Maybe that would change. I didn’t blame Bobby for cutting and running. But once one piece of a family triangle shifted, other pieces sometimes followed, like choreographed dancers reconfiguring. Impossible rifts found a way to heal. What was shattered became whole. All it took was the willingness to soften one’s obstinate commitment to “never” and allow enough room for “maybe someday.”
Sometimes my job felt thankless. But not tonight.
My cell phone broke into song—a chorus of women announcing sweetly that they were going to a chapel to get married. The chapel of love, apparently, to the snapping of fingers and in three-part harmony.
Julie had been messing with my ringtone again. I’d figure out the proper retaliation later.
“Yes?”
“This is Lieutenant Robert Smith. I understand you want to talk to me about something?”
“I do.” I allowed myself one in-and-out breath, and a nod to Green Tara. Om tare tuttare ture soha. “Lieutenant Smith, I have reason to believe my employee, Kim, is your younger sister. She’s wanted to find you for a very long time.”
Nothing.
“Lieutenant Smith?”
“That’s impossible,” he said. “Kim is dead.”
“Thankfully, that’s not true. She goes by your mother’s maiden name. Kim Nordquist. She’s twenty-five years old. Like you, she was born in June. Also like you, she loves to eat Cheetos.”
“But the old man said they both . . .” He cleared his throat. “Does this mean . . . is my mother still . . .”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Your mother died of cancer three years ago. But Kim is very much alive. She lives in Los Angeles. She works as my assistant.”
He expelled a rush of air. “Is she . . . is she okay? I mean, is she . . . normal?”
I thought about my answer. “Well, that depends on your definition of normal. She’s certainly unique, but she functions just fine.”
“I can’t wrap my brain around this,” Bobby said. “I’m sorry, who did you say you were again?”
“I didn’t. My name is Tenzing Norbu. I’m an ex-cop. Now I work as a private investigator.”
“And you’re sure. You’re sure she didn’t die in a car wreck eleven years ago.”
“I’m sure.”
“This is just . . . thank you. Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me.”
I pictured Kim, finger and thumb working her eyebrow stud as she examined her brother’s faded nine-year-old face every night, searching for something, anything that might lead her to his life.
“Actually, I think I do.”
CHAPTER 12
I arrived home three hours later in a state of euphoria mingled with exhaustion. I had stopped only once, for gas and a 12-ounce bag of trail mix. The snack was now blockading my digestive system like pebbled rubble.
Bobby and I had agreed that I would talk to Kim first, and he would await her call. I wasn’t sure how Kim would initially react. Good news can trigger at least as much anxiety as bad. But knowing Kim, she would wade through whatever fears got stirred up and eventually reach the other shore, the one that included having a family again.
Julie had left the deck light on, and it cast a halo of light onto the slatted wood. Inside, the kitchen smelled faintly of fried dough. A small plate of khapsay sat on the counter. I unwrapped the plastic covering. The curled rectangles, crisp and dusted with sugar, catapulted me back to another time and place. I took a piece and let it soften in my mouth.
Tank wandered in.
“Tashi deley, Tank,” I said. “That’s Tibetan for ‘life is pretty good tonight.’”
I removed my shoes and tiptoed into the bedroom, Tank at my heels. Homer emitted soft snores from his dog bed. His nasal passages had to be no wider than swizzle sticks.
The sheets stirred as Julie turned over, but the weariness that suddenly hit me made the idea of talking unimaginable. I could barely remember the correct sequence of turns to my ancient combination lock, and I stashed my gun and ammunition in the closet safe with one eye closed. As I moved to the bathroom to brush the khapsay sugar off my teeth, those ridiculous brides-to-be burst into song. “Goin’ to the chapel and we’re gonna get . . .”
Shit. I’d left my phone in my Windbreaker pocket. I hustled to the closet to silence their bragging. They were never going to be lonely again. Good for them.
