The First Rule of Ten tnm-1

by Gay Hendricks

  “I think that was the last load,” he panted. “The place is quiet as a tomb. What the hell happened to your face?”

  “Never mind that. How many trips did it make?”

  “Three. Looks like at least a dozen got on every time.”

  I pulled out my phone, with its splintered screen, to call Mike.

  “What the hell happened to your phone?” John D said. I waved him off.

  “Mike. What’s due south of Paradise?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Mike said. “I was just about to call you. Best guess, they’re heading due south, to the San Bernardino Mountains, specifically. I’m guessing Mount San Gorgonio. It’s tricky, but a skilled pilot could land on the easternmost escarpments.”

  “Give me the exact coordinates,” I said. I spun John D around and used his back as a surface to jot down the information. I ended the call and scrolled to Dardon’s number, about to ruin another good man’s night of sleep, when John D grabbed my arm. His grip was strong for a man his age.

  “Tenzing Norbu, are you going to tell me what in the Sam Hill is going on?”

  My brain felt too big for my skull. Dozens of strangers were about to make a fatal mistake if I didn’t act fast; a man I called my friend deserved my undivided attention for as long as it took. I had no idea what to do.

  Yes, you do. Speak from the deepest level of truth you can muster.

  I met John D’s eyes. “Something really bad has happened, and something even worse may be about to, and I’m right in the middle of both of them.”

  “Okay,” John D said.

  I gripped John D’s shoulders.

  “Norman is dead. He was killed earlier tonight. Shot. I was right there, but I couldn’t stop it from happening. I’m so sorry.”

  John D let out a deep grunt, like he’d been slugged in the gut, and sat heavily on his front stoop. He put his head in his hands. Wheezing sobs racked his body.

  I rested my hand on his shuddering back and tried to absorb some of the pain. I told him that Norman had gotten in way over his head. That he loved his father. That he was sorry. After a time, the sobs subsided. John D straightened up, shaking off his grief like a wet dog. His grizzled face met mine.

  “What else,” he said.

  So I told him what else. What I knew, and what I feared.

  “You were about to call Dardon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do it.”

  I gave a sleepy Dardon the one-minute version. He woke up fast, and called me back even faster.

  “Meet me at Palmdale Regional, Plant forty-two.”

  I touched John D’s hand.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  John D’s eyes were steady.

  “Whether he was in over his head or not, my son had a hand in this mess. Which means I do, too. Go. Make it right, Ten.”

  I took the 14 south and turned east on Avenue P. There was no one on the road, so I covered the 11 miles to the Palmdale Regional Airport in ten minutes. I parked at the private terminal at the far end, next to an LASD patrol car in an otherwise empty lot. I ran onto the small airfield, where Dardon was talking to a deputy pilot from the Aero Bureau. Dardon waved me over.

  “Ten Norbu, former LAPD,” he told the pilot. “He’s coming with. He knows the shot.”

  The pilot nodded, and the three of us headed for a small single-engine six-seater perched on the tarmac, a metal dragonfly of turquoise and green. SHERIFF was stenciled across its tail in white block letters.

  “Eurocopter A-Star,” Dardon said. “She’ll do just fine for our patrol. Air-5 is also deploying a second chopper, a twin turbine Sikorsky H-3 out of Los Angeles. Big mother, loaded up with Tactical Response and paramedics, just in case. You carrying?”

  I opened my windbreaker to reveal the Glock under my arm. His nod was curt.

  “Okay. But no hot-dogging, Ten, understand? We’re just going to take a look.”

  We climbed in, and buckled up behind the pilot. He handed us headsets and did a safety check. The engine bup-bup-bupped to life, and I was inside the drum this time. We lifted off, banking sharply to the south. We were over the San Bernardino range in 15 minutes, and aiming for the tallest peak.

  “There’s San Gorgonio. If you know any Buddhist prayers, now’s the time.” Dardon’s deep voice resonated through the headphones. “In ’53, a Dakota C-137 heading for Riverside Air Base hit this baby head on. Thirteen dead. A month later, the Marine Corps sent a chopper to recover the bodies, and it crash-landed in the same place.”

