by Sean Hancock
“What does that involve?”
“Helping people remember. It’s that simple.”
“Remember what?”
“Their past lives: who they really are, where they came from, the nature of reality, but most of all, their true purpose.”
“And what’s that?”
“To contribute positive energy to the universe, to love and be loved, to grow and improve and learn.”
“Have I had past lives?”
“Yes.”
“Could you help me remember them?”
I don’t like where this is going, so I decide to downplay my expertise in this area. “No, only a shaman such as my master can safely guide new initiates. It is an extremely hazardous undertaking.”
“Surely you’ve learned a thing or two in four thousand years?”
“Wisest is she who knows she knows nothing,” I say. “And four thousand years is a mere blink of an eye.”
“What do you need ayahuasca for?”
“It’s a gateway to the spirit world. I am hoping to find answers there.”
“What kind of answers?”
“About where my master is and how I can find him.”
“What if he’s already dead?”
“Death, as you perceive it, is an illusion.”
“So we all live forever?”
I ignore his question. “You said before that if I lied again, you were done with me.”
“And I meant it.”
“So a four-thousand-year-old, reincarnating girl who uses plants to access parallel dimensions is believable now?”
“Two days ago I would have laughed in your face.”
“What’s changed?”
“The night I dropped you at Heathrow . . . I had another dream.”
I sit forward, heart doubling in speed. “Was it her?”
“No, it was somebody else.”
“Who?”
“A man.”
“What did he say?”
“That I had to find you and protect you.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall and powerful . . . like a warrior or . . . a pharaoh or something.”
I can tell Tammuz is holding back. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Yes,” he says, fidgeting.
“Okay. What are you waiting for?”
“It’s ridiculous, but he told me he was your master. He said you carried something very powerful and that the future of the universe depended on keeping you safe.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“Ashkai.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“I read online it tastes like battery acid,” Tammuz says, referring to the ayahuasca vine he’s stooping over, the one he lugged all the way from Kaya’s house at my insistence.
“You get used to it,” I mutter, although I’m not really listening, sitting upright on the bed in my hotel room, pillows wedged between my back and the headboard. I’m studying the iPhone I took from Bacchus, the man who tried to kill me. Earlier this morning, when I was undressing to shower, I discovered it in the right pocket of my denim shorts. My first reaction was panic—after all, Tammuz tracked me down in London after hiding his phone in my bag—and I almost flushed it down the toilet. Fortunately, I came to my senses just in time, realizing it was switched off anyway.
Besides, the man who owned it is dead. How likely is it that Rebus is on a computer somewhere attempting to locate the whereabouts of his “soldier’s” phone? Surely he’d assume it went up in flames along with Kaya’s house. Even so, after everything that’s happened, I don’t want to take any chances, especially with Tammuz here. I’m going to turn it on soon and see if anybody calls or sends a text (the security lock prohibits anything else); I just need time to regain my strength and composure before inviting danger and chaos back into my life. I also need breathing space to work some things out, such as why Ashkai—or Ashkai’s imposter—is communicating with Tammuz.
While contemplating my ever-growing list of problems and mysteries, I have been distantly aware of Tammuz trying to get my attention.
“Samsara!”
I look up and see him standing at the foot of the bed. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
He says, “I thought you’d gone to the spirit world without me.” Then he adds, “Isn’t there another plant you need to make this stuff?” gesturing over his right shoulder toward the vine of souls, which is in the far left corner of the room.
“You’ve done your research,” I say. “And yes, there is.”
“Is it really a medicine?”
“Yes, and so much more.”
“What kind of things can it cure?”
“It depends on a lot of factors, such as the set and setting and the shaman leading the ceremony.”
“Let’s assume the set and setting are golden and that you’ve got the best shaman in the world. What sort of things could be achieved then?”
“That’s a difficult question to answer. Can you be more specific?”
Tammuz thinks for a moment, and it’s pretty obvious he’s of two minds about something. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “That other plant you need, where can we get it?”
“The Amazon.”
“Didn’t Kaya have one, or did we lose it in the fire?”
“I don’t think so. I looked everywhere.”
“What about her meditation studio?”
“What about it?”
“When you come out of the lift, there’s that indoor garden thing, you know? Maybe she keeps one there.”
A bulb lights up in my mind as I cast myself back to yesterday afternoon: arriving at the building in Venice, taking the elevator to the basement. When the doors opened, the first thing I saw was a large arrangement of plants and shrubs directly underneath a skylight.
I spring to my feet, pocketing the iPhone. “There’s only one way to find out. Wait here while I go check.”
Tammuz does not look impressed. “Hey, it was my idea.”
“Don’t be so childish. I’m trying to protect you; it could be dangerous.”
“All the more reason for me to come. In fact, it’s a direct order from your master.”
“What?” I ask, confused and exasperated.
“He said I had to protect you, remember?”
I realize Tammuz will follow me, whatever happens.
“Fine,” I say, “but you do exactly what I tell you, understood? Your life could depend on it.”
“If what you say is true, death is nothing to be afraid of.”
