They were all in a deep, deep trance.
“That’s it . . .”
I opened the suitcase to retrieve two final items. I stepped to the outermost row and placed the photograph of Brittany and her father in her lap. I returned to the center and slipped Paresh Kapoor’s cat’s-eye ring onto Colin’s finger. I transferred TJ’s silk khata from my neck to his. I balanced the vajra hammer on Adina’s crossed legs, her anniversary offering to her husband, and now my offering to her.
“And even more relaxed. That’s it . . .”
Finally, I picked up the peacock-feathered bumpa. Nawang’s parting gift two decades ago, when I was just a scared boy with no place to call home and he was searching for the truth with a broken compass.
I laid the tarnished silver vase in Nawang’s lap. Was he under? I couldn’t tell. I took my place at the center one final time and closed my eyes.
“And on the count of five . . .
“One . . . we are carving a new life, like a river carves its bed . . . May we be safe and protected . . .
“Two . . . we are choosing to be well . . . May we be healthy and strong . . .
“Three . . . we will open our eyes in the here and now, liberated from our painful past . . . May we be full of compassion for all sentient beings . . .
“Four . . . sound in mind and body. . . with an open but wise heart. . . may we be free . . .
“Five.”
I opened my eyes. The grotto was drenched in silver light.
“Look, Ten,” Adina said. “The moon is so full. Where’s Eric? I have to tell him.”
CHAPTER 65
Nawang was broken, at least temporarily. When he opened his eyes, I could see that any sanity remaining had finally splintered. His eyes found me.
“Apa?” he said. His voice was high-pitched, like a child’s.
“No, I am Tenzing,” I said. “Your brother.” Nawang nodded. He clutched his feathered vase close. His expression curious, he watched his acolytes file away as if they had nothing to do with him.
The others had come out of the trance state in stages, like waking from deep sleep. They stretched and looked around, a little confused. I asked TJ and Colin to collect the weapons. They circled with the baskets, and everyone filled them without complaint.
Using my good arm, I hooked Nawang’s right elbow and led him down the path to the campground, following the bemused parade of 63 former followers. Nawang prattled nonstop. His bindi and the kohl around his eyes had smeared, and his five-pointed crown now sat at an angle. He looked completely mad.
“I just met my apa,” he said. “He is a special man. A holy man. He and some other monks came to our village. Because of me!”
“How do you know he’s your father?” I had to ask, though his blood would offer the final proof.
“Because! My mother told me! He said she should send me to him, when I was older. I knew he’d come one day. I knew he’d find me!”
Of course. My father must have heard of Nawang’s early spiritual prowess and brought the abbots to see the boy for themselves. He must have felt vindicated, especially after I proved to be such a disappointment.
Until his firstborn—his dream child—was revealed to be a living nightmare.
We walked through the cleft of stone into a scene of controlled chaos.
At first I thought the strobing blue-and-red lights were still part of the stage show. Then I realized they belonged to a swarm of patrol cars and rescue vehicles, their LED bars flashing. Bill had marshaled an army of responders.
I was grateful I had disarmed Maha Mudra’s personal troops. These days, the flash of even a single blade could unleash a torrent of gunfire.
EMTs tended to the recovering hordes. Later, the festival attendees would remember almost nothing, but brag about being there anyway.
Bill strode up. “You are in so much trouble,” he barked. His eyes widened at the sight of me, robed and bleeding. “Where’s your hair? What the hell did you do to yourself this time?”
“Whatever I had to,” I said. I stood to one side. “Bill, this is my brother, Nawang.”
Nawang’s smile remained sweet, even when they handcuffed him.
I had assumed that we shared receptivity to suggestion, but I hadn’t bargained on how intensely Nawang would respond. As Bill led him away, my heart couldn’t help but ache. This childlike state was almost certainly temporary. The evil would return as surely as the pain in my freshly broken arm. He was looking at multiple years in prison, if he wasn’t deported first for his earlier crimes. Or maybe he’d wind up shackled in a psychiatric ward. Either way, I was glad to have met the little boy who existed before the darkness took hold.
Pritchard arrived next. Bobby must have done a round-trip in the Cessna after all. The commander ran to his daughter Brittany and gathered her in his arms, their roles reversed. She was the soldier returning from war this time.
