When I pondered Marco’s early logic-defying demonstrations in the rowboat, I felt completely incapable of judging what was possible and what had to be delusional. In my business, we called an idea—and a person—crazy if it didn’t make any sense to us. We applied a consensus-based criterion of what sense was. Well, all that was out the window.
So how was I qualified to save the world if, as a therapist, I couldn’t even figure out if the concept of world-solving was sane? And if there really was a doomsday looming, I didn’t see why the hell I ought to play a major role in any of it. I was just a somewhat spiritual-minded guy who apparently looked like Buddha and had very recently been infused with some sort of esoteric energy by a seemingly enlightened guy.
Actually, that sounded exactly like someone who might be up to his neck in world-saving.
Fuck it. I’ll just enjoy the boat ride and my newfound ability to connect to the world. I don’t have to decide anything. I’ll just let things unfold and see what happens. I was aware that the last time I’d been cavalier about a boat ride, I’d nearly ended up drowning.
My ability to adopt this attitude was a testament to Marco’s reconfiguring. Whatever he’d done might’ve made me a better conduit for directing energy, but it also allowed me to yield more gracefully to the moment—to let go of ideas and just be with my surroundings. The wind in my face was real—well, as real as illusion gets. The water was real, too. The fishy smell was real. The world ending was a science fiction story in Marco’s head. For now.
Chapter Ten
Paihia was an unattractive tourist town where the bay ended and the mainland began. We walked the four blocks from the wharf to the car rental storefront past trinket shops and a variety of seafood restaurants. Lucy wasn’t leashed, but no one seemed to mind. I saw two people reach for their cell phones when they saw me. I hoped they were spreading the good news that the missing man was alive and kicking. But Tommy, Bhante, or Jackson—whoever that was—might be watching for me too.
Marco didn’t seem concerned. When I told him I’d been recognized, he said that everything would work out fine. When I mentioned Jackson as a particular worry, he laughed and wouldn’t explain why.
The older Asian woman at Kiwi Rentals greeted me by name—the wrong name. “Mr. Oshin. You’re back so soon. Have they found your brother? Did they cancel your flight?”
Marco spoke up. “This is the brother. I fished him out of the bay.”
“Oh, my goodness. You’re a lucky man. Are you twins, then? Is it also Mr. Oshin?”
“He goes by ‘B-2,’ ” Marco told her.
“That’s an interesting name. Are you a rapper?” she asked.
“No, I’ve been healing people,” I said. “And now I’m going to wake them up.” She cocked her head like a dog and squinted at me. “I’m sorry,” I said. Confusing people certainly wasn’t going to help.
“I’ll be renting the car today,” Marco said. “And we’ll turn it in at the airport.”
“Okay. Let’s get you going, then.”
Linda was warm and friendly but not particularly efficient. By the time we got out of there and into our cobalt blue compact, the weather had shifted. And Lucy’s mood had, too. She was quite impatient as she leapt inelegantly into the small back seat.
Rain hammered down as Marco pulled out into the left-side-of-the-road traffic and headed south on the motel-lined road.
“I hope we’re not being followed,” I said.
“We are,” Marco said. “There’s at least one car—maybe two.”
“What’ll we do?”
“Drive to the airport.” He was completely unconcerned.
I thought about his behavior since we’d docked in town. “You want to be followed, don’t you?”
“By Bhante, yes. Or his people. But there might be someone else, too.”
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you about the attack at the cave or being kidnapped or the guys with guns on the boat,” I said. “I think you need to know all that.”
“So tell me.”
I did, from the very beginning to when I met Marco in the bay. It took a while. Marco listened without interruption as he drove cautiously in the storm, and then sped up to match the light traffic once the sun had broken through. It took us about forty minutes to reach the main highway.
When I finished, Marco was silent. I tried to see which cars might be following us, but it was hard to tell. Even the major north-south New Zealand artery was only two lanes wide, so basically everyone was following everyone else.
“Here are some ideas I have about your story,” Marco finally said. “First, I doubt the attack was real. There was probably just one helicopter—the 5:15 commuter flight to Great Barrier Island. They could’ve timed things to coincide with it flying overhead.”
“So who’s this Jackson guy, then? Is that just a name they made up?”
“That’s me, I think,” Marco said.
I stared at him. “You?”
“My last name is Giocassini. How do you think that would sound if it was pronounced in a hurry by a Maori with a New Zealand accent? Something like Jackson, I’d guess. They know I exist, and they know I have an interest in you, so they tried to plant the idea that I was a violent enemy.”
“What about Sam? And RGP?”
“Let’s stay focused on the parts that relate to our current situation.”
“Okay.”
“Tommy T. is the head of a major gang in this country. The T stands for Tuttle, by the way, which is why he uses an initial. The primary criminal interest in this matter are the relics, of course,” Marco said. “Bones of saints and such are quite precious, although they rarely appear on the open market. And in Buddha’s case, there are only a handful of credible known relics in the world—all well guarded. You mentioned cave paintings, too. It wouldn’t surprise me if they figured into this as well.”