  “Thanks for sharing,” I said. May we be safe and protected.

  The top of San Gorgonio was sere and rubble-covered, like the surface of the moon.

  “The Indians call it Old Grayback,” Dardon said. “You can see why.”

  We circled once, scanning the rocky surface. Second time around, we found them-several dozen shivering acolytes clustered close together under an outcropping of rock. The pilot hit them with the searchlight and hovered while we looked for any sign of weapons. They made it easy for us. White robes flapping, they were holding their empty hands aloft, their faces frozen in what looked like ecstatic bliss.

  “Maybe they think we’re delivering more cult members,” I said into the headset.

  “Maybe they’re just fucking nuts,” Dardon shot back. “Deputy, can you set her down?”

  The pilot shook his head. “Too tight,” he shouted. “The Huey must have dumped those people using a pinnacle maneuver. I can go down on one skid if you want to jump out.”

  Dardon scowled. “Forget it,” he said. “I got a wife and kids, and anyway I’m too old for this crap.”

  I grabbed Dardon’s arm.

  “Let me,” I said. “Please. If it’s just potluck and prayers, no harm done. But if it’s what I suspect, I can try to distract and delay until you move in.”

  Dardon studied my face. Then he held out his hand.

  “Give it up, Cowboy.”

  I passed over my Glock.

  “We’ll be back soon, with troops. Good luck,” he said.

  The pilot dropped the bird slowly, and sure enough was able to touch down, aslant on one strut. I unbuckled, Dardon hauled open the glass door, and I tumbled onto the churning surface, the flying grit peppering my face and neck. I ducked my head and ran for the white robes fluttering, as if in surrender.

  When I reached the outcropping, I slowed to a walk. I approached with my hands up, just like them, but minus the ecstasy. They lowered their arms and stared. I offered a smile, as I scanned the group. I paused at a familiar young man. Our eyes met. Brother Jacob wrapped his arm around the shoulders of a sweet-faced woman and pulled her close, his expression unreadable.

  I did a quick head count. I came up with 37, but the Children had started milling around anxiously, and with all those billowing white robes it was like trying to count a flock of restless doves. I tried again and got 37 again. Mike had said there were 42 members. With Barbara dead, that left 2 unaccounted for, plus Roach and Liam.

  The helicopter circled back around, and I gave Dardon a little “I’m okay” wave. It sailed off.

  “It says ‘Sheriff’!” someone yelled out. “He’s a cop!”

  “Do it, before it’s too late,” called another member.

  An older man began distributing small paper cups out of a canvas carryall. One by one, the Children raised them high, like chalices. A second man followed close behind, muttering something as he poured viscous amber liquid into each cup.

  It was mass suicide-Heaven’s Gate, all over again.

  I stepped close.

  “I’m not a cop,” I said. “I’m a Tibetan lama. And I’m interested in the same thing you are. Liberation.”

  They shifted in confusion. The thing about cult members is they really are children, children in a big family that functions smoothly as long as Daddy’s around. Take the father away and they’re quickly lost. I needed to become their replacement-Daddy, and fast.

  Have I
mentioned I’ve never had kids?

  Work with what you’ve got, Ten.

  I felt the rubbled ground through the soles of my shoes. Settled into an awareness of my body … my rib cage opening and closing … my heart pumping blood. I sucked oxygen in and released carbon dioxide out, in and out, deep, cleansing breaths. Possibly because of the thin air, or lack of sleep, or simply the intense weirdness of my situation, my awareness tilted into hyper-alert. I’d shifted into an altered state of consciousness. Yes, I was standing on this outcropping facing an anxious crowd, but another part of me was parked outside myself, watching everything unfold.

  I asked that part for help.

  Like a guardian deity, a low voice spoke into my ear. I recognized the tone. It was the voice of my lucid dream-neutral, neither male nor female. I opened my mouth and the words poured out:

  “You want liberation more than life itself.” I saw a number of heads nodding. “And now you’re here, on this mountaintop, and Brother Eldon has promised you that if you do what he asks, you will find liberation. Total freedom. Right?” They nodded.

