The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  “Well, but why on earth would he? I just, I’m simply stymied.”

  And clearly not used to the feeling.

  “Have you filed a missing-persons report?” I was assuming their protocol was similar to ours.

  “I plan on doing so next.”

  “Up in Cambridge?”

  “Good lord, no. My solicitor and I are going to the Belgravia station. It’s just down the street, off Buckingham Palace Road. They know me there. I shall be keeping a very close eye.”

  “I’m sure you will.” I didn’t envy whoever was manning the front desk.

  “How do you know Collie, anyway?”

  “I don’t.”

  I explained what I did know, which wasn’t much.

  “Well,” Purdham-Coote said. “Someone knows where Collie has got to, and that someone appears to want you to know as well.” He sighed. “Winnie’s fit to be tied. I thought we were through with all this nonsense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind,” he said. “I suppose we shall have to hire you now, as well.”

  “Are you saying Colin has run away in the past?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. He’s just been . . . difficult. Went through a bit of a stage. But he’s been sorted for months. Still, this is all very worrying.” His voice grew resigned. “How much do you charge for your services?”

  I glanced at the stack of envelopes I had not yet mailed. Pictured a gleaming white four-story, seven-bedroom house in the most expensive part of London, complete with peerage.

  A lot.

  I gave my greed a time-out. Desperation did not lead to good decision making.

  There was something very suspicious about the situation. I wasn’t going to commit fully to this employment opportunity until I figured out what was going on. That is to say, sure, there was such a thing as intuitive ease when solving a case. And once in a great while, there was even such a thing as ridiculous luck.

  Getting the driver’s license of a misper with filthy-rich parents hand-delivered to your home? There wasn’t even a category for that.

  For whatever reason, I was being played. I needed to know by whom.

  “Let’s make sure your son is missing first, Lord Purdham-Coote, shall we?”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Pancakes and bacon? Are you serious?”

  I meant the question to be light, but Julie’s tone was defensive.

  “That’s what Geshe Sonam requested. He kept repeating the same thing: ‘I would like round pieces of warm bread, and meat. Not thick meat. Very thin.’ I guess he had pancakes once in New York. Some UN conference on world religions. I was convinced he meant pepperoni pizza, but we got there eventually.”

  “Sonam’s full of surprises,” I said.

  I cracked the last egg and dumped it onto a mound of powdery ingredients. Julie was brisk as she flew around the kitchen in her purple apron, wielding tongs like a weapon. She flipped two spitting pieces of bacon in the hot frying pan and transferred two more onto a folded paper towel.

  The Tibetan contingent had been whooshed outside to the deck to watch the sunset. I looked at their still forms, columns against the darkening sky, with longing.

  “Do you want me to mix this stuff?”

  “I’ll do it,” Julie said. “And by the way, about the bacon? I thought you were a vegetarian because you were a Buddhist, not because you were, you know, a vegetarian. You never told me monks ate meat.”

  “You never asked. Anyway, not all monks eat meat.”

  “All of these do. As far as I can tell, the only thing they won’t eat is seafood, which is the only thing you will. And even then, I have to beg.”

  I kept quiet. When it came to food, Julie’s passions ran high. No need to remind her tonight about my hippy mother in Paris, whose diets ranged from macrobiotic to foie gras festivals, depending on her current lover. Or my brief foray into meat eating during the Heather years. Julie would go ballistic if she found out I’d consumed my first Langer’s pastrami sandwich without her.

  Sometimes wisdom meant waiting for the right time.

  She measured and poured buttermilk and whisked the batter into submission. Grabbing a teaspoon, she dribbled water onto the hot greased griddle. The drops of water hissed and leaped.

  “Homer can have these first ones,” she muttered, ladling circles of batter onto the griddle. The batter bubbled up.

  “Nothing I love more than round pieces of warm bread,” I said.

  “Ha ha.” She mopped her forehead with her forearm.

  I moved next to her. She stiffened slightly.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” I said. “I don’t want to be like this right now.”

