A Fractured Peace

by Elia Seely

  I looked up into the sky as a crack of thunder split the air.

  We’ll get your killer, Choden. If you are out there … I won’t give up.

  The answering lightning flashed, with the sweet scent of pine and rain rushing in on a gust of accompanying wind. I shuddered and leaned against the Bronco to wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  In the end, the Rinpoche hadn’t put up any fuss about the seizure of their Subaru. How could he? He seemed quite stunned and I felt a little sorry for him. Tenzin blustered further but eventually had gone away to supervise dinner while the Rinpoche returned to his mysterious duties in his office. I had tried the library in search of Lobsang, but the room was hushed and empty. I then radioed down to Fran and let her know what was happening, asked her to leave a note for Butch, and called Jerome’s room from the phone in reception. He didn’t answer, so I left another message. Called kids to confirm that Dan had fed himself and his sister; they were fine, and he was letting her win at Pac Man.

  Jack Scholl finally came up the drive in his tow truck about six forty-five. I jumped in and went along to direct him to the Subaru. Then I left him to it, with instructions to take the vehicle to the county maintenance yard, which also serves as our little-used impound lot. Fran had promised to call the county shop supervisor so he could unlock the gate, and request Jim’s return to go over the car on his way back from his present crime scene on the west side of the state. I left ahead of Jack, planning to stop by Butch’s place to check in. Then I remembered the city council meeting. Well—my findings could wait. I’d go straight to the Little Pine and hopefully find Jerome there.

  As I drove down Two Dog in the twilight, I reflected on all that I needed to ask Jerome. First, confirm the presence of Lobsang in the library Friday afternoon. Then dig deeper into the details of Choden’s research and try to find some sort of motivation for this crime. See if this airmail letter that mentioned Rabten was important. My mind wandered as the miles unfolded, one part of my attention focused on looking for deer or elk in the road, another part worried about kids; yet I could appreciate the cool balm of the air, take in the blue-green evening beauty of the canyon. I thought about taking the kids up to Lost Lake for a camping trip after this was all over and Dan’s injury was better.

  When I hit the city limits it was about seven-thirty, and I drove through town toward the Little Pine Motel. Kids were out cruising, enjoying the summer, bunches of them gathered in the Stewart’s parking lot, standing around pick-up trucks; girls tossing hair, boys in ball caps or cowboy hats. Gold Creek is a mix of old-time ranch people and the rest of us: outdoor enthusiasts, city rejects, those who need open sky and small towns to feel okay. I recognized many of the kids, a year or two older than Dan, and realized that would be him there in a short time. In the sixteen-year old prime of life, the same age when my brother had died. I took things a day at a time with my kids—had to; knew that when Dan started to drive I’d probably have a nervous breakdown from worrying about him all the time. But what could you do? He had a life to live and I didn’t want my fears to keep him from it. But no way in hell he’d ever get a motorcycle. I couldn’t remember now how my brother had gotten my mom’s approval for his; at sixteen, how had he afforded it?

  I shook off memories; no time to dwell on the past when the present was as demanding as it was. I saw Jerome’s borrowed red Chevy Luv when I pulled into the motel lot. Good. He was there. My belly rumbled and I hoped he might be willing to share a take-out pizza from the Polar Bear Drive-in with me while we talked.

  I knocked on the door of room six, hunger pangs mixing with the flutter of first date nerves. My duty belt with weapon and radio sat heavy on my hips and I was itching to get it off. The radio squawked. I heard Joe’s voice through the squelch and turned it down. The door opened and Jerome stood there in a wrinkled short sleeve button down and a frayed pair of blue Bermuda shorts.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi,” I said back. We looked at each other.

  “Well, come in. Welcome to my humble home.” He smiled and I relaxed a little.

  The room was old-fashioned and cute in a kitschy way. Along the right wall was a kitchenette and to the left of the door was a double bed, chair and desk. A TV on a battered low dresser and a door to the bathroom beyond. There were pictures of log cabins on the wall and old-timey paintings of men fishing.

