The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  “Not for me,” I said. “But maybe for someone else. I saw your father. It was because of him that I found you. He’d like to see you and Kim again.”

  Bobby’s face darkened.

  “He’s in bad shape. Not just physically. His regrets are eating him alive.”

  Bobby worked his jaw. “I’ll think about it,” was all he said.

  It was a start. And I’d kept my promise. “Thanks for your help, Bobby.”

  “Blue skies,” he called over his shoulder, and climbed into the plane.

  I turned on my phone. With a whoosh, my text finally took off. Too late by a long, long shot. My phone pinged. The text was from Heather, which was a surprise.

  CALL ME ASAP.

  I tried Julie first, but she didn’t pick up.

  Heather was next.

  “Heather?”

  “Quick update. The detailed tox report came back on the Kapoor kid, and it’s a doozy. It changes everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we expected to find alkaloids, and we did. But we also found scopolamine. Not just a little, a lot. A lot-a lot.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning the datura at the scene wasn’t the culprit. It was a brilliant attempt to mask something much more disturbing.”

  I squinted at the sky. The Cessna was a lonely speck, far in the distance.

  “Ever heard of something called Devil’s Breath?”

  “No.” My mouth was already dry. I’d bought a liter of bottled water on the base. I gulped some down.

  “Super hard to get, ridiculously expensive. It’s derived from a tree in Columbia. A kind of trumpet vine. It’s tasteless. Odorless. It can cause hallucinations, and it wipes out any memory of your experience while under the influence. If you survive, that is. Hell, maybe that’s a blessing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the other thing it does is eliminate free will. Once you’re under, you’ll do anything. Slice and stab yourself to death, for example.”

  “I have to go,” I said.

  This time, Julie answered. “Hi, love. Hi, hi, hi! We got here half an hour ago.” I heard laughter and singing. Drumbeats. Clanging bells.

  “Didn’t you get my text?”

  “Yeah! I said yes, remember?”

  “Julie, this is really important. Where are you?”

  “This crazy campsite in the middle of nowhere. They gave us our own deluxe tent. There must be a thousand people here already. It’s so cool. It’s like Woodstock. They’re handing out free food to everybody—oh my goodness, so delicious. Not the lassi, that was nasty, but the curried wraps? Like a naan cone with two scoops of tikka masala.”

  I’d never heard her so wired.

  “We barely made it. Bumper to bumper, the whole way. The guys are scheduled to go on in an hour. Main stage, can you believe it? They’re doing an ancient Tibetan temple dance. You should see the masks they’re wearing. Scare-ry.”

  “Julie, stop talking for a minute.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “You need to leave right now.” The call cut off.

  I checked the signal. There wasn’t any. But I saw the second text, from an unknown sender: YOUR FRIENDS ARE HERE. WHERE ARE YOU?

  I dug out the burner phone. The battery was dead.

  I yelled into the night, but no one was listening.

  The abandoned airfield was a mile north of Twentynine Palms Highway and a half mile west of Rainshadow Lane. On the aeronautical chart, Rainshadow had continued north until it dead-ended in a snarl of purple Magic Marker lines, drawn by Brittany. The vortex of vortexes.

  I could hike back to the highway, or cut across to Rainshadow and hope to catch a ride. Either way, traffic was at a standstill.

  Or I could take the raven’s route, a straight shot across the Mojave.

  I picked up the leaden suitcase. The bumpy vinyl handle felt familiar in my hand.

  I had left my past wearing this same robe, carrying this same suitcase, my skull naked and my heart in my throat.

  On the edge of the horizon, a huge milky eye was rising.

  The full moon is the path.

  I started to run.

  CHAPTER 62

  The drumbeat reached me first, a pounding pulse. Thump, thump, thump, thump. My pace had slowed to a hobbled jog, slowed by the crumbling soil.

  A blister bubbled and broke on my left palm. My tongue was petrified wood, the liter of water I’d purchased at the base long since finished.

  I hugged my right arm close as I ran by gnarled creosote bushes and spiky chollas. Joshua trees greeted me with misshapen limbs. The hot air was a pungent assault of sage and saltbush.

