The Third Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery

by Hendricks, Gay

  A warm wave of affection flowed through me. “You know what’s weird?” I said. “I’ve never felt closer to you than right now.”

  It was true. We’d had our first heart-to-heart talk on the phone last night, and I’d been the one doing most of the talking. I’d told Heather about how lost and angry I’d felt after my father died. I talked in detail about his death and the death of Julius Rosen. I shared everything—the money from Julius, my sudden craving for meat. How it felt to shoot two men. How it felt to almost be shot by another. I even told her about my one-night stand with Cielo.

  “I knew it,” Heather said. “That skank wasn’t going to take no!”

  Finally, hesitantly, I’d told Heather about what happened in Baja Mexico. How, when I’d thought I might die, I’d realized that there were two things I’d harbored in my own deeply buried facility, things that I needed to admit, because we both deserved to know the truth.

  I’d hated a man enough to kill him, before I came to my senses.

  And I’d let Julie, the woman I loved, get away, but I hadn’t let her go. And until I did, I wasn’t free inside to love anyone else.

  Heather ordered buckwheat noodles with roasted mushrooms and tofu. I ordered angel hair with Parmesan, lemon, and chives. I was no longer a soldier at war. I couldn’t imagine eating meat.

  We spent the rest of our meal chatting about our day. I described my afternoon at Mac Gannon’s estate, mostly watching Melissa and Tank fall in love. I’d finally kept my promise and brought the two of them together. Tank had immediately rolled onto his back and waved his four paws skyward, his highest salute of approval.

  Mac joined us for the last half an hour, so I could bring him in on Lama Sonam’s foolproof method for mindfully quitting nail biting—an early form of exposure therapy minus the actual nibbling

  “With your mind, pick a nail, one you’d most love to bite,” I told Mac and Melissa. “Now, take three deep in-and-out breaths and change your body position. Then pick another nail and do the same thing.” I made them do it for ten minutes. Well, Melissa got bored and ran off, but Mac stuck with it. I explained how Lama Sonam claimed that interior breath and body shifts were the best tools we have for breaking old patterns. I think maybe it helped Mac a little bit.

  I even paid a quick visit to Mac’s wife, Penelope, who was holed up in her bedroom with another one of her chemically-induced “little headaches.” I handed her my favorite waitress Jean’s phone number, and told her Jean used to suffer from the same headaches and would be happy to talk to her about recovery any time. I did it for Melissa, more than anyone. The child needed her mother. Every child does.

  She and Tank had been waiting for me outside her mother’s bedroom door.

  “We made you a tea party,” she announced. She led me to her playhouse, Tank following on our heels. The tea was pretend, but karma came around deliciously for me anyway. I, who had served tea and cakes a thousand times to elder monks, now had my own cup of tea and pretend cake carefully handed to me by a nine-year-old bodhisattva.

  As I told Heather the story, I was happy at how my heart softened.

  We switched gears after that, as Heather filled me in on her busy day. Three autopsies: one accidental overdose and two drive-by gunshot deaths, gang-related.

  Chaco was gone, but the senseless turf wars continued.

  We skipped dessert. I was still catching up on sleep, and Heather had an early call. I walked her to her Prius.

  “I’m proud of you,” I said.

  “I’m proud of us.” She smiled, blinking back tears.

  “I really hope we can be friends,” I said. “You know, down the road….” The lump in my throat made swallowing difficult.

  “We’ll get there,” she said and climbed into her car.

  I was about to make the turn into my driveway when I changed my mind and kept going, continuing all the way to Pacific Coast Highway. I headed up the coast until I reached the turnoff to a favorite spot of mine, high on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. The lot was empty. I locked my car and carefully picked my way along the trail to the edge of the bluffs.