“Call you right back,” I whispered into the phone and disconnected. I checked Julie. She was good at faking sleep. But not that good.
“You are so caught,” I said. Julie threw back her head and laughed, her face flooding with color. I love that about her. She laughs like she means it.
“Your face,” was all she said.
“I love you. Go back to sleep.”
I walked outside to the deck and checked caller ID, but I already knew who it was.
The rest of Los Angeles had long since packed it in, but Mike Koenigs was just getting started. Mike was born with one hand on a mouse, the other on a keyboard. I wouldn’t be surprised if his sinews were composed of fiber-optic cable. He maintained the hours of a desert rat, sleeping by day, cyber-tracking by night. I’d kept him out of hacker-jail as a teenager. These days he could buy and sell me many times over legally hacking for high-end companies. But we’d stayed friends, and Mike had helped me out of more than one jam since I’d left the force.
He wouldn’t have called for no reason.
The cool air felt good on my skin. The canyon was still, the city asleep.
“Yo.”
“It’s me,” I said, my voice low. “This better be good.”
“Hey, boss. Sorry about the time. So, I just got a hit on something pretty interesting.” Excitement laced his voice.
Mike was one of the mellowest guys I knew. I blamed both excess weed and excess brain cells—with so much RAM packed between his ears there was little room left for agitation. For him to exhibit this degree of enthusiasm meant he’d discovered something significant.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“So, you remember that dark web server from last year, the one those asshole traffickers used? N, D, R, S . . .”
“Indra’s Net?”
“So you say. But yeah, that’s the one.”
“What about it.”
“It’s baaa-aaack.”
Icy worms crawled up my spine. “Are you certain?”
“’Fraid so. I imbedded an alert system on my hard drive after the network shut down, just in case. And sure enough, sucker’s come back to life. Reincarnation is a beautiful thing, my man.”
“Can you tell who’s behind it? Who’s using it?”
“Not who’s behind it, that would make me the NSA. But affirmative on the users. They all seem pretty benign, as far as I can tell. Not like the old crowd. It’s mostly a social streaming network connected to chat rooms for well-meaning airheads. Yay for world peace, worship the goddess within, don’t eat bacon or vaccinate your kids, like that. So far, anyway. Still, you never know. Those were some nasty fuckers. I’d hate to think they were up and running again.”
So did I. NDRSNT was a dark strand of the worst kind of commerce, a supplier of human victims I’d thought was gone for good.
“Anyway, I’m on it, boss.”
A second wave of exhaustion sucked me under. I couldn’t get warm. I tucked in closer to Julie and lay there, chilled to the bone. Lay awake for what seemed like hours, haunted by the hollow eyes of trafficked children.
When sleep finally came, an unwelcome guest clung to its back.
I am lying facedown.
Dark.
Much too dark.
I sweep the cold floor with my palms. The surface is rough, like cement. This place feels familiar. Should I be afraid?
Someone else is here. I push to my knees. A woman.
Julie? Is that you?
But I know it isn’t.
Valerie? No. Not my mother either.
I stand and face her. The woman is tall, muc
h taller than I am. I can barely make her out through the veil that covers her from head to toe. She is silent. She holds a baby in her arms. Also silent.
I have a lamp in my right hand. I walk closer.
The baby looks at me. For a moment, the baby is me.
Give him to me, I say, though my mouth makes no sound.
She places the baby on the cold concrete. He is just an infant but he stands like a little man, one arm pointing upward, the other pointing to the earth.
Shakyamuni, I say. Liberator.
He begins to pulsate with light.
I hold out my hands. They are dark green. Webbed, like a frog’s. Now ferns grow from the fingers, reaching and curling toward the baby boy.
This is the spirit world of lucid wisdom. Beyond life and beyond death. I have been here before.
The infant Buddha scatters like sand.
I am running out of time.
Lead me. Show me.
I am hurled to another place. The tower. The answers are here.
I step inside.
Something is different.
I can almost see.