  “Nice,” I said, for lack of anything better to say.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “I am, actually.”

  “Good—I ordered a pizza about fifteen minutes ago. I just missed your call, I think. I was out for a run.”

  “Sure, no problem. I’d be happy to share a pizza.” I smiled. The guy was a mind reader. Belly flutters returned.

  The room smelled faintly of shampoo and old-motel: cigarettes, worn carpet, layers of people come and gone. There was one chair and then the bed to sit on. I felt awkward just standing in the middle of the room. Jerome seemed quite at ease, though, and offered the chair, plumping pillows for himself to lean against the headboard. He left the door to the room open, like we were teenagers upstairs in his parent’s house. I took off my duty belt and lay it, along with my bag, on the floor next to the chair. I pulled my notebook out and turned to face him.

  “I appreciate you meeting me and going over Choden’s papers. Let me just get a couple of other questions out of the way and then we can get onto that.”

  “Sure, as you like.” His hands rested in his lap. His legs were long, brown, and muscular. His hair damp from a shower, his face open and friendly.

  “You said last Friday you were at the monastery. Who did you see, again, and can you remember times?”

  “Yes, yes … I had a meeting with the Rinpoche at around 10 a.m.—I met with him first as his time is so limited. I talked with him about how he had obtained the Unfolding Lotus sutras and a little about their significance to him, and his lineage. Then—I think it was about eleven—I went up to the library. Lobsang was there, and a couple of younger monks were reading at the large table. We talked for a few minutes and he got a volume of a different set of teachings for me to look at. I wanted to compare these passages to some that the Rinpoche and I had been speaking about in the Lotus sutras.” He paused. “I cannot imagine that these points of discussion are of interest to you?”

  “I don’t know, if I’m honest. But let’s just stick to basics for now. I think I do need to understand these sutras—but Lobsang was there the entire time?”

  “He was there until the lunchtime, when we all left and walked up together toward the cafeteria. I eat there when I can; the food is very good.”

  “And then? Who did you see at lunchtime?”

  “Oof. Well, I ate with Lobsang, this young friend of Choden’s, named Steven, a couple of other students—not monks.”

  “You know Steven?”

  “Well—I wouldn’t say I know him. But I know who he is. He was Choden’s only friend there at the monastery, as Choden mentions in his journal, but he told me on Thursday night when we had dinner that they had fallen out a little.”

  “So, you didn’t see Choden at lunch Friday? Because we know now he was at the monastery on Friday and ate lunch there.”

  “I did not see him. But let me think …” He closed his eyes and laid a hand to his forehead.

  I liked seeing his face relaxed; he was handsome. A little weathered, just what I fall for. I wondered how old he was; if he was single.

  The pizza came in that moment. I jumped when the delivery guy knocked on the open door. Jerome sprang off the bed and paid for the pizza and didn’t speak while he got two plates and brought the box over. He served us both before he began again.

  “You know, I am feeling a little confused right now. Because I know I didn’t see Choden on Friday at lunch, but I do remember now that Steven mentioned this argument they had had, and it seems to me—if memory serves—that they had just had another conversation that morning about it, an
d had still been arguing. Yes,” he said around a mouthful of ‘Veggie Smorgasbord’ (Margo’s favorite), “this is right. Because then Lobsang said that he was going to have the Rinpoche revoke Choden’s right to study if he did not leave off his efforts to copy the sutras, and Steven said that he had been trying to talk to Choden about it—yes, that morning, Friday—and they had left it unresolved.”

  I set my slice down and rose to get a glass of water.

  “Ah—I have wine, there, in that cupboard or there is beer in the refrigerator if you prefer.”

  I grabbed two Heinekens and sat down again, trying to sort through the details. Neither Steven or Lobsang had mentioned this lunch to me at all, Steven had definitely not said that he’d had a conversation, let alone an argument, with Choden on Friday morning, and it was the first I’d heard of it from Jerome himself, of course. I felt submerged under layers and layers of tiny lies and omissions.

