The Devil's Vial

by Brumbaugh,Byron

  When he was able to move, Richard dropped the gun and went over to Gary. He reflexively felt for a carotid pulse. It was weak, but present. Gary’s eyes looked up at him and a smile spread across his face as he gurgled blood between his lips. He started to laugh, but his mirth was drowned in anguished pain. Richard bent closer so he could hear what the man was trying to say.

  “What took you so long to grab for the gun?” asked Gary. “I damned near had to hand it to you.”

  “What?”

  Gary reached up and grabbed Richard’s shirt. With a weak tug, Gary pulled him closer.

  “There’s something I need you to know.” His speech came in short raspy whispers, interrupted by shallow breaths. He looked Richard in the eye. “I never would have hurt her. Never.” He coughed. “I just needed to make you think I would.” There was another grimace of pain. He was beginning to wheeze with each breath as his lungs filled with fluid. The bullet wound in the center of his chest was oozing blood onto his shirt in an ever widening circle. “I as much as… gave you the gun… at the crucial moment.” He tried to take a deeper breath. “I couldn’t kill myself, though I tried.” His breaths were coming quicker and more shallow; his voice weaker, barely audible. He loosed his grip and his arm fell to the floor. “… But I could get you to kill me… Then I would be dead… and you’d be taught… some humility. Maybe then… you could… learn… to help… people.” He opened his eyes wide, took a gasp of breath and mouthed a single last word. His eyes closed and his body went limp in a growing pool of blood. There was no pulse now.

  Richard looked over at Julie. She was not far from him, sitting in the chair, sobbing and gasping for air. He went over to her and removed the gag from her mouth. She sagged into him as he released her bonds.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You saved my life.” She was tremulous. Pulling away, she looked at him with soft, tear-filled eyes that seemed to say, “I owe you an unrepayable debt.” Julie sniffed and wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands. “Is he… ?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “He’s dead.” A phrase came to Richard he often heard and used. It served as a guiding light in his practice of medicine. Primum non nocere. First, do no harm.

  He had to get them out of there, but he was having trouble hanging onto a complete thought. Shaking uncontrollably, he reached in his pocket, pulled out his cell phone and handed it to Julie. “Would you call 911?” He stepped over to the wall, leaned his back against it and slid to the floor.

  Gary’s last word rang over and over in his head as his mind desperately tried to assimilate what just happened.

  “Murderer.”

  Chapter One

  “It’s time for you to leave,” said the monk in translation. The message was clear, but meant kindly; it was simply time for him to go.

  Leave? Richard’s heart skipped a beat. How could he leave?

  Richard was in a Tibetan Buddhist monastery in Sikkim, India near the town of Darjeeling. Sitting cross-legged on a zafu and zabuton, he faced his venerable root lama, Thubten Dorje. To his right sat a young monk, Tibetan, but schooled in the British system, waiting patiently to continue the translation. His English was excellent, which was fortunate as Richard never mastered Tibetan and the lama’s English was sketchy. All three of them were dressed in traditional Tibetan monk’s robes.

  The lama was a kindly old gentleman. He was short, by western standards, had a clean-shaven face and short-cropped hair. No one knew just how old he really was; Tibetans don’t keep track of their birthdays. Richard was fairly certain he was in his eighties, though.

  The three of them were in a small room that served as part of the lama’s living quarters and was often used for interviews with students and monks. On the walls were several old and valuable thangkas, bearing painted religious images. There, too, were brightly colored fabric hangings, containing Buddhist mantras written in Tibetan script. The hardwood floor was covered, in part, by a hand-woven carpet, bearing the image of a stylized snow lion. The woodwork everywhere was painted in bright blues and warm reds with sparkling gold trim and filigree. The lama sat on a raised platform just to the side of the room’s one small window. There was a pleasant aroma of incense floating in every breath. The air was heavy with calm and peace.

  “You’ve been here some three years in deep meditative absorption,” his lama continued. “It is now time for you to return to your world. You have karma there that must ripen. You’ve been given the tools and techniques you need. Keep practicing the Dharma.”

  Where will I go? Richard had some money saved up, that wasn’t a problem. But he had made no plans to leave. He was focused on practice and never thought about what came after. He liked it here.

  The old man paused for a moment. “The aim of the Buddhist path is not to live life in a peaceful state of mind while remaining in a sequestered room hidden away from the influences of the world. That is a means to an end. The goal is to see the world as it really is and to compassionately aid any and all who are in need. To see this world, you must be in the world. To help others in need, you must be among them.” A warm knowing smile spread across the old lama’s face. “The trick is not to be drawn into the drama.” The lama stood and, with a look, indicated the interview was over. “Now, go and make your preparations to leave. I will be coming to America sometime in the next few years and will see you there. Teshe delek.”

  There was nothing to do but obey. Richard stood and bowed to his teacher, palms together held at the level of his heart. “Thank you, Rinpoche,” he said as he backed out of the room, respectfully never turning his back to the lama. “Teshe delek.”

