Disguising Demons

by Brigid George

  The monk’s calm smile indicated his wonderment at this phenomenon had long since morphed into ready acceptance of the miracles of nature. “They say the flowers look down into the water all day long in search of the beautiful hibiscus princess.”

  To my surprise I detected a soft glistening in Dusty’s eyes.

  “I don’t know of any other princess, or queen, or any other woman who has been honoured with a more exquisite tribute.”

  This was not the time to remind Dusty that it was just a story someone had invented, possibly created by Aboriginal people to explain the dropping of flowers at a certain time each day. There was no opportunity for further discussion anyway for we were dramatically interrupted.

  Chapter 7

  A woman in her mid to late forties, jeans and red T-shirt moulded on her trim, athletic body, marched purposefully along the path towards us. Blonde hair, short and thick, fell forward over her forehead. It might have been her thick dark eyebrows and her flushed cheeks combined with the forest backdrop that caused me to momentarily imagine her as a woman of the wilderness. As she closed in on us, that impression was reinforced by the fierceness in her violet eyes. She came to an abrupt halt in front of Dusty. Feet apart. Lips in a tight line.

  The woman’s chest heaved, from anger rather than exertion. I judged her to be fit enough to easily run up the bush track Dusty and I had just ascended. She pointed an accusing finger at Dusty. “I know who you are!” Dusty responded with a questioning look. “Doesn’t take long for word to get around in a small town like this. You’re investigating the death of that monk.” She jerked her head in the general area of where Ram had been meditating the morning he was killed. “No-one investigated my son’s death. It’s not right!”

  Her nostrils flared. Freckles that peppered the bridge of her nose stood out like flecks of burnt embers in white ash.

  “No one cared about him. But these monks… Oh, yes! Let’s bring in the famous Dusty Kent. Waste time and money and pull out all stops to find out how he died. But a young man who had his whole life ahead of him? Oh, no! No-one cares about that. My beautiful boy died up here too. Doesn’t that tell you something? Oh, but monks are so holy.” She snorted in derision. “Evil more like it. One of these so-called monks is evil. These monks…” She jabbed a finger in the direction of the Sanctuary buildings. “They ought to be held accountable.” As the woman’s anger started to subside, her eyes welled with tears. “They were supposed to be looking after my boy.”

  Her attention was diverted when she noticed our companion for the first time. Rage flared in her eyes again. One hand tightened around the set of car keys she was carrying and clenched into a fist.

  “You!”

  The angry woman jabbed an accusing finger at the elderly monk. “You were supposed to protect my son.”

  The monk bowed his head. The woman stood glaring an accusation at him. Time passed in slow seconds. I was about to step in front of the elderly monk to block a potential attack when Dusty broke the silence.

  “I’m so sorry.” Realising the woman’s rage sprang from a deep grief, she offered her condolences with warmth and sincerity.

  The woman shook her head vigorously. “No! No! No!” I wasn’t sure if she was rejecting Dusty’s expression of sympathy or the fact of her son being dead. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She turned sharply and headed back the way she’d come, one hand up to her face wiping away the tears.

  Dusty took my arm, urging me forward. “Try to calm her down before she gets behind the wheel.”

  I hurried after the woman, my long strides closing the distance between us. By the time she emerged from the bushland into the cleared area where her car was parked, I was almost level with her.

  “Excuse me.” I kept my voice low, aiming for a gentle tone.

  She spun round, a look of startled fear flashing into her eyes momentarily.

  “I’m sorry.” I kept my expression serious hoping my eyes reflected kindness. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Her features relaxed slightly. Despite the tear-smudged mascara, I noted how attractive she was. Her eyes remained on me as she took a step away. Realising that, given her heightened emotions, she might perceive me as intimidating, I also took a step back. I doubt she had taken much notice of me during her earlier outburst. Now, however, I saw recognition glimmer in her eyes. This was the time for my so-called disarming smile. Unfortunately, it didn’t have the effect I was after.