  She softened slightly. “I’m not exactly at my best either,” she said.

  “I called Eric for an appointment.”

  She shot me a look. “You did?”

  “I did.”

  From inside my back pocket, the brides, to my mind sounding a little more desperate every time, started singing. I glanced at the screen.

  “It’s Bill . . . I probably should . . .”

  “Take it, love. Take it. To be continued.”

  I moved into the living room.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “You got a job yet?”

  “Maybe. Ask me tomorrow.”

  “Sorry about Martha. She confessed to her unprovoked attack of meddling.”

  “Not to worry,” I said.

  “So, I got back the crime lab analysis on the Griffith Park mystery ink.”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah, well, there’s gotta be some perks to my job.”

  “And?”

  “Get this. It’s blood all right, human blood I mean, AB negative.”

  “Interesting. That should help narrow things down.” AB negative is one of the rarer blood types.

  “But what’s really interesting is, there’s more than one.”

  “More than one blood type?”

  “Not blood type. Type of blood. There’s regular blood, and that-time-of-the-month blood.”

  “Oh.”

  “Exactly. Plus off-the-chart levels of sulphur.”

  “Sulphur?”

  “Yeah. Sulphur. Plus semen, plus heavy traces of mercury.”

  “Thanks for killing my appetite, Bill.”

  “So, what do you think? Any ideas?”

  “Julie!” I called. “What foods contain sulphur?”

  “Tons!” she called back. “Broccoli. Artichokes. Bacon. You name it!”

  “Nothing specific comes to mind,” I said. “Too bad we don’t have the stomach contents.”

  “Not to mention the stomach.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “We’re treating it as a crime scene, just in case,” Bill said. “The investigators collected what they could. Unfortunately the site was already somewhat contaminated by nosy tourists and such, but Sully and Mack did a pretty good job of securing it until we figure out what the hell’s going on.” Sully and Mack, known to most as S&M, were old-timers, like Bill, but neither had moved up the ladder.

  “Any hikers reported as missing?”

  “We’re checking.”

  “How about the tag? Any luck identifying the gang?”

  “Tags. There were two. Not so far. The initials JMM mean anything to you?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, I may shoot over the crime scene photos if we keep hitting walls. S & M aren’t the sharpest tools in the box.” Bill sighed. “Something about this thing’s giving me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Why Bill, how unscientific of you. You almost sound like me.”

  “Asshole,” he said.

  “I meant it as a compliment. And yes, send me whatever, whenever. I’m happy to help. Anything else? I have monks here for pancakes.”

  “I don’t even want to know. Okay. Later, gator.”

  “Not that much later.”

  “Right. Tomorrow night, gator
. Ommmmm,” and he hung up.

  I’d forgotten how much lamas eat, given the chance. Julie and I were kept busy replenishing plates.

  For the record, I stuck to pancakes. Homer, on the other hand, planted himself underfoot and kept vigilant watch for dropped pork. Yeshe slipped him an entire strip of bacon, which wouldn’t bode well for his digestive system later. Maybe Homer could sleep on the deck tonight. Serenade the owls.

  I broke out the Sapporo, which goes better with breakfast than you’d think. Lobsang had two full glasses, and finished off the meal with a loud BRRRAPPP, the highest of compliments to the chef.

  Yeshe cleared and Lobsang and I stacked the plates by the sink. Sonam directed TJ and Wangdue to wash the dishes. He stretched out on the sofa.

  Finally I was able to hustle Yeshe and Lobsang onto the deck. Enough with the communal living, I needed them to myself.

  We stood in a row, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the canyon. As we settled into our bodies, our breathing slowed, becoming gentle, almost synchronized. This was what I missed most of all, this silent communing. Sometimes we’d managed to link in meditation, but such an experience was rare.

  “Can you see Saka from here?” Yeshe asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe that one?” I pointed across the canyon to the first star of the evening, a dot of light.

  “Yes, I think that Saka,” Yeshe said happily.

  “Hanh,” Lobsang said, unpersuaded.

