The Reincarnationist

Chapter 60

Rome, Italy-1884

Everything changed after Wallace Neely’s murder.

The playful lover who had taken her swimming at midnight in the villa’s pool, had filled her bed with rose petals and had her serenaded by a La Scala singer, was gone, replaced by a nervous man who had become obsessed with buying art. During their last week in Rome, they met with half a dozen of the city’s best dealers and Blackie bought a Botticelli, a Rembrandt, a Tintoretto and a Velázquez.

It seemed to Esme that he was collecting other treasures to make up for the one that he’d lost, but when they had dinner he didn’t want to discuss the paintings. He didn’t even appear interested in the history of the masterpieces he now owned. When she asked why he was spending such a fortune on artwork if it wasn’t important to him, he told her that it was a good investment. She knew he was depressed over the robbery and murder and worried about what the Phoenix Club’s reaction was going to be when he told his fellow members. He had, after all, come to Rome expressly to watch over their excavation, and he’d failed.

Esme was relieved when he finally told her he was going to book his passage home and asked if she wanted to go with him. She was glad to get out of Rome early. Her grand tour had ceased to be an adventure. She was worried for her brother and missed her mother. She had nightmares about the archeologist’s murder. Her painting lessons weren’t going well; the teacher wasn’t as qualified as he was supposed to be, and she preferred the Art Students League in New York. But worse than all that was that whenever Blackie touched her now, she grew cold and slightly afraid.

They set off on their transatlantic journey the following week, and once they were at sea her spirits rose a little. They’d be home soon.

The second night out, as they were leaving dinner, Blackie surprised her. “I bought a gift for you in Rome before we left. Would you like to see it?”

“Of course.” She was intrigued, despite her recent misgivings.

Inside his cabin, Blackie used a small gold key to open one of his three trunks. He rifled through the hanging clothes, finding and then pulling out a well-wrapped rectangular package approximately two-and-a-half feet wide and almost four feet tall.

Using his mother-of-pearl pocketknife, he cut the strings and slit open the rough wrapping, revealing a package covered in finer paper, which he gave to Esme to unwrap.

She had studied art with a passion since she was twelve, and she knew there were hundreds of thousands of paintings in the world. Her teacher had once told her that of all those, maybe tens of thousands were breathtaking. Of them, thousands were masterpieces. Of those, perhaps a mere hundred or two hundred exhibited the rarest of talents-the ability to use a simple brush and pigment and re-create life. To present a moment of human suffering or madness or ecstasy and offer it up as a mirror. To show man how brutal he could be, how sublime, how passionate or how profound. Only a few dozen painters could make you forget for a moment that what you were looking at was not flesh and blood-that the coal eyes would not blink, that the pink lips would not part. Caravaggio was one of them. And so, Esme thought, the painting she was looking at must be one of his.

It depicted a young and sensual god whom she recognized from other paintings of his that she’d studied. Bacchus was creating havoc, invoking sex and debauchery, delight and deceit. The grapes hanging above his shoulder were so real, Esme was sure she could pluck one and eat it. The god’s smile was so lascivious she was certain he’d blink at her any second.

All the color in the room was sucked up into the vortex of energy the painting imparted. She’d never held anything so amazing. When she gasped, Blackie gave her the first real smile he’d offered since the night Neely had died.

“What a treasure,” she whispered.

“You, dearest Esme, have no idea.” There was a glint in his eye, a sly look she knew. It foreshadowed a surprise of another kind: a sexual one.

He reached out and took her hand, not kindly, not as an apology, but rather as an invitation to a wicked evening of games that the god in the painting would approve of.

Esme wasn’t sure how she felt. She still remembered what she’d glimpsed of his soul in Rome. But didn’t he seem so much better now that they were on their way home?

With the Caravaggio Bacchus looking on, he pulled her close and whispered in her ear that he wanted her naked. That he wanted to see her flesh pucker in the cold and then make her burn.

His erection pressed against her thigh, and she assumed he was going to make love to her right there and then, but once she was undressed and positioned the way he wanted, on a chaise lounge, legs slightly spread, leaning on her side, facing him, he returned to the painting-but what he proceeded to do next made no sense.

He removed the canvas from its fancy frame and set it aside, almost as if he didn’t care about it. Not care about a Caravaggio? Next, using his pocketknife, he jammed the blade into one of the frame’s joints. When he’d loosened it, he moved on to the next one, and then the next.

“What are you doing-”

“Don’t fret. Just watch.”

With the gold frame disassembled, he inspected each arm, up and down, prodding, pushing, searching for and finding what he was looking for. He touched a small notch. Then, using the edge of the knife, he unscrewed the threaded wooden pin.

A spring creaked.

A hiding place was revealed.

Reaching in with two fingers, Blackie pulled out a white tissue-paper package, unwrapped it and held it up.

More extravagant than the gold frame or the rich oil paint, the emerald glittered and gleamed. He reached inside again. He retrieved a second package and unwrapped a sapphire. Another. Then two additional emeralds. Finally, a single ruby.

These were the stones from the tomb that she’d glimpsed through the window the night Neely had been robbed, and killed.

Esme was afraid to breathe.

Leaving the gilt frame in pieces-holding the stones loosely, the way a boy might hold a handful of marbles-Blackie looked down at her. The only noise was the stones hitting one another as he shook them.

“Now lie still.”

Humming, he reached out with one finger and drew invisible X’s on Esme’s body. Six of them. And then taking one stone at a time, he placed each in a row, starting with the hollow space where her clavicles met, down the flat area between her breasts, one in her belly button and then a line of three following her hip curve.

“Don’t move,” he whispered. Grabbing a silver oval mirror off the dresser, he angled it so that he could show Esme her own body, decorated with the gems.

Nothing made sense to her anymore. How had he gotten these? Why were they hidden in the frame?

“Look,” he commanded.

In the mirror she saw the stones sparkling on her skin. Blackie picked up the ruby and held it to the light. “I’m going to move this one to your lips. And we are going to make love. If you can keep your mouth closed, and keep the ruby right there, no matter what I do to you, I’ll give it to you. I’m betting on myself this time. No matter how good it feels, Esme, you must keep silent, you must keep your mouth closed,” he said as he placed the ruby on her lips.

The gem was cold and surprisingly light for its size. Esme held her head still. She couldn’t say anything, but she could try to figure out what had happened and how her lover had wound up with these stones.

Had he found the thief and paid him off? Why hadn’t he told her? Had he told the members of the Phoenix Club? Did her brother know?

She felt Blackie’s breath between her legs and the pressure of his fingers as he pushed her thighs farther apart.

Of course she could keep silent, she thought as his silky hair brushed against her skin. After all, she wasn’t susceptible to him anymore. He might be evil. She wouldn’t respond to him.

He was between her legs, blowing gently on her nether lips.

Hot air, hot, hot air.

Nothing. She felt nothing.

He did it again.

She focused on everything but how it felt.

He blew on her again and again.

Esme arched her back.

“Don’t move,” he whispered.

She felt his words against her and it was an even more arousing sensation. Words being spoken into her. Words gliding inside her, disappearing into her darkness.

“If the ruby falls off, you lose,” he joked, and went back to work, teasing and tempting her with such dedication she wasn’t quite sure what his motivation was-to make sure the ruby stayed in his possession-or that she did?