  “What do you want?” The question catapulted from her mouth like a whip cracking. The next sound was the familiar beep of car locks being released when she pressed the remote key. I noticed the image of a pair of paw footprints at the bottom of the car’s rear window and wondered about their significance.

  “I only wanted to make sure you were okay.” I allowed my Irish brogue to deepen, knowing it sometimes had the power to charm.

  Alas, she didn’t appear to be charmed. However, I noticed a faintly discernible change in her demeanour.

  “I’m not all right, if you really must know.” Still defensive. But her delivery was now more of a thud – like a whip which had failed to crack. Her shoulders slumped. I concluded her angry energy was now spent. She turned and started to walk toward the driver side of her car.

  “Would you like to tell me about your son?”

  Her back straightened. She hesitated. Her eyes, when she turned to look at me, reflected suspicion. She wanted to talk about her son but she was wary of my motives.

  “I’m close to my mother. I have seven sisters, but I’m her only son. She’s back in Ireland and constantly worries about me being thousands of miles away in a strange country.” The grieving mother in front of me must have picked up on my sincerity for her expression softened. I could see she was feeling empathy for my mother. She came back around the car to prop herself up against the rear, leaning forward slightly, cradling her car keys in both hands.

  “Your poor mother. She must worry about you.” Her tone had mellowed.

  I joined her in leaning against the back of the car, feeling a pang of conscience that I hadn’t been in touch with my mother recently.

  “What is your son’s name?”

  “Josh. Joshua really. Everyone called him Josh. He was a beautiful person; gentle, artistic. An artist.” She looked up at me smiling proudly. “Josh loved to paint. He had real talent. And dreams.”

  She gazed out at the ocean and the mountains beyond. The view from this hill would be an inspiration for any artist. “He had such dreams.” An anguished whisper.

  Time to put into use the listening skills I had developed during my short stint as a barman when I first arrived in Australia.

  “Did he come up here to paint?”

  “He was staying here.”

  She pointed in the direction of the Sanctuary. Did she mean her son had become a monk? If so, he could be the other monk Dusty had mentioned who’d died in mysterious circumstances.

  “Josh had…health issues. Caused by drugs. I thought… We both thought…a rest here where it was peaceful, beautiful surroundings, close to nature. He loved nature.” She glanced at me. “We weren’t being reckless by throwing away his medication and putting all our faith in nature. I don’t mean that. He brought his medication with him. I just thought it would be a good starting point. I hoped being in a place like this might help him reconnect with the things which were once important to him – nature, painting. He’d lost all that. Couldn’t see the beauty around him anymore.”

  I didn’t want to risk arousing her grief again by asking her what happened. My mission was to calm her down before she started driving. I suggested Dusty would be interested in talking to her about her son. Her response was a sceptical stare.

  “The police refused to investigate his death. Refused! Because he had a drug problem he’s dismissed as just another junkie who took his own life. I know someone gave him the heroin which killed him.” Her eyes locked with mine, challenging me to question her last statement
. “I know! I just know.”

  I decided not to point out to her that even if someone did give her son the drugs, his death would still be a suicide. Unless someone forced the drug into him. Or tampered with it.

  “If someone else was responsible for your son’s death, the same person could have killed the monk, Ram.”

  Surprise flickered in her eyes. I could see she hadn’t considered that possibility before.

  “Yes.” She nodded thoughtfully. “One of those monks is evil, or crazy, or both. People like that don’t have to have a logical reason to kill. He might even be getting ready to bump off someone else as we speak.”

  She retrieved her business card from the car and handed it to me. “Thank you.” This was accompanied by a tilt of the head and lowered eyes. It was the same sort of expression of appreciation I’d received behind the bar. It combined embarrassment at sharing a confidence with a stranger with gratitude for having been listened to.