  For more than three years, Richard’s life involved awakening in the early morning, going to the meditation hall, meditating, eating breakfast, cleaning up, more meditation, lunch, meditating, working about the monastery, studying Buddhist texts, meditating, dinner, listening to talks about Buddhism, meditating, and going to sleep. Every day, the same, with only minor changes. That was about to change. But into what?

  He didn’t have much to pack and it didn’t take long. One medium-sized piece of luggage he brought when he arrived and a monk’s shoulder bag held it all. A few necessary calls on the monastery’s single old-style land-line phone to arrange for tickets and a cab were all he had to do. By the next morning, he was ready to go.

  . . .

  Richard walked toward the waiting taxi just outside the gate of the monastery. Pausing, he turned and looked around him. Behind the monastery were the snow and ice-hooded rocky crags of the Himalayas. In the foreground, the stone and wood monastic buildings that had been home sat on the top of a hill. Everywhere, there were green trees and flowering bushes that perfumed the cool crisp air. Somewhere, birds chirped as they carried out their daily routine. In the gravel courtyard beyond the gate were several monks he lived and practiced with. Without a word, he waved to them. They waved back. He sighed deeply.

  “Hello, sir,” came the voice of the Indian driver behind him. He spoke with an Indian lilt, mixed with not-quite-British English. Richard turned and looked at the man. He was short, brown and dressed in western style attire. His curly black hair was cut fairly close to his scalp.

  “Are you an American?” The cabbie smiled and reached out to take Richard’s bag.

  “Yes.” Richard looked down at the blue jeans, sneakers, polo shirt and jean jacket he wore. Might as well wear a sign, he thought. These were the same clothes he wore when he arrived.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the train station. I’m on my way to Delhi.”

  “Ah. Have you been here long?” The cabbie nodded toward the monastery.

  Richard glanced back up at the courtyard. “Not long enough.”

  The events that brought him here were convoluted and unforeseen. Med school taught him about PTSD, but it didn’t prepare him for the flashbacks. Hell, he only wanted to save Julie’s life. To not lose someone he loved so much. To do what he thought was the right thing
. But it ate at him. He tried to repress the violent memories, but they bubbled up unwanted from his subconscious and exploded in his mind. Like a deep aching wound that would not heal, the knowledge nagged at him that he, a doctor, dedicated to saving lives, had taken a life. It was best just not to think about it.

  Things were worse when he was with Julie. Just being around her made the whole thing crash down on him. Alone, he could distract himself, put distance between him and his memories. Oh, they were still there, but they could be forced back into his subconscious. But when he saw Julie, he couldn’t push it back. It was all right there, in his face. He found himself making excuses to avoid her. Finally, he confronted her.

  “I have to leave,” he said.

  Julie gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

  “Julie, I have to leave.”

  She looked at him for a moment, searching his face as if for some clue as to what his words might mean. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.” He swallowed and looked away. “I just need to get away.”

  More silence.

  He moved close and took her hand. “Look, I’m having a real hard time dealing with what happened. I need to go off somewhere and put my life back together.”

  She sighed deeply. “Okay. We’ll take some time off. Let’s go somewhere warm and sunny. I know, my parents have a place in Hawaii. I’m sure we could spend a couple of weeks -”

  “Julie, I have to go alone. Somewhere quiet where I can think things through.”

  More silence. Julie pulled her hand from his. “What did I do? I’m not having an easy time either, you know.” She looked away from him.

  He didn't want to tell her his fear she was never in any real danger from Gary. There was no way he could do that without confronting all it implied - his ignorance, his impotence and his responsibility for taking a human life. And he was really trying to avoid that. “It’s not you. I love you. It’s me. I’m going nuts with this thing. I can’t get control of it.”

  She turned back to him. “Maybe you could get some help…”

  “I think that’s a very good idea. But not right now. For now, I just need to be alone.” He paused, trying to muster the moral courage to continue. “There's something you don't know...”

  “What?” Julie backed up a step and looked him in the eye. Richard watched a wave of disbelief crash across her face, morph into confusion, then transform into fear. “What could there possibly be -"

  “Before he died, Gary told me it was all an act - he never would have hurt you. He was just manipulating me to kill him because he couldn't kill himself. I killed him, thinking I was saving your life. But I didn't need to. It wasn't necessary.”

  “Oh, for chrissakes, Richard! The man was deranged. He almost killed me! And if it wasn't for you, I'd be dead!”

  “Maybe, but I don't think so. He told me that, knowing he was about to die. Why would he lie?”

  “Who knows why? He was crazy.”

  “If he wanted either one of us dead, he could have killed us at any time. He might have been psychotic, but he wasn't stupid. It was very clever, the way he maneuvered me into being at the right place at the right time. And when I looked into his dying eyes, I could see he believed what he said.” Richard took a deep breath and looked away. “I'm sworn to save lives, not take them. And Gary, in his last breath, told the truth as he saw it. He said one word. Murderer. In his dying breath. And it tears at my soul.”

  “Richard -”

  “I've been going around and around with this thing and it's driving me insane. I can't sleep, and when I finally do, I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat; it interferes with my work in the ER; it's this big wall between you and me. I just can't get it out of my head. I really, really need to go away somewhere alone, away from all these reminders of what happened, and get this under some kind of control.”

