and give up the kid. You meet me later where we said and I give you the pot at the end of this particular fucking rainbow.” Another pause, this one a longer one. “Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a bunch.” Pause. “Yeah, but first tell me, where is my fucking money? We agreed it would be deposited beforehand. I don't give a shit how the hell this comes down, you
understand
that? This part of it is my way or no way. The kid is a pain in the ass, anyway, and—” Another pause, and then without saying another word, Carl snapped the phone shut.

“And now for the weather—” Carl quickly switched the channel. “We can't have you knowing where we are.”

Why not? Even if she knew what state they were in, how would that help?

“Another cookie,” Quinn said, oblivious to everything going on around her.

“You've already had two.” Even under so much pressure, Gabriella's rules were ingrained in her. What the hell difference could another cookie make now? “Here, hon.”

Quinn took it. Took one bite. Put it down.

“What's the matter?”

“Go home now.” She looked scared.

Of course she was aware of the tornado of tension that swirled around her. “I know, honey. We'll go home soon.”

“I don't like it here. It's like Mommy's nightmare.”

“How old is that kid?” Carl asked.

“I told you, she's almost three.”

“So how does she know things like that? Her mommy's nightmare?”

It was the first time since they'd gotten in the car that he'd exhibited any curiosity about either of them. Up to now it had been either
shut up,
or
tell me what she eats
, or
put your hands behind you.
Maybe he was getting bored. Maybe she could lull him into a conversation. Then what?

He was waiting for her to answer.

“Only children can be much more precocious than other kids. They pick up on a lot of adult conversation. Things you don't realize you're saying, they hear and remember.”

He frowned.

Oh, no, did he think she meant that after this was over Quinn might be able to describe him? Her heart started racing.

Quinn had been listening; she knew some of the words the grown-ups had used. She looked at Carl. “Do you remember a lot?”

“Enough.”

“What's enough?”

“I remember enough things.”

“From before or from now?”

He considered the question, then turned back to Bettina. “Get her to quiet down. Isn't it her naptime or something?”

She pulled Quinn into her lap, reached over for the little girl's teddy bear and put it in her outstretched palms.

“Story?” Quinn asked. This was the ritual at home. Bear in arms, one story, and then sleep.

“Yes, honey, story.” The problem was, Bettina was too frightened to think of a single story except for crazy ones about what was going to happen to them and what would make him use his gun and why his eyes were dead. She'd studied faces for her acting classes.

Bettina's teeth started chattering. It had been happening on and off since they'd arrived. It wasn't that she was cold; it was a manifestation of her fear.

“Stop making that noise,” he grunted at her.

“I…can't.”

“Yes, you can.” He didn't raise his voice. All he did was move his hand one inch closer to his waistband where the gun was. He'd done this off and on since yesterday, as if he were training her like a dog, to respond and obey.

She put her forefinger in her mouth to try to stop her jaw from moving of its own accord.

Quinn stared at her. “Tina, are you sick?”

“Yes, baby, a little.”

Quinn reached out and put her little hand on Bettina's forehead. “No temperature.”

Bettina grabbed her hand, kissed it, pulled her closer and hugged her, whispering, “Everything is going to be okay, Quinn. We'll go home soon.”

“Soon?” the toddler asked.

Bettina nodded.

“I miss Mommy.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

Bettina hated herself. Hated that she was so damn scared. So stupid. First for getting in the car and then for not coming up with a single idea of how to get them out of there. It was all her fault.

Her teeth started chattering again.

“I said quit it,” Carl barked.

“She's scared,” Quinn said in a brave little voice, staring right at him.

“I've had enough of her jabbering,” he said to Bettina. “You'd better make her go to sleep now, because if you can't, I will.”