My love to Daisy and Addie Pidduck, deep sources of delight and hilarious providers of ongoing material for the intrepid Maude and Lola; and to Jon, Blossom, Thomas, and Dorothy—children of my heart, my prides and my joys.
Finally, my love and gratitude to Cameron Keys: partner, ally, and friend. You encourage me with your courage and enliven me with your life. You make me laugh. You make me think. You make me better.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT
GAY HENDRICKS
Gay Hendricks, Ph.D., has served for more than 35 years as one of the major contributors to the fields of relationship transformation and body-mind therapies. Along with his wife, Dr. Kathlyn Hendricks, Gay is the co-author of many bestsellers, including Conscious Loving and Five Wishes. He is the author of 33 books, including The Corporate Mystic, Conscious Living, and The Big Leap. Dr. Hendricks received his Ph.D. in counseling psychology from Stanford in 1974. After a 21-year career as a professor of Counseling Psychology at the University of Colorado, he and Kathlyn founded The Hendricks Institute, which is based in Ojai, California, and offers seminars worldwide.
In recent years he has also been active in creating new forms of conscious entertainment. In 2003, along with movie producer Stephen Simon, Dr. Hendricks founded the Spiritual Cinema Circle, which distributes inspirational movies to subscribers in 70-plus countries around the world (www.spiritualcinemacircle.com). He has appeared on more than 500 radio and television shows, including The Oprah Winfrey Show and 48 Hours, and on networks including CNN and CNBC.
ABOUT
TINKER LINDSAY
Tinker Lindsay is an accomplished screenwriter, author, and conceptual editor. A member of the Writers Guild of America (WGA), Independent Writers of Southern California (IWOSC), and Women in Film (WIF), she’s worked in the Hollywood entertainment industry for over three decades. Lindsay has written screenplays for major studios such as Disney and Warner Bros., collaborating with award-winning film director Peter Chelsom. Their current screenplay, Hector and the Search for Happiness, is in preproduction with Egoli Tossell Film. She also co-wrote the spiritual epic Buddha: The Inner Warrior with acclaimed Indian director Pan Nalin, as well as the sci-fi remake of The Crawling Eye with Cameron Keys.
Lindsay has authored two books—The Last Great Place and My Hollywood Ending—and worked with several noted transformational authors, including Peter Russell, Arjuna Ardagh, and Dara Marks.
Lindsay graduated with high honors from Harvard University in English and American Language and Literature, where she was an editor for The Harvard Crimson. She studied and taught meditation for several years before moving to Los Angeles to live and work. She can usually be found writing in her home office situated directly under the Hollywood sign.
READING GROUP GUIDE
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS: We’re thrilled you have chosen The Second Rule of Ten for your book group. First and foremost, we hope you enjoyed the ride! But we’d also love to think that Tenzing’s adventures can provide a little food for inner thought, as well as a cracking good story. The following questions are ones we have asked ourselves in the process of discovering “Ten,” and following his unique path through life. (Makes for an interesting journey, at times.) Have fun with them!
Questions for Discussion
Tenzing Norbu is a complex character, a 21st century detective trying to balance his inner and outer worlds. In what ways are you like, and not like, Ten?
Tenzing’s second rule deals with his unconscious beliefs. What are they, and how do they help or hinder his investigation into Marv’s death, his search for Sadie Rosen, and his pursuit of Chaco Morales?
What “life rules” have you developed? How are they the same as—or different from—the rules you learned as a child?
Along with his police training and trusty .38, Tenzing has a number of intuitive skills in his detective’s arsenal, honed through years of spiritual practice. How do they come into play as he seeks answers to Marv’s murder? Have you ever relied on intuitive flashes to solve personal dilemmas?
Ten is a bit of a hybrid, shaped by an upbringing in two very different cultures and environments. Have you or anyone you know had a similar experience of living in two different worlds? How did that impact your/their life choices?
This detective series represents the collaboration of a male and female author. How do you think this affects the way in which the male and female characters come to life and interact?
