by J. M. Lanham
Or maybe that was just the exhaustion talking. Paul gave his eyes a rub and turned on the radio. Michelle reached for his hand to stop him but it was too late.
“Have you lost your mind?” she whispered forcefully.
“What?”
“You’re going to wake up—”
The radio crackled, and a cry emerged from the backseat.
“Great. Just great, Paul. Aaron’s going to be ill as a hornet.”
“Sorry, dear. I wasn’t thinking.”
Michelle unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned in the back to fix Aaron a bottle. She spoke while she worked. “By the way, isn’t there something you should be thinking about instead of what’s on the radio?”
Their eyes met in the rearview mirror, but Paul didn’t say anything. He knew exactly what she was talking about, and she was right. He had been putting off making the call to Donny Ford ever since he’d talked to Claire the day before. Now he was just delaying the inevitable.
He wasn’t without his reasons. Paul had known exactly what kind of person Ford was from the moment he first ran across one of his late-night infomercials. Conman. Charlatan. Snake oil salesman. For every nasty euphemism you could think of that applied to a particularly duplicitous showman, Donny Ford fit the bill every time.
And there was something else Paul had never understood: why Claire thought Ford would have been an indispensable asset in the effort to take down Asteria. The man’s very M.O. was self-serving and egocentric—a showman in love with the spotlight, infallible to a legion of fans salivating at the very sight of a fearless leader with all the answers. But to Paul, he was a narcissist and a crook. How Claire couldn’t appreciate the risks that went hand in hand with an ally like that was beyond him.
The Donny situation had also gotten a lot more complicated since February. In a matter of months, Donny had gone from the hottest ticket on the self-help circuit to a high-profile fugitive. Every law enforcement agency in the country was looking for him, and it was only a matter of time before he’d get himself caught.
That was unless someone turned him in first. Paul drove on autopilot and considered the notion, rubbing his chin with one hand and steering with the other. The thought had crossed his mind more than once, but it wasn’t much of an option. Sure, it might rid him of an untrustworthy ally, but it would mean certain incarceration for Claire and Dawa—and that was only if the authorities got to them before Asteria. Everyone involved in the Ocula trials was in it together. If one person went down, they all went down.
Michelle was already buckled up and back in the front seat by the time Paul ran through his options. Her knee bounced while her eyes split hard glares between her husband and the phone resting peacefully on the console.
“Well? Are you going to wait all day, or do I need to call him?”
Paul sighed, shook his head in defeat, and then picked up the phone.
***
An anxious fist rapped on the solid oak door to Dawa’s bedroom, echoing through the empty monastery and provoking an irritable grumble from the other side. Donny waited impatiently for a coherent response.
Finally, “What do you want?”
“Sorry to wake you, Dawa. But it’s about Claire.”
Donny heard a click from within and the soft yellow lamplight beamed from under the door. A few choice words and footsteps later and the two men were face to face.
Dawa tied his robe and asked, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Um, yeah. It’s lunchtime.” Donny cocked his head. “You feeling okay these days, Graham?”
Dawa squinted and rubbed his forehead. “Yes. Of course. I was just trying to catch a quick nap before my next shift. I must have lost track of time.” He stepped out of his room and closed the door. “You mentioned something about Claire?”
“That’s right. I wouldn’t have woken you if it wasn’t important.”
“So, she finally answered one of your calls.”
“Not exactly,” Donny said. “I got a call from one of the other Ocula outliers. Paul Freeman.”
Dawa thought on the name. “Freeman . . . Claire’s friend from the facility.”
“That’s the one. Apparently he’s been hiding out west for the last six months. He called Claire after getting spooked, and now he wants to meet up. Personally, I don’t like it.”
“Oh?” Ford’s apprehension piqued Dawa’s interest. “And why is there cause for concern?” He walked away and Donny followed, footsteps echoing hastily down the shadowy hallway until the two passed under the maroon archway leading to a well-lit kitchen. The faint morning sun that typically eased in from the skylight above the island where Dawa ate breakfast was now directly overhead, heating the room with a bright rectangular column of light that reached down from the ceiling and illuminated every floating speck of dust in its path.
