Soul Identity (6 page)

“Green tea with rosehips,” Marie said.

Madame Flora put down her cup and stood up. “That designer stuff is not tea.” She collected our tea and cookies and placed everything in the sink.

“Grandma, it wasn’t that bad,” Rose said.

“Yes, it was,” Madame Flora said. “Just what does your mother teach you anyway?” She sat back down and looked at us. “Is there anything else? We have a client coming in ten minutes and we must prepare the room.”

“Did your grandmother tell you why she became a reader?” I asked.

Madame Flora frowned. “Our family has been involved with the organization for many generations.” She stood up. “I don’t want to be rude, but I must get ready for my next client. If you do speak with somebody from Soul Identity, please inquire about my commission on Arthur Berringer.”

The restaurant was a few minutes from Madame Flora’s. We sat on the patio and watched the boats pass under the bridge.

“Soul Identity sounds creepy,” Dad said. “They’re paying commissions to their recruiters—they must be bilking their members for piles of money.”

“Scott, you said that your neighbor
Berry
has a new purpose for living,” Mom said. “They sound like a cult that steals their members’ possessions.”

“But her grandmother was involved. What cult lasts more than a generation?” I asked. “Don’t they burn out or kill themselves off? Or dissolve when the leader kicks the bucket?”

“So maybe they’re not a traditional cult,” Dad said. “But they sure don’t seem to be a religion either. What religion doesn’t advertise?”

I ordered cream of crab soup, figuring I should load up while I was still in
Maryland
. I asked the waitress, “Do you believe in past lives?”

She gave me a funny look. “I have only one life, and I have given it to Jesus. Past lives? That’s the devil talking, son. Don’t listen to him.” She walked away.

Guess not. “Hey, was Madame Flora for real or was she just playing us?” I asked.

Dad shrugged. “It’s hard to believe she’s never used a fax machine before.”

“Let’s talk about her granddaughters,” Mom said. “Did you think those girls were cute?”

Even though I work with my parents and we spend a lot of time mired in each others’ business, I try to draw a line of separation at the edge of my love life. “They’re what, nineteen years old?”

Dad laughed and grabbed Mom’s hand. “I try to keep her off your back, son, but she’s been wearing me down. You owe us a couple of grandchildren sooner or later.”

Mom shook her head. “Scott, you’re thirty-two years old. You still have most of that curly dark hair. You’re in shape, intelligent, and some people think you’re pretty funny.”

I sighed. “You’ve told me all this before.”

She leaned forward. “I have. Now stop fooling around and settle down before the rest of your hair falls out, your belly hangs over your pants, and you forget how to make the girls laugh.”

The soup came just in time to fend off the rest of that conversation. The waitress gave me my bowl and placed a religious pamphlet next to my spoon. “I’d like you to read this,” she said.

I looked at the back of the pamphlet. It was rubber stamped with the address of a local evangelical church. “Thanks, but I’m really not interested,” I said.

“Read it now, son. It will save your soul.” She left.

“Everybody seems to be worrying about souls these days.” I opened the pamphlet. It talked about the meaning of life, hope, love, forgiveness, clean starts, and eternity. “You know, these guys are offering the same things that
Berry
was searching for.”

“How can that be?” Mom pulled the croutons off her salad and dropped them onto her bread plate. “Christians believe that we have only one life.”

“Isn’t heaven just a way to stuff your same soul into a new body?” I asked. “That sounds like reincarnation to me.”

“That’s an interesting twist.” Dad grinned. “You want to bounce that idea off the waitress?”

“I doubt she’d appreciate it,” I said. “But both Soul Identity and the Christians seem to be focused on our souls’ futures.”

“But doesn’t the Soul Identity approach seem more selfish?” Dad asked.

I shrugged. “When you strip the candy coating away, don’t all religions hinge on a ‘sow now and reap later’ plan?”

We discussed this for the rest of the meal. Since it was a celebration, we ordered our traditional single serving of cheesecake, three forks, and three coffees. “Here’s to our new wacko client.” I raised my coffee cup. “May they bring us a happier neighbor and lots of money.”

“And may you be safe,” Mom said. “I’m worried.”

I kept my eyes
closed so I could fall back asleep, but the voice on the phone penetrated through the fog of sleep and pierced into my consciousness. “Mr. Waverly,” it said, “this is Bob from Soul Identity. Are you ready for your six o’clock trip to
Boston
?”

I opened one eye and peeked at the clock. It was a few minutes after four. “Why are you calling me now?” I asked.

“We are on a tight schedule, sir.”

“And just how long does it take for you to get ready in the morning?” I demanded.

“Thirty minutes at most.”

“Call me back at five thirty.” I hung up the phone, but my sleep had fled. Damn these guys. I kick-started my coffee maker and glanced out the kitchen window. A stretch limo idled outside on the street; its lights illuminated the
Chesapeake
pre-dawn fog. If my ride was here, I might as well get going.