Tenzing has a deep longing for a good father figure. In what ways does this shape his interactions with the male characters he encounters in this story?
Ten also has a complicated relationship with his mother (more on this in future books!). Do you think Ten’s feelings for Heather (and Julia in The First Rule of Ten) are impacted by his mother issues? Does this ring any bells?
Ten’s greatest test is to be present in a world that is largely “anything but.” How do you handle the challenges of staying mindful in a fragmented world?
AN EXCERPT FROM . . .
THE THIRD RULE OF TEN
Beep Beep Beep!
My eyes snapped open, the high-pitched warning tone piercing my sleep. It was 2:58 A.M., and somebody had just breached my perimeter.
I slid my hand under the pillow next to me, gripped my Wilson Supergrade, and thanked the various gods that Heather hadn’t spent the night. I swung out of bed. Sure enough, a shadowy figure was moving across the screen of my high-tech Guard-On system, captured in the eerie green glow of the infrared camera. I couldn’t tell if it was the same kid who had paid a night visit here before, but whoever he was, he was heading straight for my garage.
My cell phone buzzed. Mike. He must have received the automatic alert over at his place.
“I’m on it, Mike. Can you call Bill for me?” He grunted and hung up.
I pocketed the phone, pulled on some shoes, and slipped outside the bedroom. Moving quietly, I crept across the slick, hardwood floor, making my silent way through the living room and into the kitchen. I needed to get a better sense of what I was up against. I crouched low and looked out the kitchen window. About 100 yards away, past the trees that line my property, a sliver of moonlight glinted off the big, square windshield of a Hummer. Did that mean I had more than one visitor?
Homeowner outrage hummed in my bloodstream. This is private property. This is my safe space. You don’t belong here. I racked a round into the chamber of the .38.
I knew I should yell out to the intruder—most intruders flee at the first sign of an inhabitant, armed or not. But I could feel the sizzle of adrenaline in my bloodstream urging me to deal with this guy the old-fashioned way.
I cracked open the kitchen door and swept the barrel of the pistol across the grounds. Nothing. I dropped low and snuck around to the back of the garage, where my two cars were stabled. I peered into the small back window. It was Miguel, squatting behind the locked trunk of my Shelby, a crowbar in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
He was about to jimmy a trunk I’d spent at least 20 hours restoring. Not my Mustang, Miguel, not in this lifetime.
I crept silently to the door between the kitchen and the garage. I took a deep breath and banged open the door, reaching through to hit the switch illuminating the overhead light. I yelled at the top of my lungs and aimed the Wilson at him.
Miguel jerked his head up. The flashlight clattered to the floor and rolled across the concrete, coming to a stop at my feet as he groped in his pocket and pulled out a small pistol.
I pointed my gun at his chest. “Drop it!”
His arm jerked upward. Bad move. I lowered the sight and shot him in the meaty part of his left leg. He howled and fell like a stone, his head clunking against the Mustang’s back bumper as he went down. He was out cold.
I was starting toward him when I heard the sound of two car doors slamming.
I crouched down behind the Shelby and aimed into the inky darkness. Now I regretted switching on the light. It put me at a disadv
antage. I could just make out a man—no—two men sprinting through the trees and running straight for me. When they were about 20 yards out, I grabbed the flashlight and slung it to my right, aiming for the Toyota. It hit the sheet metal with a clang. They started firing in that direction but spotted me immediately when I stood up to return fire. Two muzzles swung my way.
There was no time for niceties. I aimed for center mass, just like the Academy taught me. Two shots, two hits, square in two chests. The guy on the right toppled backward with a loud cry. The other one must have been wearing Kevlar because he just staggered for a moment, stopped in his tracks, but still very much alive. He got his footing back and fired, hitting the wall behind me.
My police training sent up another instructional flare: Take cover and hold fire until you can get a clean shot to the leg. But I wasn’t a cop anymore, was I?