  “So, if you knew that Choden was alive that morning, why didn’t you just tell me that the other day? You intimated that the last time you saw him was Thursday night, at Soo Long’s.” I let my irritation show in my voice.

  “You asked if I’d seen him after Thursday night, and I did not. As for the mention of him on Friday, I didn’t remember it until now. It seemed trivial at the time, it was moments of conversation and then we moved on. I am sorry—but, really, I did not remember until just this moment.”

  “Okay, okay. It’s just that—we’ve wasted all this time thinking he’d disappeared on Thursday night, when he was alive and well until Friday afternoon. I’ve talked to Steven and Lobsang many times, and neither mentioned this conversation either. I interviewed Steven again today, and he didn’t tell me that he and Choden had argued or that he’d seen Choden Friday morning. Which is a pretty significant omission. In fact, I thought Steven agreed with Choden about sharing the knowledge. What changed his mind?”

  “I have no idea about Steven’s thoughts. I can tell you, from reading Choden’s notes, that Choden was very determined to make a copy of these sutras to take back to his university. He thought that the taboo about copying them was rubbish and had told Lobsang so on many occasions. He planned to make the copy in secret if he could, as there were many times he was in the library with the sutras when Lobsang wasn’t there. But the sutras are written in an ancient form of the Tibetan language and Choden could not read it easily. So he had to ask for help: only the Rinpoche and Rabten could read the language, and Lobsang, of course. But he asked for Rabten’s assistance, for obvious reasons.”

  “So Rabten was in on this secret plan? I thought that he was the most devout of the bunch. Why would he help Choden? And did the Rinpoche forbid the copying too? Or was this Lobsang’s hobbyhorse?”

  Jerome reached for another piece of pizza. He took a long pull from his Heineken. “I do not think the Rinpoche knew what Choden wanted to do. But he is a practical man and a leader of a modern community. Though this lineage is very ancient, and quite … elite, you could say, he is not one to stand on ceremony for the sake of it. If you understand what I mean?”

  “Not sure that I do,” I replied, finishing my own beer.

  “Get another,” Jerome offered. “I will as well.”

  I rose, got our second round, and he continued.

  “If the Rinpoche thought that making a copy of these sutras would further the study and practice of Buddhism and the deliverance of more people from the wheel of samsara—illusion, suffering—then I have no doubt he would argue for it. But Choden would have to make a case for this; and I do not believe he had decided to do that. Perhaps he did not realize that the Rinpoche would be an ally for him, if his case was well argued. He had chosen to approach Lobsang and met with a brick wall. Steven was a part of this endeavor, at least in the beginning. You are right. I did not learn from either him or Choden why they now had a difference. Perhaps Lobsang had convinced Steven of his view. In any case, where Choden had arrived in his research was to have copied perhaps the first quarter of the verses into Mandarin in his notebook. But the Unfolding Lotus sutras are large, and it’s no easy task to translate them. I believe that Rabten is working on a translation himself, into Sanskrit.”

  “So, is that okay with Lobsang? For Rabten to make a translation? Or did that count as a copy?”

  “No—I don’t know if Lobsang knows about it, but I can’t see that Rabten could keep such a project secret. So, we have there the obvious reason why Rabten would help Choden; he himself had the same plan. Although his translation is for the monastery only, not to take away.”

  I thought a moment as I tucked into another piece of pizza. It was good: salty, dripping with cheese, savory onions, peppers, and tomatoes. To me it looked like Lobsang had the best motive now, but I wondered why Rabten hadn’t revealed any of this to me. Probably because of his own pursuits. Would there have been an element of competition between him and Choden? Or would he have been merely an ally, as Jerome had said, to furthering Choden’s plan? But surely Rabten wouldn’t be doing all this against the wishes of the Rinpoche, would he?

  “All these monks—Rabten, Lobsang, etc.—they respect the Rinpoche? He’s their guru, right? They wouldn’t be keeping secrets from him, or crossing his will, would they?”

