The Reincarnationist. M. Rose J.
panic heightened.
A few deep breaths.
A full minute of focusing on one fact: he’d gotten this far, that meant he would be able to get out.
Of course. Just go backward. Don’t try to turn now. Don’t turn until the space widens again.
The gripping frenzy broke, the anxiety vanished and Josh became aware of a very different pain. The tunnel was filled with rubble. Small pebbles and sharp stones ripped his palms, pressed down deep to the bone in his knees. He held his hands up to his face, forgetting for a minute that there was no light—he couldn’t see what he’d done to his flesh but could guess from the overpowering sweet smell of blood. Struggling out of his shirt, he banged his head on the tunnel’s roof. Ripping the fabric with his teeth, he used the strips to wrap around both of his bleeding palms. There was nothing he could do for his knees.
Crawling backward was awkward and slow going, and he’d only gone a few feet when he heard the voices: the professor and another man were speaking in loud, rapid Italian. Something about the cadence made him think they were arguing.
Moving steadily, doing his best to ignore the pain, he finally reached the point where he could turn around. After that he moved faster, and seconds later rounded a curve. Ahead was a straightaway at the end of which he could see the interior of the tomb.
The professor stood in pale yellow lantern light, fists by his sides, facing someone Josh couldn’t see but could hear. The stranger’s voice was cruel and demanding. The professor’s response was angry and defiant. No translation was necessary. The professor was in jeopardy.
Josh crawled forward another foot. Then another.
The stranger crossed in front of the tunnel opening and became somewhat visible. From his clothing, he looked like the man guarding the site whom Josh had encountered when he’d first arrived.
Nothing to worry about, then.
Except they continued to argue; hot words were flung back and forth so rapidly that even if Josh had spoken basic Italian, he wouldn’t have been able to understand.
The shouting escalated and the professor tried to push the guard away, but the man stepped back adroitly and Rudolfo lost his balance, falling to the ground. The guard put his foot on the professor’s chest.
It was almost impossible to crawl faster. There was too much debris in the tunnel, and despite the makeshift bandages, his wounds throbbed. But he must. This was tied to the past, a chance for Josh to right a wrong. It was inches from his reach, almost within his grasp.
A stone pierced the skin on his right knee. Involuntarily, Josh swore under his breath. Then he froze. The only chance he had to stop whatever was going on was to take the guard by surprise.
Then everything happened so quickly that he would have missed it if he’d glanced away for five seconds, but his eyes were riveted to the action. He just wasn’t fast enough to stop any of it. The entire tomb was in his sight now. Far away still, but visible.
The guard leaned down, bent over the ancient corpse and snatched the fruitwood box out of her arms.
“No, no …” The professor clawed at the guard, jumping on him like an angry monkey, grabbing at him, for the box.
As if the professor were a mere annoyance, the large man flung Rudolfo off. The professor landed on the ground, close to the mummy. Too close. His arm hit her and her head fell forward—she was in danger of coming apart. Rudolfo let out an agonized scream and rushed to her side. But before he could reach her, the guard kicked her with his heavy boot and her intact form splintered at the waist with a sickening crack.
While the professor kneeled at Sabina’s side, the guard opened the fruitwood box, pulled out what looked like a leather pouch, shook its contents into his hand, pocketed whatever he’d found and then hurled the box at the professor. It hit his shoulder and broke apart, the pieces flying into the air and then landing haphazardly.
Josh was only ten yards away, planning on how he was going jump out, take the man by surprise, tackle him and get back what he’d taken.
Hand forward.
Knee forward.
Hand forward.
Knee forward.
Rudolfo stood, dizzy, rocking back and forth. The guard hurried toward the ladder.
With only a few feet left to go, Josh inched steadily forward. The way the tunnel was angled he could see the whole scene, and he watched with growing dread as the professor rushed toward the opening of the tomb.
The guard had started up the ladder.
Rudolfo tried to grab hold of the man’s shirt, to pull him down, to stop him.
The guard pushed the professor’s hand away as if it were nothing more than an insect and took another step up.
Not ready to give up, Rudolfo took hold of the ladder’s wooden dowels and tried to shake the guard loose.
Josh had two, maybe three yards to go.
The guard stopped climbing—he was halfway up now, and he just stood there, staring down at Rudolfo, and then he pulled out his gun.
The professor took a step up the ladder.
The guard’s finger teased the trigger.
Josh was almost at the entrance of the tunnel, and just as he screamed an agonized “no” in warning, the gun went off, causing an enormous explosion in the small tomb and drowning out his warning. Behind him, he heard a rumble and then the sound of heavy rain. No. Not rain. Rocks. Some parts of the tunnel’s walls were collapsing in on themselves. And in front of him, he saw the professor fall on his back on the hard, cold, ancient mosaic floor.
Chapter 7
T he man sat in the leather chair, his hands resting on the arm pads, his fingers circling the smooth nail heads. Around and around the cold metal circles as if this one movement was enough to keep him occupied forever. His eyes were shut. The gold drapes were drawn, and the room’s rich decor was cloaked in darkness.
He was satisfied to sit and do nothing but wait. Long pauses in the plan didn’t bother him. Not after all this time. From the moment he’d first heard the legend of the Memory Stones he knew that one day whatever power they held would be his. Needed to be his. No price was too high and no effort was too great to find out about the past.
His past.
His present.
And so, too, his future.
The idea that the stones might work, that they could, in fact, enable people to remember their previous lives, was unbearably pleasurable to him. He fantasized about the stones the way other men fantasized about women. His daydreams about what would happen once they were in his possession elevated his blood pressure, took away his breath and made him feel weak and strong at the same time in an utterly satisfying way. And because he’d been taught to be disciplined, he gave in to the temptation of dreaming about them only when he felt he deserved the indulgence.
He deserved it now.
Were they emeralds? Sapphires the color of the night skies? Lapis? Obsidian? Were they rough? Polished? What would they feel like? Small and smooth? Larger? Like glass? Would they be luminescent? Or dull, ordinary-looking things that didn’t begin to suggest their power?
He didn’t mind waiting, but it seemed to him that he should have heard by now.
He had an appointment he had to keep. No, it was premature to worry. He wouldn’t contemplate any kind of failure. He disliked that he’d involved other people in his plan. No one you hired, no matter how much you paid them, was entirely trustworthy. Regardless of how well he’d tried to plan for the mistakes that could happen along the way, he was certain to have overlooked at least a few. He felt a new wave of anxiety start to build deep in his chest and took