The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  It felt good to laugh.

  “So listen,” I said, when the laughter settled. “Bill is already on it. I don’t want to worry the others. Let’s keep the sniper to ourselves, okay?”

  Los Feliz Boulevard was jammed, as usual, but it was late enough in the day that Observatory Drive had opened up. Eric was waiting for us at the upper lot. He directed the van to a reserved spot. We trudged toward the gleaming white walls of the Griffith Observatory as if on a pilgrimage to Mecca.

  The elegant art deco structure was fashioned out of concrete and dreams; part Parthenon, part Taj Mahal. Three copper-topped domes glowed like opals in the flame-colored sunset.

  Fellow travelers were scattered across the grounds. More were visible in the galleries above, human beads strung around every dome.

  Two manicured rectangles of emerald lawn were fenced off from pedestrians. Adina had spread a blanket on a third lawn, this one an open patch of dead and dying grass. Sonam sat in a folding lawn chair, a cane resting between his legs. TJ had stretched out alongside him.

  Wangdue or TJ? Wangdue or TJ? I still hadn’t decided on the culprit, but I was leaning toward TJ now.

  I lowered myself next to him. He smiled, but I noticed how quickly he flipped the magnetic cover over his iPad screen. He was wearing a dark blue hoodie over his robe. I hadn’t seen it before.

  “Nice hoodie.”

  “Yes. I buy for my brother,” he said. His eyes shifted away. Maybe he thought I was judging him. He sat up. His boots were also new—Dr. Martens. I refrained from comment.

  Wangdue set the backpack next to me and wandered off to explore a monument in front of the entrance. The carved sides were of seven white-robed sages—saints of astronomy holding their sacred instruments of science. From here, I could see Newton, Kepler, and Copernicus.

  TJ pointed out a carved bust on a pedestal. “James Dean! Very famous actor!”

  “I guess that counts as a star,” I replied.

  Adina was doling out burritos, plump tubes wrapped in foil that smelled of rice and beans. When she got to me she paused.

  “Whoa,” she said. “You weren’t kidding. That’s some bump on your noggin.”

  I’d called Eric from the van to warn everyone about my spill.

  Julie unwrapped my burrito for me. It felt strange eating with my left hand. I took a tentative bite.

  “Jesus, Ten. Since when is strolling in the woods a contact sport?” Bill kept his voice casual, but his forehead dripped and his shirtsleeves were marked with half-moons of sweat. He’d wasted no time getting up the hill.

  “You should see the other tree,” I said, a twist on an old joke between us. I handed Julie my barely touched burrito.

  “That’s it?” she said.

  “My stomach feels a little funny.” I struggled upright—everything was more work with only one arm. I nudged the backpack toward Bill with my toe. He took the hint and picked it up.

  We moved several yards away. Bill unzipped the pack. “This it?” He pulled out the 18-inch section of tree limb.

  “That’s it.”

  He squinted at the narrow burrow tunneling straight into the knot. “Well, you’re right about one thing. This probably wasn’t a PLK gang hit. That’s a twenty-two hole.”

  “A twenty-two? Are you sure? It sounded like a howitzer.”

  “A two twenty-two military, then?”

  “Louder.”

  “O-kay.” He activated his phone flashlight and aimed the bright glow at the hole. “That’s pretty deep, a lot of energy. So maybe a twenty-two two-fifty. Wildcat cartridge.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning someone was shooting a varmint rifle.” He thumbed off the light and pocketed his phone. “Meaning you were the varmint.”

  “A hunting rifle?” Another fact that made no sense.

  “Yeah. Seven hundred Savage. Maybe a Browning. Bolt-action, certainly.” He bagged the branch. “The lab will dig this out first thing. I’ll put a rush on it.” He shot me a look. “Hell, I’ll put a rush on the vial of blood, too.”

  I resisted commenting. Nobody wants to hear I told you so.

  “May I?” Bill gently tugged apart my amateur sling for a closer look.

  “It doesn’t hurt.” Technically, this was no longer true. A deep ache had taken permanent hold in my forearm. Plus, my fingers resembled five fat sausages.