Donny crossed his arms and leaned back on the counter. “This guy calls and says he’s been in touch with Claire, only Claire hasn’t mentioned him for the last six months. He says Claire is supposed to contact me to check in by tomorrow, only she never said anything to me about it.”
Dawa filled a kettle and set it on the stove. “You did say she was dodging your calls, Donald.”
“True, but she was supposed to contact me with any updates, including any leads she got from the other outliers out there. She assured me she’d keep me posted. Now her phone’s going straight to voicemail.”
The news did little to take Dawa away from his waking routine. He grabbed a mug from the cabinet and tore open a tea bag while Donny watched him impatiently.
“Well?”
“Well what, Donald? Did it ever occur to you Claire is out of service? Her battery is dead? Perhaps she has met someone, and she is out on a date.”
“I’m serious, Graham.”
“So am I.”
“Well, you sure as hell don’t act like it!” The cavalier attitude of his old college roommate flustered Donny to the core. He stood and waited for a response, fingers tapping his forearm, veins swelling on his forehead, his patience quickly evaporating. Dawa almost always had an answer for everything, of that he could be sure. But sometimes getting to it was like pulling teeth.
This was one of those times. The tea kettle hissed as Dawa leaned on the counter by the stove, his attention held hostage by the gentle puffs of steam that rose from the metallic spout, paying no mind to the man with all the questions. Donny stared and waited, eyes burning holes into his old friend.
Dawa could feel the tension. Finally, he sighed, then turned to speak.
“Donald. My friend. You never were one to think things through.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Paul told you over the phone that Claire would be contacting you by tomorrow with an update, correct?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So, Donald. By tomorrow you will know whether or not you can trust Paul”—he turned back to the stove—“and if that’s the case, then we are one outlier closer to building a solid case against Asteria Pharmaceuticals, wouldn’t you agree?”
Donny squinted and nodded as the obvious slowly sank in. Dawa asked, “Do you know where Paul Freeman is now?”
“Yeah. He said he was somewhere out west. Nebraska, I think. Anyway, he’s on his way here, and he wants to meet.”
Dawa tilted his head to glance behind the kettle. The clock on the stove flashed 1:47. He thought about a road trip he had taken to the Grand Canyon some years back. Then he said, “I don’t believe he will be here within the day. Maybe by this time tomorrow, if he drives nonstop. But it seems to me that he will be arriving about the time you are expecting a phone call from your dear friend to the south. Yes?”
The water boiled and Dawa turned off the stove. Once again, Dawa had shut him down in his trademark calm-and-collected fashion. It was a tone Donny had always found condescending, regardless of the guru’s benevolent intentions.
Donny glared at the man steeping his tea and curse
d under his breath. He thinks I’m incompetent. He’s always treated me like I was incompetent.
The houseguest was tempted to blow up on his benefactor, but now wasn’t time. He took a deep breath and composed himself, then said, “Yes, Dawa. You’re right. There’s no sense in jumping to conclusions until tomorrow.”
He started to leave the room when Dawa spoke. “Did you give him my address, Donald?”
“Not yet. Like I said, I still don’t like any of this.”
“We don’t have many options here, my friend. Sooner or later, we are going to have to trust someone. If the man says he has been in touch with Claire, go ahead and tell him to come here.”
“What if he’s lying?”
Dawa took a sip of tea, then said, “We are big boys, Donald. If he is lying, then we will handle it.”
The phone rang, and Dawa instinctively patted where his pockets should have been only to feel a pocket-less bathrobe. The cell chirped and vibrated on the counter closest to Donny. He slid the phone over.
“Thanks.” Dawa read the screen. “I have to take this. Are you good for this afternoon?”
Donny nodded. Dawa answered the phone and jumped into work mode while his roommate shuffled back to the confines of his domestic purgatory.