  “Shannon, I have never lived in a religious order.” Jerome said. “But yes, generally, the teacher is much respected and obeyed, and is in his position because of his great learning and devotion he inspires. But—there are politics within their ranks, much like there is within any church. Or any organization with more than two people, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking of my trouble with Joe. “Yes, that’s true; cynical maybe, but true enough.”

  “Okay, then, I don’t know of any reason why Rabten or any of the senior monks would disobey the Rinpoche or dishonor his teaching or themselves. You will have to ask Rabten about his translation project. Perhaps he had the blessing of the Rinpoche—I don’t know. However, I do not think that it is all brotherly love within their walls. And, Rabten, at least, he is hungry for not just spiritual knowledge but also power. You can see that this is true about him, and Choden certainly thought so, though he respected him.”

  Jerome finished his second beer and started into a third piece of pizza. He ate like Dan, and my thoughts flew to my son and Margo. I glanced at my watch; it was a quarter past eight already.

  “I’m confused about why there is so much fuss about these sutras,” I said. “I mean, it’s not like the Christian Bible, right? There are many books that have Buddhist teachings—why is this one so special?”

  “They—”

  “And,” I interrupted, remembering my conversation with Steven, “they apparently have to be decoded or something to be read properly? Steven mentioned that, but I didn’t really understand it.”

  “Hmmm. Perhaps he meant the dialect they are written in?”

  “No—” I flipped back a few pages in the notebook. “He said that they are written in some kind of code or that there has to be another component used with them for the deepest understanding. Does that make any kind of sense to you?”

  Again, Jerome was silent, eyes closed in thought. I stood to stretch, argued with myself over having a third beer, and grabbed it from the fridge. That was the end of the six-pack, so we wouldn’t be doing more damage. Why not? I wasn’t strictly on duty, after all; Joe was on-call tonight and one of the reserve guys, Andy, was on shift. A little buzz to dull my stress felt good. Three beers wasn’t enough to get myself in trouble or lose my focus. I sat back down.

  “You should ask Rabten or the Rinpoche these questions,” Jerome finally said. “But I think that—based on Choden’s notes and interest in a specific set of thangka paintings, two of which are at the monastery—that there is a connection between the words of the sutras and certain images. This is part of what I’m interested in myself,” he said. “The subtext of various holy texts, the hidden power beneath the words that is there for people who are learned and wise enough to
discover it.”

  “This is starting to sound a little Lord of the Rings.”

  He laughed. “Well, there are mystery schools within every major religion. Hidden knowledge, rigorously obtained, for those who will use it well. In theory.”

  “Do you think that the Unfolding Lotus sutras had this kind of hidden knowledge, and that Choden was trying to uncover it? Or had uncovered it—by combining them with the thangkas? That the thangkas are the missing ‘piece’ that Steven was talking about? But why not just ask Rabten—if he knows—and take the short cut? Or the Rinpoche?”

  “Perhaps they didn’t know. Or wouldn’t tell him. Perhaps no one knows or knew, but Choden.”

  Someone knew that Choden had uncovered the ‘code’ to the sutras, I thought, and thus whatever power or learning lay within. Someone who wanted to keep that special knowledge to themselves, perhaps. And that was the reason Choden had to die.

  Chapter Thirty

  We started on the wine after all, once the pizza was finished and I had gotten my crash course in esoteric Buddhism. I reasoned now that Choden had been killed because of the sutras, either something he’d found out about them or because he wanted to copy them. There was no other motive and they were a theme that tied every person together as well as his very presence in the U.S. I wasn’t clear at all who had killed him, though I liked Lobsang for it more and more. But we had no proof. Lobsang was the one who opposed Choden, the one with no real alibi for Friday afternoon, since no one, including Jerome, could place the librarian’s whereabouts after 2 p.m. or so. If Lobsang could drive—and I’d have to find this out—he could have taken the Subaru, and somehow, he could have gotten Choden alone to kill him.