  “Ow! Shit!” The suitcase bumped hard against my kneecap as I swerved to avoid a needled orb—a barrel cactus as red and round as a beach ball.

  My lungs were screaming.

  A giant rock pile loomed, an eroded collection of boulders. In the middle was a curled rocky fist with a jutting thumb. I took strength from its thumbs-up as I detoured around the timeworn barrier.

  Now I could see a tower, but not of solid stone. The man-made tripod of steel girders had a wheel on top, like a windmill. Fluorescent green lights spiraled, a spinning neon mandala.

  Thump thump thump.

  The beat grew louder. A horn lobbed its mournful wail over the desolate landscape.

  “Hram hram hram,” sang a woman, chanting the seed syllable of the Wheel of Time into a microphone.

  “Hram hram hram,” a swollen chorus responded.

  My right boot sent pebbles scattering. I had ploughed straight through a man-made spiral identical to the one at Bronson Caves, ruining the sacred helix.

  Stone stupas started popping up like little tumors on the desert skin as I entered a sprawling encampment of tents and caravans—hundreds of them, occupying every square inch of sand bordering the central arena.

  Hram hram hram hram.

  Thousands of arms flickered and swayed, an ocean of human anemones. A second, horseshoe-shaped eruption of boulders created a kind of natural amphitheater.

  A crush of cars waited to get in, headlights stretching back for miles. I wondered if a Vanagon was among them, or if Brittany and her friends had already pitched a tent somewhere.

  I would have to choose my next moves with care.

  A young woman in pigtails and cowboy boots crawled out of a nylon igloo. She spotted my robe and bowed, hands clasped.

  “Namasté,” she murmured.

  Her pupils were the size of dinner plates.

  “Do you have any water?” I rasped.

  She ducked inside the tent and returned with a metal canteen hanging from a strap. “It’s warm. Is that okay?”

  My left palm was bleeding and raw. “Can you please open it for me?”

  She focused hard on unscrewing the top. She handed me the canteen.

  I paused. “When and where did you fill this?”

  “What? Oh, this morning, at home.” She pressed it in my hand. “Take it. Water’s free in there. Everything’s free. I have enough. I am enough.” Her head tipped slightly. “Do you see that?” Her voice was breathy. “The air. Like golden fireflies . . .”

  I looked, but saw only Dawa, a lunar disc low on the horizon.

  “Hram, hram, hram, hram . . .” The girl spread out her arms and whirled away, a desert dervish.

  I followed my own moonlit path to the sea of celebrants and waded in. The smell was overpowering, a thick mixture of sweat and patchouli. Plus something else, something acrid and coppery—like blood, but less defined.

  Madness. It was the scent of madness.

  The fortress of bodies made forward movement impossible, especially for someone carrying a heavy suitcase.

  I had to find Julie and the others. I visually divided up the crowd in quadrants and started to scan each section. Peppered throughout the crowd, Maha Mudra followers twirled and swayed in their by-now-familiar tunics and head scarves. I tried to do a rough head c
ount, but there were far too many, and the number seemed to be growing.

  The drumbeat became more frenzied, triggering a crescendo of ecstasy around me. Suddenly something brushed against my calf. Warm, animal, and alive. I recoiled instinctively.

  I looked at the ground and saw the rump of a fleeing dog, his leash trailing behind him.

  At first, my mind rejected what my eyes confirmed. It seemed impossible. But the squat shape was unmistakable. “Homer? Homer, come!”

  Somehow my voice penetrated the chaos. Or maybe it was my scent. Homer looked around, his eyes red rimmed. I ran to his side and crouched.

  “Homer. It’s okay, it’s okay.” I laid my hand on his back. His thick torso was trembling, but the stub of a tail flicked, an almost wag.

  I dribbled canteen water onto his coated tongue.

  “Where’s Julie? Where’s your mistress?” He lapped at the dripping liquid, whimpering.

  I looped the leash around my left wrist and stood.

  Don’t panic. Keep going.

  The tidal swell of noise lessened slightly as a harmonium on stage took over the tempo, slowing things down. I couldn’t even see the musicians through the packed wall of people. There must have been 3,000 or 4,000, and growing. They undulated and flowed like lava.

  Keep going.