  The distant call of a coyote set off a chorus of echoing yips and chuckles. Their feral song faded into silence. More stars twinkled to life. The moon, Dawa, was midway through her cycle. She would add thin crescents of light until she reached fullness again.

  “Your house is just like picture I paint in my mind.” Yeshe said. “I like very much.”

  “I’m glad. And Los Angeles?”

  “I like too! Big roads. So many fancy cars!”

  “Too much cars,” Lobsang said.

  “At least they follow rules,” Yeshe said. “Not like India.”

  “Hanh, in India, too much cars and too much fools,” Lobsang said.

  The conversation soothed me. Yeshe could look at any situation, no matter how bleak the weave, and find the thread of gold. Lobsang’s grumpy pragmatism served as yang to Yeshe’s yin.

  “I’m glad you like it here,” I repeated. “This is home now.” Saying it almost made me believe it.

  Another animal cry echoed through the canyon, the call of the hunted, or the haunted. Just below me on the shadowy slope, a cactus was reaching up with prickly paddles, as if asking for a hug. But who would choose to embrace a cactus?

  I crossed my arms.

  “Everything is okay, Tenzing? You are okay?” Yeshe asked the question, but Lobsang turned his head to watch me answer.

  “I don’t know,” I said. And then, “No. I’m worried about work. I’m worried about money. I’m worried about . . . everything.”

  It all spilled out in a flood: the panic attacks, the paranoia, the sudden appearance of Colin’s license and the disappearance of the young man himself. After I finished, neither friend spoke for some time. Nor did I. This was our way.

  “You need find this boy.” Lobsang’s voice, when it came, was firm. He was always the practical one. “Father pay you well. He already say so.”

  “But I can’t right now. You’re here. I’m going to be driving you around.”

  “Driving not your dharma,” Lobsang said. “Finding boy? That your dharma.”

  Yeshe touched my arm.

  “I am sad for your troubles,” he said. His voice grew urgent. “Is Saka Dawa. You need chant. Make merit. I chant, too, for you feel better.”

  “Hanh,” Lobsang said. “Chant for him find missing boy with rich father.”

  Their friendship wrapped me in its folds, a moment of pure protection.

  “Lama Tenzing?” TJ was standing in the doorway like a red-robed ghost, Wangdue just behind him. Their heads gleamed, reflecting the light from inside.

  “You can give us code for Wi-Fi please?” TJ held up his iPad.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Like all things, the moment had passed.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was late by the time Julie got home from ferrying the monks back to Los Feliz. I was in bed, reading a long and rambling Swedish mystery, one of my preferred sleep aids.

  “Save me,” I said. “I’m lost in a swamp of Scandinavian Burgs, Borgs, and Stads.”

  “You have only yourself to blame.” She stripped off her clothes and pulled on a tank top and a pair of my boxers before ducking into the bathroom. I heard the hum of an electric toothbrush.

  I set my Kindle on the floor.

  Julie climbed into bed. She smelled of jasmine and a hint of lemon. She leaned against the headboard, hugging her knees, and met my eyes.

  “So,” she said. “Eric.”

  I could lie by omission, or at least dilution, or I could recognize the tightening of my stomach muscles as a warning delivered in body code. Danger: Opportunity to Lose or Gain Intimacy Straight Ahead. Barricades between partners don’t manifest in an instant. They grow over time and start with a single, seemingly innocent pebble.

  “I’ve been experiencing these flashes of . . . fear, I guess,” I said. “It happened again this morning. I couldn’t breathe. I don’t think it’s physical, but it feels that way. Plus, you know, that nightmare about the tower. I keep having it.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I called Eric today, or rather left him a message. I think I need to meet with him. Talk to him.”

  “Talk? Or, like, talk.”

  “The second kind, I think.” I shrugged. “Just a consultation, you know?”

  “About the nightmare.”

  “Yes. Among other things. None of this is about you, or us, don’t worry.”

