“Yes.” I started to laugh. “My arm,” I said, and I pulled it out of the sling and waved it around.
“And you need to keep it safe in the sling for now,” I heard.
“And five . . . and four . . . and three . . . that’s it . . . feel the strength and healing move up and down your arm . . . and two . . . and . . .”
I came to, if that’s the correct term for the mental shutters flying open.
My right arm felt odd. A little sore, but also stronger. I curled and flexed the fingers. “The catalepsy worked?”
“Yes,” Eric said. “For quite some period of time, you were unable to feel or move your arm, but your unconscious was working on strengthening it nevertheless.”
My body was pleasantly relaxed.
“Thanks, Eric. You’re like some kind of magician.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re the one with the facility. This could be a whole other calling for you.”
I shook my head. “I’ve had my fill of callings.”
Eric’s eyes found the clock.
“We have a few minutes left. Anything else you want to discuss?”
Yes. No. “Not really.”
“How are things with Julie?”
Busted.
“Here’s what’s upsetting,” I said. “Every marriage I know has either fallen apart or is struggling not to.”
“Maintaining long-term intimacy is perhaps our greatest challenge. Many fail.”
“Exactly. I mean, my parents’ marriage? You want to talk about failure?” I dialed back the tone of accusation. None of this was Eric’s fault. “You and Adina have been together for, what, thirty years?”
“Thirty-five and change.”
Longer than I’d lived.
“How do you commit to an entire lifetime with another person? How do you know?”
Eric’s mouth was twitching at the corners.
“What’s so funny?”
“You,” Eric said. “This. Look, you don’t know. At least, I didn’t. How could I? But every morning I can and do wake up with Adina and think Yes. I commit my heart to you, for today. It’s worked pretty well so far.”
“That’s it?”
“No, of course not. I also commit to riding out the rough patches. Last year Adina turned sixty-five. It hit her hard. All my quirks went from irresistible to unbearable. She almost left the marriage.”
“What changed?”
“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. Mostly I stayed put and gave her room to figure things out. Finding some like-minded seekers seemed to help her. Then this mandala tour came up, and she felt engaged and passionate about her life again.”
The pattern sounded familiar. My skin prickled.
“You think of commitment as rigid,” Eric said. “Restrictive, like that splint on your arm. It’s not. It’s liberating. Worn loosely, marriage can be the most creative force in your life. Different every day, and the gateway to your greatest passion and fulfillment.”
Julie’s laughing face filled my vision.
I’d been thinking I had to marry her. What if I chose to marry her?
I wrote Eric a hefty check. My wallet might be lighter, but so was my heart.
I stopped on the landing outside Eric’s office and gave Julie a call, watching the Buddha watching me. I got her voice mail.
“Hey, love. I miss you. Call me when you get this, okay? Lots to talk about.”
I rubbed the Buddha on his topknot.
“Keep her safe, okay?” I said.
I was glad I’d taped the session. My head was whirling. But I no longer felt weak or powerless. A germ of a plan was forming. A strategy so crazy, it just might work.
CHAPTER 57
Why wasn’t anyone texting me about the Maha Mudra event?
I’d stayed up half the night refining my idea. I needed to stop by Eric’s one more time, not for therapy this time, for something else, but otherwise all that remained was learning the location of the full moon Saka Dawa Duchen.
I’d sent Martha home after one final eyeball check. She’d insisted I answer a few questions, like who was president, and what year was I born? I wanted to mess with her, but didn’t. Martha’s German. Teutonic humor is an oxymoron.
I took the burner phone outside to the deck. The sun was almost directly overhead. I was on indefinite hold, and acute restlessness was causing my brain to curdle.
Normally, the solution to this degree of agitation was an intense workout, but that was not possible.
I wandered back inside and stepped behind the screen to my meditation alcove. Tank knew something was up. He was close on my heels.