  As her red Toyota hatchback disappeared down the hill, my phone beeped. A text from Dusty informing me she and the monk were on their way to the meditation spot where Ram had met his death. The angry woman’s words flashed into my mind: He might even be getting ready to bump off someone else as we speak. Jaysis! Concern for Dusty sent me racing back the way I’d come.

  Chapter 8

  To my relief Dusty looked completely at ease as she chatted with the elderly monk. I cursed myself for allowing my imagination to get the better of me. There was nothing sinister about the monk. And yet… No. It was just my foolish fancy.

  Brittle twigs snapped and leaves crackled underfoot as we followed the monk along a rough path in the bush. A startled bird fluttered its wings and flew to another tree. Dusty yanked her head clear of overhanging branches, frantically sweeping her hair in response to the light touch of a falling leaf, as though afraid spiders were dropping from the trees. This thirty-three-year-old Dusty bore little resemblance to the young girl who spent much of her childhood racing through the Australian bush with her many cousins chasing lizards and snakes.

  We emerged into a small clearing where the ocean was visible through the trees: Ram’s meditation spot.

  The monk pointed to a slatted wooden platform raised slightly from the ground. “Ashin Ram sat here. Every morning he was in this place.”

  I could have covered the distance between the platform and the edge of the precipice in one stride. Rolling the unconscious monk’s body over the side would have been easy for the killer. An eerie sense of foreboding gripped me when the monk stood next to Dusty who was near the edge. I moved quickly to her side, taking her arm to steer her back to safety.

  Dusty looked up at me with a quizzical expression. “I wasn’t thinking of jumping.”

  The monk observed us with an enigmatic smile. I had the uncomfortable feeling he knew what I’d been thinking and was amused by it. What did that mean? Was he entertained by the idea that I’d discovered his evil intention and could do nothing about it? Or was he amused that I should harbour such thoughts about an inoffensive, peace-loving monk? I felt my face warm with a flush of embarrassment. That’s exactly what he was: inoffensive and peace-loving and probably wise about the workings of the human mind. What was the matter with me?

  Dusty seemed oblivious to my moment of discomfort. She was focused on taking in as much as possible about the murder scene.

  “What a spectacular place to greet each new day. So he came up here along the path leading from the Sanctuary, then through the bush as we just did?” Dusty looked back the way we’d come, visualising Ram arriving.

  Our companion nodded. “The path through the bush was used often at that time, you understand. It was easier to walk. Now it is rough again; no-one treads here anymore.”

  Dusty grinned ruefully as she bent down to remove a stray leaf which had become caught in the strap of her sandal before resuming her imagined scenario of Ram’s last day on the hill. Last day on Earth.

  “When he got here to the clearing, he unrolled his straw mat, laid it out on the slats, slipped off his thongs and placed them beside the platform. Then he sat cross-legged on the mat, facing the ocean.”

  The elderly monk moved his head several times in agreement.

  “How long did Ram usually sit here?”

  “Perhaps one hour, perhaps two hours.”

  Dusty’s eyebrows arched in surprise. I struggled to imagine her attempting to sit still, let alone quietly, for that length of time.

  “So at some point during Ram’s peaceful meditation his killer crept quietly along this path and…”

  With a quick glance at the monk, Dusty refrained from articulating in his presence the details of what had happened to Ram. The monk moved his head slightly as if to acknowledge her thoughtfulness.

  Dusty looked back at the narrow track leading to the clearing. “When this bush track was well-trodden, would it have been easy for someone to walk along it without making a noise?” Dusty nodded vigorously as if suddenly receiving the answer to her own question. “Yes! I remember when I was a kid playing games in the bush with my cousins. We used to kinda lift our weight off our feet while we were walking. That way, if you were careful not to tread on twigs and break them, you could move silently through the bush, even when there was no track.” She looked up at me with shining eyes. “I’d almost forgotten that.”

  “The murderer might not have been someone with bush skills,” I reminded her.

  “True. But it’s more of an instinct than a skill. Anyone with a strong desire not to be heard would probably walk that way intuitively.”

