to moments from lives you never knew you lived. It’s like time-traveling in your head, to real places and real memories and real feelings and real people . . . it’s like dreaming, only much clearer and more vivid—and it’s not fantasy. What you experience really happened.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “How do you know it’s not just your imagination?”
“Oh, I know all about cryptoamnesia,” he countered before turning to Stephenson for corroboration. “I know all the arguments against past-life regression . . . that what we remember under hypnosis is nothing more than random things we read or saw on TV or heard about and forgot, long-lost memories that regression therapy are bringing up from the deepest folds of our minds. But these aren’t fantasies. Trust me. I’ve taken it. I’ve experienced it, more than once. And I know fantasy from reality. The things this drug brings up, the things you experience . . . the emotion, the richness of the experience, the level of detail, right down to the smells. It’s beyond imagination. It’s like you’re there. And it’s tangible. It’s clear enough to give you something to research. Specific memories, names, and places. And that’s what I did. I looked into them.”
“You researched the past lives you experienced while you were under the drug?” Stephenson asked.
Navarro’s face beamed with palpable pride. “Of course.”
He just looked at Stephenson, as if teasing him to ask. Which he quickly did. “And?”
“I discovered who I’d been. Where and when I’d lived. And what I found was . . . amazing. The days of the revolution, fighting against the Rurales. And before that, right here, in this place.” He spread his arms wide, gesturing at the walls around him. “This hacienda. Why do you think I bought it? Why do you think I chose this place?” He smiled. “I was here. In this very place, over a hundred years ago. I worked like a slave in the fields out there, harvesting the
I felt light-headed listening to him. If this were true, it would be a game-changer in so many ways. But we weren’t there yet. The guy was a psycho, and it wouldn’t exactly be out of character for him to lie. For a true skeptic like me, it would take a lot more than the words of a crazed narco to convince me that this was all true.
But if it were . . . the implications would be unimaginable.
I looked across at Stephenson. His face was locked in concentration, visibly awed by what he’d just heard. I felt an unwelcome tinge of unease. Navarro had just dangled him the prize he’d been waiting for all his life. Proof of reincarnation. Vindication of his life’s whole work.
I found myself wondering if my fellow captive was about to join the dark side.
“Real or not,” I put in, “it’ll be hard to prove it.”
Navarro shrugged. “When thousands of people start taking it, they’ll start asking questions about what they’ve seen, they’ll do their research and I’ll bet they’ll find a lot of evidence that what they saw really happened. Which will be a lot of fun to watch. And even if there was no way to prove it, even if some people will stubbornly insist that it’s only our imagination . . . it won’t matter. It’s still one hell of a trip. Better than anything any other pill can give you.”
I saw the logic in what he was saying. Regardless of whether or not it gave its users a look at their actual previous lives—assuming there was such a thing—it would still be a hard drug to resist.
Then Stephenson surprised me. He didn’t look as excited as I thought he would be.
“And it’s basically, what, some kind of psychoactive alkaloid?”
Navarro nodded. “Yes. But the exact composition is still a mystery.”
Stephenson frowned.
“What?” Navarro asked.
“If that’s what it does,” Stephenson replied, “you can’t just unleash it like that. It has to be properly tested. A drug that can open doorways like that in the mind . . . it could be very dangerous. If it can really open up pathways to past life experiences, it could bring up suppressed memories from those lives that might be best left suppressed. Past-life memories usually come out because of some trauma, and bringing up these . . . these psycho-spiritual epiphanies could unhinge you and send your spirit spiraling into, I don’t know, some kind of primordial chaos. You could turn into someone you don’t really want to be and end up with a lifetime of hell.”
That didn’t seem to alarm Navarro at all. “There are good trips and bad trips. A lot of people prefer that to no trip at all.”
Stephenson looked stunned. “Yes, but this is a trip that could turn them into mental wrecks.”
Navarro shrugged. “Life’s about choices, isn’t it?”
“So all this,” Stephenson shot back, “Alex . . . Bringing me here. You really think he can help you recover the formula for this drug?”
“Why not? He remembers everything else.” Navarro held up the old journal. “Eusebio’s writings are very illuminating about the whole experience, but the one thing he didn’t write in this was how to make the damn thing.”
“But McKinnon found it,” I chimed in. “He tracked down the tribe Eusebio wrote about.”
“Yes. He was obsessed with it. He spent years following Eusebio’s trail. And he did it.” Navarro’s gaze hardened into an icy glare. “And then you came down here and killed him and took it away from me.”
I wasn’t moved. “So you came after Alex.”
“I didn’t have years to waste, and McKinnon’s tribe didn’t want to be found. I knew Eusebio’s mission was in Wixaritari territory—that was in his journal, and that’s where McKinnon started following his trail. The tribe originated in the mountains around San Luis Potosi, and to escape the conquistadors, they spread west. That’s where Eusebio founded his mission, in Durango. Then the Jesuits got pulled out by the king of Spain, and the natives found themselves at the mercy of the miners who wanted to use them as slave labor. So they scattered again, ending up all over the place. There are a few of them still around. We call them Huichol now.
“I hired some anthropologists to try and follow McKinnon’s trail,” he continued. “We went down south and talked to Huichol and Lacandon tribes in the rainforests around Chiapas, which is where McKinnon said he came across the formula. We found some tribesmen who remembered meeting him, who remembered him and his old journal and his questions. And then the trail went cold. We couldn’t find the tribe he’d ended up with or the shaman who’d shown him how to make it. Who knows? Maybe he’d lied about where he’d found it. Maybe he found it somewhere else completely. And all I had left was this,” he said, picking up a small stainless steel vial with a sealed lid, about the size of a cigar tube. “The leftovers of what McKinnon gave me.”
“So you started kidnapping scientists to get them to recreate it for you,” I speculated.
“They couldn’t do it,” he told me. “They couldn’t identify all the ingredients or the chemical reactions that produced it. I was losing patience. And then I heard about Alex and his sessions with you, doctor.” He swung his gaze back to me. “And when I discovered he was your son,” he said, his face lighting up, “the stars had aligned. It was perfect karma.”
“How?” Stephenson asked. “How did you know I was treating Alex? My work isn’t public.”
“You’re the West’s top authority on reincarnation, doctor,” Navarro said. “And I probably know more about your own work than you do.” He gave him a smug, cold smile. “College computers aren’t as safe as you think. It wasn’t hard for a hacker to get me into your hard drive. I read everything you were working on, all your emails to your inner circle of researchers.”
I was still working through what he was telling us about the drug. It lets you relive past lives. And he was going to get hold of it through the past-life experience of someone—of my son—who was the reincarnation of the guy who’d brought it to him.
My temples were pounding.
Navarro stepped up to Stephenson and put his arm around him. “I need you to get me this formula from Alex, doctor. I need you to make sure all of this hasn’t been a waste of my time. I can be very generous. Or I can be unpleasant.” He moved closer to him and cupped Stephenson’s chin in one hand, squeezing it hard. “And to make sure you understand what I mean, I want you to pay careful attention.”
He turned to me. “Sadly, for you all this will be nothing but talk, as your soul is about to take its final journey. A journey from which there is no way back.”
Navarro opened an intricately carved wooden chest and took out a length of silicone tubing, a terracotta