  “Jai Maha Mudra. Please help yourself. There is enough for everybody.” The voice was British. An upper-crust mixture of clipped consonants and elongated vowels.

  Colin.

  He was dressed in an orange tunic and a white head scarf. He passed around a cardboard container of naan wraps and disposable cups of lassi.

  “Colin Purdham-Coote.” I raised my voice. “Collie!”

  He wheeled to face me. His eyes were bright and clear, and also drug-free, judging by his pupils.

  I took a step closer. “My name is Tenzing Norbu. Tell Maha Mudra I’m here. That I understand everything.”

  He dropped the container and took off.

  “Jai Maha Mudra,” I called out, but he’d melted into the crowd.

  Maybe it would work. Maybe it wouldn’t.

  With Homer added to my burdens, I would never make it through this crush, so I opted to go around. I started moving sideways, keeping Homer on a short leash.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me, please.” The crowd was thick but docile—like children who had been overfed.

  I had guessed right. On the far right, a dusty path ran alongside the massive herd. New age entrepreneurs had set up shop here, temporary displays of silk saris, crystals, dangling dream catchers. But they weren’t really selling, and no one was buying either. Zombie-like, festival attendees and vendors collected in passive clumps, as if waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

  I spotted a massive stage, elevated and bathed in blue light. I picked up the pace and drew within ten or twelve yards.

  The leash jerked hard against my wrist and I almost fell. Homer had planted his paws. He was done.

  I hunkered next to him.

  “Homer, I can’t carry you, you have to walk.” He flattened into a pile of stubborn dog flesh. I tugged at the leash, but he’d somehow tripled his weight.

  Maybe I could tie him to something and come back.

  Still in a crouch, I looked around to assess. A long booth was set up deep in the shadows to my right, off the main path. My perspective gave me a clear view to the back of the booth and the orange-and-black Vyrus parked there.

  Maha Mudra was already here.

  Somewhere.

  I stood to get a better look at the booth. My heart stopped.

  I was looking at an arsenal. No one was manning the table, but its contents had been readied for later use: woven baskets in neat rows, filled with sacred Tibetan weaponry.

  Wooden longbows bound in silk, their bamboo arrows tipped with bone. Wisdom swords, scorpion-hilted blades, shakti daggers, and curved scythes. Trident pikes and spears, harpoons with rope tethers. Skull clubs and skeleton clubs. Corpse clubs for impaling the wicked. Nooses, chains, and more than one eight-pointed hurling discus. And then I saw the three-bladed phurba. The kind Nawang had used to murder Bhim. I dropped Homer’s leash, ran to the table and grabbed the dagger. I tucked it into a fold in my robe.

  Wanhhh. Wanhhh, a longhorn wailed. Drums and cymbals joined in, setting off a fresh roar of approval. I recognized the rhythms of a Tibetan Buddhist cham dance.

  I had to get to the stage, and fast.

  “Homer, come!” Homer groaned and pushed to his feet. I picked up his leash and we struggled forward. Finally we reached the corner of a massive raised platform.

  Three masked figures leaped and whirled above me, their clownlike skulls invoking the deities with dance. To one side, his features pinched, an exhausted Sonam kept jangled time with a pair of brass cymbals.

  A lone woman twirled along the edge of the stage—the woman I loved, though nearly unrecognizable in her current state.

  Julie’s eyes were closed and her mouth hung open. She was soaked in sweat, her hair a mass of wet ringlets.

  Homer started to howl.

  “Julie. Julie!”

  She looked down. For a moment she didn’t know me either, but then her face cleared.

  “Ten. You look funny. Where’s your hair? Guess what? I’m enough. I am finally enough.” She closed her eyes and drifted out of reach.

  “Julie! Come back!” She spun to the back of the stage.

  The temporary flooring was elevated at least five feet. I tried to pull myself up, but without a splint my right arm was worse than useless. I had no way to grip or get any purchase.

  I needed to shift things, and fast. Flush out the enemy. Somehow create a distraction without causing a stampede.

  I turned to face the swaying crowd. They were all so young. So very young.

  “Ma ha Mu dra,” I began to chant. “Ma ha Mu dra.”

