Coattail Karma

by Verlin Darrow

  “This is creepy shit, Dad. Did you ever stop to consider that?” Heat rushed into my cheeks, and I shook my fist for emphasis. “Did you know I was treated for paranoia when I was twenty-four? I saw people following me. I was convinced I was being monitored by someone or something.”

  “Of course we knew that because we were the ones following you. We were also the ones who spoke to your therapist to make sure your psych record didn’t include a diagnosis of psychosis or anything else that could be damaging to your future.”

  “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you people?” I said. “You fake your deaths, you leave me nothing, you spy on me, you interfere, you try to manipulate me into becoming who you think I ought to be. This is like anti-parenting. This is crazy. You’re both crazy.”

  “It was absolutely necessary,” my father said.

  “In your opinion,” I said. “I am so sick and tired of hearing that. Do know how many times I’ve heard that lately?”

  He started to answer.

  “Oh, shut up,” I told him. “You waltz in here as the biggest, most ridiculous non sequitur ever. What the hell? What do you think you’re doing? Where did you come from? How the hell did you find me here? This is ridiculous. Why should I believe anything you say?”

  My father grimaced and gathered his breath again before he spoke. “Your mother said you’d react this way. I said no, he’d be reasonable. He’s spiritually evolved now, Andrea, I told her. Look at it this way, Sid. We’ve given you the best chance to develop into someone similar to your namesake. And it’s worked! That’s the most important thing—it’s worked. We’re very proud of you.”

  I was enraged. Marco’s high-handedness was bad enough. This was beyond the most draconian Skinnerism I’d ever heard of. It felt like something the Nazis might have tried if they’d been Buddhists. Well, evil Buddhists. My parents had been entrusted to care for me—nurture me—to support my dreams. That certainly didn’t include sacrificing my autonomy for their cause. What sort of life could I have had if they hadn’t made me an orphan at twenty-one, for God’s sake? Obviously, RGP was still a cult. Who were they kidding? These were fanatics.

  Perhaps my father could read my expression. “It’s not that different from what happens in other families. Parents want the best for their children. Maybe they steer them toward a medical degree or an arranged marriage. We just had loftier ambitions for you, Sid. And the world needs for us to have them—don’t forget that part. It’s been a Viennese waltz with destiny taking the lead and—”

  “Okay, I get it,” I said.

  A cascade of arguments bubbled up. There were so many obvious differences between what my parents had done and what normal parents did to guide their offspring that I didn’t even know where to begin. My father’s pretty speeches were just dressed up, weak-assed excuses.

  What I did know was that there was no point in arguing with him. There never had been and there never would be. Although my mother wore the pants in the family—my father was content to follow and not lead—once he’d settled on a point of view, he was remarkably rigid and stubborn. When I was growing up, at least these fixed opinions weren’t generally ill-informed or self-centered. Early on, I learned to differentiate between the value of a given opinion and the way someone held it. My father consistently role-modeled how not to hold one.

  How quickly and thoroughly I’d been sucked back into our family dynamic. For all the progress I’d made as an adult—in therapy, as a grad student in psychology, and for that matter, as Marco’s protégé—apparently I was still easily triggered by my father simply being my father—doing what he always did.

  In this case, there were plenty of other topics to focus on and a host of questions I needed to ask. But here I was, shoving everything I’d learned to the side, ignoring the loving energy that I knew I truly was, readying myself to tear the guy a new one if he said one more irritating thing.

  I decided to ask a question before he had the chance to set me off again. “So are you aware of Marco’s plan for me?” I said.

  “The infamous Dr. Bompiani,” he said.

  Really? We were back to that? I peered at him intently. I wished I could’ve seen his eyes behind the sunglasses. I once trusted this man sitting across from me. Could I trust him again now that he’d resurrected himself and was supposedly leveling with me?

  “You’re saying that Marco is Bompiani?” I asked. “You know that for sure?”

