by Tarah Benner
Bernie’s eyes drifted from the dog to the porch, where a man stood cloaked in shadow. He made another strange clicking noise, and the other two dogs’ heads perked up.
Then, to Bernie’s amazement, the one mauling Simjay stepped off his chest and backed slowly away from the fence. The other two fell silent but didn’t move, and Bernie heard footsteps clunking down the stairs.
Her breath caught in her chest as the figure approached, and Simjay sat up with a wince.
The man stepped into the light, and Bernie’s mouth fell open. The colonel, if that was the colonel, wasn’t at all whom Bernie had pictured.
Instead of the imposing, clean-shaven ex–air force pilot she’d been imagining, there was just a slight stooped man who looked as though he’d never seen a barber in his life.
Unruly gray-and-brown hair reached down past his ears, and most of his face was obscured by a wild beard. His eyes were deep set and alert, flickering between Simjay and his dogs to assess the threat. He was carrying a scary-looking rifle with two bandoliers crisscrossing over his shoulders and a pistol on his hip.
He staggered over to Simjay with a slow, drunken gait, studying him for any sign of a threat.
Bernie knew the instant he recognized Simjay, because his eyes grew round and his bushy eyebrows lifted. When he spoke, his voice was rough and gravelly from disuse. He only uttered a single word.
“Birapaar?”
ten
Bernie
Bernie and Portia stood frozen on the other side of the fence. Colonel Kelly looked as though he’d seen a ghost. He was staring at Simjay with his mouth agape, waiting for confirmation that he wasn’t hallucinating.
“Conrad,” said Simjay, sitting up and forcing a grin despite his obvious pain. “Long time no see.”
Colonel Kelly stared at Simjay for nearly a minute, his dogs waiting anxiously for instruction. Then he took several strides forward, and Bernie’s chest tightened with worry.
Simjay froze, as if unsure how he would be received, but then the colonel reached out a hand and helped Simjay to his feet. He pulled him into a brotherly embrace, clapping him on the back with such sincerity that Bernie couldn’t help but wonder what Simjay/Birapaar had done for the colonel to elicit such a response.
Bernie waited awkwardly for the hug to end. It went on much longer than any man-hug should, but then the colonel started to shake. Bernie groaned a little inside, thinking he was crying, but then she realized that the colonel was trembling with laughter.
The two men pulled apart, and Bernie was shocked to see a wide toothy grin spreading across the colonel’s face.
Simjay joined in his laughter, pumping his hand as if they’d both just won the lottery. It was only then that Bernie noticed the nasty gash running down Simjay’s leg. The Rottweiler had torn his pant leg to shreds, and blood was still seeping from the wound.
“It’s good to see you, brother,” said Simjay, looking genuinely delighted to be reunited with his former protégé.
“Oh, you have no idea,” said Conrad, his mouth still stretched in a smile. “It’s like I’ve been wandering in the desert these last four years, and now you’ve finally found me.”
“Has it really been four years?”
Conrad nodded. “It’s been tough. Everything’s gone sideways, but I always remember what you said about these upsets being the fire that forge the sword.”
“Yes,” said Simjay. “And that steel” — he paused for effect and patted Conrad’s chest — “is in here.”
Bernie rolled her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said Conrad, turning toward Bernie and Portia. “I am a terrible host . . . Out of practice, I guess. Won’t you come in?”
“That would be great,” said Simjay, brightening visibly. “Look, I’m sorry for showing up in the middle of the night like this . . .”
“Nonsense,” said Conrad. “My home is your home. Anything I have” — he made an outpouring gesture with his hands — “is yours. You have given me so much . . . It’s truly the least I can do.”
“Wonderful!” said Simjay, clapping his hands together and wincing as he put weight on his bloody leg.
“I am so sorry about the dogs,” said Conrad. “They are my only friends out here, and I rely on their protection. As you saw, they can’t always discern friend from foe.”
“Understandable,” said Simjay, his nostrils twitching as his gaze settled on the vicious guard dogs.
“One moment.” Conrad dashed to a pole near the road and punched in a long code on a keypad. There was a loud beep, and Conrad moved to open the gate. Bernie sighed and hobbled forward on her crutches, wondering what kind of psycho lair they were walking into.
Portia followed closely behind her, scrutinizing Conrad’s compound with the same dubious expression.
“Conrad Kelly,” said Conrad, holding out a hand to shake Bernie’s.
“Bernie,” she said, surprised by the gentle pressure of Conrad’s rough, callused hands.
“Portia,” said Portia.
Denali was hanging back a bit, his tail firmly tucked between his legs. The Rottweilers were circling him with interest, and Denali held perfectly still as they sniffed and inspected him.