He accelerated hard at this point and began passing other cars rather recklessly. Lucy barked her approval. Apparently, she liked to go fast. I looked behind us. A silver Audi sedan did its best to keep up.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Trust me,” Marco said. “Don’t trust anyone else when they say that, but trust me.”
He continued to race ahead, and I endeavored to remain calm. “So why do they want me?” I asked. “I don’t have the relics.”
“You have value to Bhante’s organization, and they have the relics. You can be traded for the bones or held for ransom.”
“Oh.” My stomach tightened, and I frowned.
Suddenly, Marco braked hard and swerved into the parking lot of a car repair shop. Lucy tumbled across the backseat. The Audi followed, fishtailing wildly as it slid to a stop behind us, blocking our exit.
Marco climbed out of the car, and I followed. Lucy barked her displeasure at being left behind. We stood and waited for whoever was behind the Audi’s tinted windows to emerge.
It was Sam! She wore light brown yoga pants, a black windbreaker, and a wide smile. She looked as lovely as ever.
“Louise,” Marco said.
“Sensei,” she replied, bowing briefly before she ran over to hug me fiercely.
“You know each other?” I asked, my voice muffled by Sam’s shoulder. I was as confused as I was joyful.
“She was my best student,” Marco said.
Sam and I continued to hold each other, more lightly now. “I’m so glad you’re alive,” she whispered in my ear. “My heart soars.”
“This is Sam,” I explained. “My Sam.” I whispered back to her, “I’m so glad to see you—more than I can say.”
“Samavati,” she told Marco, finally disengaging to face him again. “I took a spiritual name.”
“Namaste, Samavati,” he said. “What a curious development. How have you been?”
“Quite well, although things have been a bit hectic lately.”
I couldn’t muster any words. Confusion now trumped joy. Could this be a coincidence? As new
Sid, I wasn’t sure if I believed in coincidences anymore.
“Let’s have lunch,” Marco suggested blithely. Once again, he seemed to be completely unflappable.
A bearded guy in gray coveralls emerged from the nearest bay of the repair shop. “Can I help you?” he asked. Like everyone else I’d met in New Zealand who wasn’t trying to kill me, he came across as friendly and genuinely interested in helping.
“Do you know a good place to eat near here?” Marco asked.
“Sure.”
As the man began to give us complicated directions to a “brilliant” barbecue restaurant, a battered white SUV squealed its way into the parking lot, skidded to a halt, and four large Maori men piled out. I didn’t recognize any of them. They carried metal pipes.
The repairman ducked into his shop, presumably to call the police.
“I’ll handle this,” Marco said, striding forward and then planting himself in the path of the men.
Sam grabbed my hand. “Watch this,” she said. “You’ve never seen anything like it.”
The first of the attackers rushed the older man, his club raised. Marco stood his ground at first and then turned to the side at the last minute. As the Maori man began to hack down with the pipe, Marco snaked out a fist and hit him once on the hip. The bigger man spun and fell. The timing and placement must’ve been perfect. Not only that, when the Maori man tried to get up, he couldn’t.
“My fucking leg won’t work,” he whined.
“You’ll be fine in a few hours,” Marco told him. “No worries.”
The other three men glanced at one another. Perhaps they thought he’d landed a lucky punch. After all, this was just some old man by the side of the road.
Maori number two moved more cautiously. He held his weapon at his side as he sidled forward. He feinted a punch and tried a kick first. Obviously he’d trained in some type of martial art. And he was quick.
Marco slid to the side again, well before the man’s leg reached him.
“It’s almost like he can read his opponent’s mind,” Sam said. “He anticipates so well.”
Our protector slapped Number Two’s foot as it reached its apex beside his head. The man lost his balance and went down hard, but immediately leapt to his feet.
“Okay,” he said. “So it’s going to be like that.” His voice was deep and resonant.
Marco smiled at him. In that context, it was chilling.
The man suddenly flung the pipe at Marco’s midsection and then rushed him with a flurry of punches. Marco caught the spinning metal one-handed and ducked down in a smooth, compact motion. He swept the weapon across the ground beneath the larger man’s feet, who tucked both legs up as though he were jumping rope. While the man was still in midair, Marco shot a leg out and tapped him on the side of his knee. When Maori number two came down, that leg crumpled underneath him, and he sprawled onto his back on the asphalt. He couldn’t get up either.
Marco hadn’t broken a sweat so far; he didn’t even seem particularly focused on the task at hand.
“It’ll be sore for a few days,” he told the second man. “But you’ll be fine, too.”
The remaining two men suddenly attacked Marco, who leapt free of the fallen Maoris underfoot, landed lithely on the ground, and then sprang up again, his legs shooting out at different angles. He hit one man hard in the collarbone and the other in the solar plexus, and both dropped their weapons and doubled over. Marco landed lightly behind them, poised and balanced. Now he crouched and punched them both simultaneously on the backs of their thighs. They toppled and—no surprise—neither could get up.
Sam was right. I’d never seen anything like this. There was no possibility that any of those men could’ve touched Marco. As impressive as Sam had been in her fight with Jason, this was on another level entirely. It wasn’t even fighting per se; it was a series of purposeful, fight-ending strikes. Nothing more. There was probably no more efficient method of dispatching each of the attackers. It was beautiful.
