Caravan of Thieves

by David Rich

  24.

  A small shrine near the road marked the entrance to the Veruvana Retreat. “Oh, damn, this is it,” Kate said. “This is the place.” I turned up a long paved driveway flanked by sycamore trees. After a few hundred yards, a parking lot opened on the left. I stayed on the drive until I came to a large mission-style building. A small sign near the door said “Veruvana.” Ahead of us, across the drive and up an unpaved path, stood a two-story building that looked like a chapel. Scattered among the trees were small shrines and prayer spots. On the other side of the drive were two large greenhouses. Everything was well kept and neat, but the silence made it seem as if the place were abandoned. Wind chimes added to the effect.

  The terrain was right, the trees and bushes, even the sky; it all meshed with my vision. Beyond the main building, the driveway continued up a hill and around a corner. I looked back toward the entrance and could see the parking lot below me. Two shiny white SUVs, three green vans. But the architecture was wrong, all mission style. I was looking for a wood farmhouse.

  “Everyone is in the dining hall. Can I help you find it?”

  I spun, startled out of my own meditation. His right shoulder was bare and his head was, too; the rest was covered in a saffron robe. He wore sandals which did not look like they would help him creep up silently.

  “I was hoping you had rooms for my mother and me.”

  “Do you have a reservation?”

  “It doesn’t seem too crowded. Do I need one?”

  “Everyone is in the dining hall. But I’ll check.”

  We followed him into the main building. He disappeared for a little while, and when he came back he told me we could have two singles in the Samoner retreat, which sounded okay to me. Cash confused him and made him disappear again. At last he took the money and an extra hundred as a deposit. I parked my car in the empty lot and hiked back up, and he showed Kate her room first and told us dinner was still on if we were hungry. Kate decided to skip dinner.

  The dining hall held four long tables with benches for seats. At the head of the room, near a stage, a buffet was set up. The ceiling was high, with arched beams of dark wood running from the floor all the way up. I looked around for the statues of Jesus, but they had all been taken down. This place used to belong to the Catholic Church.

  I never went to summer camp or to prison, but I imagined it would be something like this setup. Instead of gangs with their different colors, you have teams with their different colors, and you all eat the same slop and do what the guards or counselors tell you to. Instead of punishment, you call it fun. Or in this case, instead of drudgery, you call it enlightenment.

  Men and women sat in groups, filling most of the spots at the tables in bunches with matching colored T-shirts. Where one color ended and another began, an empty seat marked the territory. Their ages ranged from the mid-twenties to a few who looked in their sixties. A few monks were salted into each group. For conversational purposes? I hoped not. I did not see any interaction between the groups while I ate, silently, at the edge. At last an old monk stood and everyone seemed to understand that meant dinner was over and they filed out in a very orderly fashion. I followed.

  We trooped into a meditation hall, where the teams deployed onto mats with admirable fluidity, which I assumed was due to the competitive natures they had come here to shrink. I found a mat in the back. When I looked up, I saw the old monk who had led the procession staring at me. I had to act as if this was what I came for, so I joined right in with the puja. Maybe the old guy watched me the whole time. I didn’t open my eyes to find out, but it felt like he was right there. My vision was sharp. I could have counted the leaves on the cottonwood tree in front of the house, drawn the pattern on the lace curtains, kicked stones along the dirt driveway which matched that drive leading above the main lodge. The monk watching me did not matter. At the end of the chanting, a monk rose and walked to the front of the room and began to give a talk, a little dharma lesson.

  “When we are not at ease, we are diseased. When we are not possessed, we are dispossessed. When our minds are not able, we are disabled. When we are not at rest, we are distressed.…”

  This guy had the accent and inflection of a native English speaker but used the language like someone relying on a guidebook for translation. He droned on for thirty minutes at least, or, as I came to think of it, eternity.

  As I walked back to my room, a monk joined me. “I’m Mark.”

  “Rollie.”

  “I saw you chant. You’ve done this before.”