  I sat. Closed my eyes and settled into an awareness of my heart area. I made myself reopen the “Is Heather the One?” folder. My inner cabinet was full of such files, starting with a beautiful young girl I’d met in India years ago, called Pema. “Is Pema the one?” “Is Charlotte the one?” “Is Julie?” “Is Cielo?” I even had a folder for Gus, a woman I should have sensed wasn’t remotely interested in me romantically.

  Jean once gave me sound relationship advice: “Put down the flashlight and pick up a mirror.” In my case, the flashlight was more like a microscope. Now I picked up the mirror, and here’s what I saw: the minute I appeared headed for a breakup, no matter the woman, my surveillance gear kicked in. I was like a heat-seeking drone, desperately surveying my surroundings for the next warm woman who would fix me. Complete me. Love me no matter what.

  Now I drilled into my own deeply buried facility, the one I still wanted to keep invisible.

  You claim to love your independence, but you’re terrified of being alone. You need them to survive, but you hate them for making you so needy. You expect them to fix you, but you always end up more broken.

  Admitting each truth cracked open more possibility for change, until an idea gusted in, like a cool, fresh breeze. Maybe it was time to take a break. Maybe I should make sure my own structure was solid for once. Maybe I needed to practice the microscopic truth with myself, before sharing it with, or expecting it from, someone else.

  I watched the ocean waves break and retreat, break and retreat, in their own teasing dance with the shore. Then I shifted my eyes toward the dark horizon. Felt the tug of another unsettling thought, free to surface now that I was both quiet enough and open enough to let it.

  Who was I but a living paradox—the embodiment of mixed blessings and a walking contradiction? I was born into a spiritual tradition that had been thriving in one form or another for thousands of years. In spite of that, or maybe because of it, now I seemed to be thriving in Los Angeles, the ephemera capital of the world. Did that make me the poster boy for the American Dream? Or the Buddha’s worst nightmare?

  I looked across the ocean’s vastness, toward the place of my birth. I could feel within me a deep connection to Asia, both its exquisite mysteries and its relentless misery. For me, the very best of Asia was the Dharma, the teachings of the Awakened One. I carried the truth of those teachings in my bones. But now that my father was dead, I could also feel a new excitement building in me, a desire to plant myself more deeply right where I was. My divided youth, trucked as I was between parents and countries, had left me a perpetual nomad. I was finally starting to feel grounded, rooted in one place.

  Allow. Allow.

  A new sense of belonging sprouted like a seed inside. It felt good, natural even, but on the heels of it came a ripple of fear. Would I lose an essential part of me in the process?

  I couldn’t think of any way to find out without stepping fully into the present and seeing where it took me. I slipped off my shoes and pulled off my socks. My bare soles came in contact with the fine earth of my chosen land, letting my feet touch the truth of my commitment: This is where I am. This is where I choose to be.

  I tasted the tangy salt-breeze and drew it into my lungs. I brought my hands to my heart and beamed a new prayer—my own words, my own deeply held mix of traditions—into the cosmic jet stream: Wherever I go, may I learn and love as much as I can in every moment. Wherever I am, may I be open to inspiration and truth.

  I walked back up the path, shoes in hand. I climbed into the Shelby and headed for home. It was getting close to Tank’s snack time, and there’s a certain look he gives me if I’m late.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  GRATITUDE FROM

  GAY HENDRICKS

  I continue to be astonished by the skill, sensitivity, and beneficent vibes of my co-author, Tinker Lindsay. I’ve worked with her for year
s now, with never a blown deadline and never a cross word between us. Katie and I treasure her friendship as well as the gift of her talent in our lives.

  To Katie, my beloved mate and co-creator for 34 years now, my gratitude is boundless. I read each new page of a Tenzing novel to her as soon as I’ve finished writing for the day. To try out my new words in the space of Katie’s generous listening is one of the great delights of my life.

  A deep bow of gratitude goes to Reid Tracy, Patty Gift, and the lovely people on the Hay House team. It’s a writer’s dream to have a publisher who really cares about the work and about making the world a better place. Thank you, Reid and team, for making that dream a reality.

