The Reincarnationist

Chapter 61

Esme woke up sometime later in Blackie’s bed with a blanket thrown over her and no sign of him. She walked out to the sitting room and found him putting the painting back together. Rejoining the last arm of the frame, all the stones hidden again.

“Where did you get the stones, Blackie?”

He looked up, startled.

And in that one second, when he had not expected to see her and so had not pasted on a benign expression for her benefit, she saw what she’d seen that night at the villa when he was getting Neely drunk and she’d questioned him about it.

There was a coldness to his gaze. Anger. Dismissal. No remnants of their recent passion remained. How could someone’s eyes be so empty? So distant?

“Where did I get what? The painting? I bought it in Rome. One of the days you were off being fitted for a gown.”

“No, the stones.”

“I picked them up from a dealer, too.”

The ship moved through a calm sea that night and the sound of waves breaking against the boat was not loud enough to muffle his disingenuous tone.

She became aware of what she really had known since she’d first glimpsed the stones.

“You arranged it…you got him drunk. You’re responsible for Neely’s murder…aren’t you? You did it to get the stones. To keep them from the club…You’re going to keep them yourself?”

“I think I underestimated you. I knew you were bright, but I didn’t think you would figure all that out. But you’re not bright enough. I also overestimated you. I never thought you’d be so foolish as to involve yourself in something that isn’t any of your affair.”

“You had a man killed!”

“No. That was an accident. I had a man robbed.”

“But he died.”

“Stop acting so shocked. What would you have me do? I needed to accomplish something. Was I supposed to pray for Providence to send a solution?” Blackie returned to wrapping the frame. “Why don’t you put on some clothes, darling. They are serving midnight supper on the upper deck. Aren’t you hungry? Wear the blue frock and the sapphires I bought you. Don’t take all this so seriously. I didn’t have anyone killed. Neely’s death was an unfortunate accident.” It wasn’t an invitation; it was an order, and she was afraid to ignore it.

They went to the bar, where Blackie ordered champagne and caviar, which they served with blinis, finely chopped onions and thick sour cream.

Esme couldn’t eat anything, but he gorged himself. The champagne, however, was a different story. Esme wanted to get drunk. She wanted to stop focusing on this man and her uncle and to stop worrying about her brother.

Blackie kept refilling her glass, and she kept drinking it down.

When she realized that he was pouring for her the same way he’d poured for Neely the night he got him drunk, it was too late, she was already feeling the champagne.

After the bottle was emptied and all the blinis were gone, Blackie took her arm and walked her out on deck. It was very late by then and no one was around. The sky was studded with glinting stars that circled back deeper and deeper, and for just a minute Esme could almost see the dimensions of the space up above her.

The water was rougher than it had been earlier, and a series of swells beat against the side of the ship. The wind had picked up, and it howled around them.

“I wish you hadn’t found out.” He put his arm around her waist.

In the moonlight, Esme watched the now-heavy clouds roll in. She was sad when they covered up some of the stars. Another wave hit. The ship was huge; how big were these waves?

In a surprising moment of passion, Blackie grabbed Esme and pulled her to him. She felt his hardness on her thigh. And then she felt another hardness pressing into her ribs.

This one was metal, not flesh.

Despite the champagne, she knew what it was without having to look. She had seen it before in his possession; its image and shape had been burned into her consciousness.

This was not Blackie, her lover, who was holding her. It was Blackie, the thief…the thief he’d always been.

Esme put her arms around his neck and held on to him tightly, pretending that she was embracing him back, that she didn’t know what was going to happen. And then, when she felt his finger start to move on the trigger, she quickly reached down and tried to twist his hand around so the shot would enter his rib cage, not hers.

She didn’t hear the sound over the pounding waves and the wailing wind but she felt the sting. Reflexively, she grabbed on to Blackie and held tightly. As she held on to her lover she could see in his eyes that this hadn’t been easy for him.

At least she had that.

The mountainous waves beat against the ship endlessly, it seemed, filling the air with foam and spray. In the sky she could see the eyes of the Caravaggio god, and he was smiling and winking at her. Or was it just a star breaking through the storm clouds?

Pain radiating from Esme’s side saturated her senses.

He was so sorry, he said. It was all a mistake. He was going to take her back to the cabin and call the ship’s doctor and save her after all. His voice sounded very far away.

Just then, the ship listed hard to the left and Blackie shifted, sliding into the railing. The deck was slippery. With her blood? Ocean water? He was having a hard time both holding Esme and keeping his balance. Another massive wave hit. Blackie slithered backward, then righted himself. She was a heavy, dead weight, dragging on him. Good, she thought. Good. She didn’t want to be light for him; didn’t want this to be easy.

A crack of lightning.

Bright white light shone in his eyes.

Malevolent eyes. Not her lover’s eyes. She could read his eyes and knew they were not going back to the room. No, he had no intention of saving her. That had been another lie. The last lie.

He leaned up against the railing, trying to keep his balance.

The ship listed to the starboard side.

Then reversed.

He managed to get some traction and lifted her up, and she knew then what he was planning. The water was going to be cold. But at least then it would be over. The pain would be gone. She still had one arm around his neck, and now she reached up with her other arm and pulled his head down toward her face with a force that she hadn’t had a moment before.

“One last kiss,” she whispered.

He kissed her, whether it was out of pity or real emotion or guilt didn’t matter; she needed those few seconds to get a better grip on him-not realizing he was using them to get a better grip on her.

With one last, great effort, fighting against the swaying ship, trying to keep his footing, he lifted her up and moved closer to the railing, then he leaned over and let go.

A last great wave buffeted the boat. The wind gusted and sprayed them with a shock of cold salty water. He lost his footing. She held tight around his neck.

They were both flying through the air, holding on to each other, neither of them letting go, not now, not in death, lovers of a sort to the last: they disappeared from the bow of the ship on a night that had started out with a calm, calm sea.