by Sean Platt
Reluctantly, Bradley did. He gasped.
Amit touched the screen, pointing to a pool of blood.
“That is my footprint. It was quite the error. I had to stop and wipe it off.” He pulled off his shoe and held up his bare feet. On the sole was a deep, dark stain. “For some reason, blood really stains the bottoms of feet. Probably why most people do not walk in it.” He held up his hand. “I have confidence that this will wash off, but it will probably still stain the wrinkles in my knuckles for a few days. Some of it isn’t just blood, you see. How far do you have to push your fingers into a man’s eyes before you hit brain? Or do you hit brain? Do you just tap the backs of his eye sockets?” Amit chuckled. “I am having trouble remembering if skulls have holes or just indentations. Perhaps you could look up some more photos for me. Or remove your glasses.”
Bradley’s hand went to his eyes.
“I am joking.” Amit laughed. “I can go through your glasses.”
Bradley swallowed. He stumbled backward a few paces, finally collapsing into a chair set against his large window. He looked back up at Amit, almost lost, about to surrender.
“What am I supposed to do? If I don’t tell you anything, you’ll kill me. If I do, they’ll kill me.”
“If you tell me but they never find out, you will be fine. You should do that.”
“They’ll find out.”
“It’s a possibility. But I am already here. If your dangerous employers knew that, they would assume the worst, no matter whether you said anything or not. So, instead of asking whether you should tell me what I want to know, ask yourself how you can conceal my visit. Logically, concealment becomes harder the longer I am here and the more injured you are tomorrow.”
The accountant looked down at his own hand — hurt but not visibly marred, save a few cuts on the palm — and weighed his options.
“What about Mary?”
“She is a lovely woman.”
“I mean, she obviously knows you were here. Same with anyone else you passed on your way in.”
“You should have a discussion with Mary when I am gone. I do not mean to presume to tell you your business, but I hear that money is soothing to fear and worry. No one looked at me when I came in, other than the briefest of glances.” They hadn’t, either. He’d been another workman, heading to somewhere that didn’t matter to them.
“Okay.” He nodded. “Dynamex Distribution. They handle worldwide distribution for NutriBev and a few other clients’ organizations that are probably connected in ways I can’t see, but can imagine. I don’t know for sure that Dynamex is the organization you’re looking for, but if I had to guess, I’d say it is. I’ve never worked directly on their files, but I’ve heard them mentioned by others. The sheet I just pulled shows a large percentage of cash sales, and large sums through a subsidiary that, based on other files here, I don’t think is actually doing that much business legitimately.”
“And this Dynamex has a bank account in the Virgin Islands?”
Bradley nodded. “A big one.”
“Thank you.” Amit bowed. “Now. If you could just tell me the bank’s name and where to find it, I will be on my way.”
Bradley did.
Amit left the office.
On the way out, through the closed door to the kitchenette, he shouted to Mary that he no longer required anything to drink, but thanked her anyway.
Chapter 16
SIX YEARS AGO
THE KING cobra was nearly 20 feet long, and by the time Amit was circling behind it, the snake stood at Amala’s full height, hood flared. Amit had never seen one this close. He knew they were large, but seeing one in life sharpened that in a way nothing else could. It was one thing to understand the concept of “large snake,” and another to see it slither in the flesh. It almost looked fake, like a parody, too large and terrifying to be real.
“Amit?” Amala wasn’t moving a muscle, not even her eyes. Her chestnut hair — a trait that seemed to suggest a Caucasian or two in her lineage — caught the sunlight, and a large dark birthmark on her neck stood out like a blood stain, as if already bitten and bleeding. She was 17 and had been with the Sri her entire life. She had the same physical and muscular control that they all had — but as the snake hissed and swayed erect before her, Amala became like the shy girl Amit had first met. She had grown more confident as she’d matured, and could be as deadly as Amit if she were ever let off of her ethically restricted leash. None of that showed now, and Amit couldn’t blame her.
It wasn’t easy to sneak up on a snake, even for a monk. He didn’t want to startle it and cause an attack on Amala, nor did Amit wish to get bitten himself. He knew little about snakes (they didn’t usually get them in the monastery — even the smaller ones), and didn’t know if they were spiteful. Did the thing want to attack her because she’d startled it near its nest? Or would it be happy to let her go if she backed away? If he could draw it toward himself, would their positions reverse, with him facing a 6-foot-tall hooded snake and Amala unable to help?
The ground beneath him became like a puzzle. He took precise steps, not stepping on so much as a dead leaf. He didn’t want to rustle the grass. He didn’t want the snake to hear his breathing, if the creatures could hear such things. How well could they smell? Could the snake smell him? Amit remembered that they “smelled” with their tongues, but didn’t know if his scent was offensive and had approached downwind to be sure.
Once close enough, straddling the snake’s gigantic tail (between its head and nest, Amit realized with a start), he leapt and grabbed it by its huge, broad head. The snake was impossibly strong. It thrashed and buckled as Amala turned to run at his shouted command. At first, it looked as if Amit might lose control, but then he remembered that control could be surrendered, but never lost.