  She sagged in apparent resignation. “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. But I’m afraid it may be a very long time.”

  “Will you call, or at least write and let me know how you are?”

  “Sure.” Richard paused, trying to decide what to say, how to express what he felt. “But give me some time to get my shit together.” He couldn’t look her in the eye. “I love you dearly, but I'm no good to you, myself, or anyone else until I can get on top of this.”

  Julie was silent. Eventually, she turned and walked away.

  That was the last time he spoke to or saw her.

  Richard went on an extended leave of absence from his job, sold his apartment and stored what things he owned. There was no clear plan, only the vague hope, somehow, he could make the pieces of his life fit back together. So, he wandered, looking for he-did-not-know-what.

  Knowing was the problem. His whole life, he studied so he would know what to do. In school, he worked hard so he could pass tests. Medical training prepared him for quick and decisive action. Post graduation, he kept up with medical journals so he would know what the latest and best therapies were. Those therapies didn’t always work, but he was confident he knew how to perform the best intervention currently known to medical science.

  Then Gary threw him a curve ball. If only he understood Gary, maybe he could have found an alternative. Richard knew in his heart, he should have acted differently. He couldn’t help but feel there was something basic he didn’t understand; something that if he knew it, he would no longer be confused. He clearly did not see things as they were, did not understand what Gary was doing.

  Then he met his lama, by chance, and heard him speak at a number of engagements in Boston. What his lama had to say struck a mighty chord, resonating with Richard’s soul. Or was it by chance? Buddhists say that when one is ready, the lama will appear. He certainly did appear at the right time for Richard. His lama spoke of enlightenment, a state of mind where one loses confusion like a veil falling from the eyes. Richard followed his lama back to India to learn about and practice the Dharma.

  In the succeeding months, and then years, Richard found a peace that he never knew before. He still had nightmares and could speak to no one, other than the old lama, of the things that happened in a certain cold dirty basement, but his waking moments were filled with a calm restive state of mind he needed. Would he lose all that now?

  “So, are you going back to America?”

  “Yes, I guess so.” He was instructed to “go back to his world.” He took that to mean he should return to where he came from. Where else did he have to go anyway?

  It seemed strange to carry on a conversation after living under the rule of silence for so long. One spoke in the monastery only when it was absolutely necessary. The principal being if one wants to attain peace of mind, then it is counterproductive to fill the mind with idle conservation.

  Richard got in the back seat of the cab and tried to relax. He didn’t recognize the type of car, but whatever it was, it was noisy as they moved off toward town. It clanked and banged and emitted noxious odors as it rattled its way down the winding road.

  “Where’re you from?” asked the cabbie.

  “New England.” He felt compelled to be polite, but had no motivation for conversation. Laying his head on the back of the seat, he closed his eyes. The cabbie, apparently sensing Richard didn’t want to talk, became quiet.

  . . .

  Arriving at the train station in Darjeeling, Richard bought his ticket, stowed his suitcase and monk’s bag in a locker and thought about what to do next. There were three hours until the train came. He never spent any time in Darjeeling and decided to go for a walk to see what he could before he left.

  The streets were lined with brightly colored stucco buildings supporting corrugated tin roofs. Cars, buses and trucks belched out their spent fossil fuels which mixed with the smell of sewage, dust and body odor. There were people everywhere; it was difficult to move through the crowd. Some people were rushing by on foot whi
le others were trying to hawk their goods, calling out loudly to passersby. Mostly, they spoke in a language Richard didn’t understand. This added to the cacophony of rumbling machinery and a ubiquitous low frequency rumble that beat not only at his ears, but all the way to his innermost being.

  “Mister, Mister!” cried a small voice at his side. “Do you want to buy a pen? It is a very nice pen. See?” A small dirty brown hand held up a retractable ball point pen for him to scrutinize. “It is a Parker pen, a very nice pen! Only fifty rupees!”

  Richard looked at the pen and then at its purveyor. Holding hopefully onto the pen was a small skinny boy covered in rags and dust. Richard’s immediate reaction was to find some way to get away from the boy. He considered turning his back and walking away. Then he remembered to practice compassion. Searching in his mind, he found that subconscious spot from which flowed a warm, caring feeling. It changed how he saw the boy; he looked like he hadn’t had a full meal in a very long time. Richard reached into his pocket and pulled out what coins he had and put them into the child’s fist. “Keep the pen,” he said.

  “Oh, thank you, Mister, thank you!”

  Richard’s heart burned with sadness in the realization he could not make any meaningful difference to this unfortunate’s life. But, maybe, the kid could have one good meal today. He wondered what it would be like to have grown up in this environment.

  Within seconds, Richard found himself surrounded by a gaggle of small children, tugging at his clothing and shouting pleas for his aid. There were at least twenty and they were keeping him from going further down the street. “Mister, Mister!” they shouted. “Baksheesh. Baksheesh!”

  Just leave me alone! he thought. He reflexively reached to protect his pockets and tried to move away from the mob.

  A policeman came to his aid and shooed the street urchins away from him. They dispersed like chaff from winnowed grain, evaporating into the throng. The policeman looked at him and, with condescension, said, “It is better not to give them anything,” and walked away.