  “You need to see a doctor.”

  “I need to do a lot of things,” I said. “But right now I need to be with my fiancée and friends, gaze at a few planets, and hope to survive the annihilation of humanity.”

  The planetarium show supposedly highlighted an ancient Mayan prediction of a current global apocalypse. The date of which had already passed. But still.

  Bill didn’t even blink. He was used to me saying things like this.

  “Whatever,” he said. “Try to stay out of any more trouble.”

  Adina walked up.

  “May I? This should help.” She rubbed something brown and oily into the bulge on my forehead. “Arnica.” She stepped back and locked eyes with me. “Honey, what happened out there?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I tripped. I fell.”

  We rejoined the others and headed up the central walkway to the entrance. The doors were bronze and glass medleys of planetary symbols, glossy and polished. We pushed inside. Like the outside shell, the pristine interior reflected a lot of recent care and renovation.

  “Okay, everyone, we only have an hour,” Adina announced.

  “Bit skimpy,” I joked. “Considering how long it took to create the universe.”

  “Somebody’s feeling better,” Julie said.

  “That’s because somebody else gave him Advil,” I answered.

  Inside the central rotunda a crowd surrounded a massive Foucault pendulum, suspended by a wire from the ceiling. Its steady, mysterious sway was subtle proof that the planet we occupied was also in constant motion.

  The movement was making me dizzy.

  Adina pointed to the ceiling, and I looked up instead. It was covered with murals, some illustrating celestial mythology, others illustrating scientific methodology, but all paying homage to human nature’s compulsive need to explain creation.

  “Who build this place?” TJ asked, his voice hushed.

  “That would be Griffith J. Griffith,” answered a guide. She was young, with cropped, purple-tipped hair and a T-shirt that announced Back in my day, we had NINE planets. According to the museum ID card pinned to her chest, her name was Trixie.

  “Mr. Griffith was awesome. A visionary,” Trixie-the-guide continued. “Like, literally. He got to look through the first sixty-inch telescope up on Mount Wilson right after it was built and was, like, totally transformed. He decided everyone had to see the sky that way so he gave enough money to build this place. He wanted to change the world.”

  TJ’s eyes shone. “Yes. Change world,” he breathed.

  “Amazing story,” Julie said.

  “Check out the downstairs,” Trixie added. “If you ask at the desk, they’ll let you hold an actual meteorite.”

  Adina tapped her wristwatch. “Keep moving,” she said. We hurried after her into a smaller rotunda and buzzed past a camera obscura, a Tesla coil, and a series of timekeeping instruments, magnifying lenses, and telescopes.

  So many ways to quantify and observe the cosmos, I thought, and not one of them able to pinpoint the source of mankind’s suffering.

  TJ was glued to a glass-encased model of the observatory. Underneath it was an interactive row of buttons and descriptions. He kept pushing the same button over and over, lighting a segment to the right.

  He caught me watching. He strolled off, self-consciously casual.

  “Be right back,” I told Julie.

  I pushed the same button. The right-hand corner of the structure lit up. I checked the description. “Transit corridor,” I read.

  Why was he so interested?

  The transit corridor ran alongside som
ething called Sunset Terrace on the lower level, next to a café. Also next to the Stellar Emporium gift shop.

  Mystery solved. TJ had located another store where he could eye-shop, or better yet, shop-shop. He’d been bitten by the highly contagious bug called wanting-stuff-you-don’t-need. Once infected by craving, it’s very hard to recover. Ask the Buddha.

  The monks had crossed the main rotunda and were wandering through a fresh series of exhibits. TJ again was stalled. Julie and I joined him at a demonstration of the phases of day and night across global time zones.

  “This is desert?” he asked Julie, pointing to a flickering image of cactus trees. Washes of light and dark time-lapsed across the spiked and knobby cactus limbs.

  “Yes. Those are Joshua trees,” Julie said. TJ stared, captivated by the accelerated time loop.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” Julie said to me.

  We descended two flights of stairs and followed a curved hallway downward. The outer wall traced the formation of the universe, starting with the big bang. Markers noted highlights of evolution over the billions of years it took to form life out of carbon and chance, eventually leading to the tiny speck of time called the present.