He rolled with the snake, allowing it to win. Behind it, he used its own momentum to slam its slithering body to the ground. Realizing he was actually knocking into the monster’s eggs, Amit whipped one hand to the side, found a rock he’d spotted earlier, and bashed its head to paste. Once finished, he realized that a part of him had been angry at the snake. The rage had retreated before he could fully see it, and Amit wondered if Woo would be proud.
He found Amala at the edge of a clearing, exhaling as she saw him. She ran a hand across her neck in a nervous twitch. Her birthmark no longer looked like blood. It was over, and in contrast to Amala’s nervous manner, Amit’s heart rate had already returned to its usual calm.
“Did you lead it away?”
“Of course not,” Amit said. “You saw its nest.”
“How did you get away?”
They had already started walking back toward the compound; Amit was reminding himself never to go exploring outside again. He stopped, and she stopped with him.
“Amala. I killed it. With a rock.”
“You killed it?”
“Of course, I killed it. It almost killed you.”
“You killed it?” she repeated, horror warping her features.
Amit shook his head. This was why he hadn’t wanted a pairing with Amala. She was irritating. There were plenty of others who could have come out searching for wild mushrooms with him, and countless others who could have gone with her. Amit didn’t dislike Amala, but he was never comfortable with her. She was a lot like Woo — so much that they could be father and daughter, really — but whereas Woo’s oddity seemed charming, Amala’s was strange. Woo grew hair, and it made him look distinguished. Amala’s quirk was her fingernails. Instead of making her seem unique and distinguished, the long, ornate nails made her seem odd. What monk did something so vain?
“Would you rather I let it kill you?”
“I could have backed away. You could have thrown something to distract it.”
“You were not doing a good job of backing away. But perhaps I should have let you.”
“Perhaps you should have!”
Amit resumed walking. She was right behind him.
&nb
sp; “Your vows, Amit! We do no harm!”
“It was going to kill you, Amala.”
“You don’t know that!”
“You walked right up on its nest.” Amit trudged faster. “And besides, did you want that thing outside our gates? What about when those eggs hatched?”
Amit heard a gasp and knew that she’d just put one of those long-nailed hands in front of her mouth. “What did you do with the nest?”
“I solved the problem.”
“You smashed the eggs?”
“Would you like to go back and look?”
She walked faster to catch up. A satchel bounced at her side, stuffed with the wild mushrooms they’d gathered before their interruption.
“You can’t kill living things, Amit!”
Amit sighed, shoving anger deep inside him. Control. He’d controlled himself when fighting the snake, but it was harder to exercise that same control against a yammering girl.
They were approaching the gate. Amit walked through it, making no attempt to hold the door for Amala. He centered on the dining hall. There was no way to fight. Unlike with the cobra, his best bet was to run.
“Do you hear me?”
He turned. An internal cork popped with a sound of resignation. His scalp flushed. “Yes, I hear you fine. You do not think it was acceptable to trade the snake’s life for yours or mine. That is the Sri’s problem: We are ruled by ritualism. We make no logical sense. We do not live on the spirit plane yet, and I am not eager to go there. I have things to do before I die.” Unbidden, a small voice added, and scores to settle.
“You would question the elders’ teachings?” Amala’s brown eyes were wide with disbelief.
“Yes,” Amit snapped, already hearing Woo chastising him for giving Amala control over his emotions. “I would question them. We live up here because we think we know better, do we not? That we are closer to spirit? That we understand truths that the non-initiated do not? But what is our order other than an amassed gathering of arbitrary rules? We train ceaselessly so that we may never fight. We do not eat meat because we believe it is wrong to kill, no matter the circumstance. If I were to suggest that meat might nourish us, the elders would tell me that even if it were true, we should not subjugate the needs of others to our own. We behave as if we are performing extreme acts of contrition and sacrifice, while training to kill. Do not deny that is what it is. We are not merely practicing movements. Why do we learn deadly pressure point techniques if we are to never deal death? I killed a snake, and that is beyond your understanding. Would the Sri feel the same way if we were invaded by those who sought to kill us? Would death then be justified?”
They were in the commons, adjacent to the main dormitory. Amit felt his face flushing red. Thanks to his shaved head, his entire scalp would also be red. But he couldn’t help his anger. No one had honored any such rules when they’d ended his mother’s life. If Amit encountered her killer, he did not believe he could be as kind as the abbot would expect him to be. No matter what the Sri said, Amit questioned the idea that those who killed (or would kill) deserved to live.
Before Amala could respond, there was a flurry of voices at their sides. Several elders emerged from the dining hall. Amit spotted the abbot, but it was impossible to miss another among them: Woo, with his silver-white hair. The group was talking among themselves in an argumentative tone. They ceased speaking when they saw the pair of teenagers watching.
“Amit … ” Woo looked almost caught for a second, then his features found composure.
Amit nodded slightly, waiting. The abbot was watching with an expression filled with challenge, as if daring Amit to say the wrong thing. For the scantest of moments, Amit wondered if the abbot had overheard his sacrilegious rant, but there was no way he could have. He caught Amala’s expression from the corner of his eyes and realized that her shocked look was as good a confession as any.
