The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  “Do me a favor, Yeshe. Don’t try that when you’re driving around Pasadena, okay?” That was all we needed—Yeshe getting mistaken for a member of the Pasadena Latin Kings.

  “Ten,” TJ called from the front corner of the table. “Why you not tell me I have my own store? Trader Joe. TJ. Get it? TJ! Like me!”

  I could barely muster a smile. I was suddenly exhausted—the hindrance of torpor, lowering its elephantine trunk. I’d been up since three in the morning. Tomorrow would be more of the same, with several transatlantic calls to make.

  I caught Sonam’s eye.

  “Geshe, I need to talk to you about some things,” I said. “Soon.”

  “Of course. Tonight?”

  “Not tonight. I’ll come by the gallery tomorrow.”

  Julie gave me a look.

  “That’s a promise,” I told both of them.

  Wangdue’s fingers danced through the sandalwood beads. His eyes never opened and his lips never stopped moving. But I felt him listening just the same.

  CHAPTER 34

  I ascend the tower stairs, my steps feather light.

  The round room at the top is spacious and filled with a luminous glow. A man in a golden robe stands directly across from me, looking out a circular window. A portal.

  I step inside.

  The man turns. His face is thin and drawn, but full of peace.

  “Apa?”

  My father points to something resting against a wall.

  A sky blue suitcase.

  CHAPTER 35

  My throat throbbed, pulses of blood coursing through the carotids. Julie lay still, her breath steady.

  I bolted from bed. A container, I needed a container.

  Laundry hamper.

  I dumped rumpled T-shirts, boxers, and jeans on the floor and carried the empty wicker cube into the living room, using my elbow to flick on the light switch. I stepped behind the paneled divider and set the hamper by the altar.

  In went the Buddha and the Green Tara. The picture of my mother as a young woman, in love with my father and high on nothing stronger than pheromones. The red-tailed hawk feather, the dried lavender and sage, the whorled shell, the mangled bullet. The program from John D’s memorial service. The faded photograph of Kim and her brother, his young arm protective around her small shoulders.

  The altar was empty. Now for the maroon cloth. Faint lines of dust marked where the robe hung over the planked corners. I tugged it off and shook the dark red rectangle. Powdery particles danced.

  I held the zhen to my nose. It smelled faintly musty, but that was it. I’d expected more. This robe had wrapped itself around years of joy and resistance, friendship and dread. My young lungs had learned how to breathe inside this robe. My heart had learned how to break.

  I pleated and folded until the zhen formed a plump burgundy square. I set it on top of the spiritual bits and pieces. It reminded me of yesterday’s robe, a cushion for the bloody dagger.

  I hope I’m ready for this.

  The redwood top to my makeshift altar was still a source of pride—two wide planks, sanded smooth, planed, and glued together using tongue-and-groove joinery. I had constructed the covering my first fall living in Topanga, reincarnating scraps from the deck I’d also built, off the kitchen.

  I ran my hand across the planks. Still no cracks or buckles. My work had held together well.

  I lifted the top from the frame and leaned it against the wall. The suitcase was underneath. Waiting.

  Hard-sided, light blue, no wheels. A hard vinyl handle and two brass clasps for locks. Maybe 20 inches wide, a little over a foot high, and 6 or 7 inches deep. I rubbed my thumb across the word Starlite, affixed below the right-hand latch.

  This suitcase had traveled with me between Dharamshala and Paris year after year, holding my belongings, and sometimes a secret or two. The clasps locked and a pair of inner side pockets zipped closed. To my young mind, this made invasion harder for prying eyes and fingers.

  Why had I continued to keep it, I now wondered? The key was long since lost. Unlike my duffel, it was a remnant of my past that no longer held any purpose. But it had been my mother’s, long ago. And something in me hadn’t wanted to part with her Starlite suitcase, even when I was leaving everything else behind.

  I snapped open the brass fasteners. The satin lining had once been dark blue, but time had perverted the color to a liverish purple. I sniffed. The nylon material smelled faintly of lemon-lime. The hint of citrus teased out a memory.