Twenty minutes later I filled two travel mugs with coffee and stepped outside. Before I reached the limo, the door opened and the driver stepped out. It was still dark, and I could only see his silhouette.

“Mr. Waverly? You’re an hour early.”

I recognized that voice. “You called me an hour early, Bob.” I nodded at the limo. “Don’t tell me you also moonlight as a chauffeur.”

“Mr. Morgan has assigned me to be your driver for the duration of your contract with Soul Identity.”

A driver would be nice. I held out the mug. “Pleased to work with you, Bob. But call me Scott from now on.”

He scrunched up his face. “How about I call you Mr. Scott? Soul Identity requires our formality.”

“Good enough.”

He opened the back door. I hopped in the front seat instead. “I’d rather ride shotgun,” I said.

Bob drove out of my neighborhood and turned north. I pointed at his dark green suit. “What is it with you guys and green?”

He smiled. “Our uniforms and vehicles are green. Our buildings and tools are gold or yellow. Always.”

He turned east on Route Fifty, away from the bridge. “Whoa, Bob,” I said. “BWI is that way.”

“I’m driving you to
Massachusetts
, Mr. Scott. We’ll take 50 to 301 to 95, then over to the New Jersey Turnpike, across
New York
, up
Connecticut
, and into
Massachusetts
. Arriving no later than,” he looked at his watch, “three o’clock this afternoon. Maybe two o’clock, since you woke up early. But that depends on the traffic and the number of stops you require.”

These crazy guys were paying for my time whether we flew or drove. “Driving works for me,” I said.

Bob pointed over his shoulder. “Mr. Morgan sent me some materials for you to review before we arrive. I put them in the back, along with your uniform.”

“Do I get to wear green suits too?”

“No, sir. Only Soul Identity employees may wear green on the campus. Contractors all wear black.”

I looked in the back and saw three couches arranged around a narrow center table. A pair of black jeans, a black leather belt, and a black polo shirt lay on the couch in the rear. A manila folder, a DVD case, two pillows, and a blanket sat on the one running back to front. I stuck my head through the partition and looked down, and I saw a flat screen television monitor on the countertop just below me.

I pulled my head back. “Last week you told me that you had worked for Soul Identity for many years, but you don’t look very old,” I said. “How long has it been?”

“Only for five years this time.”

This time?

He continued. “But if you add it all up, next Friday makes exactly one hundred years of service.” Bob smiled. “They’re throwing a big century party for me at headquarters.”

“If you add what up?” I asked. “Overtime?”

“Overtime doesn’t count.” Bob glanced at me. “You really don’t understand what we’re about?”

I shook my head.

“Well, sir, Mr. Morgan did say to help you in any way I could.” He paused. “Maybe you could ask me some questions.”

“All right. Let’s start with Soul Identity. How old is this organization?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, sir. Pretty old, I would say.”

“Your green pen said you were established in 1732.”

“That’s when we moved our operations to
America
. We’re much older than that.”

“I don’t think identity is that old a word.”

“It’s older than you think,” he said. “It comes from the
Latin
idem et idem
, which means
again and again
. We’ve been using that name since well before we made the move to
America
.” Bob reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a badge-sized piece of gold-colored plastic. “My membership card.”

I looked at it. Again the same image: a triangle with two eyes inside, only this time I could see some detail. The eyes reminded me of Egyptian Eyes of Horus, and the triangle looked like the pyramid on the back of the US dollar bill. “What does this picture mean, Bob?”

“That, sir, sums up what I believe. It represents how the eyes are truly the portal to our souls. I wear it proudly around my neck as well.” Bob stroked a bump in his shirt high up on his chest. I saw him move his lips in a silent chant.

“So it’s like what a cross would mean to some Christians?”

He nodded.

“Did Soul Identity give you the necklace?”

“No, sir. I belong to a church in
Baltimore
, and our pastor gives out these pendants as gifts.” Bob sucked in his breath and cringed. “Um, sir,” he said hurriedly, “Soul Identity doesn’t know I go to this church—please don’t tell them.”

“Would they get upset?”

“It’s like this, sir. Even though Soul Identity connects souls to past and future lives, they don’t say what it all means. All they do is recruit members, collect money, and identify souls. They leave the meaning to the churches.”

“And why wouldn’t you want them to know?”

“Because I’m an employee,” he said. “To avoid conflicts of interest, we’re instructed to steer clear of the churches.” He looked at me with wide eyes. “But sir, many of us need more. Soul Identity is not just a job—it’s our whole purpose for living.”

“So you hide your church membership?”

He nodded. “It’s like a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. You won’t tell, will you?”

“Of course not,” I said. “But tell me, are there many churches like yours?”

“There used to be hundreds. They’ve been consolidating, though. Most members belong, but we employees have to be careful how active a role we take.”

And although it was interesting about the churches, I wanted to know more about what Bob did for the organization we were driving toward. “What is it that you deliver?” I asked him.

