by J. M. Lanham
A deep sigh of relief escaped Dawa’s chest as he breathed again. He smiled and shook his head. “Donald. My friend. We have discussed this. There is no way your dreams have any true influence on reality. It simply is not possible. You would do better to spend all of this time and energy focusing on the precepts, on the here and now, instead of these preposterous claims of mind control from afar.”
“That’s just it, Dawa. I’m not talking about mind control.” The tea kettle began to whistle. “Tea, Graham?”
Dawa nodded yes, and Donny filled his mug. The guru was officially intrigued. “So you have abandoned the old notions of meditative influence and mystical powers. That’s good to hear, Donald. I was beginning to really worry about you. But, if you are not alluding to nudging Fenton in the direction you want him to go, how could you possibly know where he is?”
“Because I’ve seen him.”
“When?”
“I just told you. Last night, in a dream.”
“The dreams again, Donald?”
“Just hear me out here, Graham. Unless you’ve got some place to be.”
Dawa checked his phone. Sarcastically, “No. Not for a moment, anyway. I guess I could give you five minutes. Maybe six.”
“Okay, so do you remember the Himalayan yogis we stayed with the summer between our sophomore and junior year of college?”
“Of course I do. Family friends. In fact, Tashi was the first person to introduce me to the ancient Buddhist tradition of Nyingma.” He eyed Donny suspiciously. “This has something to do with the mindstream, doesn’t it?”
“You said it, Graham. Not me. But you can’t blame me for looking further into these ancient methods of tapping into the so-called sacred streams of enlightenment, especially after what happened in February.”
Noise from the grease popping on the stove had died down, signaling to Donny a well-done breakfast. He fixed two plates of bacon and eggs, slid one over to Dawa, and took a seat at the island. Dawa stabbed his eggs, but couldn’t take a bite yet. He had too many questions.
“So you’ve taken an interest in the Nyingma tradition. A tradition based on ancient teachings that were supposedly revealed to Buddhist masters through their dreams. Is it safe to assume you believe the location of Fenton Reed has been revealed to you through the dream you had last night, Donald?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
“But you were also convinced Ocula played a role in your troubled state, correct? And you have not taken Ocula in months …”
The look on Donny’s face told Dawa everything he needed to know. “Donald! You have taken Ocula once again?”
“I was going to tell you—”
“Unbelievable! After everything we have been through, all of our hard work to bring this toxic pharmaceutical company to justice, you decide to experiment with this mind-altering drug once more?”
“If you would just let me explain—”
“What did I tell you when I agreed to hide you from the authorities? No drugs and no alcohol, Donald. None. Once again, you have completely violated my trust.” His weathered fist slammed into the table and rattled the plates. “I should have known better!”
“I understand you’re upset . . . ” Donny paused and searched for a bargaining chip as Dawa steamed in front of him. The Buddhist master was no stranger to moments of backsliding, but this time was different. His face raged a deep red, balled fists shaking and looking for a reason, any reason, to strike. Donny had never seen him this upset before. He decided to risk it all.
“You must know that I know how upset taking anything would make you, right?”
The stone man across from him didn’t flinch.
“I must have had a good reason to take it. And I did, Graham. I really did. So, please: let me tell my story. If you’re still angry by the time I’m finished, I’ll turn myself in today.”
Through the anger, Dawa mustered, “You will turn yourself in. Just like that, Donald?”
Donald snapped his fingers. “Just like that. You won’t have a thing to worry about, either. I’ll say I’ve been living in the woods or out of a fast-food dumpster for the last six months. It’s worked for other guys on the Most Wanted list before.” He scratched his five-o’clock shadow, then moved up to his shaggy head. “Hell, I even look the part.”
He didn’t like being deceived, but Dawa had to hear him out. What did he have to lose? If this was another one of Donny’s schemes—which was a very good possibility—then he could finally send the pitchman packing straight to the front office at Atlanta P.D. to turn himself in. It took a moment to register, but Dawa suddenly realized Donny’s stunt could very well bring an end to six months of stress and deceit and moral ambiguity that very afternoon. He hid a smile, then said, “Okay, Donald. Let’s hear what you have got to say for yourself.”
