“This is the Pacific Coast Club,” he says, his tone not inviting any more questions. He pulls himself up to his full height. “Members only.”
The Pacific Coast Club. Doesn’t seem familiar. I know I’m taking my chances by asking, but at this point I don’t have a lot to lose. “Was it ever anything else? Was it called something different?”
“Before the great quake, it was one of the grandest private residences in all of San Francisco. The Sutter Mansion.”
I feel a sense of familiarity and know that’s it. In the memory I had of the ferry dock, Signore Luisotti mentioned a Signore Sutter. “Thanks.”
He pulls his head in the door and closes it with enough force that the sound is solid and final. The carriages and finely dressed people on the steps are gone, replaced by speeding cars and a homeless guy pushing a loaded shopping cart slowly down the sidewalk. I turn and start down the steps, putting my hand on the rough stone railing for balance.
The wind is blowing hard this high above the city. All around us, the sky glows orange from the setting sun, but my eyes are riveted to a tiny figure sprawled on the ground several stories below. Her arms and legs are bent at unnatural angles, and even from here I can see the dark pool spreading out underneath her across the hard stone walkway.
The rushing in my ears seems to block the sound of my own voice. I know I am screaming, but it feels as if nothing is coming out. I lean over the side as far as I dare, hoping against hope that she will move or twitch—that she will just get up and tell us that this is all a terrible mistake. The wind seems to steal the sound as I scream her name over and over.
“Alessandra!”
I feel Rayne shaking my shoulder as I pull myself back into reality. I’m sitting on the steps about halfway to the sidewalk. My eyes are wet with tears, and my throat feels raw as I remember the last thing I saw in that memory. Alessandra died that day, right here at the mansion. Did I have something to do with it?
“Cole! What’s wrong?” Rayne’s face is full of confusion and concern.
“I’m fine,” I say, standing up and brushing imaginary dirt off my jeans. I wonder what this must look like to her, and I hope to God I wasn’t actually screaming out loud. “Just slipped.” I push past her and walk down the rest of the steps to the relative safety of the sidewalk.
Rayne walks beside me in silence until we reach the corner, but all I can focus on is the image of Alessandra lying dead on the pavement. The air between us feels thick with everything she wants to say, and knowing Rayne, she’s not going to keep quiet for long.
“What the hell was that all about?” she finally asks. “And don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ because I’m not stupid. Mom says that I have a gift for reading people, and what I just read over there was definitely something.”
I walk just ahead of her so she can’t see my face. My mind is whirling with thoughts of Alessandra. “Promise you won’t tell anyone,” I say, not sure I’m actually going to tell her any of it. There’s no way I would give anyone else even a glimpse of the insanity I’ve been sucked into, but this is Rayne, after all—the girl who believes in spirit stones and destiny.
“Promise,” she says, her mood suddenly solemn.
“I think I’m remembering things,” I say. “Things from…” I stop here, not able to say the next part.
“Things like what?” she prompts. “Come on, Cole, spill.”
“This is going to sound nuts,” I say. I exhale. “Things from other lifetimes.”
Rayne whistles. “You mean like spirits? Were you guided there by some kind of spirit? Is that why you look like you saw a ghost when you were talking to that guy?”
“Not like spirits,” I say. “More like my own past lives.” The words hang between us as I look up to meet her eyes.
She stares at me for a moment before leaning in to give me a huge hug. “Whoo hoo!” she says. “I cannot believe the words I just heard come out of your mouth!” She takes a step back. “This has something to do with Griffon, doesn’t it? I remember you saying he’s into reincarnation.” She pokes me in the arm. “But you said you thought he was crazy.”
“I know what I said. And it does sound crazy. But even crazier things have been happening lately, and I … I think I believe him. I remember being at a party at that mansion,” I say. “Sometime like a hundred years ago. Back when they had horses and carriages.”
“Wow,” Rayne says. She shakes her head in a sort of grudging admiration. “For years I’ve heard you laugh at all of my ‘stupid hippie’ ideas. Who’s laughing now?”
It’s a relief to share even a little part of the burden I’ve been carrying around for weeks. Even if I don’t tell her about Griffon and the Akhet, it’s almost like I’m not alone anymore.
“What time is it?” Rayne asks suddenly.
I check my cell. “About three forty-five. Why?”
“Great. She’s probably still there.” Rayne grabs my hand and heads for the bus stop. “Come on.”
“Who? Where are we going?” I yell as we run to catch the bus that’s just about to pull away from the curb.
“You’ll see,” Rayne says as we find places in the bus’s crowded aisle. “It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“Doubtful.” I duck down to watch Market Street go by out the window. A few minutes after we turn onto Mission, Rayne presses the stop button.
“This is us,” she says, and pushes her way toward the back door.
We land in the middle of the Mission District. I look around at the deserted bars and cheap furniture stores. “And?” I ask.
“This way. It’s just down here.” Rayne heads off quickly, so I have no choice but to follow her. She stops in front of a pawn broker and rings the bell in a doorway to the right.
“Okay, now I’m totally confused,” I say.
“Shhh!” she says as the speaker on the wall crackles. “Hi, Whitney! It’s Rayne,” she shouts into the metal box.
I hear a muffled reply and the door buzzes open. Rayne holds the door for me, and then leads me up the steep staircase that’s just inside the hall. There’s soft music playing in the building that sounds like chanting and bells. Hippie stuff. The smell of incense strikes me as we’re halfway up the stairs, and I sneeze.
“Bless you.” A small woman with curly blond hair and insanely high fuschia heels stands at the top of the stairs in front of what looks like a small apartment. Beside her sits a medium-size black dog.
“Thanks,” I say, sniffing slightly. This place is allergy central.
Rayne reaches over to hug her, and then pulls back to introduce me. “Whitney, this is Cole, a former skeptic who is now in total need of your services.”
“Services? What services?” I ask, still clueless about why we’re here.
Whitney gives a little nod in my direction and smiles. “Former skeptic,” she says. “That sounds like an interesting story. Come on into my office.” The dog follows quietly as she and Rayne disappear into the next room. Not wanting to be left alone in a strange apartment, I follow.
The small room is bare except for some floor pillows and a low table. A fountain in the corner adds the sound of falling water to the music, and the windows are covered with a sheer, gauzy material. The whole effect makes me want to take a nap. And pee.
“Please. Sit.” Whitney indicates one of the cushions.
As we settle onto the floor, I turn to Rayne. “Will you finally tell me what we’re doing here?”
“We’re going to find out what’s really going on,” Rayne says.
Whitney looks at me and then Rayne as she absently strokes the dog’s head. “So, Cole doesn’t even know why she’s here?”