“All sorts of things, sir. Redemptions, deposits, statements, and messages. I’m also certified to take readings, but only with the electronic readers.”

I’m pretty good about getting people to talk about themselves. Everybody has a story to tell, and the easiest way for me to do my security consulting is to get people to tell me more—much more—than they intended.

Bob seemed eager to tell me things—almost too eager. I wondered whether he was being friendly, sharing his religious fervor, or trying to mislead me.

I scratched my head. “Back to your one hundred years of service. Did you work for Soul Identity in your past lives?”

Bob nodded. “Seven of my soul ancestors served for a total of ninety-four years.”

I glanced at him, then turned back to watch the road. This was going to be a weird month up north.

After a pit stop I sat in the back. Bob showed me how to bring up the GPS map. Then he pressed a button on the same control panel. “This may interest you,” he said. The back of the rear couch folded down and joined with a set of cushions behind it, producing a queen sized bed.

I could recover my missing sleep. “Just wake me up a couple hours before we arrive.” I said.

“No problem, sir.”

I woke up at eleven thirty. The GPS display showed us navigating through the messy split of Routes 95 and 91 in
New Haven
. Bob headed north on 91 toward
Hartford
.

He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Did you sleep well, sir?”

I nodded. “The bed was great.” I grabbed the remote and tracked our path. I noticed the
Manhattan
section showed a detour—our limo had circled
Central Park
.

“What’s with the
Manhattan
tour?” I asked.

Bob looked at his display. “That loop you see there? I made a pickup while you were sleeping.”

“What kind of pickup?”

“One of our members was returning some items to his soul line collection.”

“Couldn’t he use an overnight delivery service?”

“He is using one. That’s my job. The items are priceless, and we cannot trust just anybody to deliver them. Only we know how to do it right.”

“You take your job pretty seriously.”

He nodded. “I am the number one driver in the Mid-Atlantic region.”

Good for Bob. “What is he returning?” I asked. “Can I see them?”

He shook his head. “Only he and the depositary clerks will ever see them. Even I don’t know what’s inside the package.”

At least Soul Identity seemed to take privacy seriously. That would make my job easier—once I found out what it was.

“Do you use SI Delivery for your own deposits?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Does a driver come to your house in a limo?”

He laughed. “No, sir, I handle my own transactions.”

“What kinds of deposits do you make?”

He seemed to hesitate before answering me. “Sir, many non-believers think what we do is strange.”

He got that right.

Bob continued. “We’ve been persecuted, thrown out of our homes and towns, and even burned and drowned as witches and wizards. We’ve learned to be cautious about sharing too much with non-believers.”

“Yet you’re sharing all kinds of information with me.”

He sighed. “I am, but Mr. Morgan says you need to understand so you can do your job. And, sir, I fully expect that you’ll become a believer once you see what we’re all about.”

And though I thought Bob was over-optimistic about my impending conversion, that wasn’t where he was heading. “You’re asking me to be careful with what you tell me.”

He nodded.

“I’ll be careful.”

Bob took a deep breath. “We collect dolls.” He winced as he said this.

“Dolls?”

He nodded.

“What kind of dolls?”

“The kind that kids play with, sir.”

“Who’s ‘we’”

“We, sir?”

“As in, ‘we collect dolls.’ Does all of Soul Identity collect dolls?”

He shook his head. “’We’ means my previous selves and me. My soul line has collected thousands of dolls over the past thirteen hundred years. It’s my turn now, and then my futures selves will be adding even more.”

“You must have quite a collection.”

“We do, sir. One of my predecessors had them on display at a doll museum in
London
back in the nineteenth century.”

I had nothing to say.

After a few minutes of silence, Bob pointed at a billboard advertising a Chinese all-you-can-eat lunch buffet. “How’s that look?” he asked.

“It’ll do,” I said.

“So why dolls?” I asked when we returned to our table, our plates heaped with noodles, egg rolls, and General Tso’s chicken.

Bob sat down and pulled his chopsticks out of their wrapper. “My soul line founder was an eighth-century noblewoman living in Breton March,
France
. The Basques ambushed and killed her husband as Charlemagne’s army returned from its Spanish campaign. She made ends meet by delivering packages between Soul Identity and the royal court. Before she died, she assigned us the task of assembling a doll collection.”

It sounded like Bob had recited this story many times before. “Why is it that every time somebody talks about their past lives, nobility is involved?” I asked. “Nobody ever seems to come from horse thieves and murderers.”

“That’s a very common question, sir, from the skeptical family of our new members.” He frowned. “Usually soul lines start with somebody who has a lot of money or status. Somebody who wants to preserve their achievements. They begin a soul line and pass down their money, lessons, and assignments to their future selves.”

That sounded reasonable. The rich and powerful have the time and interest to get these lines going. “But what about you, Bob?” I asked. “How did you get involved? Were you searching?”