It’s a comment borne of ignorance, which is why I say, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Before leaving the hotel, I purchased a straw hat and large black sunglasses, both of which I’m wearing now.
I say, “You go in first and distract whoever’s on reception. I’ll be right behind. If the plant is there, I’ll need time to grab some of its leaves. Whatever happens, ten minutes from now, we meet at the Starbucks across the road.”
“What if Kaya’s here?”
Her name alone fills my stomach and chest with bitterness and bile. “I doubt we’ll get that lucky.”
“Who is she and how does she fit into all this?”
“That’s a very good question.”
We’ve been in this car park, standing behind a white van for ten minutes. It’s a hot, sunny day, and I’m sweating a little. Tammuz is sipping on a refreshing-looking drink crammed with ice and slices of lime.
A group of people recently left the building and others have been trickling in. Tammuz Googled the studio’s schedule and discovered that a meditation class—called The Healing Power of Crystals—started at 3 p.m. That was four minutes ago, meaning it should be pretty quiet down there.
I watch Tammuz, who’s wearing a black T-shirt and faded gray jeans with white Nikes, cut across the car park and enter the premises. I count to thirty before following him insi
de. The air-conditioning is a welcome respite from the heat, especially as I’m not dressed appropriately, wearing jeans and long sleeves to conceal my cuts, burns, and bruises. I want to slip into the basement incognito, so instead of taking the elevator, I search for the stairs, eventually finding them at the far end of the corridor.
The hat and sunglasses are a precaution in case Joey happens to be working again. I doubt he’ll take it kindly if he sees me vandalizing Kaya’s garden.
I exit the stairwell onto the lower ground floor and pause to take in my surroundings. I can hear Tammuz’s voice in the distance. He’s apologizing for something. Straight ahead, roughly twenty paces, is the impressive collection of plants and shrubs. To the right of all that greenery and color (enhanced and beautified by the sun’s rays pouring through the skylight) is the archway entrance to Lotus Meditations, with its new age books, wall quotes, and scented candles. From behind the long white desk (where guests are met and greeted), looking straight through the foliage, you have a direct line of sight on the elevator, the one that’s just pinged. I figure somebody’s running late for class.
I spin to face the wall and pretend to read a notice board. I shoot an inquisitive glance to my right just as a ginger-haired man wearing a blue bomber jacket appears.
Cato! I think, at the same time hearing a voice from behind whisper, “Enemy.”
I look over one shoulder, but nobody is there. It’s incredibly strange and disconcerting, but my priority at this moment is to capture and interrogate the coward who tried to kill me, the same one who just flashed a brief look in my direction before disappearing from view. There was definitely fear and worry in his pale blue eyes, but from what I could tell, he didn’t recognize me.
The intelligent thing would be to stop and assess how best to handle this situation—after all, what if Meta is nearby?—but it’s hard to keep a level head when you bump into a man who tried to lock you in a basement and turn you into a bonfire. And anyway, isn’t the element of surprise a plan in itself?
I follow Cato into Lotus Meditations, coming to a halt just after entering. On my right are two toilets, one unisex, the other disabled. Directly ahead is the long white desk that has a display of crystals on it. The door to the studio is to the left of me. Three floating bookshelves lined with new age literature and scented candles are in between the desk and door. Standing in front of those with his back to me is Cato.
He’s talking to Tammuz, but Tammuz isn’t really listening. That’s because he’s preoccupied with a huge puddle on the floor that’s peppered with bits of ice and lime. While pretending to be concerned about the mess he “accidentally” made—one that Cato has trodden though—my friend’s body is angled in the direction of the toilets. He hasn’t noticed me yet; neither of them has. I hear a noise and turn so that I’m facing the same way as Tammuz. As I do, Joey appears from the unisex lavatory carrying a stack of paper towels.
“Class has already begun,” he says, looking at me quizzically. It’s as if he recognizes me but can’t quite connect the dots. “Next one’s at four if you’d like to sign up?”
“Thanks,” I say, slipping seamlessly into the accent I had in my previous life when Los Angeles was home, also turning away so that he can’t see my face. I edge toward the long white desk now, looking at the display of crystals, some blue, some yellow, some jagged, some smooth, the price tags informing me the small ones are twelve dollars, the large, eighteen. The Cosmopolitan magazines are still there, so I begin flicking through one of them.
“Take your time,” Joey says, looking over a shoulder. “You need anything, I’ll be here cleaning up this guy’s mess.” He laughs then, telling Tammuz he’s only joking. Tammuz goes along with it, even though I can tell he’s confused and uncomfortable, looking at me, then Cato, then me, then Cato again, putting two and two together.
Turning his attention to Joey, projecting a nervous, edgy vibe, Cato asks, “Where’s Kaya?”
“She’s gone away for a few days,” Joey responds while bending to place paper towels on the floor. “Can I help?”
“Where? I need to speak with her urgently.” Cato’s tone is rude and abrasive, and Joey visibly bristles.
“Allow me,” Tammuz says, taking the paper towels. Joey says, “Like I said, she’s gone away for a few days. What’s this about?”