  “Wrong,” I said, raising my voice. “You are wrong to believe this. Brother Eldon is wrong to teach it. You think liberation is a destination, a place to get to. That it lies somewhere else, anywhere else but right where you are. You think you have to leave your bodies to find freedom.” I found Jacob’s eyes. My voice trembled with conviction. “Don’t you know you can find freedom right here, right now, just with your heart?”

  I heard the distant whup-whup of an approaching chopper. Search and Rescue, I thought. They had found us.

  Then: “Brother Eldon! Brother Eldon is back!” a woman cried. “Praise God,” a man shouted. “Praise God,” others echoed.

  The transport Huey closed in on us from the north, like a giant pterodactyl. It started its descent, then froze in midair, at a height of about 100 feet. I could see Liam’s bandaged face staring down at his flock from the copilot’s seat. Roach was leaning out of the opened side door, an assault rifle close to his side. I guess Liam wasn’t taking any chances with last-minute abstentions.

  The chopper moved laterally and slipped behind the cult members. They turned away from me, necks craning upward. The pilot dropped the bird ten feet, illuminated the searchlight, and tilted the Huey slightly, so Liam was smiling directly down at his children, bathed in a circle of bright light.

  Big Daddy was back.

  Liam disappeared, and reappeared at the opening next to Roach. He mouthed something to his followers, but the noise of the rotaries drowned out the words. Liam held out his hands, as if in supplication, clasped them together, and mimed drinking from a cup.

  “No!” I screamed. “Don’t!” A couple of the cult members downed their drinks and sank to their knees, praying. I ran to the front of the crowd.

  “Don’t do it!” I yelled again. “Please!”

  That’s when Liam caught sight of me.

  The ground boiled with flying grit and dust, as the hovering chopper descended another 15 feet. A second helicopter materialized on the horizon, the turquoise A-Star this time, Dardon’s small white face peering wide-eyed through the glass. Right behind loomed the whirling twin turbines of the Sikorsky, a big white bird, its nose and tail dipped in red.

  Liam’s mouth opened in a silent scream of rage. He grabbed Roach’s assault rifle and aimed for my forehead.

  Where was my guardian deity now? I dropped.

  And Liam’s chest was tattooed with bullets-a four-inch grouping at 25 yards. He looked down in astonishment, then tumbled out of the chopper and bounced like a rag doll on the harsh terrain, his graveled grave.

  I spun around. Jacob stood behind me, face grim. He lowered his arm. He was holding a Wilson Combat.38 Supergrade, and I was pretty sure it was mine.

  The Huey banked hard and executed a lateral lurch, clipping a steep rock face. Suddenly it turned on its side and dropped like a stone into the canyon, sending up a cloud of dust and snow. A moment of utter silence was followed by an erupting ball of flame.

  The air reverberated from the explosion, overlaying a welcome sound-that of approaching rescue helicopters.

  Jacob handed me my Wilson. It felt just as good in my hand as I remembered. “Nice shot.” I said. “Iraq?”

  “Afghanistan. Two tours,” he answered.

  “Mind if I take credit for your aim?”

  He nodded in relief and hugged his young companion close. She started sobbing uncontrollably.

  “This is my wife, Cassie,” he said. His smile was both proud and vulnerable, and I remembered the same mix of emotions he displayed watching that young couple at the farmer’s market. “Cassie’s pregnant. We couldn’t go through with this. There’s been enough death.”

  “Congratulations. And I’m very pleased to meet you, Cassie.” She pulled away from Jacob’s chest and gave me a watery smile.

  “Your husband is a very brave man,” I said.

  This provoked a fresh bout of wails.

  “I’m sorry,” she blubbed. “I’m just so emotional these days.”

  Even in the midst of all this craziness, another penny dropped.

  The air shook with the deafening roar of the descending Sikorsky. Its belly opened and a paramedic was lowered to the ground, holding a canvas duffle. He ran up, unzipped the bag, and started pulling out individual white plastic antidote kits, packed like little lunchboxes.