I start up the steep, spiral staircase. I will make it to the top. I have to.
I climb to the second level. A window. I look outside. My mother, Valerie, is there. One hand waves at me. The other holds a silver goblet full of red fluid.
“Don’t,” I say. But she cannot hear me. She lifts the chalice to her lips.
I need to hurry. I stumble on the circular stairs. My palm lands on the rough wall. The wall pushes back. It moves closer. Closer. The round interior winds inward, squeezing and pressing. It bandages me in stone, a deadly tourniquet.
I can’t breathe.
Tenzing.
That voice again. Low, clear, neutral. Neither male nor female. Its dense presence is inside the walls, wrapping me in its arms. Like a lover. Like a python.
I can’t breathe.
Tenzing. Let go. Give over to me. It is better that way.
I don’t want to die.
The voice is tender: You belong to me.
No.
You belong to me. And I belong to you.
No!
Don’t you know that you can only find freedom when you commit absolutely?
I don’t want to commit. I don’t want to die.
I can’t breathe.
CHAPTER 13
I struggled awake. Sunlight poured into the bedroom.
The sheets were damp.
Julie stood in the doorway. She moved to the bed and touched my back. “Baby, you’re soaked.” She shifted her hand to my forehead. Her fingers felt cool against my skin. “Are you all right?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t . . .”
I rolled out of bed and hurried into the kitchen. I pushed through the screen door and almost fell as a thick body hurtled past me and onto the deck. Homer lowered his head and waggled his tail, waiting for me to finish the game.
“Not now, Homer!” He cringed. I felt terrible. “Sorry. Sorry.” My skin felt too tight for my body and my chest hurt.
Julie stepped next to me. “Ten?”
“Just a bad dream,” I said.
“The tower dream again?”
“Yes.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really. Not now, anyway.” I attempted a smile. I did not want to go back inside that tower.
Julie slipped her arms around my waist from behind. She rested her cheek against my back. “You were making these little gasping sounds.”
Her arms tightened. Panic closed in again. I twisted around in her arms. I wanted to push her off, but settled for pulling away. Just a little.
“I’m fine. I really am.”
Julie let go. “Okay, well, I need to go. See you at dinner. Homer? Come!” She crossed to the van, lifted Homer inside, and just like that, they were gone.
I berated myself, which only made things worse. I tried calling Julie, but she wasn’t answering.
I climbed the wooden steps to my deck and leaned against the railing. Topanga Canyon might be bathed in gold but the air hung thick as a shroud, or so my lungs claimed. I was caught in the fused waltz of mood and perception.
What finally shifted things was the sight of Kim pedaling slowly up the drive.
The Buddha says everything exists in a state of transition. Nothing stays put, positive or negative. We do our best to cling to the good and to reject the bad, but no matter how hard we try, both will inevitably arise. And both will just as inevitably disburse. Right now I was grateful for the disbursement part.
“Kim!” I called. She froze, her helmet half-off. “I have good news.”
CHAPTER 14
Kim had all coping mechanisms working full bore, but her eyes were as bright as I’d ever seen them.
“Do you want some privacy?” I asked. “I can leave.”
“No, Mr. Norbu. I would like you to stay.”
She waited, knees jiggling, phone at her ear. I had made a pot of hot tea, and we sat across from each other at the kitchen table, the smoky perfume of Lapsang Souchong rising from our mugs.
Kim’s face changed.
“Bobby? Hello. This is Kim. Your sister.” A small smile spread as she listened. Such smiles were rare. “I know. I know. You did? You named her Kim?” She listened some more. “He is right here. I will tell him.”
Kim lowered her cell phone and met my eyes.
“My brother says thank you. He would like me to come to his house for a visit. Bobby has a daughter. He calls her Kimmy.”
“Great idea,” I said. “Take all the time you need.”
As Kim and her brother worked out details, I moved to the pile of bills on my desk. It was well past the first of the month. I couldn’t put off reality any longer.