Colin stood to one side, looking a little lost. Bill had relayed a message to me from Bertie, and I walked over to deliver it.
“Your father’s on his way. He took the red-eye.”
“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” Colin said. He twisted the cat’s-eye ring on his finger. “Do you think I can take Paresh back with me? His ashes, I mean?”
I smiled. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
I knew I’d have to give a statement, but I persuaded the local police to let me find my friends first. They were still in the parking lot, clustered around the van. Eric and Adina stood together nearby.
Adina’s eyes were red. “We’re going home,” was all she said, and all I needed to hear.
Wangdue, Sonam, Yeshe, and Lobsang had TJ surrounded. He didn’t seem to mind at all. They were his true circle of safety, and he knew it.
I found Julie wrapped in a blanket inside the van. Homer, too. I climbed in next to them with my broken wing.
CHAPTER 66
As wedding ceremonies go, ours was turning out to be pretty extemporaneous. Exactly the way I liked it. We’d take care of the official part later, but this wasn’t about being official. This was about honoring our commitment in the company of loved ones.
The setting was pure magic. Julie and Homer had discovered Meditation Mount when the monks were in Ojai.
“I know it’s the one,” she’d said on our way to the hospital to yet again set and splint my arm. “Just like I knew you were the one the first time we met.”
Who was I to argue with that? So she picked the place and I picked the date.
“Next Sunday,” I had said. “While Yeshe and Lobsang are still here.”
Including Bill, that gave me three best men. Sonam, complete with yellow rooster hat, would oversee our vows. For Julie, Martha and the twins would attend. And that was it. That was the wedding party. We even left Homer and Tank at home.
Simple. Meaningful. Makeshift.
The vows were tucked into the inside pocket of my new linen jacket. We’d spent much of last night composing them together, an intimate give-and-take that boded well for our future. I took them out to reread:
I commit to full and heartfelt union with you, and I commit to embracing my own creative expression.
I commit to learning something new with you every day.
I commit to telling you my absolute truth, and to listening to yours.
I commit to making agreements I know I can keep, and I commit to keeping them.
I commit to letting you know every day how much I love and appreciate you.
And I choose to love you, every day, as much as I can, from wherever I am.
After we’d finished writing our vows, I’d handed Julie an envelope, business-size.
“What’s this?” she’d said.
“The wedding. Also my nest egg,” I’d answered. “Martha helped.”
Julie opened the envelope, mystified. She’d unfolded a colored printout of a custom food truck.
“Oh, Ten,” she’d said.
“I figure
d a gourmet restaurant on wheels might be just the ticket.” It had taken almost all my savings, but I considered it a sound investment.
“This is pure O. Henry,” she’d said. “‘The Gift of the Magi.’”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You will.” She’d handed me her own envelope. “Also the wedding. Also my nest egg. Also thanks to Martha. She’s been very busy.”
I’d opened my own envelope. Inside was a colored printout of a yurt, airy and spacious and completely private. A perfect haven for a man and his cat, should the need arise.
“There goes our safety net,” I’d said.
“Safety nets are overrated,” she’d replied. And after that, we’d stopped talking, so we could figure out how to make love with only three arms between us.
The Ojai Valley glowed pink and gold in the dusky sunset. Lavender and sage perfumed the air. A fountain somewhere nearby warbled.
I stood with my best friends, my heart at ease.
Maude and Lola, their striped sundresses and expressions of concentration identical, walked down the path clutching little baskets. Maude was carefully dropping tiny white blooms, one by one. She noticed Lola’s full load.
“Lola,” Maude whispered, her voice urgent. “Throw the flowers.”
Lola grabbed a fistful and hurled them straight up. They showered down like stars.
Martha arrived next with a bouquet of wildflowers, laughing and weeping.
And finally, Julie. The girls had helped her braid daisies into a garland. Her dress was gauze layered over sage green silk. Nothing like a fat meringue, and just like her—sexy, romantic, spiritual, grounded, creative, and earthy. All that was missing was the humor, but I had that covered.
I winked at Bill, and he raised his phone after thumbing the screen.
“Goin’ to the chapel and we’re . . .” Julie threw back her head and roared.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
GRATITUDE FROM GAY HENDRICKS
After so many books we’ve written together, it’s getting harder to think of wonderful things to say about Tinker Lindsay that I haven’t said before! Suffice it to say that being friends and colleagues with Tinker has been one of the most joyful and illuminating relationships of my life. Her genius and kind heart are treasured in our household, and I hope to be in her creative sphere throughout my life.