  Maybe the reminder of what had happened in this spot was too much for the elderly monk. He rose and turned to leave. Dusty forestalled him with a question.

  “Have you been at Sunyarta for long?”

  The monk’s gentle smile suggested the answer to her question was self evident.

  “So you must have been here when the other monk died; the one who had the accident a few years ago.”

  Only the merest flicker in his eyes revealed his surprise.

  “He died here in this spot too, didn’t he?” Dusty must have read something in the monk’s face which prompted this stab in the dark. It was the sort of thing I’d observed her do on previous occasions. She was usually right on target.

  “Come.” An invitation cast over his shoulder as he started back through the trees. A short distance along the track, the monk paused. “Our brother died here.” He followed the line of a tree trunk with his eyes. “It was a sad accident.”

  He continued walking. Behind his back, Dusty looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  Chapter 9

  On leaving Sunyarta Sanctuary, Dusty and I walked downhill along the visitor access road. On the lower level of our descent, we passed driveways leading to luxury multi-storey homes and glamorous holiday apartments. Elegant palms with bright pink trunks stood sentinel at some driveway entrances.

  Dusty had been correct earlier when she said it would have been too risky for the murderer to make his approach along this route. With traffic virtually non-existent so early in the morning, any car spotted perhaps from an upstairs window would have stood out like a sore thumb.

  “A bit of a dark horse, wasn’t he?” Dusty was referring to the elderly monk.

  He had taken us on a tour of the Sanctuary refraining from telling us his name until the end. The tour included the peace room: a simple building which was long, spacious and empty of furniture. The edges of the shining wooden floor were lined with neat stacks of meditation mats and floor-to-ceiling glass doors were folded back to create an alfresco feel. Our guide explained that ‘lay people’ from the town came to sit in the peace room.

  “They find it helpful when they are troubled,” he said.

  The last area on the guided tour was a contrast. The building’s architecture had a strong Asian influence and gave the appearance of being an ancient Buddhist temple. However, inside was a modern office complete with computers, desks, a printe
r, and shelves overflowing with books, documents and stationery. One end of the office had been converted into a reception area with a coffee table, a drinking fountain and several modern lounge chairs arranged in a semi circle.

  Dusty and I each accepted a glass of chilled water before sitting down opposite our guide.

  The monk bowed slightly. “I am Saya.”

  Dusty was unable to hide her surprise. “You are the senior monk here at Sunyarta?” Jake had told us the senior monk’s name was Saya.

  He smiled and nodded. “You have come to see me?” He held his plastic cup in front of him with both hands, resting it on his knees. Watching him, I found it difficult to figure him out. I had the impression he was playing a game with us, almost as if he knew who we were and why we were there. He understood the power of keeping knowledge to himself and possessed a natural restraint that allowed him to do so without effort. Was he hiding something? Or was he merely wise?

  Dusty barely had time to introduce herself and explain why we were there when a young monk interrupted us, appearing tentatively at the open doorway and hovering there with his eyes downcast after a quick glance at Saya.

  “Ah.” Saya turned to us as the young monk respectfully withdrew having silently delivered his message. Saya had to leave to ‘attend to some appointments’ but invited us to return another day.

  “Why do you think Saya waited till the end of our tour to introduce himself?” said Dusty after we left the office.

  I’d also been wondering about that. Those thoughts led me to contemplate what might lie beneath Saya’s benign exterior. Could he be hiding a sociopathic personality? A murderous heart? Maybe my earlier imaginings were not so ridiculous after all.

  “Saya seems to be a bit of an odd fish all round,” I said. “He appears open, welcoming and willing to help us. At the same time, he’s pretty good at keeping things to himself. He wasn’t forthcoming about the other monk who died. And isn’t it strange he didn’t say anything about the recent suicide? Surely it would be a natural thing to do after the boy’s mother had made such a dramatic entrance and flung accusations at him? There’s more to that monk than meets the eye in my opinion.”