By my count, this guy had already fired eight or nine times, leaving plenty of zip in what was probably a 17-shot magazine. I didn’t like the odds. I sighted the Wilson in for a headshot but missed low, hitting him directly in the Adam’s apple. With no oxygen or equipment to make a sound, he sank to his knees and fell forward onto his face with a wet flop.
I let out a deep breath I didn’t realize I was holding. With the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air, I realized I was witnessing karma happening right before my eyes. The second shooter had gotten a reprieve when my first shot bounced off his bulletproof chest. But then he’d spurned that subtle gift from the universe and called in his destiny.
I heard a loud thwock and my left foot jerked. Miguel! I took cover and checked the thick bottom of my running shoe—the ridiculously expensive running shoes I’d just treated myself to a couple of weeks ago. A .25 caliber bullet was now imbedded in its ruined sole.
Miguel was running out of strikes. Strike One: trying to jimmy the trunk of my Shelby. Strike Two: he blows away my new sneaker. The kid was clearly escalating.
I scooted backward so the Mustang’s axle and wheels were between him and me. I heard the scuff of jeans against the concrete floor.
“Hey, Miguel!” The scuffing sound stopped. “Habla Ingles?”
“Un poco.” A little. That’s about how much Spanish I spoke.
“I don’t want to kill you,” I said. “And you don’t want to die. Give me the gun.”
I waited. The silence grew. I curled my finger around the Wilson’s trigger. Then I heard the scraping slide of gunmetal across concrete. I peered around the back of the Mustang and saw the flimsy little Browning on the concrete. I stretched down and got it.
“You carrying anything else?”
“No. Don’ kill me, okay?”
I stuck the revolver in my pocket. Miguel was lying on his back, arms overhead, palms facing upward. Blood had pooled under his left thigh, but I was pleased to see I had just grazed him as I intended. I did a quick over-and-under frisk and came up empty, as he’d promised.
“Okay,” I said. “You can put your arms down.”
He lowered his arms.
“Now roll over. Put your hands behind your back.”
I used a bungee cord to secure his wrists.
“Stay put,” I said. I stepped outside to survey the damage to my other two assailants. It was extensive and permanent. The end for both of them had come quick. The first body had a hole in the chest, just right of center. The man lay flat on his back, so I couldn’t tell if it was a through-and-through. The other sprawled facedown, his head at an odd angle. I rolled him over and saw that his throat was a ragged mess.
I stood up, feeling slightly light-headed, and focused on my breathing to center myself. A river of feeling was flooding my body.
Relief.
Sorrow.
Remnants of rage.
Swimming up through it all was a deep and sure knowledge that this was a turning-point moment in my life. I had never killed anyone—not in the line of duty as a police officer, not as a private investigator. Now everything was different. I had killed. Not once, but twice.
I had taken two lives.
Nothing in my training as a monk or a cop had prepared me for the feeling that welled up from down in the middle of me, a hot wave of revulsion that felt like my stomach was turning inside out. I tasted the bile on the back of my tongue and bent over to throw up.
The sudden roar of a big engine broke through my nausea. I stood up just in time to see the rear lights of the Hummer receding, wheels spitting gravel like grapeshot.
I went back inside the garage and saw the bungee cord on the floor, sliced in two. During my quick frisk of Miguel I must have somehow missed a hidden blade. I wanted to swear, but in my current brain-overloaded state I had reverted to thinking in Tibetan, which has no real curse-words. My mind just kept repeating the Tibetan phrase that would translate as “I’m upset! I’m upset!”
The Hummer disappeared down the twisting curves toward Topanga Canyon Boulevard. I decided not to give chase—he’d be long gone by the time I got my car cranked up and hit those steep turns myself. I could feel the adrenalin, nausea, and other feelings fading in my body, replaced by grudging respect for the kid. Miguel had managed to get away on a badly wounded leg. He’d done it quickly and so quietly I hadn’t even noticed. Even though he hadn’t come to my house for honorable reasons, he’d certainly made a skillful escape. He was one tough kid. I found myself wishing him well in spite of his abuse of my hospitality.