The state of disrepair resembled my own. No altar. No Buddha. Just an old Starlite suitcase and a hamper piled high with abandoned talismans.
Was it only eight days since I’d called on Green Tara for help? Executed fluid prostrations with ease?
The only meditative tool intact was hanging on the wall, the vibrant thangka given to me by Yeshe and Lobsang. The Wheel of Life.
I knelt clumsily on my cushion, arm pinned over my heart, a broken salute to this portrait of deluded existence. Samsara. Might as well go straight to the source.
I let my eyes focus lightly on the center of the thangka, a circle formed by a snout, a beak, and a tail. The pig, rooster, and snake represented the three afflictions of samsara—ignorance, greed, and aggression.
Allow.
Set in their core, the antidote: three powerful mantras, om, ma, and hram.
Hram hram hram, I thought, and my heart stuttered.
Allow.
Radiating outward, circles of suffering were gripped by the claws of the demon Yama, the god of impermanence and delusion.
Allow.
But hope was to be found as well. In Yama’s third eye of wisdom. In the full moon in the left-hand corner. In the right arm of the Buddha sitting opposite, pointing to that same moon, reminding me that freedom from suffering was possible.
The full moon is the path. Allow.
I called upon the root mantras of our tradition, Om mani padme hum.
Om: May I be free of ego attachment. May I be generous.
Ma: May I be free of jealousy. May I be fair.
Ni: May I be free of desire. May I be patient.
Pad: May I be free of judgment. May I be resolute.
Me: May I be free of possessiveness. May I practice concentration.
Hum: May I be free of hatred. May I be wise.
I settled deeper, forming my own words: “Buddha, I need your help right now. Protect me from suffering and ignorance. Protect Julie and my friends. Protect us all and bring us to the inner wisdom of an awakened heart.”
I don’t know how long I sat after that, but at some point, my office phone rang. If it hadn’t, I might be there still.
“Hola, Mr. Norbu. That means hello.”
The transition from cushion to desk was dizzying. I had no idea who was calling.
“Who’s calling please?”
“This is Kim Nordquist. Your assistant.”
“Kim! Of course. Sorry, I was just . . . How are you?”
“I am fine, Mr. Norbu. I am having fun playing with my niece, Kimmy. She is teaching me to speak Spanish.”
“That’s great.”
“Si. Es bueno.”
I waited: no need to encourage this particular direction.
“I am calling you because you need to drive up here. To Lemoore.”
“Lemoore?”
“Yes.”
May I be patient.
“We have a situation here.”
“What kind of situation?”
“Oh. Bobby wants to talk to you.”
“Hi. Lieutenant Smith here. Bobby. Thought I’d better jump in.”
“What’s going on?”
“Mpingo Draper’s here with me. Also Commander Scott Pritchard. He’s my squadron’s ex oh.”
“Your . . .”
“Executive officer. We need your help.”
I rea
ched for a pen without thinking, and my right arm screamed inside the sling. Luckily, a note pad was open and available.
“Commander Pritchard’s daughter, Brittany, is missing.” He covered the phone. “Correction, may be missing. She’s taken off before—went to Los Angeles just last week, in fact. But she’s always let them know where she is. It’s been two days, and nothing.”
“How old is she?”
Brittany, I wrote with my left hand. Or tried to.
“Seventeen. Just finished junior year at the high school up here. She was supposedly going camping with three of her classmates. One of those outdoor music festivals.”
“What kind of music festival?”
“Not sure. You’ll have to ask him. There’s more. The commander checked her room. He found her iPad and cell phone all smashed up.”
The skin around my temples tightened. More pain was on its way.
Mpingo must have muscled the phone from Bobby. “Ten? Mpingo here. I’ve known that child half her life. Brittany’s a wild one, but there’s a good heart in there. I told you about her before, remember?”
“Right. The chronic runaway.”
“She just needs to find her own true north. This isn’t like her.”
“What about the classmates? Boys? Girls?”