  She sits at her bedroom vanity. She is staring into the oval mirror, but I can tell she’s not seeing see her own face. My mother’s dress is pretty, all the colors swirled together like finger-paints, orange and green and blue. She opens a side drawer and sticks her hand inside. I hear clinking. She pulls out a bright yellow bottle. She stands up to face me. She waves her arm in a circle spraying a misty cloud into the air. She scrunches her eyes closed and walks straight through the mist. My eyes sting. A sharp smell hits my nose. Like lemons, only sweeter. My mother’s smell—I never knew where it came from.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “Eau de Cologne,” Valerie says. “Jean Naté. It reminds me of my grandmother.” Her voice sounds different, not mad, but something else.

  “You have a grandmother?”

  “Had,” she says. “No more questions, Tenzing, okay?”

  I winced at the memory. I should have taken my cue from the tone in her voice.

  How could you know? You were only seven years old.

  Still . . .

  She’d gone straight from the bedroom to the cabinet where she stored her wine . . .

  I unzipped the pocket on the right-hand side. Reaching inside, my fingers grasped something soft. I fished out a crumpled Kleenex, so old it dissolved into shreds at my touch. I set the wisps of tissue aside. I felt again. Nothing else in there.

  The pocket on the left bulged in a more promising way.

  Breathe, Tenzing. Breathe.

  The white handkerchief was bandaged around something hard and odd shaped, all curves and angles with a neck, like a swan. The hankie was stained here and there with yellowish marks, as if invisible patches of impurity had darkened over time. I unwrapped the cotton with care. My fingers felt clumsy and leaden.

  The small metal pot had a narrow protruding spout and an ornate feathered topper. All the surfaces were inscribed with elaborate symbols—at least it seemed that way. The beaten silver had oxidized over time and the rounded bowl and arched neck were almost black. I rubbed my thumb against the smoky tarnish, but the surface remained stubbornly opaque. I moved on to the topper. A thin strip of brocade bound three miniature peacock feathers together. They jutted from the narrow cone that served as a plug for the pot.

  Bumpa. That was the word for this ceremonial vase. Bumpa.

  I removed the feathered sprinkler and tipped the vase to the light. The pot was empty. I sniffed. Closed my eyes, and inhaled again, more deeply. The heady bouquet separated into specific strands of smell. Saffron and juniper, the warm kiss of sandalwood and sharp bite of camphor. Stale ghee, and a flicker of molasses.

  For the second time this morning, a potent scent from the past acted as a catapult. For the second time, I was flung backwards in time to my habitual role of spectator, bearing witness to a ritualistic deed.

  I am with Nawang in his private quarters—he is special so he gets to sleep in his own room. I like watching him get ready for his acts of puja. He walks in a circle, sprinkling the scented water here and there. He says he is ridding his world of impurities. The peacock feathers and special nectar turn ignorance and craving and hatred into wisdom. Now he puts the bumpa back on his altar. He stands before the thangka and takes refuge in the Buddha, the dharma, and the sangha. He starts his 100 prostrations. My job is to count. Legs behind, trunk down, forehead to the floor, arch up, back to his feet. One. Legs, trunk, forehead, arch, feet. Two. Three. Four. His body moves like he doesn’t have any bones. Like a snake.
>
  The hammered silver vase had grown warm in my hands. More moments with Nawang pressed forward, clamoring for attention. As if this tarnished bumpa were some kind of key, unlocking a hidden compartment that had imprisoned vital events for decades. Only yesterday, Eric had suggested such a compartment existed. Today, the door was thrown wide open.

  I closed my eyes.

  Allow.

  The memories surged:

  Nawang, rescuing me from confusion, my 11-year-old body changing and growing faster than my understanding of sexual things.

  Nawang, urging me to talk to the beautiful village girl Pema, my attraction to her so powerful it tied my tongue.

  Nawang, talking about the powerful goddess Viswamata.

  Nawang, debating with me in the courtyard, tapping my forehead, tok! Propelling me into a wild dance with infinity.