I feel more grateful as the years go by for the great mystery writers of past generations. I wouldn’t have ventured into the field had I not fallen in early love with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his creation, Sherlock Holmes. Later, when I read John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee series I began to appreciate the advantages of having a character that could change, learn, and mature over time. Although I’m now a mystery writer I’m still as enthusiastic a mystery reader as ever; I read every Michael Connelly, T. Jefferson Parker and Robert Crais mystery novel as soon as they’re published, as well as any other good thriller I can get my hands on.
The team at Hay House is a writer’s dream. Reid Tracy and Patty Gift are two of the finest people I’ve met in my 40 years in publishing. Sally Mason-Swaab’s editorial touch made the book sing and dance, and Charles McStravick’s cover art has done a beautiful job of expressing the feeling-tone of the books.
My deepest bow of gratitude goes always to my wife, Katie, for 36 years of love and good times. I am very blessed to have a mate who serves as muse and first listener for everything I write. One of our sacred traditions is that I read aloud to her everything I write each day. Her generous listening and helpful suggestions make writing a daily joy.
GRATITUDE FROM TINKER LINDSAY
Without the brilliant and prolific Gay Hendricks there would be no Tenzing Norbu. I’m grateful to him from the bottom of my heart for inventing this timely and irresistible detective, and for inviting me to join him in co-creating Ten’s world. As co-writer and as dear friend, Gay has changed my life profoundly. Huge appreciation to Katie Hendricks as well—for her insight, humor, and fierce commitment to creativity and joy.
Big thanks to our Hay House dream team: to Patty Gift and Reid Tracy for saying Yes to Ten, and for leading the way by enthusiastic and expert example; to our editor, Sally Mason-Swaab, who somehow combines a light touch with deep wisdom and thorough professionalism; and to Charles McStravick for his artful and compelling cover designs. I’d also like to offer my deep appreciation to everyone at Hay House for their ongoing support of work that heals, unites, and inspires. Never has the world needed it more.
Writers would be lost without willing experts, and I relied on a slew for this book. All accuracies are theirs. Any mistakes, tiny or glaring, are mine.
I owe enormous thanks to Detective Inspector Lee Barnard and Detective Sergeant Lee Minnighan of the London Metropolitan Police for walking me through their thorough and complex missing-persons investigative protocols. DS Minnighan went above and beyond the call of duty, providing me with hours of invaluable advice and reams of materials concerning everything from risk assessments to Border Systems watchlists.
Deep appreciation to Mark Tyrrell, co-founder of Uncommon Knowledge, whose hypnotherapy “scripts” and video demonstrations were invaluable research tools. Thanks, as well, to Jerome Lewis, Ph.D., for his deep well of psychological wisdom. Because of Bob Steinbugler, I now know everything there is to know about the VYRUS motorcycle. I gratefully acknowledge the L.A. County Coroner Department’s K-9 detection team Karina Peck and her German shepherd “Indie”—they served as inspiration for Fran Hoagland and Shirley Bones. And thanks to Pacific Oaks School parent and winning Spring Auction bidder Liesl Copland, for providing me with the excellent name Ezekiel Foss.
I relied on a number of fascinating books in my insatiable quest to better understand the phenomenon of religious cults: Malignant Pied Pipers of Our Time, by Peter A. Olsson; Prophetic Charisma, by Len Oakes; Cartwheels in a Sari, by Jayanti Tamm; and Holy Hell, by Gail Tredwell. I also mined The Shadow of the Dalai Lama, by Victor and Victoria Trimondi, for insights into a darker interpretation of Tibetan Buddhist beliefs.
My gratitude to film composer Michael McCuistion for verbally recreating the Griffith Park Observatory show “Time’s Up,” after it proved impossible to find in any archives.
I salute my friend and hero Lieutenant Commander Brian Emme, who carved out enough time from his busy life to patiently field this neophyte’s nonstop questions while ferrying me around Lemoore Naval Air Station. Watching a series of thundering F/A-18 super hornets practice touch- and-gos was both thrilling and humbling, and I’ll never forget it.