  “Of course. Your mother taught with him at Stanford. He’s been over to our house, to departmental parties—you probably met him years ago. You just don’t remember. He looked a lot different back then.”

  I was flabbergasted. I just couldn’t reconcile this with my hard-earned who-was-really-who experience. And I wasn’t capable at that moment of reviewing all the Marco/Bompiani evidence yet again. But this was my own father—well, adopted father. I couldn’t simply dismiss what he said, either.

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked. This was the next question on the list in my head. A better son would’ve asked it first.

  “Well,” he said. “That’s the thing. That’s why I’m here.” He took a deep, raspy breath. “Your mother’s been kidnapped.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “You might have mentioned this right away,” I said.

  Once again, I felt more annoyed at my father’s modus operandi than alarmed by his news. I wasn’t proud of that. Maybe it was because until a few minutes ago, I’d thought my mother was dead, anyway. Or perhaps I’d been through so much trauma lately, a kidnapping no longer registered as a bona fide crisis on my internal Richter scale.

  “Yes, I probably should’ve told you sooner,” my father said. “Now we’re in a bit of a rush. But I wanted to be sensitive to your position—to truly—”

  “Who has her?” I interrupted. “What do we need to do?”

  “It’s a New Zealand gangster. And we need to go—to get out of here.”

  “Okay.”

  I struggled to my feet. I felt weak and spacey—probably from not having eaten much for the last couple of days.

  All the dogs sprang to their feet, too. I didn’t know what their deal was, but they moved in unison, with an unearthly surety—as though they already knew what was about to happen. These are not ordinary dogs. And why hadn’t my father commented on them? Were they his?

  Three of them—the same trio that had split off before—moved forward and assembled around my father as he began to walk ahead of me toward the doorway of the old temple. One led the way and the others trotted along beside him. I followed.

  I looked behind me to see what the remaining two dogs were up to. They’d vanished. Was there another way out?

  My father escorted me around the outside of the roofless stone building. In the dimming light, an overgrown trail led away from the back of the ruin. India’s version of overgrown was beyond anything I’d experienced before. But someone had hacked a slim avenue between a wild array of flowering bushes, tall grasses, and vines, and we walked on spongy, dark green ground cover. Again, my father almost fell, and the proximity of a dog helped right him.

  A short walk brought us to a crude dirt road. A dusty silver BMW sports car—a Z4—was parked there. Sam sat in the driver’s seat.

  “Get in,” she said. “Hurry!”

  I was at another crossroad. Who should I trust? What should I do? Although I’d yearned to be with Sam scant minutes before, I felt so unsure of myself that even this option confused me.

  “You really do need to go,” my father told me. “I’ll stay here and clean things up.”

  I had no idea what that meant, but with Sam and my parents—the RGP contingent—representing the get-in-the-sports-car-with-the-beautiful-woman-who-seems-to-love-you choice, and Marco and company offering the scary-puppetmaster-version-of-being-groomed-to-rule-the-world…well, I hopped into the BMW.

  I never seemed to have enough time to properly consider what would later turn out to be a pivotal choice. I kept getting
blindsided. And tricked. And hurried. Would I regret this latest decision down the road—literally, in this case? After all, I was leaving Chris behind. Could he hold his own with Marco and the others if they came after him? I knew he couldn’t, but I didn’t see why they’d harm him. And my father—how in the world could he “clean things up”? What did that even mean?

  Sam’s proximity pulled me back into the moment. She wore an emerald-green scoop-neck top and a white baseball cap. Her blond ponytail snaked its way out the back of the cap. She was sweating; it reminded me of our nights together. I felt a rush of lust, followed by an even bigger rush of love.

  “Take care,” my father said, waving goodbye with his idiosyncratic wave. It was a cross between a beauty queen’s and a little kid’s. I was moved; tears filled my eyes. He looked so old and out of place, and I loved him. I guess there was something about people waving goodbye that summoned my heart. I remembered Lannie in her shiny red warm-up suit at the dock near Howick. Then I began to sob. Sometimes it felt as though life was nothing but a series of losses—an incessant tearing away of whatever seemed to matter.