  This whole place was one long lesson in insignificance.

  The corridor dumped us into a cavernous space. Giant planets hung from the ceiling like luminous baubles. Julie made a beeline for the information desk. A pale, angular man in horn-rimmed glasses was tapping at a keyboard.

  “Excuse me? Sir? Trixie upstairs said we might be able to hold a meteorite.” Julie offered the man her best smile.

  His expression unreadable, he wheeled his chair sideways, opened a drawer, and pulled out a wooden box. He opened it, laid a small mat of felt on the counter, and lifted out a craggy blob of blue-black iron. He set it on the mat.

  “How old?” I asked.

  “Four, four and a half,” he answered. “Billion.”

  I stroked the crust, the edges shiny where fingers like mine had rubbed.

  “May I hold it?” Julie asked. He nodded, and she picked it up. “Whoa. It’s heavy.”

  “How can you tell it’s not just terrestrial rock?” I asked.

  “Other than cutting it in half? One, it was found next to a huge meteor crater. And two, it’s pure iron.”

  “Deduction,” I said.

  “Yes, logical reasoning, therefore deductive. Or inductive, I suppose, depending on where you start. As in, I have good reason to believe given the circumstances that this is a meteor, although the truth is not guaranteed. Unlike Sherlock Holmes, by the way. He used abduction, despite what he claimed. Out of many possible explanations, he abduced the single most correct one. Nobody seems to understand the difference.”

  Nor did I. My head was swimming.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I love Sherlock,” he added. “I’ve read every book.”

  Apparently, we Arthur Conan Doyle fans were everywhere, even in the bowels of the Griffith Observatory.

  “Ten, look.”

  Julie pointed to a massive wall showing multiple galaxies, millions of celestial objects normally naked to the human eye.

  But all of my attention had moved to my wrist. The anesthetizing shock had fully worn off and the slightest move unleashed searing pain. I reached behind with my left hand to adjust the sling.

  “Let me.” Julie tightened the knot. “Better?”

  I nodded, biting back nausea. Julie’s body was haloed, as if eclipsed by her own private sun. Great. Add concussion to my list of ailments.

  “I don’t feel right about leaving for Ojai tomorrow,” she said. “Maybe I should bail.”

  “No. You made a commitment. They need you.”

  My forearm throbbed. How was I going to get undressed? Take a shower? Open a can of cat food?

  I wavered. “Unless maybe Adina . . . ?”

  “I already asked. She’s got other plans.” Julie chewed at her lower lip.

  “Go,” I said. “I’ll be fine.” For the first time all week I regretted giving Kim time off. Just when you’re sure you don’t need other people, life lets you know you do.

  “Please make your way to the west terrace if you have tickets to the eight forty-five show,” a voice blared over the PA system.

  Both our phones beeped with the same text: SOUTH GALLERY ON FIRST FLOOR. NOW. A.

  Eric, Adina, and the five monks were already occupying a pair of benches just outside the planetarium entrance, next to a handicap sign. Apparently Sonam’s cane meant we got to go inside first. A young male guide guarded the closed double doors.

  Why is he holding a Taser?

  Trixie joined Taser-guide. They pulled open the doors.

  “Tickets,” Taser-guide said and raised his arm, and I realized my addled brain had misinterpreted his bar code reader for a weapon. He leaned close to me. His face rippled like water. “Time’s up,” he said.

  “What? What did you say?”

  Adina stepped past me. “I’ve got all the tickets to Time’s Up,” she said.

  I had to get a grip. It was the name of the show, not a personal warning.

  We followed behind Adina like obedient schoolchildren. The floor felt spongy under my weight. I worried it was another symptom until I looked down and saw the cork flooring. The seats were plush, like little thrones. Adina led us to reserved seating, the last row on the left. We settled into eight seats. TJ was left standing by himself.

  “Take mine, TJ.” Eric pushed to his feet.

  “No,” TJ answered quickly. “I sit over here. Is good.” He claimed an empty chair by the side exit. I envied him. I was feeling distinctly queasy and the show hadn’t even started.