  I appreciate the detectives of the Santa Barbara Police Department, the Ventura County Sheriff’s Department, and the guys at the Far West Gun Shop, all of whom are remarkably gracious when a harried writer calls in need of some obscure crime or gun detail. These folks see and hear things every day that no writer could possibly invent, and I appreciate them for passing along their juicy wisdom to me.

  Thanks as always to Sandy Dijkstra, agent extraordinaire, for her dedication to my books through 25 amazing years. I can always count on Sandy and her staff to go the extra mile in making my life easy.

  I’m grateful to all the readers who have posted the hundreds of great reviews of the Tenzing books on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other online venues. I’ve been moved to tears many times by reading the warm-hearted reviews by readers who have been touched by Ten and the world he lives in.

  GRATITUDE FROM

  TINKER LINDSAY

  As our books continue to multiply and expand, so, too, does my gratitude for my co-author, Gay. His humor, generosity, openhearted affection, and extraordinary talent bring me daily joy, and I absolutely love working (playing) with him. He and his wife, Katie, are, quite simply, splendid, and I feel blessed to be a part of their lives.

  Heartfelt thanks to the Hay House team: the brilliant editor Patty Gift, our first and biggest fan, to whom we owe this wonderful writing adventure; Reid Tracy for his insightful guidance; Quressa Robinson for her careful overseeing; Charles McStravick for his inspired artwork; Laura Gray for her expert editing; Erin Dupree and Darcy Duval for steering the marketing and publicity ship; and, of course, Louise Hay, for having the foresight to create the Hay House playground in the first place.

  I am fortunate indeed to be represented by Sandy Djikstra and her accomplished literary agency, including Elise Capron, Jennifer Azantian, and Thao Le. I cannot thank them enough for their continuous care and expertise.

  Where would I be without my beloved tribe of fellow scribes? Huge thanks to the people in my writers group, who read and responded to this manuscript in record time, and as always provided invaluable criticism, wrapped in warm support. They are my magnificent six: Bev Baz, Monique de Varennes, Kathryn Hagen, Emilie Small, Pat Stiles, and Barbara Sweeney. Thanks, also, to Tessa Chasteen for bringing her skills to bear on The Third Rule, helping fine-tune both plot points and character arcs.

  Private Investigator Dana Champion sat and talked with me for hours, generously giving me a detailed inside peek at the specifics of a P.I.’s life in Los Angeles. She was both patient with the basics and unbelievably helpful with specifics. She also connected me with PI Ann LaJeunesse, whose wry humor and professional tales both inspired and impressed me to no end. I want to be them when I grow up.

  Deep gratitude to Joan B., the inspiration for Ten’s buddy Jean—I’m so fortunate to count her as a close friend. Thanks, too, to Katherine King for escorting me into, as well as under, the Santa Monica Pier while sharing her event-planning expertise. A shout-out to the friendly folks at Star Helicopters—they let me clamber inside their chopper and borrow their office décor, and to Chuck of Chuck’s Auto Care for explaining the ins and outs of Shelby Mustang maintenance. A special bow to journalist Patrick Radden Keefe of the New York Times. His courageous, in-depth feature article “Cocaine Incorporated,” covering Mexican Drug Cartels, was a tour-de-force, and beyond invaluable.

  Finally, my whole-hearted love and appreciation to my fiancé, Cameron Keys. I wouldn’t be successful, or sane, without your steadfast love and constant encouragement, much less your willingness to track down obscure BBC mysteries to cool my heated writer’s brain after long days at the computer. I am in awe of your uncanny ability to make me laugh or allow me to cry, whatever I need, whenever I need it. I’m such a lucky woman.