  Nawang, wearing my shoes and hoodie, his arm raised, stabbing . . .

  My mind slammed shut. Dense confusion swirled in its place.

  A sudden craving for a cold beer sliced through the fog, almost painful. It was either far too late or far too early to drink, but my brain didn’t care. The need was absolute.

  A telephone rang, a clanging summons. Wake up! it said, and I did. A deep breath was all I needed, all it took to wedge the smallest of gaps between thought and action, reminding me alcohol was not the cure.

  My poor mother had never understood that creating the gap was everything.

  I placed the blackened silver bumpa on top of the folded robe and hurried to my desk to answer what I saw was a call from the London Metropolitan Police.

  “DCI Garfield, hello. You got my text.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t more specific. This felt like something we should discuss voice to voice.”

  He said nothing.

  “A body turned up in Griffith Park yesterday. Not Colin’s, but I believe the death may be related to your case.”

  “Griffith Park. I’ve heard of that. It’s quite sizeable, is it not?”

  “Yes, over four thousand acres, some of them fairly inaccessible. We found the body in a somewhat remote canyon.”

  “I see.”

  “We’re waiting for the autopsy report, but the circumstances were unusual and very suspicious.” I pictured the stabs and incisions, the stripped skin and missing eyes. “The death, whatever caused it, was violent in nature.”

  “You said it might be related to Lord Purdham-Coote’s son?”

  “Yes. I wanted to talk to you right away, because I believe I recognized the young man. I saw two photographs of him on Colin’s Facebook page, the last two before he stopped posting. They may have even traveled here together. The victim is dark complexioned, black hair, perhaps of Indian descent, approximately the same age . . .”

  “Paresh Kapoor,” Garfield said. “Pee, Ay, Arr . . .”

  “I’ve got it, thanks.” I wrote down the names, both fairly common in India.

  “Right. Well, your suspicion is well founded. If it is Paresh Kapoor, he was on the same flight from Heathrow.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. He was on the passenger manifest, and we received confirmation from your end that he entered the country as a tourist. During the course of our follow-up inquiries, we also made the social media connection with Purdham-Coote via Facebook. Kapoor wasn’t at Cambridge. He attended a regional college nearby, in Peterborough. We believe they met shortly after the new term began.”

  “Family?”

  “Both parents dead, killed in a car accident on the A1 two years ago. They were en route to visiting him, poor sod. One older sibling, a brother, Mihir Kapoor. He moved to Mumbai five years back to join a digital start-up company.” Garfield’s voice hardened. “Made sure to tell me at least three times that he went to Oxford. They don’t seem to be close. In fact, when we finally made contact with the brother, he admitted he hadn’t spoken to Paresh since the parents’ funeral.”

  No parents, and an older brother who was both arrogant and uncommunicative. Paresh Kapoor must have felt so lost. A lonely, vulnerable boy, hungering for validation of his own worth, for simple answers to life’s hardest questions. An easy target for a beautiful guru promising both.

  I gave DCI Garfield Bill’s name and number. He promised to get in touch with the older brother to facilitate confirmation of the identity. I painted the broad strokes of what led us to finding Kapoor. Assuming it was Kapoor.

  “So you were responsible for tracking down the body?”

  “In a way.”

  “Good work, Detective.”

  His praise was sweet, flowing, as it did, from New Scotland Yard.

  I made two more calls, first to Lord Purdham-Coote and then to Bertie Andrews. The Purdham-Cootes had heard nothing more from Colin, and as I suspected, my report caused both relief and dread.

  Bertie did have something interesting to add.

  “I went back to Cambridge yesterday, poked around a bit more,” he said. “One of his classmates recalled seeing Collie and an Indian bloke walking out’ve a round church on Bridge Street, a few days before he went missing.”

  “A round church?”

  “Not a, the. That’s what it’s called. The Round Church.”

  “But it’s an actual place of worship?”