  “So?”

  He flustered easily. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I—”

  “You meant who am I, why did I come here?”

  “No.”

  “I’m a guy who has chanted puja before and wanted to do it again so he came here. Good night.” Maybe from the inside he was a devout young man, pure of heart and intent. From the outside he was a snoop who was fooling only himself.

  I went to Kate’s room. She was already under the covers. I pulled the chair a bit closer to the bed. “I’m sorry about Scott,” I said.

  “There’s a million Scotts. You probably did me a favor. He’s so coked up lately even the Viagra doesn’t work.”

  “Lucky you.”

  She laughed. “He’s lucky to have me anyway.” She yawned and closed her eyes for a few seconds. “I’m sorry. I took some pills.”

  The scent of sandalwood filled the room, though no candles were burning. The windows were closed and shades pulled down. I felt like I was supposed to say something sentimental, something about always looking forward to this day, but she hadn’t done anything lousy to me. She didn’t deserve that lie.

  “Are you really a Marine?”

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  She rolled her eyes with mock impatience, the way a teenager would. “Oh, yes, every word.” I laughed and she smiled.

  “I am a Marine.”

  “My father was, too.” I waited for the next line: and one, and two, and three…“He loved Dan.” She yawned a bit and sipped some water from a plastic bottle. “Did you find what you’re looking for?”

  “I’m just hiding out.”

  “It’s okay with me. There’s nothing I want in this place, no matter what it is. I knew that the second we got here. It even smells the same. And I know he didn’t leave anything worthwhile because he never had anything.” She stopped to yawn. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you, your real name is Jake.”

  “Jake.” I realized that was only half an answer. She read my thoughts.

  “Reynolds. At least it was. Jake Reynolds.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Kate. Kate then, Kate now. I’ve been married a few times.” She yawned again. “I did come looking for you once.” She paused. “Not really. I came looking for money, but I did want to see you. Don’t blame me, okay. Please. I just…I’m not made for it.”

  “I don’t blame you. Not at all. It all worked out.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Maybe I had an odd look on my face because I couldn’t think of anything to blame her for.

  “Maybe we can talk more tomorrow. You can take me back. I won’t tell them anything.” Her eyes were closed.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Back in my room, I sat in full lotus and brought up my vision again, a trial run for later that night. I strained to see more than ever before. Meditation as frustration. Every foray inside felt false. At last I let my mind go blank and stayed like that as long as I could. At one A.M., I went out.

  I crossed the lawn toward the rear of the main building, then cut over to the driveway. I walked beside it so not to crunch on the rocks. A quarter moon shed enough light to keep me from falling in a hole. About one hundred yards up the drive, a wooden fence, chained and padlocked, covered in vines, blocked the way. A sign read:

  PLEASE DO NOT ENTER.

  PRIVATE PROPERTY.

  The fence was twelve feet tall and looked fl
imsy, like it was there for show. I pulled at it slightly and saw the chain-link fence behind it. I walked to the right side of the gate to see if I could go around. No go, the fence continued up along the side and widened before disappearing in the night. Same thing on the other side. I followed along the side away from the buildings.

  When I was sure I was completely out of sight and sound range, I climbed over the fence.

  My cottonwood was waiting for me, a shimmering silhouette against the sky. I stood next to it and turned all the way around. Little bits and pieces felt like they were coming back to me, but that might have been wishful thinking. I did not want that. The swing hung still but on the left side of the door, not where I remembered it. The windows were closed, no fluttering curtains, but most of the rest was the way I had built it. Three steps up to the porch. I sat down in front of the house and looked it over to make the corrections.

  I went onto the porch and pushed the old swing. The metal chains creaked in the hooks. The door was locked, but I knew exactly how to get in. The second window started to move when I pushed up, then quickly stuck. I wedged my fingers inside and lifted. The window screeched and the curtain fluttered in salute.