I so appreciate Laura Chandler and the Sacred Stream Foundation in Berkeley for inviting me to join the monks of Gaden Shartse Dokhang Monastery during their Northern California tour. Their sand mandala and Losar ceremonies deeply moved me, and their openhearted practice forever changed me. To these venerable lamas I bow in heartfelt thanks: Lobsang Chophel, Lobsang Dhonye, Geshe Dorjee Gyaltsin, Geshe Jangchup Thinlay, Tanzin Namgail, Nima Dorje, and Wangdu. Special thanks to Spiritual Master Geshe Thupten for patiently explaining dependent origination, among other erudite topics, and to Lungrik Gyaltsin (LG) for serving as cheerful translator throughout. Thanks, as well, to driver extraordinaire Sherri Serino for providing me with loads of delightful “touring tales,” and to Wendy Guglieri and Jeanne Marie Chesko for taking me under their welcoming wings.
I am eternally grateful to my Writers Group—the magnificent seven—Monique de Varennes, Beverly Baz, Kathryn Hagen, Emilie Small, Blossom Pidduck, Pat Stiles, and Barbara Sweeney. I gave them very little time, and a metric truckload of pages, and without a peep of complaint they dove right in. As usual, their in-depth critiques of the manuscript were as insightful as they were kind.
And finally I offer my love, ever and always, to my husband and best friend Cameron Keys. You accept my foibles, honor my passions, and listen to my crazy dreams, literally and figuratively. The way you weave words into gold dazzles me. The way your heart responds to the world inspires me. How f
ortunate I am, to walk with you by my side.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT
GAY HENDRICKS
Gay Hendricks, Ph.D., has served for more than 35 years as one of the major contributors to the fields of relationship transformation and body-mind therapies. He is the author of 36 books, including The Corporate Mystic, Conscious Living, and The Big Leap, and with his wife, Dr. Kathlyn Hendricks, has written many bestsellers, including Conscious Loving and Five Wishes. Dr. Hendricks received his Ph.D. in counseling psychology from Stanford University in 1974. After a 21-year career as a professor of counseling psychology at the University of Colorado, he and Kathlyn founded the Hendricks Institute, based in Ojai, California, which offers seminars worldwide. In recent years Dr. Hendricks has also been active in creating new forms of conscious entertainment. In 2003, along with the movie producer Stephen Simon, Dr. Hendricks founded the Spiritual Cinema Circle, which distributes inspirational movies to subscribers in 70-plus countries around the world (www.spiritualcinemacircle.com). He has appeared on more than 500 radio and television shows, including The Oprah Winfrey Show and 48 Hours, and on networks including CNN and CNBC.
ABOUT
TINKER LINDSAY
Cameron Keys
Tinker Lindsay is an accomplished screenwriter, author, and conceptual editor. A member of the Writers Guild of America (WGA), the Independent Writers of Southern California (IWOSC), Women in Film (WIF), and Mystery Writers of America (MWA), she has worked in the Hollywood entertainment industry for over three decades. Lindsay has written screenplays for major studios such as Disney and Warner Bros., collaborating with the award-winning film director Peter Chelsom. Lindsay and Chelsom wrote Hector and the Search for Happiness, which stars Simon Pegg, Rosamund Pike, and Christopher Plummer (among others) and was released by Relativity Media in September 2014. Their next film—“The Space Between Us” co-written with Allan Loeb—is scheduled for a summer 2016 release by STX Entertainment and stars Gary Oldman, Asa Butterfield, and Britt Robertson. Lindsay and Chelsom recently completed a screenplay about Charles Dickens and a spin-off of the Hector franchise for Egoli Tossell Film. Lindsay and acclaimed Indian director Pan Nalin co-wrote the spiritual epic Buddha: The Warrior Within, currently in development. She also co-wrote the drama Those Who Have Eyes with Cameron Keys, currently in preproduction. In addition to the Tenzing Norbu detective series, Lindsay has written two books—The Last Great Place and a memoir, The Sound of One Heart Breaking—and worked with several noted transformational authors, including Peter Russell, Arjuna Ardagh, Dr. John C. Robinson, and Dara Marks. Lindsay graduated with high honors from Harvard University with a degree in English and American literature and language and was an editor for The Harvard Crimson. She studied and taught meditation for several years before moving to Los Angeles to live and work. She can usually be found writing in her home office, situated directly under the Hollywood sign.
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