  The dogs howled. It was an eerie sound and very loud. As Sam put the convertible in gear and accelerated hard, they switched to barking. I would miss them too. I didn’t know why.

  Sam focused on her driving. The narrow track ended at a paved country road, and she zoomed onto it, dodging several bicyclists. She snuck a look at me as she expertly played chicken—at much higher speeds than her competition. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Just sad. But I’m enjoying it.” I felt energized and grateful that I could still zero in on a particular emotion—still be human. But in that moment, I also missed the bliss of spiritual energy. I’d been awash in it the last time I’d seen Sam.

  Sam concentrated on driving for a while before she spoke again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about your parents or Bompiani sooner.”

  “He really is Bompiani, then?”

  “Yes, but he’s not evil, as some people would have you believe—just misguided.”

  “So does he have all sorts of powers, or is he conning me like my brothers said?”

  “Both. He has abilities, yes. But he’s also bankrolled a team of tech people, private investigators, and actors to pursue his goals.”

  “Which are?”

  “You probably have a better idea of that than I do.”

  That was no help. Is it possible that someone else could be more clueless than yours truly?

  The road had become relatively curvy, and Sam’s breakneck driving was very distracting. Fortunately, the traffic was relatively light by Indian standards.

  “I can say this,” Sam continued. “Marco has an amazing mind. Between his psychic abilities, his ability to charm and impress, and the fact that he was a genius professor of psychology even before his enhancement meds, he’s capable of enacting remarkable plans.”

  “And apparently he can talk squadrons of people into helping him, too.”

  “He pays well.”

  “Let me get this straight. So I am a clone?”

  “No, you’re not. Bhante’s people have been running a hoax about that right from the start. That’s one reason this has been so confusing. Nobody’s been completely aboveboard. Not even us, I’m afraid. Your mother can explain our motivation to you better than I can.”

  “I saw DNA tests online.”

  “Think about it. How could you be a clone? It’s ridiculous. They probably rigged data on fake websites.”

  “If you knew all along,” I asked, heating up, “why did you go along with Marco’s bullshit? And why lie to me? I’ve been developing a fantasy of being in a relationship with you someday, but without trust, what’s the point?”

  “I can’t explain all that now. It was your mother’s idea—part of the plan. I didn’t choose to withhold information. It wasn’t personal. And I share your fantasy, Sid. There’s something that’s been pulling me toward you all along—something more than ordinary attraction—more than ordinary love.”

  I loved hearing this, and I knew it to be true. “How is my mom?” I asked. “Aside from being kidnapped, I mean. What’s she like now? My dad seems about the same, except for some health problems.”

  “She’s a lovely woman. A dedicated woman. A role model for me—an inspiration. And very down to earth.”

  In the dark, we approached a highway. A surprisingly well-lit gas station sat at the upcoming corner, and three good-sized, bright-yellow motorcycles were parked in front of it. The riders sat on their bikes—helmetless—and watched us approach. They weren’t Indian. They were Maori.

  We turned the corner and roared away. The bikers did too. I turned to look. The three men were chasing us. Maoris. In India. Did Tommy T.’s empire extend across the Indian Ocean? Had someone with vast resources hired them? Ram?

  “Did you see—?”

  “Yes. I don’t know if we can outrun them,” she said. “But I’ll try.”

  A long straightaway stretched ahead of us, and the traffic was still light. Maybe it was dinnertime for decent, law-abiding folks. For a while, we pulled away. We had a head start, and the Z4 had more low-end torque than the crotch-rockets did. But gradually they gained on us.

  The taillights of a bus loomed ahead in our headlights, moving half our speed. Sam pulled out to pass, but a steady stream of oncoming cars kept us trapped.