Donny breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Thank you. Although, it may take a little longer than five minutes.” He tapped his fingers, looked up and thought aloud, “All right, where were we?”
“You took Ocula last night.”
“Right. So I’ve had a lot of time to study here, as I’m sure you already know. What you don’t know about is the research I’ve conducted into Nyingma, primarily the teachings that illustrate a spiritual channel that, with the right mindset, can be accessed by people across the globe.”
“I always said we were connected, Donald. But I think—”
“I saw Fenton on this spiritual channel, Graham. Last night, after taking Ocula. I saw him and I saw exactly where he was—right now, at this very moment.” He leaned forward. “He’s in Savannah, just a few hours from here.”
“Hold on a minute, Donald. You slept until noon today, remember? And you say you took Ocula last night? But in the past you told me you only had these prophetical dreams when you didn’t sleep well. You said they only occurred after being up all night, stricken with illness.”
“Yeah, the headaches. You’re right, Dawa. But here’s the thing: I started looking into other meditative practices and found something called lucid dreaming. It’s basically like falling asleep with willful intent. You lie down in bed, begin your meditative practice, focus on what’s important to you, and pretty soon you’re fast asleep and in the midst of the topics, you choose. Like, say, the whereabouts of Asteria’s outliers, perhaps?”
“How could the willful intent to dream lucidly eliminate the physical side effects of Ocula, Donald? Every one of the outliers we know of, including yourself, spoke to how debilitated they were each time they had one of these dreams. Now you’re not affected?” He sighed and shook his head. “It just does not make much sense to me.”
“Honestly, it doesn’t make much sense to me, either. I mean I haven’t even had a lot of time to think about it. Maybe it’s got something to do with letting go of everything and not resisting the effects of the drug, like the difference between a bad psychedelic trip and a good one. Meditation can be a pretty powerful drug itself, Graham. But like I said, who knows. The important thing is that we know Fenton’s in Savannah, and we need to get there as soon as possible.”
“Paul Freeman is on his way here now, Donald. We should probably speak to him first before embarking on a road trip to the coast, wouldn’t you agree?”
Dismissively, “Yeah. Sure, Dawa. You’re right. But I’m just saying, after that. We need to hit the road.”
Dawa stood from his chair and crossed his arms. “There is just one problem, my friend. While I would like to believe you have had contact with Mr. Reed, there simply is no proof. Nothing. And without proof, I do not think it would be wise for us to hit the road together.” He chuckled at the thought. “Just think: a first-grade detective and a federal fugitive, caught searching for another fugitive linked to unsubstantiated claims of Big Pharma corruption. And of course, what kind of conspiracy theory would this be without getting the CIA involved?”
Once again, condescension from the Tummo master had clouded the monastery air. He didn’t mean anythi
ng by it, and Donny knew that. It was just his way. But, that didn’t change the fact that Dawa’s way could turn most people sour in just a few short quips. It was time for Donny to cut the comic relief short.
“Where’s the jump drive, Graham?” Donny asked.
Dawa’s joyful face quickly turned stoic. He paused, then said, “How could you possibly know about Fenton’s jump drive, Donald?”
“Because I saw it. In the dream. Fenton showed it to me.”
A small rectangular bulge showed through Dawa’s shirt pocket. He placed his palm over it, still speechless. Finally, “But how—”
“I don’t know, Graham. I really don’t know. The whole reason I’ve been practicing lucid dreaming for the last several months was in anticipation of a lead, a name, a picture . . . something I could cling to before taking Ocula and entering a lucid dream state. I thought this would help me have more influence on Fenton, persuade him to go where I wanted him to go, even.
“Only, it didn’t. Instead of the other dreams like with Stevens and Tanner, where I just kind of witnessed everything folding out in front of me, this one was different. I was there, Graham. So was Fenton. In Savannah, River Street, to be exact, eating Baby Ruths and sipping on Cokes—which was kinda weird, now that I think about it. I don’t even like Baby Ruths . . .”