“Shall we go to lunch?” Marco asked casually.
As sirens sounded on the highway behind us, we pulled out of the parking lot in the two cars. Marco and Lucy led the way in the rented Mazda, and Sam and I followed in the Audi.
“The car repair guy will tell the police what we’re driving,” I said. “We’d be safer if we got off the main road, don’t you think?” As I said this to Sam, Marco exited the highway and headed west down a side road. We followed.
“I wonder why Marco didn’t want to wait for the police,” Sam said. “We’re the victims here.”
“Apparently, it’s important that we get to India by tomorrow. And you and I are in this country illegally, you know—without passports.”
“That’s true.”
“What happened out on the water?” I asked. “Did they let you go? Did the cops get involved? And how did you end up following us?”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “How are you going to get to India without a passport?”
“Marco had mine sent over,” I said. “He was your teacher, huh?”
“Yes. He ran a martial arts school in Palo Alto. But it was more than that. Just being around his energy changes you.” She swerved to avoid a pothole, and I momentarily lost my balance.
“It sure does,” I said, righting myself.
“You’re clearer already, aren’t you?”
“Yes. You can tell?”
She nodded. “But to answer your question, once you disappeared in the water, there were too many men with guns for us to keep fighting. Frank and a couple of men took off in the speedboat to hunt for you, and Tommy steered the fishing boat toward shore to tend to the man who got shot. I think it was his brother.”
“How’d you get away? Do they still have Bhante and Jason and Ram?”
“A cop on the gang’s payroll met us at the dock in Paihia. He was okay with the guns, and he had some shady doctor waiting there, but he wouldn’t go along with holding Jason Patariki against his will. As far as he was concerned, it was like they’d kidnapped the pope. And Jason insisted that if he was walking away, we were too. Tommy and Frank were furious, but what could they do? The guy was a cop, and I think he was a relative of Tommy and Jason’s.” Sam sped up to keep up with Marco, who’d pulled ahead of us around a long curve.
“It seems like everybody here is related to everybody else,” I said.
This story seemed suspiciously simple. One minute we were all kidnapped and being threatened and beaten up over millions of dollars. Then Sam and the others were free, and here she was sitting next to me. Was that really possible? On the other hand, my narrative was even less likely. I was picked up in a rowboat by Sam’s former teacher? In less than one day, he’d completely rearranged me by charging me up with esoteric energy?
“I’ve missed you,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else worth saying.
“I’ve missed you more,” she said. “I thought you were dead.”
“Marco came by in a rowboat,” I told her.
“What’s he doing here?” Sam asked. “The last I heard, he’d retired and was playing golf in Hawaii. His school in Palo Alto is a coffeehouse now called Marco’s Not Here Anymore Roasting Company.”
“That’s a great name. He said he’d won the lottery and bought an island. They’ve got a lot of them around here, don’t they?”
She nodded. “Following you was just luck—if you believe in luck. I was on the road already when I saw you drive by. Bhante lent me his car to shop for clothes and necessities. Paihia is the only town around here with real stores.”
“Wait a minute. Bhante drives an Audi?”
“Apparently,” Sam said.
By now, Marco had pulled into the back parking lot of a luncheonette where the cars would be out of sight. Rita’s Kitchen resembled a 1950s diner. A white Formica counter with round, chromed stools sat across from a row of faded yellow and white vinyl booths. The art on the walls appeared to be paint-by-number scenes, which was an in
teresting synchronicity. Apparently, I’ve traded in the concept of coincidence for synchronicity. The restaurant was uncrowded and quiet, which suited me.
“So what’s RGP?” Marco asked Sam, once we’d sat and given our identical orders—fish and chips.
“It stands for Rakkhaka Guyha Parisa,” she told him.
She and I sat on one side of the booth, facing Marco. We held hands under the table.
“My Pali is a bit rusty,” Marco said. “In fact, I know about three words.”
“Rakkhaka means guarding or protecting—like a servant watching a house. Guyha means that which is hidden by the dress. I don’t think I need to get too graphic about that. And Parisa is an assembly of people—the Buddha’s order, literally.”
“So you’re an organization that protects women? Or their virtue? Are you the equivalent of feminist Buddhists?” I asked, turning to face her.
In the filtered light trickling through the dusty lace curtains, her face was softly, achingly beautiful. I was sitting with the two most amazing people I’d ever met. I felt like a fraud. How could I match any of this?
“We’re not exactly feminists,” Sam answered. “But I’ve taken a vow not to reveal any more than that.” She looked at Marco. “I gather your being here isn’t a coincidence,” she said.
“No more than it is for you. Sid is at the center of something rather important. A karmic nexus, if you will. I think we both sense that.”
“Sid says you’re going to India,” Sam said to Marco. “Where? Why?”
“Meher Baba’s tomb. Near Ahmednagar. Sid needs to continue to experience a progression of energy phenomena to realize his full self—or nonself, I should say.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’ve been going through a progression already?”
“Yes. Remember the spark from the handshake with the interviewer at your office? That’s where it started.”
“Paul,” I said. “How do you know about that?”
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