The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  I followed the steep path downward.

  “TJ!”

  Below me, a flashlight flicked on and then off.

  I kept running. The dirt path broadened into an oval of land surrounded by scrub and trees. Live oak. Toyon. A fallen log. And something else, right where the light had winked.

  It looked like a gravestone, but there was no time to investigate.

  Earth became pavement and I picked up speed and hope. Then I hit a roadblock—a looming chain-link barricade, too wide and steep to go around, too high to climb over. On the far side lay houses and a road that by my calculations connected to Los Feliz Boulevard.

  The motorcycle rumble faded away.

  How . . . ?

  At the lowest point of the fencing a flap of woven steel wire bent upward. TJ must have scuttled downhill sideways like a crab to reach it, fingers gripping mesh.

  There was no way I could follow, not with one hand.

  I grabbed for my phone and came up empty. It was still with Julie.

  Julie.

  She’d be frantic.

  I hustled back the way I’d come, uphill all the way. But the memory of that blink of light stopped me at the oval clearing. Near the fallen log, I found a hollow metal structure, the size and shape of a headstone and covered with graffiti.

  Maybe some kind of abandoned junction box?

  I touched the front panel and felt a seam. I tugged it open. Inside was a rusted metal shelf. And on the shelf, a crumpled maroon zhen and dhonka, and a white silk khata, personally blessed by His Holiness.

  TJ had left his past behind.

  Every inch of my body hurt as I stumbled back up the footpath to the observatory. I couldn’t see vaulting the mesh fence a second time, so I circled the grounds until I hit the pedestrian walkway leading to the front entrance. It was just past 10:00 P.M. Officially, the observatory was closed.

  The front entrance was locked. I pounded on the bronze door with my working fist. After a moment, Trixie-the-guide opened it, her features pinched.

  A sea of worried faces greeted me in the main rotunda, including more guides. A cluster of official employees in matching blue shirts froze at the sight of me, walkie-talkies glued to their ears.

  “Lama Tenzing!” Yeshe’s voice was joyful

  Julie hurried to my side. “We were so worried. Where did you guys go?” Her smile faded as she looked past me. “Isn’t TJ with you?”

  “No. I tried, Julie, but I couldn’t stop him.” I held up the wrinkled evidence. “TJ’s gone.” Scalding pain migrated from my arm to a charred point midway between my temples.

  The giant Foucault pendulum swung back and forth, back and forth. The floor undulated and the triangles of tile churned.

  A park ranger pushed his way inside. Heavyset. Familiar. His body swelled like a balloon, then shrank to the size of a molecule.

  “Understand you got a missing monk,” Zeke said.

  “Catch him,” a disembodied voice called as I plunged into milky darkness.

  CHAPTER 52

  “You still blazed, boss?” Mike was luminescent in my bedroom doorway. A black aura surrounded his face like tangled electricity.

  Or maybe that was his hair.

  “You are a beautiful sight,” I said. “You know that, right?”

  “Reason I’m asking, you have visitors. Julie brought your monk friends by.”

  “I figured out why Percocet works, Mike. The pain’s still there. You just stop caring about it.”

  “They’re on their way up to Ojai.”

  “What day is it again?” I’d probably asked that question 20 times in as many hours.

  “Monday. And it’s night. Eight o’clock.”

  So I’d been here 18 hours, flat on my back, my semipermanent splint raised in a semipermanent greeting. Tank had established an early paw hold along my left side, and he lay there now like a furry plank of warmth.

  Moderate traumatic brain injury and fracture of the ulna. The emergency doctor at Hollywood Presbyterian had delivered the news casually, like it was no big deal. “You’re lucky,” he’d added. “No bleeding in the brain. And usually with this kind of break, the radius is fractured as well.”

  Lucky—there was that word again.

  His midnight diagnosis had followed a series of unpleasant procedures like a CT scan, palpation of the forearm, and realignment of my cracked bone. I’d downed Percocet like it was candy.

  “You don’t understand,” I’d told the doctor’s bald spot as he molded fiberglass and wound elastic bandaging up and down my forearm. “It can’t be broken. I’m right-handed. It’s life or death.”