  I gestured for others to follow as I raised my voice. “Ma ha Mu dra. Ma ha Mu dra.”

  Where were the tunics? Where were her followers?

  “Ma ha Mu Dra! Ma Ha Mu Dra!”

  The first to join in was a kid in a sarong, cheekbones striped with war paint. Next, a girl in an elk costume, her dreadlocks braided into arched horns, took up the chant.

  “Ma ha Mu dra. Ma ha Mu dra.”

  More and more added their voices, a contagious build, until at last the scattered choruses tipped into one unified cry.

  “MA HA MU DRA, MA HA MU DRA.” Their swelling demand stopped the cham dance cold. As a female figure appeared at the back, the masked dancers stepped to one side. The chants of the crowd turned to loud cheers.

  But the woman who stepped forward wasn’t Maha Mudra. It was Adina.

  I had so wanted to be wrong about this. The sight of her broke my heart.

  She wore a luminous white caftan, but there was no head scarf to suppress the silvery cascade of hair. She seemed almost to float past the masked dancers. She stopped at the front of the stage, mic in hand, glowing with purpose.

  “Are you ready?” Her amplified words were met with an answering roar.

  A colorful skeleton leaped off the corner of the platform and landed in front of me. He pulled off the garish mask. It was Wangdue.

  “Are you really ready?” Adina cried. The crowd’s response gained in volume. The sound grew deafening.

  I leaned close, almost shouting. “Wangdue, I need your help!” I checked his eyes. They were clear. “You’re okay? You didn’t eat or drink anything?”

  “No.”

  “Good. How about the others?”

  “No,” he repeated. “They not eat or drink. Is Saka Dawa Duchen. We all fast. Except for Julie.”

  “I can’t hear you, my children,” Adina called, her voice teasing. Impossibly, the din grew even louder.

  “Wangdue, get Julie and the others and go straight to the van. Lock yourself inside. Don’t let anyone leave, not for any reason, understand?”

  He nodded.

  “Where is it parked?�
��

  He pointed to a huge makeshift lot, to the left of the neon windmill.

  “Okay. Good.”

  Adina raised her arms and then lowered them slowly. “Shhh,” she said, “Shhh.” Silence grew and spread.

  I ducked low, pulling Wangdue with me. I didn’t want Adina to see or hear me. Not until everyone was safe.

  “Take Homer,” I whispered, pressing the leash in his hand. “Julie will come if you have Homer.” I hung the canteen around Wangdue’s neck. “There’s water in here. It’s safe to drink. Give some to Julie, but only a little at a time. She’s been drugged. Do you understand? Everyone here has been drugged.”

  Almost everyone.

  “Patience, my beautiful ones,” Adina now crooned. “Enjoy the sacred kirtans. Eat. Dance. Dawa is climbing the sky. It will all be over far too soon.”

  “You not come with us?” Wangdue said.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I have to stop this.”

  Wangdue bowed slightly. “We chant for you.”

  I gripped his shoulders. “Tashi deley.” I honor the greatness in you.

  “Tashi deley, Lama Tenzing. You keep us safe.”

  He pulled on his skull mask, lifted Homer onto the stage, and climbed after him. I watched as Wangdue herded the others to the back of the platform. They descended an aluminum set of stairs. A docile Julie followed along quietly. Thankfully, Adina was too flush with her own power to notice.

  “So get ready, because you won’t believe what’s coming, as soon as Dawa is overhead.” She was working the crowd into a fresh frenzy. “The full moon is rising. And you know that that means . . .”

  “It’s time!” the ecstatic crowd cried.

  The blue spotlight split into pulsing strobes of color, and a thumping electronic backbeat started up. Adina motioned a waiting group of musicians onto the stage. A young man in a knit beanie grabbed Adina’s mic and began to rap a call and response as others took up bongos, sitars, and an electric bass guitar. “I bow at his feet, so sweet, my master, bring me there faster, hear me calling, help me I’m falling, Guru Brahma! Say it!”

  “Guru Brahma!”

  “Guru Vishnu!”

  “Guru Vishnu!”

  “Kala Chakra!”

  “Kala Chakra!”

  Adina gyrated backward, her hair a spinning disk of quicksilver.