  “Uh huh.” When Julie starts to smile, a faint dimple appears. Only on the left cheek. It comes and goes quickly, like a wink of well-being. Easy to miss.

  “What?”

  “Ten, I’ve been in therapy, remember? It’s never about what you think it’s about.” Her smile faded as her eyes darkened with a fresh worry.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I just . . . we’re okay, right? You and me, I mean?”

  “Of course we’re okay.”

  “Because, we don’t have to go through with this.”

  “Jules,” I said. I tugged at her wrist. “Come here. You feel too far away.”

  She lay down, her body inches from mine. Her breath was warm.

  “I’m all in,” I said. “Got it?” I traced the constellation of freckles sprinkled across her collarbone.

  “Got it.” Julie leaned in and touched her lips to mine. Such a light kiss. A brush of butterfly wings, there, then gone.

  “I’m glad you are going to see Eric,” she said. “Really. But be prepared. Deep-sea diving ain’t for sissies.”

  “I know that. I’m with you, aren’t I?”

  My turn to kiss her. Her lips parted. I tasted peppermint. I let my hands wander. My body responded.

  Then hers did.

  Then ours did.

  But afterward, I lay awake for a long time.

  CHAPTER 18

  The eighth day of Saka Dawa dawned clear and mild. Mere weeks ago, Los Angeles had been close to paralyzed by a relentless parade of 100-degree temperatures. Power outages turned apartments into ovens. County officials scrambled to set up cooling centers and splash pads throughout the city. The air was so hot and dry that the act of breathing scorched the throat. Finally the triple-digit surge had broken, mercifully receding like a rogue wave.

  I padded barefoot to the kitchen. The hardwood floor was cool instead of radiating sun-blasted heat from too many scalding days and nights. I poured a mug of coffee. Julie and Homer had already left in the Ford van. Early start for all of us today. I would be following the instructions of both my friends, Yeshe’s first.

  I too
k the coffee onto the deck. A light breeze ran cool fingers over my face and arms. Maybe Green Tara got word that the monks of Dorje Yidam were on their way to L.A. and decided to intervene with the local weather gods. The fruits of karma can ripen for good as well as for ill, and the month of Saka Dawa was a notably auspicious time for puñña—merit-making. The benefits of any right action increased many times over. And on the actual day of Saka Dawa Duchen—the full moon that landed midmonth—a monk could multiply his meritorious blowback by 100,000. As Bill would put it, Saka Dawa Duchen gave you much more bang for your buck.

  At Dorje Yidam, our monastery teachers implored us to use this propitious month wisely. To consciously and specifically deepen our commitment to the three grounds of “right” action: mental purity, generosity, and morality.

  Some of the other novices even listened.

  The dawn sky was pale blue, the ocean a barely perceptible rub of green in the distance. Dorje Yidam was on the other side of the world.

  “You need make merit,” Yeshe had urged me.

  Mental purity. Generosity. Morality. Those were the stated goals of Saka Dawa. I resolved to do more meditating, giving, and right-acting. Beginning now.

  I stepped behind the screen, sat on a cushion, and alternated chants and meditation for a full hour. Maybe it was psychosomatic, but time felt especially fluid and nonlinear, and the hour was over in an instant.

  Before allowing myself a second mug of coffee, I logged online to make a contribution to the Dorje Yidam Kickstarter fund.

  My eyes widened. Unless the number across the top was wrong, the campaign had raised $15,000 electronically since the first of May. Times had changed since monks went door to door for lentils and rice.

  There were three ways to make a donation to the fund: PayPal; something called Dana-puñña; and that modern equivalent of a bottomless begging bowl, the credit card.

  I charged $100 to a piece of plastic, an act of faith. I would donate the same amount on Saka Dawa Duchen, the full moon power spot next week, $200 in total. Who knows? If Green Tara was feeling beneficent, maybe I’d land a $20 million job before the end of June.

  No nightmare last night either. I was feeling dangerously close to smug. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, and I had already meditated and performed an act of generosity. I could check two out of three meritorious feats off my list. All that was left was a good deed.