“Girls. Their parents aren’t military, so . . . but everyone’s frantic. It’s like they just dropped off the face of the earth.”
“Can you put the father on, please?”
“This is Commander Pritchard.” The natural authority couldn’t hide his deep concern.
“Did your daughter say where this festival was?”
“Somewhere close, she said. Visalia, maybe? She was pretty vague. She said she’d call once they got there.”
My left hand added Visalia to the note pad. It looked like my cat wrote it.
“What kind of vehicle?”
“Britt has a used VW Vanagon. We got it for her last year, in November. Early Christmas present.”
“So no LoJack I assume, or GPS to track.”
“No, but it’s hard to miss. She hand-painted rainbows on both sides and a pair of red lips on the front.”
“License plate?”
“Vanity plate.” He gave it to me, and my hackles rose. “Initials JMM, followed by the numbers six one two one four.”
I thought about the tox report on the vials of blood.
“Sir, is Brittany involved with recreational drugs?”
“She swears not, not anymore. She’s all about purifying the body. Something else you should know. She’s been getting into some weird stuff. Chanting. This god-awful music. And she’s obsessed with power spots. She even had me bring home my aeronautical charts so she could show me where these, uh, magnetic lines were.”
“Ley lines?”
“That’s it. Ley lines. Vortexes, she called them. She was worried I might crash if I flew through one.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, she seemed so happy about doing this, you know, with school friends for once, her mother and I didn’t want to say no.”
I fired up Google Images. Slowly typed in vortex, ley lines, maps, and Visalia. I pressed “return.”
Boom, as Mike would say. Or was it bang? Either way, the California map that came up was most informative. Ley lines were indicated with curved parallel lines, as if drawn by a compass. They bisected the state, most notably between San Diego and Santa Cruz. And a pair of them converged in the town of Visalia.
A festival, a campsite, and a full moon tomorrow, June 12th. JMM, 6-12-14.
Maybe more than ley lines were converging.
“I’m on my way,” I said.
CHAPTER 58
Should I call Bill?
Technically, nothing was confirmed. And technically, he had no jurisdiction that far north anyway.
I grabbed two gallon-size Ziploc bags from the kitchen and filled the first with a few toiletries—instant dopp kit. I used the second bag for the cat’s-eye ring and TJ’s discarded silk khata, items earmarked for my crazy plan. I bundled both inside a change of clothes. I pulled on a clean pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, thick socks, and my hiking boots—the ones that used Velcro instead of laces. Plus my Windbreaker. I kept things simple. The Starlite would only hold so much.
I stared at my gun safe, itching to retrieve my .38 Supergrade.
I resisted. My right hand was useless. I couldn’t even grip a gun, much less shoot with it. The only thing stupider than leaving a loaded gun for a toddler to find was rushing into an unknown situation equipped with a firearm you were incapable of firing.
I carried the bundle of belongings into my meditation space and placed it inside the blue suitcase. I added my monk’s robe. And last but not least, I returned the rewrapped silver bumpa to its side compartment, zipping it tight, peacock feathers and all.
What else? What else? What was I forgetting?
Of course. I ran to my desk and slid Sonam’s sheaf of transcribed notes into a manila envelope. I laid the envelope on top of everything else, snapped both latches closed, and carried the case into the kitchen.
I called Julie and got her voice mail again.
“Jules. I’m headed for Lemoore. Something’s come up.” I paused. How much should I say? I settled for, “Call when you get this message. I’m glad you’re in Ojai. Stay there, okay? I love you.”
Tank eyed the suitcase by the door, his expression baleful.
“I know, buddy. Sorry.”
I poured a triple portion of kibble into his food dish. He refused to look at me or the bowl. I smoothed his blue-gray fur with my good hand.
“I’ll be back,” I said.
I was headed for the Mustang when I remembered my bum right arm. I not only couldn’t shoot, I still couldn’t shift.