  White sheets covered the furniture. I crossed into the large farmhouse kitchen. The appliances were relics, at least forty years old, strangers to me, evoking only some generic past. Anyone could have claimed it. What should I picture to give it meaning? Is this where Kate burst into tears because her cake fell? Out back, the low black humpback hills slumped protectively.

  There was a den, furniture covered, including an old TV and a stereo. I tried to remember what music Dan preferred. I could see him listening to anything anyone else wanted because he was not really listening. He was figuring. I tried to let it all flood back in, but not much came up other than vague, muddy shadows which I could not trust. I had no photos to prompt me with false memories, and not many stories from Dan. I lifted the sheet on the dining room table and saw Dan tossing me the bread as if I were there, as if I remembered it. But what I remembered was that it was a Dan story. Nothing more.

  Without a flashlight, searching for the money would be useless. I climbed out the window and made my way back to my room. I had spent two hours at the house. It felt like five minutes.

  25.

  Good morning, Rollie,” Mark said, just as I had finished my oatmeal. “The lama would like to see you. Please follow me.”

  The signal that the meal was over had not come yet. I rose anyway and followed Mark past the smug glances of the campers who had never been summoned by the camp director. When we got outside, I said, “If you see the woman I came here with…”

  “Oh, I should have said, she came down early and asked for a ride into Ojai. That was around seven. She said to tell you.” Maybe she figured there were a million Kates, too.

  The lama was the old guy who had been staring at me the night before. He met us near the greenhouses. Mark quickly excused himself. The lama gestured for me to follow him along a path that led into the woods. We walked about fifty shaded yards to a clearing and a pond. A gazebo and deck jutted over the water.

  “My name is lama Gyamtso. If you’re uncomfortable calling me lama, you may call me Henry. Henry Holland was my given name. This is our reflection pond. I rarely get to spend any time here when we have guests.”

  I assumed the cash had caught his attention along with my seeming experience at puja, and he was going to make a pitch that I hand over whatever fortune I had and sign up with his crew. These outfits always needed fresh blood and money. I kept quiet waiting for the pitch. “Mostly we cater to groups. Very few individuals and none without reservations.”

  “And none with cash,” I said.

  “And none with cash, and none has ever snuck up to the farmhouse, at night or during the day, ignoring the very clear signs and the very tall fence. You must have had a purpose. Please tell me why you went there.”

  His voice held no rancor or tension or threat. To break from his gaze, I picked up a stone and tossed it into the pond. “I lived in that house.”

  It was his turn to be caught off guard. His eyes grew wide and he looked away as if to calculate the meaning of that statement. He said: “I’ve lived here almost thirty years. No one named Rollie Waters ever lived in the farmhouse in that time.”

  “I’m Dan’s son.”

  He froze, so still I thought he would have to be rebooted. At last he said, “Tell me about Dan.”

  “He was a charmer, a con artist, a deadbeat, and a sport, a wise man who wasted his wisdom foolishly. He could be trusted to finish what he started, only it was never what you thought it was.” I almost went on, but I wanted to avoid anything that sounded sentimental because it might make him suspicious that I was faking it.

  “Would you say he was greedy?”

  “Once. And it killed him.”

  The lama’s eyes were distant, like a guy watching scenes in his head. “Tell me how he died.”

  I told him some of it, leaving out the money. He jumped right on that. “You haven’t told me,” he said, “why they killed him, or why you were there, or why you survived.”

  “You first,” I said.

  “Dan’s son was not named Rollie.”

  “I found out yesterday that I was Jake. Dan never mentioned that.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. He looked around to make sure no one was nearby. He gestured and I joined him on another path that led farther away from the buildings.

  It would be tough to live here and not be contemplative. The trees seemed to be individually designed and engineered to let just the right amount of sun glide through at just the right intervals. Birds and crickets provided just enough background noise to keep the silence from feeling creepy. The lama spoke softly, confidentially, in a tone that matched the surroundings.