I logged on, brought up my Excel spreadsheets, and forced myself to look. My Julius Rosen emergency fund—guilt money my wealthy, now-deceased client had willed me after endangering my life—was healthy. Ish. That is to say, the total was in the low five figures, but I had earmarked the bulk of it for our wedding.
It was my other, working account, the one I used to pay bills, which caused the heart palpitations. I’d had very little income since January, and for months I had been dipping into my savings to make up the difference.
The stab of shame was unexpected. I tried to trace its origin. Was it because I was almost broke? That hadn’t stopped me in the past. When I left the force, or rather asked them to lay me off, I had also made what Bill and Martha thought was an insane decision, to forgo unemployment checks. But for me, taking that money was as good as saying to the universe that I couldn’t or wouldn’t thrive on my own. Experience had proved me right, at least at first. I’d followed my intuition, and again and again, intuitive leaps led to high-paying clients. Success bred success. Good fortune followed trust.
What had changed?
I had.
I had lost the ability to trust in myself. I had stopped inviting the river to carry me wherever it flowed. I wasn’t moving, but neither had I climbed out onto the bank. At least that would have been a conscious decision. No, I was stuck in the rush of water, clutching a rooted branch, too stubborn or scared to unclench my fist.
Something in my present life had thrown a switch in my brain, and I no longer felt free to just go with the flow, willy-nilly.
Listen to yourself, Ten. Go with the flow. Willy-nilly. Who even talked that way?
My mother did, that’s who. Great. Now my dead mother had co-opted my voice.
Kim appeared by my desk.
“I am leaving now,” she said. “Do you need anything?”
A return to easeful intention would be nice.
“No thanks, Kim. Just enjoy. Happy birthday.”
Kim’s body rocked back and forth, tiny jerks of motion. “Mr. Norbu?”
“Yes, Kim.”
“My arms want to hug you, but my mind won’t let me do it.”
“Then let this be a virtual hug, K
im.” I formed a circle with my arms, clasped my forearms, and squeezed. She did the same, and I swear I felt her embrace.
I wrote checks for the pile of outstanding invoices, tucked them into envelopes, and sealed and stamped them. No electronic banking for me, not with Mike as a friend. He’d installed both anti-virus and anti-malware programs on my computer, but still. His tales of identity theft were enough to make me want to use an abacus and pay people in cowrie shells.
Once again, I was short several hundred dollars, even with Julie insisting on contributing her half of the expenses. And that, too, made me feel bad. She’d moved here to be with me, giving up her lucrative chef’s job in Chicago. Like me, she’d joined the freelance world, at least until her restaurant got funded. The private catering jobs were only occasional and not very lucrative. So also like me, she’d been dipping into her savings to make up the difference.
At least we both had savings to draw on. I should have been grateful. Instead, I was anxious.
And fed up, after sentencing myself to this professional bardo, this ring of tedium, leeched of color and joy. I was good at this kind of job. I just wasn’t great at it. I didn’t hate what I was doing. I just didn’t love it. I got paid, but never that well. My experience so far of the year of the wooden horse? Boring. Boring. Boring.
Until today. Today was different. I had reconnected Kim and her long-lost brother, and the act had brought joy to all three of us. Four, if you counted Mpingo. And five, once I told Julie. I’d followed a hunch, and the result was effortless. Why was I fighting this obvious ability of mine? What was I resisting?
You know.
But I didn’t know. I could analyze and rationalize all I wanted, but I still didn’t know.
My eyes drifted to the envelope from yesterday, still lying on my desk, still unopened. I sighed. Better see what my well-meaning neighbor had in mind.
I opened the flap. No letter inside, but something smaller. I tipped the envelope and shook out the contents. A pink business card fell onto the desk. I picked it up.
Not a business card. A driver’s license, and it belonged to no one I knew.
“Knock-knock! It’s me! Martha!”
The Fifth Rule of Ten Page 6