  “You screenwriters,” the doctor had muttered, shaking his head.

  But I wasn’t talking about the ability to write. I was talking about the ability to shoot.

  He sent me home with a multilayered sugar-tong splint that immobilized my arm from elbow to palm crease. A black sling pinned the splint diagonally across my chest, hand just above the heart.

  And now I was under concussion watch, which meant every two to three hours someone had to monitor my state of awareness. It was that, or get checked into the hospital. Julie had only agreed to leave my side this afternoon, when Mike volunteered to take over.

  The pain pills definitely helped.

  “Let me check your pupils.” Mike’s face loomed close.

  “I see nose hairs,” I teased.

  “Well, you’re definitely still loaded, but I don’t think you’re concussed anymore.”

  “Hey, you.” Julie leaned around Mike. She’d tied her hair into some kind of knot, but several rebellious curls had managed to escape. Even on no sleep, her skin was a celebration.

  “I want to lick every inch of your body,” I said dreamily.

  “Hold that thought, big guy.” Julie turned and gestured. “Okay, you can come in. Drugstore Cowboy’s awake.”

  Yeshe, Lobsang, Sonam, and Wangdue filed inside. They crowded around the bed, their solemn expressions dampening my high.

  “No word from TJ?” I asked.

  They shook their heads.

  “What about the police? Have you filed a missing-person’s report?”

  “They say to wait,” Lobsang said. Yeshe nodded.

  “Typical. Okay, well, has anyone gotten in touch with TJ’s family? His brother?”

  No one spoke.

  “What?” I looked around, growing more concerned by the second. “What?!”

  “Tell him, Lama Wangdue,” Sonam said.

  “TJ have no brother,” Wangdue said. “No family. He is orphan.”

  “But . . . I thought . . .”

  “TJ not always good at saying what is true.”

  Sonam clasped his hands. “Thoknay Jampa came to us as a very troubled child, and grew up to be an even more troubled young man. But lately, he seemed much more at ease, especially after His Holiness blessed him with a silk khata. When the tour invitation came, we thought the trip would be good for him.”

  I pushed into a sitting position. “You’re saying this change of personality was recent?”

  “Maybe since six months,” Lobsang said. Yeshe nodded.

  “Because the Dalai Lama noticed him?”

  “Also, he get iPad,” Wangdue said.

  His iPad. An invaluable source of clues. I straightened up at this.

  “He take with him,” Wangdue continued, and I slumped.

  “Phone, too,” Yeshe put in. “Your friend in kitchen ask already.”

  “Mike asked me for TJ’s cell number,” Julie added.

  “Good.”

  Julie opened her hands, a helpless gesture. “He says the phone’s dead, and the data on both devices has been wiped out.”

  I shifted my weight. The mild slice of forearm pain made me wince.

  “Time for another pill?” Julie reached toward the bedside table.

  “No. No more pills.” I was missing something, but my furry brain couldn’t pinpoint what.

  Julie cocked her
head, but she didn’t push. “Okay, well, we’d better get going. Bill’s coming by soon.” She brushed her lips lightly against my forehead, avoiding the bruise. “You do look a little better. We’ll be home before you know it. Mike’s taking the night shift, and Martha will be here to check on you first thing tomorrow.”

  I said nothing as they trooped out. I don’t do helpless well.

  Sonam lingered, dark worry ringing his eyes. The fingers of his left hand fluttered like the wings of a moth.

  “Lama Tenzing, I have to ask. Do you think TJ is with this Maha Mudra?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Nawang?”

  “I think they’ll meet up with Nawang soon, unless it’s already happened. So, yes.”

  “You believe Nawang is . . . capable of wrong action?”

  It’s time.

  “Yes, Geshe, I do. I think he’s planning something, something big, and something bad.” I swallowed. “He’s not right in his mind.”

  Sonam fumbled inside his cloth bag. He pulled out a thin sheaf of papers. He placed them on the bed in front of me.