The Neon it was.
Eric was waiting in his office. This time, our session only took 20 minutes. I was surprised at how smoothly it went. Maybe he was right, maybe I did have a second calling.
Afterward, he walked me down to the car.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The suitcase was lying on the backseat. I unsnapped the latches. Eric handed me the vajra hammer. Placed at a diagonal, the wooden handled tool just fit.
“I’d say break a leg, but that would be overkill,” Eric said. “So . . . be well, my friend.”
I stopped at an ARCO on Franklin, just before the freeway entrance. I filled the tank and topped up the radiator fluid, which was a little low. Soon I was cruising north on the 101. I merged onto the 170, which quickly became the 5. I was pushing the Neon hard. The drive was meant to take three and a half to four hours, but I planned on getting there in under three.
I buzzed passed Six Flags Magic Mountain, with its twisted metal thrills, and zipped through Valencia toward Castaic. The rumpled hills on either side of the freeway were a parched shade of brown, more burn victims of the recent heat wave. Up ahead lay the slow but brutal climb to Tejon Pass known as the Grapevine, a 6 percent grade.
I started the ascent. Cars began to pass me. I moved into the slow lane, my Neon and I dwarfed by the lumbering trucks loaded with nectarines, cattle, and who knows what else.
The engine began to labor.
“Come on,” I said. “You can do this.”
Just north of Gorman, at 4,000 feet, the “check engine” light came on.
I limped into the first available emergency bypass. White smoke was billowing out of my tailpipe, and steam leaked from under my hood. It took 20 minutes to cool things down, and another 15 to wrench the radiator cap off with my weak left hand.
Luckily I had a plastic gallon jug of water in my trunk. I filled the radiator, but before I could climb behind the wheel, Gatorade-green fluid was leaking onto the pavement.
This was not good.
My phone buzzed, a number I didn’t recognize.
“Yes?”
“Is this some kind of joke?” His voice was both warm and gruff, like honey o
ver gravel. He sounded on the far side of 60, but not by much.
“Excuse me?”
“You e-mailed about the orange-and-black Vyrus, right?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And your name is Tenzing Norbu, and you live in Los Angeles?”
“That’s correct.”
“The same Tenzing Norbu who wired me a hundred grand for the only Vyrus I had in stock, and took delivery off a pallet ten days later?”
“What’s this? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying according to my records, you’re the guy who bought the bike.”
There are 10,000 Tibetans with the name Tenzing Norbu. But something told me this didn’t involve anyone but me.
“I’m confused,” I said.
“You lay it down?” His voice was concerned.
“No. I . . . When did you deliver it?”
“Four months ago. You sound confused. You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“Not like that. And the payment was wired?”
“Yeah. Some kind of newfangled cyber transaction out of Los Angeles. But the money was good as gold, whoever the hell sent it.”
“Thanks. That’s all I needed to know.”
The rest of the drive became its own endless cycle of suffering. My car was puffing white smoke, and every driver on the freeway felt compelled to let me know by honking and gesturing as he or she passed. Visalia was 130 miles up the road, and every 20 or so I had to pull off, find a working hose, struggle with the radiator cap, and refill the tank. And forget trying to rent a car on that empty, treacherous stretch of road. You can’t, no matter how many times you ask the Internet. Turning back was not an option. So I just kept going.
By the time I pulled into the only campsite in Visalia, just off Avenue 308, it was dark. Thankfully, the entrance was brightly lit. I rolled past a small swimming pool, public restrooms, and a general store, closed for the night. I circled past maybe 30 occupied hook-up sites to my right, and another 20 down the other side, all occupied by campers and motor homes. But there was no VW van with red lips, and from the few people I saw, no one under the age of retirement. Worse, there wasn’t a robe or sitar in sight.
This felt all wrong.
I parked near the front office and climbed out. The Neon gurgled, as if choking to death.
The Fifth Rule of Ten Page 29