“Let’s rein it back in, Donald.”
“He told me we should meet. He also said you’d never believe me.” Donny pointed to Dawa’s shirt pocket. “So, he told me to ask you about the drive.”
The shock of such a revelation took Dawa aback. He fell back into his chair, arms still crossed, evaluating the situation like any good detective would. Was any of this possible, or was this one of Donny’s parlor tricks? Had Donny snuck into his room and found the jump drive he’d picked up from Fenton’s old roommate the day before? No, that couldn’t be, thought Dawa, shaking his head. How could Donny have known the drive belonged to Fenton, or even to look for a jump drive in the first place? Not to mention Dawa’s room policy: the door stayed locked 24/7, home or not.
The midday light shone down through the skylight and traced out the shadow of the jump drive protruding from Dawa’s shirt pocket. Had the legendary pitchman Donny Ford caught a glimpse of the hardware and simply used that as a faux prop in an elaborate story to break out of seclusion and escape back into the real world? Dawa couldn’t say for certain, but something wasn’t quite adding up.
“So, what do you think?” Donny asked, breaking Dawa’s concentration. The guru wasn’t sure what to say, but before he could open his mouth to answer the doorbell rang, followed by five heavy knocks.
“Dawa Graham? Ford? Is anyone home?” The man outside sounded exhausted and desperate.
“It’s me. Paul Freeman.”
Chapter 17:
Southern Hospitality
The foyer of the Vajrayãna Monastery had been transformed from an empty-vaulted entryway to a kiosk for camping supplies in less than five minutes. Dawa and Donny looked at one another as Paul continued to unload the car, dumbfounded as to how the young couple could fit so much junk into the back of a Mercury sedan.
“Sure you don’t need any help?” Donny asked as he held the front door open.
“No, thanks. I think we’ve got it.” Paul entered the foyer toting a storage box, and Michelle followed with Aaron in tow. Dawa bowed and greeted the road-weary couple.
“Mr. and Mrs. Freeman. How good it is to finally meet you both.” He relieved Michelle’s shoulder of Aaron’s hefty diaper bag, and she thanked him for his hospitality. He asked Michelle, “Would you like me to show you to your room?”
She nodded, and the two walked toward the back of the monastery. Paul pretended to put his belongings in order while Donny stood by, waiting for a proper introduction. There was no avoiding it. Finally, Paul looked up.
“Heard a lot about you, Donny Ford.”
“Likewise,” Donny replied, hand extended. Paul looked down to address the dreadful salutation. He knew he was now a guest in Dawa Graham’s home—not Donny’s—and the urge to deny the gesture was strong. He decided on peace, for now, and shook Donny’s hand as half-heartedly as he possibly could.
Donny said, “It’s good to have you here, Paul. A friend of Claire’s is a friend of mine”—he referenced Dawa, who had walked toward the back—“well, ours. You do know Claire saved my life, right? If it weren’t for her, I’m not sure I would have ever made it out of that hospital—”
“You said likewise,” Paul interrupted. “What do you mean you’ve heard a lot about me?”
“Well, just from Claire. You two went through some shit together, and over the last few months we’ve stayed in touch,” his eyes narrowed as he continued, “but you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Paul agreed, making his dislike for Donny’s suspicious tone apparent. He picked up his backpack and threw it across his shoulder. He looked at Donny stone-faced and pointed down the hall. “Our room’s down here?”
“Yeah. Three doors down on the left. Watch your step; this place is old and some of the floorboards are a little uneven and loose.”
The wood floors creaked and footsteps echoed as Paul made his way down the narrow hall toward the back of the monastery. Donny stood and stared at the back of a person he didn’t trust. He let Paul get halfway down the hall before saying, “Hey, you know why you’re here, don’t you?”
“Sure do,” Paul answered without turning around.