Suni looked as if he might ask what was going on between Amit and Amala, but before he could, Woo shouldered away from the elders and came to stand in front of Amit. Amala remained where she was, now at Woo’s right shoulder.
“Amit,” he glanced at Amala, who had re-gained her neutral expression, “how is your control these days?”
The question unseated his control. Amit had expected the abbot to yell, or for Woo to order him inside; he’d expected questions about their interrupted conversation. Instead, it sounded like he was going to get a lesson.
“It is fine,” Amit answered.
“Is your attack dog on a leash?” Woo’s eyes darted to Amala as if wondering whether he should continue. “Are you keeping it close to assist you, but always remaining firmly in command?”
“Yes, Sensei.”
“Good. Because I will be leaving you.” He glanced back at the elders. Their expressions betrayed far more disapproval than they normally showed — more disapproval than Zen monks were supposed to feel. Thoughts of hypocrisy swirled in Amit’s head, but all were trumped by the shock of Woo’s words.
“Leaving? You are going on a trip?”
Woo’s eyes again flitted to the elders. He appeared reticent.
“No, Amit. Permanently. I am leaving the order.”
“Why?”
“For the greater good.”
“But why, Sensei?”
“There are issues at play that do not concern you. You must know that what I do now is in the best interests of the majority over the longest term.” Woo’s stock answer — the mantra about how a monk must always do the greatest good no matter what difficulties stood in the way — felt like a brushing-off. Amit had the distinct impression that Woo was performing for the elders. Only alone would he get the full story.
“When?”
“Now,” said Woo.
“You are leaving today?”
“I am leaving now, Amit.” Woo shook his arm, and Amit looked down to see a small parcel with a prayer mat rolled up and tied to its end. The bag was filled with Woo’s few earthly possessions. In a monastery, packing was easy.
“Now?” Amit’s emotions threatened betrayal. “But we need to talk! I am not ready to … ”
Woo set his free hand on Amit’s shoulder. “You are ready enough, Amit. You have everything required inside you. Only you can stand in your way. Your task is not to grow and refine your skills, but to curtail some of what you have that doesn’t belong. Do you understand?”
Amit met his eyes and nodded. The anger.
“Where are you going?”
“It is not for you to know. Away.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
For the greater good. But whom was that good benefitting this time?
“Can I go with you?”
Amit looked at Amala, who irritated him, at the abbot and elders, who infuriated him. He thought of Rafi, whose bulldozer manner, ox-like body, and curry breath made Amit want to break every vow at once. His world had always orbited Woo. What allure did the monastery hold without him?
“No,” said Woo. Then, slightly louder, pitched so the elders could clearly hear him, he added, “Though I am sure there will come a day when I will send for those who are not content here.”
The abbot moved forward, but Woo gave him a look that made Amit wonder who would win in a battle between them.
“Will you send for me?” Amit asked.
“I will.” Woo nodded. “When you have learned your lessons.”
Without another word he turned to the elders, nodded, and walked toward the gate, leaving it and the monastery behind.
Chapter 17
AMIT HOPPED ONTO A JET for the Virgin Islands, using the same strategy he’d used when crossing the sea from Mumbai to America, to rid the world of Telford Hayes. He had no official paperwork and because airports balked at this, decided to literally hop onto the jet, sprinting onto the runway as it began its takeoff, leaping up and grabbing it above one of its rear wheels. Getting past the outer fence and onto the mostly-dark outer runway was surpr
isingly easy — almost as if those who were so concerned about official paperwork didn’t think an illegal traveler could grab a jet by its landing gear to board it: a shocking hole in airport security.
As in Mumbai, Amit rode in the wheel well through the trip, protected from the wind by the plane’s outer skin once the gear was retracted for flight. It was cold, the pressure changes were interesting, and he was both hungry and uncomfortable. But all four problems were easily surmounted through meditation. Once Amit had left his earthly body and floated up into the greater cosmos, there was no cold, hunger or sensation. There was no quest, no right or wrong. There was only Amit, the presences supplied by himself or the universe. This time the small laugh seemed to be his memory of Jason Alfero. The voice thought something was funny. If Amit had to guess, it was how he’d managed to have his cake and eat it, too — how he’d managed to help Amit (whom he seemed to see as a worthy foe) while remaining loyal to those above him. He’d managed to win an impossible situation, until he was pocked by hundreds of bullets.
The plane touched down in St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Amit surfaced from his pleasant reverie when the landing gear descended, then hopped away and rolled as the wheels kissed pavement. Security was as lax in St. Thomas as it was at the start of his flight — again, as if no one considered the possibility of stowaways clinging to the wheels, then escaping through the fence.
He stretched, got himself some food, and made his way to a ferry headed to Road Town, in the British Virgin Islands. Crossing required travelers to pass customs, so Amit repeated his stowaway act, this time clinging to the ship’s bow as it crested the water. When they approached the dock, he slipped off into the sea and swam the remainder. When he emerged from the surf, he got a few looks in his soaked blue robe and saffron sash. Amit smiled at the obvious tourists, nodded, and said, “Now you know the secret of how natives swim in the ocean.” This seemed to satisfy the onlookers, despite Amit’s being Asian.