  One of the bikes accelerated up beside us, and a man I recognized from Tommy T’s fishing boat gestured with a pistol for us to pull over. In the open-air car, in the narrow Indian lane, I could practically reach across Sam and knock the gun out of his hand, or at least shove him. Maybe he’d lose his balance. Maybe I’d lose mine.

  Before I could act, Sam swerved out into the traffic and floored the accelerator. We were about to play super-chicken. In the dark. With gun-toting bikers chasing us.

  I closed my eyes as we approached the first tiny car in the oncoming lane. I don’t need to see my death coming. I’ll just go ahead and die. I’ll be okay. I’ll just be dead. Adrenaline surged through me again, mimicking the spiritual energy I was missing.

  Everyone honked. I heard a gunshot. We swerved hard to the right and then to the left. Both times, I thought we’d roll over. How could a car stay upright in the midst of this?

  I opened my eyes. We were doing about a hundred and ten on a stretch of open road. If an animal wandered onto the road, we’d die. If we hit a major pothole, we’d die. My adrenals got to work again, and I shivered. I decided not to catalog all the potentially fatal outcomes.

  I turned to look at our noisy pursuers. All three bikes were right on our tail; their headlights formed an even row.

  After another quarter mile, Sam called to me over the racket. “I’m up to a hundred and twenty. I don’t think we can outrun them. And we’ll come up on traffic again soon. I can’t keep taking crazy chances. Sooner or later, the odds will catch up with us. Do you want to surrender?”

  “Not especially,” I shouted back. My courage—or perhaps foolishness—surprised me.

  “Okay, then,” Sam said. “Hang on tight.”

  She immediately jammed on the antilock brakes. We didn’t skid, but we came close. The smell of burning rubber was pungent, and the car’s suspension screamed in protest.

  Two of the bikes shot past us—one on either side. The third one crashed into our back bumper, and a skinny New Zealander flew over us. His trailing foot nicked my ear, and then he landed on the front edge of the hood just before we came to a stop. He slid to the pavement and lay inert.

  Sam hurriedly backed up, turned around, and burned rubber again, zooming up to speed. I watched the other two bikes reverse course as well. They were quite a way behind us now but would soon catch up again. Being faster was a much more advantageous attribute in this race than being able to stop sooner.

  “What should we do now?” Sam asked. She was weaving and dodging cars with the accelerator floored again.

  “Would we have an a
dvantage off-road?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “On a different kind of road?”

  “No.”

  “What are the odds you’d win in a fight against opponents with guns?”

  “Not good.”

  “Let me think,” I said.

  Instead of thinking, something else happened. All the metabolic energy that had been simmering in me suddenly came to a boil. The intense sensation triggered the return of my ability to directly experience my own spiritual energy, and this gave me an idea.

  “Let them get closer,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. This might not work.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Sam said, forcing a grin.

  Part of me was amazed. How could she smile? The other part was continuing to gather energy.

  Sam stopped passing cars and let the bikers catch up. They’d put away their guns to drive at high speeds, but now one of them reached for his again.

  I unbuckled my seat belt and swiveled all the way around in my seat. My hands moved themselves into position, and then I shot out a powerful energy beam. It was a relief to release all the pent-up power; it was much more than I could comfortably hold.

  Both of the Maoris veered off the road. They gradually slowed and then fell over in an adjacent field. One of their headlights illuminated the other biker’s face. He was smiling broadly and looked stunned.

  “I blissed ’em,” I said. I felt empty, but not in a bad way.

  Sam turned onto a side road as sirens sounded behind us.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Elsewhere,” Sam replied.

  “Excellent.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sam drove for a half hour before we found a gas station, where we purchased a map from a girl who must’ve been eleven or twelve. We had no idea where we were. The absence of street lights—and any electricity at all for some stretches—kept the night landscape hidden. And the place names on road signs meant nothing to us.