  “Yeah, well, not anymore. Visitor center now. Built ages ago, maybe a thousand years give or take, but the fellow in charge said it was considered holy ground even before then. We’re talking bleedin’ druids, you know, like Stonehenge. And something else. According to him, the place is crawling with ley lines. You heard of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I figured. Load of rubbish. Anyway, he remembered Collie and the Kapoor kid. Said they spent over an hour just walking around. Hard to do. Place is no bigger than a snail shell.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Except they asked to go into the tower.”

  The tower.

  “I see. And did you?”

  “Climb the bell tower? Nah. Fuckin’ druid bollocks.”

  I waited.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just, I wish you’d checked out the tower. Call it a hunch.”

  A metal lighter snapped, followed by a deep suck of breath. Bertie’s exhale must have let loose a billowing cloud of nicotine. “Ah hell. Sometimes a hunch is all we got, innit? I’ll take another look-see.”

  After the call, I sat thinking for some time. But wherever I aimed my attention, it kept looping back to my dream tower and the man inside it.

  I started a fresh page on the legal pad.

  Nawang

  What was his last name?

  Gephel, that was it. Nawang Gephel. The possessive one and builder of merit.

  A chill ran up my spine.

  The possessive one.

  CHAPTER 36

  Julie stumbled into the living room, her eyelids at half-mast, and moved behind the standing screen. She reappeared, a small furrow between her eyebrows. She spotted me and the frown line smoothed.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Morning, Jules.”

  “What happened to your meditation room? Are you moving somewhere?”

  “Long story.”

  Julie blinked a few times, one foot still firmly planted in sleep consciousness.

  “Maybe you should go back to bed, love.”

  “Can’t. Too much to do.”

  “In that case, the coffee pot’s primed and ready to go.”

  “Bless you.” She shuffled off. Julie was not a morning person, good for a chef, not so good for other things. She crawled into consciousness every morning like the first amphibian emerging from the primordial ooze.

  I returned to the list.

  Nawang Gephel I was now fairly certain Nawang existed, but frustrating pockets of memory remained sewn shut. This made me think at least some trauma was involved. Still, my work with Eric had led to last night’s dream, which in turn had finally unearthed something
concrete.

  I elaborated:

  What did N. do?

  Where did N. go?

  Maha Mudra

  I added a short list of questions for Geshe Sonam and another list for Yeshe and Lobsang.

  I returned to Maha Mudra and underlined the name. More than anything, I needed to locate this woman. Finding her meant finding Colin and Nawang, I was more and more convinced.

  So I had at least two more people to trace, besides Colin. Either or both had information I needed. Either or both were of primary interest.

  They were sure to be elusive, and running them to ground should have felt daunting. Not for me. I felt energized. My adrenal glands might be thumb-size, but once they start pumping out cortisol, beware.

  Fran had Shirley Bones. But I had Mike Koenigs, and I’d put his cyber-tracking skills up against any nose, canine or otherwise. I checked the time. Five A.M. equaled dinnertime for Mike, which meant interrupting a meal of pepperoni pizza and several cans of Red Bull.

  The house filled with the rich aroma of brewing coffee. My insides whimpered. Before I could move a muscle, Julie set a steaming mug on my desk.

  “I could kiss you. In fact . . .”

  But Julie had already moved onto the sofa with her own mug. Her hair was a tousled mess. She was wearing an old T-shirt of mine, and the threadbare hem barely covered her thighs. Her breasts pressed against the thin cotton. My groin tingled to life.

  She blew across the steam, took a tentative sip, and raised her head.

  The rims of her eyes were swollen and red.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Everything!” She set down the coffee and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook. Homer waddled out of the bedroom. He tried to climb the sofa, but his barreled body wasn’t up to the job. He pawed uselessly.

  Tank arrived next. He assessed the situation. Three feet up? No problem. He leapt lightly and stuck a perfect landing next to Julie.

  I tugged some Kleenex from the box on my desk. “Here.”

  Julie accepted the Kleenex, but she kept crying. I stood by the sofa, feeling helpless. Finally, I lifted Homer onto the end of the sofa. Tank abandoned ship as a matter of principle, so I took his spot. I put my arm around Julie.