***
Hairline cracks spidered across the sheetrock ceiling of the guest room Donny had called home for the last six months. His eyes followed the crooked lines from one corner to another and then back again. He could have easily traced images in his mind’s eye of people or animals or perverse fantasies worthy of being featured on the finest shrink’s inkblot cards. But as Donny lay on his bed, staring a blank canvas at three in the morning, the only imaginary image he could see in the ceiling was an oversized cartoonish fist wrapped tightly around his old friend’s neck.
Of course, he didn’t seriously mean harm upon his friend. Ever since college, Dawa had been like brother, and brothers had a way of getting under each other’s skin. In those days, any mention of using Tummo meditation rituals in any capacity other than for personal enlightenment and progress had quickly earned Donny a lecture from the surrogate sibling in the Graham Family Code of Ethics.
But what good did it do to keep such a powerful, life-enhancing method to one’s self? To Ford, the notion of esoteric Tummo was selfish and wrong. Should a sect of humanity make a discovery that would be beneficial to all, it would be wrong to keep such information to themselves. Hell, downright sinful. The world needed Tummo, and Donny was going to give it to them.
Donny kept staring, eyes starting to burn, when the lines on the ceiling disappeared and faded in the pale white sheetrock. He rubbed his eyes and blinked, and the lines quickly returned. Troxler’s fading. He remembered the concept from college, how staring at a certain point for some time caused everything around it to disappear—just like his good sense at the moment. Spreading Tummo to the masses was one of the reasons Donny was in dire straits to begin with.
He sat up in bed and took a few deep breaths to clear his head, dismissing thoughts of violent outbursts and bitter sentiments toward the only person he could count on; the one person keeping him from a six-by-six cell; a person who could very well be sharing a cell next to him if their plan went south.
Still, he couldn’t get over the idea that no matter what he accomplished in life, Dawa would always regard him as inferior. He was the eternal apprentice, insecure, greedy, and jealous, unable to see that his negative emotions and self-serving character traits were the very reason why Dawa would always be the superior practitioner of Tummo.
But Donny knew he wasn’t a screw-up. Or incompetent. Or a pitiful albatross forever hung from Dawa’s neck.
No, Donny could do some things right.
He reached in the nightstand by his bed, rummaging through the clutter to find something in the back.
A pill bottle. Ocula.
He had long ceased taking it; the drug was far too dangerous for casual use. This, however, was not a casual occasion. In fact, it was something he had planned since he’d learned about the volcanic eruption in Costa Rica—an eruption that just so happened to coincide with the death of Ryan Tanner. Ford had dreamed about both events occurring simultaneously only moments before Claire’s call confirming the news. One or the other showing up in Ford’s dreamscape might have been coincidental, but Ford was a gambler who always played the pot odds, and this was no coincidence. He knew better.
His thumb flicked the cap and the lid popped open. Donny tapped a single pill out into his hand, looking it over and admiring the power of such a tiny little pill.
Then he swallowed it. Won’t be much time now, he thought. A minute, maybe two. Just enough time to deploy a pre-sleep meditation technique he’d recently picked up during his newfound downtime at the monastery.
He laid back on the bed, closed his eyes and thought:
Dawa isn’t the only one with a few tricks up his sleeve.
Chapter 15:
Dos Jefes
A set of all-terrain tires plowed into the shallow stream, creating a pair of muddy wakes that tailed the Jeep through to the other side where the riverbank looked steep, but climbable. The driver geared down on the approach and told his partner riding shotgun to hang on. The two hostages in the back braced for impact while the 4x4 climbed the riverbank, sending a rooster tail of thick mud sailing behind it before leveling out at the top. Soon it was out of the mire and back to the dusty Costa Rican trail.
Aguilar looked over at his friend and spoke, voice jostled by every bump and pothole. “Don’t worry, Claire. If they wanted us dead, they would have left our bodies in the jungle.”
“Do I look worried?”