  I picked up the top page. Sonam’s cramped scrawl covered the paper in tight lines. The words were in English, slanted, and barely legible, as if written in haste. I read the heading out loud: “Ganachakra tantra.” I met Sonam’s eyes. “What is this?”

  “Something I never gave you,” he answered, and left the bedroom.

  CHAPTER 53

  “Special delivery.” Bill set the hard nylon case on the closet floor, in front of the safe. “You gonna make a habit of this? Leaving your guns lying around?”

  “The bag’s locked, Bill. Give me a break.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He put the Mustang keys on the bedside table, next to my new, prepaid burner phone. I’d just checked it again, but no text messages, not yet.

  “Thanks for getting the car,” I said.

  “Hey, if breaking your arm is what it takes to finally let me drive the Shelby, so be it.” Bill plopped onto the foot of the bed. The sudden motion disturbed Tank’s nap. “Sorry, cat.” Tank leaped to the floor and sauntered out of the room.

  “So?” I said.

  “So, I was right. The bullet’s a twenty-two two-fifty, from some dandy little hunting rifle. Browning, most likely.”

  “What about the blood in the vial?”

  “O-positive this time, but the same gnarly mix of male and female bodily fluids. They also found elevated levels of synthetic progesterone. So, maybe a woman on hormone replacement therapy?”

  “Will you run the DNA?”

  “Not unless we have to—no immediate connection to a crime, budget constraints, blah blah blah.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to, then.”

  I surreptitiously checked the screen of the burner phone.

  Still nothing.

  My arm throbbed incessantly, but my head was finally clear. I’d slept for 10 hours straight, and spent most of today alternating between dozing and poring over Sonam’s cramped handwriting.

  I was reeling from the contents.

  “Oh, and I thought you should know, they went ahead and cremated that Kapoor kid.” Bill shrugged. “No one wanted to claim him.”

  “You spoke to his brother in Mumbai?”

  “Yeah. What an asshole.”

  If nothing changed, Paresh Kapoor’s ashes would end up in the county cemetery in Boyle Heights, along with hundreds of other unclaimed dead. Hopefully his consciousness, at least, had entered a better mindstream. Still, I felt sad.

  “Here.” Bill fished out an evidence bag. “I brought you his ring.”

  The amber cat’s-eye glared, accusing me of failure.

  I tried to put the ring on, but I couldn’t manage it.

  “I got it.” Bill slipped it on my left middle finger. He clasped his hands to his heart. “At last! It’s official!”

  I had to laugh.

  “Speaking of which,” Bill said, “Martha’s not happy with the lack of progress on the wedding front. Not happy at all.”

  Yesterday, Martha had brought by homemade blueberry muffins and several samples of engraved invitations. I’d thanked her for the muffins.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I have an idea. It’s inspired, if I do say so myself.”

  “Yeah, but is that you or the drugs talking?”

  “Ha ha.” My smile faded. “I can’t take much more of this, Bill.” My awkward gesture included the splinted arm, the bed, and the tray with its untouched bowl of congealed soup. “It’s like being tied to a tree, knowing a tornado’s about to hit.”

  “Tough,” Bill answered. “This tornado, as you call it, is officially out of your hands. Once you hear back from these nut jobs, you are passing that information along pronto, so the LAPD can move in. Are we clear?”

  “I guess.” I wasn’t convinced an armed response was wise. History wasn’t on our side; true believers throughout time had made a practice of choosing mass death over the dishonor of captivity. Masada . . . Rajasthan . . . Jonestown . . . Waco . . .

  “Hey, you’re the one always saying things happen for a reason,” Bill interrupted my grim inventory. “That broken wing of yours? That’s your get-out-of-jail-free card. Let us do our job. Yours is to heal, so you can walk down the aisle, or whatever cockamamie plan you’ve cooked up.” He picked up the tray and left.

  Tank slipped inside the door and hopped on the bed, reclaiming his turf. I stroked his back, eliciting a deep, low purr.

  I could hear Mike and Bill talking in the kitchen.

  I checked the disposable phone again. No calls. No texts. Nothing to indicate there was a Maha Mudra event happening any time soon. Mike had delivered the burner phone to me this afternoon.