  “There’s only the two,” I said, pointing to the unlucky pair of swallowers. They were doubled over. One was starting to retch. The paramedic ran over with two kits.

  More paramedics and emergency personnel dangled from the copter like wasp stingers and dropped to the ground.

  “Norbu! Let’s go!”

  I looked over my shoulder. Somehow the A-Star had managed to perch on the one strut again, and Dardon was bellowing at me from the opened door. I ran over and leapt on board. I finally had some answers, and maybe a solution. I was happy to go.

  We lifted, and banked north. The clustered Children of Paradise watched us float away, their faces tipped to the sky.

  CHAPTER 28

  I pulled into John D’s place at dawn. The sizzle of adrenaline in my body had dimmed to a background hum; I could feel the dull ache of fatigue in my shoulders and arms, but otherwise I felt pretty good.

  I opened the front door and called his name softly through the screen. A slow scuff of footsteps announced he was up. He pulled the screen door open, turned, and shuffled back into the living room without a word. He looked crumpled, inside and out.

  I followed him. Dozens of photographs lay scattered in small heaps around his recliner, like autumn leaves after a windstorm. He picked one up and sank heavily into his chair, tears tracing the deep lines in his cheeks.

  I walked to his side. He was clutching the photograph of himself and the boys.

  “They were like chalk and cheese, those two,” John D said. “But they loved each other something fierce. I gave them their own acre, on the far end of the property, and they dug every dang hole themselves. Charlie wanted to plant sweet almonds, and Norman, well, he was drawn to the bitter ones, of course. They’re still growing out there, two groves, side by side-the only trees that didn’t get struck by the blight. Ain’t that a kick?”

  John D honked into a damp bandanna and cleared his throat. He raised his swollen eyes to mine.

  “Norman begged Charlie not to enlist,” he said. “Not me. I was all for it. I told my wife the military was Charlie’s ticket to a better life. But the truth is, I needed someone to blame for those towers falling. I thought we needed to go over there and kick Saddam’s butt.”

  “You and most of America,” I said.

  “I urged him on, Ten, told him to make me proud.” The tears were falling freely now. “When we lost Charlie, it damn near destroyed us.” He slugged the arm of the chair with his fist. “What am I saying? It did destroy us. Norman fell apart. He and his mother both blamed me, and they were right to, you understand
? Then my wife died of hypertension, and Norman … Norman just lost his way.”

  “You were suffering. You’d lost your son, and then your wife.”

  “And then my other son. Only that was on me most of all. Norman reached out a couple times right after his mother died, but when I looked in his face, all I could see was my own failure, and when I turned away, all he could feel was denied.”

  John D let go of the photograph, and it fluttered to the floor.

  “Ten, I got nothing left. And all I can think is Norman’s out there in the dark somewhere, full of fear and shame, and with no one to lead him into the light.”

  “Send him love, John D. He’s sure to feel it.”

  “It’s too late for love,” John D said.

  I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with cold juice from the fridge. I brought it to John D.

  “Drink,” I said.

  He drank.

  “It’s too late for love,” he said again.

  I pulled up an address on my phone and wrote it down for him.

  He read the name and address, then looked up at me, bewildered.

  “Norman’s wife,” I said. “Her name is Becky. You need to pay her a visit. She needs you in her life, now more than ever. It’s never too late, John D.”

  He nodded, and I could see a faint shaft of hope push from behind the pain.

  “What about you? What are you going to do now?” he asked.

  “I’m going to find my Mustang and two missing cult members. Not necessarily in that order.”

  John D reached down for the discarded photo and handed it to me.

  “Take us with you,” he said. “For luck.”

  As I crossed the yard, my phone went off. I saw it was Wesley, Freda’s husband, and my heart clenched.

  “Wesley?”

  “She’s gone. They said there wasn’t any Freda left in there anyway, so we stopped all the machines. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You any closer to finding out what happened?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Well, they’re cutting her up right now. I talked to her doctors about what you’d said, and they agreed with me that under the circumstances it made sense to do an autopsy, so …” His voice caught, and he hung up.