Of course she didn’t. She’d seen far worse situations than Alejandro Aguilar could imagine, but that never stopped him from trying to console her. “No offense, Claire. But you don’t have to act so tough all of the time. It’s okay to be vulnerable every now and then.”
She ignored the comment. “Where do you think they’re taking us?”
“That’s what confuses me,” Aguilar said, peering out the back window. ‘The sun’s behind us, when it should be in front of us. It appears as though they are taking us deeper into the jungle.”
“Toward Poás Volcano?”
“Cállate!” The soldier’s voice roared from the front, ordering the two in the back to shut up. He lit a cigarette and mumbled something as he continued to drive. His partner rode shotgun and glared at the two in the back for what seemed like an eternity, then turned back around to watch the trail ahead.
The Jeep trail was choked with underbrush and thick jungle flora—an indication it was rarely (if ever) used. Combined with a dense canopy overhead, the greenery formed a tight jungle tunnel just barely big enough for the Jeep to get through. For all Claire and Aguilar knew, they could be heading anywhere.
Suddenly, Claire noticed flickers of sunlight making brief appearances on her lap. The light steadied, and soon they were driving out of the canopy and back into the open Costa Rican countryside. The hostages in the back leaned toward one another to get a better view out of the front windshield. The northern summit of Poás Volcano was in full view.
“There it is,” Aguilar whispered. He nudged Claire and said, “If I had known we’d be getting a free ride, we could have left these burdensome backpacks behind, no?”
“You, maybe.” She minded the guards, careful not to speak too loudly. “But if I don’t get a message out today, this place will be leveled by lunchtime tomorrow.” Aguilar looked confused, but Claire was reluctant to explain. “No matter what happens, Han, promise me you’ll locate the other outliers.”
“Claire, you know I don’t like when you start talking crazy—”
“Just promise me.”
Aguilar nodded, then turned to look out the window to hide the concern on his face. Claire’s mind had been through the ringer over the last six months, and the Costa Rican aristocrat was worried about his friend.
The J
eep slowed, the sounds of tires plowing across mud and puddles and roots replaced by the low roar of crunching gravel. The hostages looked ahead to see three Hummers parked on the side of a gravel road that led to high razor-wired fences surrounding a concrete compound on the other side. A dozen men stood by, with the apparent leader standing in the middle of the road a few feet ahead of them. His hand went up and the Jeep stopped.
Tight knots in Claire’s throat were making it hard for her to swallow. After six long months, she was back at the facility—a place where she had been tormented and tortured for weeks on end. A place worse than the war-torn streets of Estonia, or Baghdad, or Mexico City, or anywhere else she’d covered over the course of her journalistic career. A place where she’d realized there were far worse things playing out in the mind than the most vile and violent locations on Earth.
The half-doors on the Jeep swung open and the soldiers hopped out, then ordered their captives to crawl out. The two obeyed as they stumbled out of the vehicle, hands zip-tied behind their backs. The rest of the soldiers advanced in quick steps, their rifles zeroed in on the two intruders, itching for one of them to make the wrong move.
Safeties clicked off as the soldiers halted, holding the line as the leader approached, hard-sole shoes grinding the gravel beneath a confident stride, his long shadow crawling up the captives’ feet before spreading across their faces. The two squinted in the man’s direction as the bright yellow orb washed out the scene behind him, leaving his face in the dark.
Finally, the three were face to face. The man towered over Aguilar (who was already tall by Costa Rican standards) as his hands filled the pockets of his dark slacks. His off-white button-down, silk black tie, and silver cuff links quickly caught Claire’s attention, the white-collar uniform more fitting for a desk jockey than a field agent assigned to jungle duty.
He leaned down to face Aguilar, the stub of a smoked-down cigar caught in the clenches of his canines. “Well, well. If it isn’t Alejandro Aguilar.” Prado studied his prey, his calm and baritone voice resonating from under a thick mustache. “You’re a little way from your home. What brings you to the jungle, patrón?”