  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 33 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 in 1974. After a 21-year career as a professor of Counseling Psychology at 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 movie producer Stephen Simon, Dr. Hendricks founded the Spiritual Cinema Circle, which distributes inspirational movies to subscribers in 70+ 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

  Tinker Lindsay is an accomplished screenwriter, author, and conceptual editor. A member of the Writers Guild of America (WGA), Independent Writers of Southern California (IWOSC), and Women in Film (WIF), 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 award-winning film director Peter Chelsom. Their current screenplay, Hector and the Search for Happiness, with Egoli Tossell Film, stars Simon Pegg, Rosamund Pike, and Christopher Plummer, among others, and will be released in 2014. She also co-wrote the spiritual epic Buddha: The Inner Warrior with acclaimed Indian director Pan Nalin, as well as the sci-fi remake of The Crawling Eye, and Hoar Frost, with Cameron Keys, the latter currently in pre-production.

  Lindsay has written two books—The Last Great Place and a memoir, My Hollywood Ending—and worked with several noted transformational authors, including Peter Russell, Arjuna Ardagh, and Dara Marks.

  Lindsay graduated with high honors from Harvard University in English and American Language and Literature, 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.

  AN EXCERPT FROM THE FOURTH RULE OF TEN

  Topanga Canyon, Calif.

  July 5, Year of the Water Snake

  A vast herd of faceless children. Thick. Boundless. They slog forward, their pace slow and strained, their arms outstretched, as if striving to get somewhere that’s perpetually out of reach. Their eyes are pools of yearning, of faint hope mixed with despair.

  Now I am in the midst of them, pushing through the thick morass of mixed and sticky emotions. I cast my eyes around, searching for a tool, a magic wand maybe, to wave over these struggling souls that I might ease their effort and aid them in their journey.

  Fear invades. Acrid and biting, it’s sharp enough to pucker my mouth. What if I’m one of them? I’m in the middle of the herd, after all. My own footsteps are labored and sluggish, as if I’m wading through tar. My own heart is filled with a nameless longing. Am I, too, trapped in a futile journey?

  No. This is not real.

  I bend my knees and drop into a crouch. With a burst of muscle and hope, I propel myself up, away from the throng, and out of the oppressive grip of the dream.r />
  My heart thumped against the struts of my rib cage. I turned my head to check the red digits of the clock beside my bed. 3:43 A.M. and dead quiet except for a low rumble emitting from Tank. My cat, too, had been pulled from sleep. Now he sat upright next to my head, sphinxlike, purring, gazing at me with wide-eyed interest.

  I slid my palm from the dome of his skull to the soft fur that surrounded his neck like a downy muffler.

  “It’s okay, big guy. Just another weird dream.”

  Tank lowered his head and placed it between his paws. His eyelids dropped like blinds, snuffing out a pair of glowing green orbs. Within seconds, he was sound asleep again. At 3:43 in the morning, this was a good skill to have. Unfortunately, only one of us had it.

  I lay in the darkness as my pounding heart returned to a steady, slow beat. I consciously revisited the dimensions and images of the dream. There was something compelling about its emotional tone.

  Allow.

  I softened my awareness to feel into this particular flavor and found it buried in the borderland of belly and solar plexus: fear fueled by desperation.

  Allow. Allow, Ten.

  Inside the desperation two other distinct feelings huddled close, like fraternal twins fed by the same womb: the deep anguish of a being trapped in a difficult journey leading nowhere good and the powerlessness of a fellow being who is unable to help.

  I knew what the dream was about.

  The clock had advanced an entire minute. 3:44 A.M. Woo-hoo. I surveyed my brain-space to determine if there was any possibility that I might get back to sleep. The answer was instantaneous: nope. I slipped out of bed without disturbing the rhythm of Tank’s easy snores.

  The wood floor felt cool and smooth against the soles of my feet. I reached my arms high, then bent to lay my palms flat against the hardwood. As I padded, barefoot, toward my meditation room, I declared the day officially underway. A new day, and my first opportunity to practice a new rule: let go of expectations, for expectations lead to suffering.