  “Are you sure they won’t know it’s me?” I’d asked.

  “Yup. You’re armor plated. As far as Maha Mudra’s people know, you’re just another kirtan groupie. I gave you the perfect new-age handle. Harry.”

  “Harry?”

  “Yeah. Harry Harry, like the George Harrison song.”

  Since then I’d checked for texts dozens of times, but Hare Hare was getting no love.

  I pulled out the ganachakra tantra, rereading the portions I had highlighted. This detailed account of the ultimate stages of Kalachakra initiation described highly secret rites, both powerful and dark. The mandala held 723 entities, but the ritual required only 64. Under the watchful eye of the master, or guru, the initiates participated in a series of orgiastic, if not violent, rituals involving ceremonial objects, tantric transmutation, and even moments of self-inflicted harm. All of this, of course, was meant to be symbolic—internal acts of surrender and self-sacrifice purely spiritual in nature. But in the mind of a madman, the document in front of me was an invitation to a bloodbath.

  The kitchen was quiet again. I kicked off the covers and hobbled to the window, just as the Subaru headlights came on. Bill drove away, his silhouetted curls visible. Tricia’s Mini was parked by the Neon. Soon Martha’s Mazda would replace it.

  As Lobsang would say, “Too much cars and too much babysitters.”

  I peed and got right back in bed. I hadn’t attempted a shower yet, and the thought of another sponge bath overwhelmed.

  No texts.

  I was seeing Eric tomorrow afternoon. I’d booked a double session. I’d be paying him this time, but whether for therapy or as a business expense remained to be seen. I might have a lot of tissues, but I also had questions. Oh, yes, I had questions.

  I set my iPhone alarm for 6:00 A.M.—I owed my employer an overseas call first thing. As I went to return it to my bedside table, the phone warbled in my hand—weren’t those women married yet?

  It was Julie.

  “Homer misses you. He says to tell you Ojai’s beautiful.”

  “How funny. Tank was just mentioning how empty the house feels without you.”

  “Clever pets.” Her breath was soft across the ether. “Are you taking it easy?”

  “Any easier and I�
�d be in a coma.”

  She laughed. “How’s the arm?”

  “Itchy, thanks.”

  We lapsed into silence. After a moment, we dropped into an even deeper connection—that linked intimacy I still wasn’t completely comfortable allowing.

  “How are you doing?” Julie’s voice was warm. “Really.”

  “I’m not sure,” I replied. “I’m worried about TJ, and I’m pretty sick of lying in bed. But it’s so good to hear your voice.” I thought about what I’d been reading. “And I’m glad you’re safe and sound in Ojai. How about you?”

  “I’m worried about TJ, too. The others are handling it much better than I am. Plus, I haven’t heard boo from my lawyer. I think he’s avoiding my calls.” She sighed. “Are you sure I shouldn’t just come home?”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Have they decided where Saka Dawa Duchen is going to be held up there?”

  “Nope. I guess Adina’s still working on it. The sand mandala is taking place at someone’s house, but it’s not big enough for the full moon ceremony. Any chance you’ll make it for that?”

  I glanced at the burner phone, stubbornly silent. “I don’t know,” I said. “I hope so.”

  We ended the call soon after, and the bittersweet missing-Julie heart cramp joined the other aches and pains still claiming space in my body.

  But there was also relief. If I was right about Nawang and Maha Mudra, Julie and the others would be secure in Ojai, protected from potential harm. And if I was wrong, well, so much the better. Either way, by next week things would be back to normal.

  They had to be, right?

  I tried Martha and got her voice mail. “Martha? I have a big favor to ask you.”

  At least I could set one plan in motion before sleep.

  CHAPTER 54

  Lord Purdham-Coote finally spoke. “So you’re saying this cult Collie has joined is planning some sort of mass ritual?”

  “That’s right. And soon. If I had to guess, no later than Thursday.” I spared him the details—how Thursday featured the most auspicious full moon of the year, landing as it did in the middle of the most potent month. How Saka Dawa Duchen was a day when merits multiplied 100,000-fold and destinies could be created. Or destroyed.