Then that feeling subsided and I was left with the consequences of my actions rattling around inside me.
What have I done?
The cell phone in my pocket vibrated. I glanced at the screen and saw it was Bill Bohannon, my ex-partner. In that moment, it felt like light years since we’d been Detective II’s in LAPD’s elite Robbery/Homicide division. Now Bill was a Detective III, and I was about to be one of his cases.
“Hey,” I said.
Bill’s voice was thick with sleep. “Your buddy Mike said something triggered the security system. Everything okay?”
I looked at the two still bodies.
“Not exactly,” I said. “I got two men down, one more wounded and at large.”
Bill woke up fast. “Two men down. How down?”
“As down as they can get,” I said.
Bill groaned.
“The kills were righteous,” I said, but I wondered if that was true.
A siren wailed in the distance, drawing closer. My night was about to get even more complicated.
“Bill, I hate to ask, but . . . “
“I’m on my way,” he barked. “Don’t say a word to anyone until I get there.”
The two lifeless bodies lay sprawled on the ground like a pair of unanswerable reproaches. I studied them as a wave of shivers passed through my body.
Tank.
Suddenly I remembered I wasn’t the only member of my household that might be having some feelings. I hurried across the driveway and into the kitchen.
“Tank? Where are you, buddy?”
I heard a muffled squawk from the living room. I ran to the sofa and dropped to my knees, peering underneath it. Tank was huddled flat in his place of ultimate refuge, usually reserved for the rare thunderstorms we have in this part of the world.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m okay.” I stretched out my hand to stroke his head.
He shrank against the far wall and made a small hissing sound. Maybe he was rattled by the smell of blood on me.
As I sat back on my haunches, unsure what to do next, my computer made that odd Skype sound, like a bubble popping.
I looked at the screen.
It was a Skype video call, from “lamalobsang.” My heart rose, choking my throat with bittersweet relief. Yeshe and Lobsang—my lifeline between past and present, Dharamshala and Los Angeles, monk and detective. Always there for me, whenever I needed them.
For years after I’d moved to California, we had communicated through snail mail, and the occasional whispered telephone call between Dharamshala and
Los Angeles. Then my father had discovered our ongoing, forbidden contact, and banished them to Lhasa, Tibet, where even snail mail was impossible. But a few months ago, they had been called back from Tibet to become head abbots of my old monastery in Dharamshala—my father’s final act of healing before his death. This change in leadership at Dorje Yidam had brought with it many other changes, a lot of them technological. But I knew my friends’ decision to get in touch with me this morning had nothing to do with modern technology, and everything to do with ancient intuition.
I sat down at my desk and clicked on the icon. Within moments, the gleaming, shaved heads and warm features of my two friends swam into view.
“Tenzing, dear Brother! Greetings to you.” Lobsang touched his forehead. Just to his right, Yeshe did the same.
“Lobsang. Yeshe. I am happy to hear from you,” I said. As I said the words I felt my chest compress, as if two giant hands were squeezing it.
“Are you all right?” Yeshe’s voice was breathless. “We had to reach you. I felt something . . . Something dark.”
I pictured the fresh corpses outside. I opened my mouth to answer, but the words stuck in my throat. These were my dearest friends in the world. But they were also Buddhist monks. They had dedicated their lives to the practice of ahimsa—to doing no harm to any and all sentient beings. How could I tell them that I had just killed two men?
Just weeks ago I had made a new vow: to be more mindful of the difference between privacy and secrecy—to make sure my natural shyness wasn’t causing me to hide things from others I ought to be revealing. Now here I was at a crossroads again, deciding whether to risk a relationship by being totally honest. If I told the blunt truth to my brothers, would I lose the rock-solid respect we’d built up over a lifetime of shared secrets?
And if I lied, would I lose even more?
“I’m fine,” I said. “Everything’s great. How are you?”
The Second Rule of Ten Page 31