  “This property was a convent. The Sisters of Mercy. A decision was made by the church authorities to consolidate and the property was put up for sale. Our group was renting an old campsite near Carpinteria. Our founder, who is dead now, envisioned…all this. He raised money from many sources, but mainly from one woman who donated a large chunk of the down payment. No bank would lend to us, but we found a private lender. We spent the next two years improving the property and building. We dredged that pond, refurbished the housing and the chapel, constructed the main reception area. It was a great time, building time. Then the lender realized the potential value of the property and convinced the rich donor to join him in taking it back.

  “We were on the verge of losing it all. Dan had been renting the farmhouse from the nuns and we had continued the arrangement. We didn’t know much about him, but we asked if he could help. Dan went away, off and on, for a few months. One evening he appeared, just after dinner, with the title and the deed. Free and clear. All he asked in return was perpetual use of the farmhouse.”

  I could tell he was not finished. He was searching for the right way to phrase something.

  “How did he do that? He couldn’t have bought the land,” he said. “All these years I’ve wondered. Dan is a legend here. Every novice, every monk knows about him. When he visits, it’s a highlight. He chants with us, then…”

  “Tells stories?”

  “I sit at the pond replaying that evening he returned, trying to imagine how he accomplished it all.… It’s unfathomable.”

  For a moment, I thought this was a clever ploy, some Buddhist trick, a way to check if I was really Dan’s son. But this guy, sixty if he was a day, sounded like a troubled kid pleading for the secret behind a magic trick.

  I asked, “Did Dan ask for money before he began?”

  “We gave him twenty thousand dollars.”

  Dan did not tell me this story, but I knew enough about the way he operated to parse it out. Print the legend they say. And since he was dead, I could stand doing Dan this service.

  “Remind me of their names, the donor and the backer.”

  “She was Gwen. I don’t remember
her last name. He was Norman Simpson.”

  “Right. Yes.… Both late forties, early fifties at the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s how it worked,” I said, as if I were Dan himself. “First Dan flies down to New Mexico and plunks down some of your money for the right to buy a piece of worthless desert. It costs him about five thousand dollars, and he makes sure to overpay a bit so he can make friends down there. Then he goes to Del Mar down the coast from here where he knows Gwen likes the track. Dan’s about twenty years younger than Gwen. He turns on the charm and throws some of your money around, and suddenly Gwen feels young again. The world seems brighter. He tells her he’s in the energy business, and he hints, very tenderly, that he is about to make a huge score, the score of a lifetime. A game changer. Simpson is Gwen’s boyfriend by then and very protective because Gwen is worth so much money. Gwen makes the introduction and Simpson has to make sure Dan is not a threat to his meal ticket. Now Dan wants Simpson comfortable and certain that Dan has no chance if they go up against each other. And the way Dan reassures him is to act like he thinks he is the smartest guy in the world and is holding all the aces. Dan wants Simpson to think he is a fool, which isn’t difficult because guys like Simpson like to think everyone else is a fool. This dance takes weeks: days at the track and on the golf course, dinners overlooking the beach, trips to Las Vegas.

  “After a night of drinks, Dan tells his new best friends about a property he has in New Mexico bursting with uranium, the high-grade stuff. As the night goes on, Dan lets slip that he doesn’t actually own the property yet; he has an option to buy it, for which he paid two hundred thousand dollars. A big chunk of his inheritance. Simpson suggests a trip to New Mexico to check it out, offering to help Dan with financing the deal. By now, Simpson is completely enthralled by Dan and at the same time convinced Dan is ripe for the taking. Dan rejects the offer a few times until, after suffering heavy losses in a casino, he gets sentimental, wanting to visit his secret treasure chest with his new best pal. They drive down together. Sure enough, the Geiger counter makes all the right noises because Dan had it rigged to detect radon. Dan recites like an Irish poet as he paints pictures of his dreams, big dreams of empire and alliance, monopoly and domination. He’s giggly with enthusiasm. They celebrate. Wine, women, and song: women supplied by Dan. Simpson thinks he is getting Dan loaded and into position so he can move in for the kill.