“Good. That’s real good. Because if I don’t get a phone call by tonight . . . ”
Paul stopped and turned. His face was tired yet stern, effectively expressing a lack of patience for any of Ford’s bullshit. “If you don’t get a phone call then what, Ford?”
“Look, Claire’s a friend. And frankly, I don’t trust you. You’ve been gone for six months, with neither one of us sure of your whereabouts. For all we know, you could be colluding with the enemy. And I haven’t gone through all of this over the better part of a year just to get caught or killed because my benevolent friend is kind enough to let a fox in the hen house. Get where I’m coming from?”
The floors creaked again, only faster this time, as Paul quickly returned to meet Donny face to face. “Yeah. I get exactly where you’re coming from, Ford. You’re an opportunist who’s looking out for himself, worried more about someone turning you in than bringing Asteria to justice.”
“You don’t know a thing about—”
“No? You said it yourself, Don. The last thing you’re going to do is get caught or killed. Tells me everything I need to know about you, pal.”
“You’re one to talk,” Donny scoffed. “If you were so concerned about bringing down Asteria, then why’d you run in the first place?”
“Unlike some people, I didn’t have a benefactor to keep me in hiding.”
“No, but he did lend you his car—”
“That will be enough!” Dawa yelled as he emerged from the back and confronted the two. “I did not invite either of you into this home to cause a commotion. There are great matters at hand that we must discuss, bigger problems to address than who is the alpha in this situation.” He walked toward the meditation room. “Besides, is it not obvious that I am the one in control?”
***
Golden shrines and Tibetan murals wouldn’t have been Paul’s first decorating choice for his little family’s starter home in the burbs, but for an estate called the Vajrayãna Monastery, he expected nothing less. He was supposed to be meditating alongside Dawa and Donny, who were sitting close by with legs crossed, eyes closed—but Paul couldn’t resist looking around. High maroon ceilings. Tall oaken columns. Buddha statues and Asian artwork . . . It was Graham’s own little piece of Tibet, packaged neatly into a two-hundred-acre lot tucked away in the wooded flatlands south of Atlanta. The man had a passion for Tibetan Buddhism, and he’d done everything in his power to incorporate his beliefs into his daily life, right down to the smoldering incense and wallpaper. Claire had mention
ed Dawa’s first-grade detective accolades, but she hadn’t talked about the man’s profound faith. Paul was impressed.
Dawa, however, was not. Paul’s twisting and turning to look around had broken the absolute silence of the room, and the guru took notice. He opened his eyes to see Paul turned backward and facing the far wall.
“Ahem,” Dawa groaned.
Paul turned back swiftly. “Sorry, Mr. Graham. I was just admiring all of the artwork here.”
“Please, call me Dawa.” His hands cupped his knees, eyes closing again. “Now, if you will join Donald and I, we can get back to our meditative session.”
The new pupil obeyed, and for the next ten minutes the three men sat with little more than the sound of their own breath. It was a practice Dawa required of all his guests; especially when stressful situations were sure to follow. In such cases, the detective knew how important it was to have a clear mind before facing tribulations like crime scenes or corrupt companies or ghosts from the past. That’s why Dawa had meditated more in the last six months than ever before.
Soon a pleasant bell chimed, marking the end of the meditation session. The men opened their eyes, squinting and blinking while they readjusted to the daylight coming in through the tall windows at the front of the room. The two guests waited for him to speak. His attention was on the newcomer.
“I think it is important to acknowledge the bravery Paul has displayed by coming out of hiding to help us bring Asteria Pharmaceuticals to justice.”
“I don’t think I’d call it bravery,” Paul replied. “Although I do appreciate your willingness to take in a stranger. I can’t begin to thank you enough for your hospitality.”
A soft smile arose on Dawa’s face. “Now, Paul. There is no need to thank me for anything. The mutual friendship we all share with our friend Claire Connor is validation enough.”
“Speaking of Claire,” Donny quipped, “isn’t she supposed to be giving me a call any minute now?” He took out his cell phone and placed it on the floor in front of him. “Or a text? An email? Anything to let us know you’re not toying with us, Paul?”