“There’s been a fire at her home.”
Joey gasps. “Are you serious?”
“You must have a phone number for her. Give it to me.”
“Was anybody hurt?”
“You, unless you give me her fucking number.”
“There’s no need to be so aggressive,” says Joey.
“I’m sorry,” Cato says, reaching into his jacket, pulling out a gun. “How about we start again?”
Tammuz tries to interject, but Cato tells him to shut up, which he promptly does.
“Hey, Mister,” I say, bringing my arm back.
Cato is looking right at me when a smooth, eighteen-dollar crystal smashes into the center of his forehead. His neck snaps back and his legs buckle as he drops the gun and falls sideways into what’s left of Tammuz’s drink.
“Oh my god,” Joey says. “Oh my god.”
I grab the gun and revert to Rosa’s English accent, asking Tammuz, “You okay?”
Joey, drained of color, is struggling to process what just happened.
“Oh my god,” he says again, shuffling toward the telephone at the far end of the white desk.
My gaze follows him. “What are you doing?”
He looks at me, startled. “Calling the cops.”
“Don’t do that.”
He picks up the phone. “Are you crazy? He pointed a gun at my head!”
I remove my hat and sunglasses and place them on the bench underneath the bookshelves. “Now I’m pointing a gun at your head.”
Joey’s mouth hangs open, recognition in his eyes.
“The last thing I want is to hurt you,” I say, “but try something stupid, and that’s exactly what I’ll do, understand?”
He nods.
“Now put the phone down and come here.”
He advances slowly and carefully, as if in the presence of a rabid dog.
“Sit there,” I say, gesturing toward the bench.
After doing so, he says, “There’s cash in the register; just take it and go.”
I crane my head to look at the clock on the wall: 3:12 p.m.
“When do they finish?” I ask, nodding toward the studio on my left.
“Three fifty, but there’s another class straight after.”
“People get here early?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
Cato starts moving. He’s disoriented and groggy.
I look around and notice a door at the far end of the long white desk. It’s on the side that Joey stands on when greeting customers. “Where does that lead?”
Joey follows my gaze. “To an office.”
“Anyone in there?”
“No.”
“Where’s Kaya?”
“She e-mailed yesterday saying she had to leave town for a family emergency. What the hell’s going on? Is she in trouble?”
I say, “Both of you help him up and take him to the office.”
Although it’s a struggle, Joey and Tammuz eventually get Cato on his feet.
“Sit him down,” I say when we’re inside the tiny, windowless office that consists of a chair, a desk, and a printer/fax machine. “Face him my way.”
When Cato—who has his wits about him again—is in place, I ask Tammuz, without using names, to pat our hostage down, telling him to do it slowly and methodically and to also look out for tattoos.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“That’s everything,” Tammuz says two minutes later, pointing at Cato’s belongings on the floor: tan leather wallet, Audi car keys, Samsung Galaxy, six-inch hunting knife. We found the tattoo as well. It was on the underside of his left wrist: a small phoen
ix with flaming wings. That makes him a junior agent.
“What about his necklace?” I ask, wanting to be sure there isn’t something attached he could improvise as a weapon.
Tammuz pulls the silver chain from underneath his T-shirt. There’s a small piece of what looks like jade attached to it, a stone synonymous with the spirit world.
“Want me to take it off?” Tammuz asks.
“No, leave it,” I say, kicking everything, including the knife, behind me and against the wall. I offer the gun to Tammuz and say, “Take Joey out there and keep an eye on him.”
Tammuz replies, “There’s no way I’m touching that. Seriously, you can forget it.”
I know how stubborn he can be, so instead of pressing the issue, I turn my attention to Joey. “Give me your wallet.”
He looks confused and afraid. “What for?”
I point the gun at his face, and less than three seconds later, I have what I asked for. I pull his driver’s license out, reading, “Joseph Donovan, Three-Eight-Six Burnside Avenue.” I slip it into a pocket, handing everything else back. “I know who you are,” I say, staring at him intently. “I know where you live. I recommend you do as you’re told.”
“Please don’t hurt me,” Joey says, “I have a son.”
That throws me. “Aren’t you gay?”
“My son is adopted. We’re all he has.”
“Be smart then,” I say before telling Tammuz, “Close the door behind you and make sure he doesn’t run.”
“Are you going to hurt him?” Tammuz asks.
“Yes,” a voice whispers. “Hurt him, kill him; make him pay.”
I look left and right and behind, but nobody is there.
“Jesus, not now,” Tammuz mutters.
I fix my eyes on him.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” he says.
“Who were you talking to, then?”
“Nobody. It doesn’t matter.”
“Did you hear a voice?”
The expression on his face is one of incredulity. “Yeah, yours.”
I want to press him further, but now isn’t the time.
“Go,” I say. “Now.”
He ushers Joey out of the room, and I lock the door. After shoving the gun into the back of my jeans, I stoop and grab Cato’s knife, feeling the sharpness of its edges as I approach my prisoner, and I say, “You’re wondering how I survived that fire, aren’t you?”