  The room filled quickly. I multiplied rows and seats and came up with 300. Counted again and got 200, so I quit counting.

  “Please turn off your cell phones,” Trixie announced from the doorway.

  My left hand fumbled with my iPhone.

  Julie held out her hand. “Let me, babe.”

  I passed the phone over.

  A large projector was positioned front and center, its bulbous satellite nose pointing skyward like a catapult.

  Lobsang leaned across Yeshe. “Fiber-optic,” he told me in an excited whisper. “State of art!”

  Julie was right. They were like little kids. A wave of affection for them was followed by a sharp surge of nausea.

  I bit back the wooziness as the show began, and a familiar beach scene filled the domed screen overhead. The Santa Monica Pier bustled under a deep blue sky. It was all very carefree, but for the ominous drumbeats and discordant horns that warned of trouble brewing.

  Meteors materialized overhead, distant at first, milling aimlessly like wasps.

  Bile pooled at the back of my throat.

  The iron projectiles plummeted. Exploded. The crust of the earth cracked wide in response. Landmasses sheared away. Buildings collapsed and flattened.

  The kettledrums had somehow invaded my brain and were pounding the inside of my skull as a loose planet spun out of orbit and sideswiped the moon. Dawa disintegrated, setting loose a sea of tumbling blue monkeys, sprouting wings.

  Tiny pinpoints of pain danced behind my eyes.

  “Hold on, hold on!” This from a live female narrator, standing at a podium. “Just stop, already. Humans are always predicting the end of the world, but let’s go back to the beginning, shall we?”

  With the sound of a scratching needle, both images and music reversed, a handy rewind of an epic disaster.

  My stomach heaved. I wasn’t going to make it.

  “I’ll be right back,” I whispered to Julie.

  I burst into the outer hallway. The men’s room was just around the corner. I stumbled straight into a stall and leaned over the toilet.

  There wasn’t much to lose, but I emptied my stomach.

  Back at the row of sinks, I rinsed the sour taste from my mouth and splashed tepid water on my face, one-handed. My contusion looked like a bruised Saturn, rings of purple and
green surrounding a raised lump, stained with brownish oil. My right eye was completely bloodshot.

  “Hello, handsome,” I said.

  I headed back to the closed entrance. Just as the thought occurred that I might be locked out, a maroon-red streak crossed the corridor in front of me like the tail of a comet.

  I ran to look. And saw TJ sprinting down the double flight of stairs, dodging startled bodies.

  I hurried after, clinging to the rail, and ran past the calendar of time until I’d reentered the lower level, the depths of space. Planets dangled, massive eyes watching me as I combed the room. TJ had vanished like vapor.

  Think. Think. Where could he have gone?

  I pictured TJ pushing the button, lighting up the lower right-hand corner.

  Transit corridor.

  I bolted past the shuttered café and gift emporium and pushed through a pair of glass doors to an outdoor terrace.

  The patio tables were empty, their umbrellas still open. The terrace was bordered by a metal railing over meshed wire.

  I ran to the rail and leaned across it. Nothing to my right.

  I looked left.

  Just short of the corner, a red-robed figure hugged the wall.

  “TJ!”

  He turned. Alarm spread across his features like wildfire.

  Then he was gone.

  I vaulted over the waist-high fence, ignoring the slash of pain in my forearm. At the corner of the structure the ground fell away. A cement support propped up the foundation, creating a three-foot gap. I scurried underneath like some kind of rodent.

  “TJ!” My voice bounced uselessly between sturdy concrete struts.

  I ducked and scrambled, emerging onto a dirt footpath littered with empty beer bottles and rattraps, the boxy kind that are supposedly humane. I was cradling my arm close. Every step was painful and clumsy.

  To the left rose a dark expanse of parkland. To the right and far below spread a carpet of city lights. No sign of TJ.

  I had no idea which way to turn, up into wilderness or down toward the city. Then the one-eyed growl of a motorcycle below and to my right made the decision for me.

  I almost missed the turn—a strip of trail pointing like a spear at the headlamp of a custom Vyrus.