“That’s enough, ladies,” said Conrad, clicking his tongue to call off his dogs.
“Ladies?” Bernie mouthed to Simjay.
“That’s Cordelia, Desdemona, and Ophelia,” said Conrad, pointing to each of the Rottweilers in turn.
“Weird names for your dogs,” Portia muttered.
“Cordelia, Desdemona, and Ophelia are characters from Shakespeare’s plays,” said Conrad. “I’ve had a lot of time on my hands in the past few years, and I’ve been making my way through all the classics.”
“Can’t believe you didn’t know that,” Bernie muttered to Portia. “Weren’t you kicked out of a bunch of fancy-schmancy boarding schools?”
Portia opened her mouth to utter what was probably some snotty retort, but Conrad herded them up the porch steps with a sweep of his arm.
Simjay waited for Bernie halfway up the steps. She was slow and clumsy on her crutches, acutely aware of what a disadvantage they would be at if Conrad was luring them into a trap.
A motion-activated light flickered on as Simjay reached the deck, and Bernie saw that the huge space was crowded with barrels and bins labeled in neat block handwriting. Firewood was stacked under tarps in four neat rows, and the plated-steel door was accompanied by a complicated-looking electronic lock.
Conrad placed his thumb over a sensor, and the door beeped before admitting them. As they passed under the threshold, Bernie noticed several security cameras mounted under the eaves. She glanced at Portia, who was clearly thinking along the same lines as she was: This guy was either a genius or fucking insane.
Conrad held the door open for them, and Bernie caught a strong whiff of wood smoke, wet dog, and stale man stench. The tall windows she’d seen from the road were blacked out with some kind of futuristic-looking insulation. Old newspapers were stacked along the windows in piles as tall as Bernie, tied together with string. More bins and boxes were shoved against the interior walls, leaving an area about the size of a ping-pong table in the middle of the sunroom.
Their host steered them through a doorway that led to what was evidently the main living area. Bernie tilted her head back to get the full effect of the magnificent A-frame ceiling, where socks and long johns were hanging up to dry over the exposed wooden beams.
A cat was perched four or five feet above them, and when Bernie entered the living room, it jumped down onto her shoulder. She gave a start, and Conrad shoved a pile of laundry off the ratty blue couch so that they could sit.
The living-room walls were lined with books rather than newspapers. They were piled in waist-high stacks all around the room, except for the area Conrad had cleared around the wood-burning stove.
The fire crackled loudly in the silence, and Conrad bent down to add a few more logs as Cordelia, Desdemona, a
nd Ophelia situated themselves around the couch.
“I can’t believe we came all this way to see a crazy man,” Portia hissed, her eyes darting around the room.
“He wasn’t crazy when I knew him,” whispered Simjay.
“Shh!” said Bernie.
But Conrad couldn’t hear her. He was bustling around the house gathering first-aid supplies. They heard water splashing in the kitchen as he washed his hands, and when he returned, he knelt before Simjay on the floor to examine his wound.
“It’s not so bad,” said Simjay as Conrad rolled up his destroyed pant leg.
“Better safe than sorry,” said Conrad cheerfully, sticking a long cotton swab into a bottle of rubbing alcohol and applying it to Simjay’s torn flesh. The Rottweilers watched in polite fascination as their master delicately tended to the wound.
Simjay winced but didn’t make a sound. Something wasn’t right. The slash wasn’t severe enough to be causing him that kind of pain. Bernie suspected that the shock of the attack had been the worst part.
Despite Conrad’s bizarre living quarters, Denali seemed to be right at home. He padded over to the warm stretch of hardwood in front of the fire and plopped down to go to sleep.
“So what brings you here?” asked Conrad, finishing his work and bustling back into the kitchen to put on some coffee. “Not that I’m complaining . . . I don’t get a lot of visitors, as you can probably tell.”
Simjay glanced at Bernie, as if he were still trying to decide how much they should tell his ex-pupil.
“Why aren’t you at the ranch?” he pressed.
“It’s a long story,” said Simjay.
“I’ve got time,” Conrad replied cheerfully, dashing back into the kitchen and reappearing with four steaming mugs.
Simjay glanced at Bernie, who gave an infinitesimal shake of her head.
“Was it reclaimed by the Bureau of Land Management?” Conrad pressed. “Did they want to use it for cultivating food?”
“No,” said Simjay, looking down at the cup in his hands. “I haven’t been at the ranch in a while.”
“Oh,” said Conrad, sounding put out. “Well, what about the others? Miley and Sheldon . . . Ivanca and Serena . . . Dwight? Where have they gone?”
Simjay shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said hoarsely.
“But —” Conrad shook his head, clearly confused as to where those people would be if not at Quest Ranch. “Dwight was making such progress. Don’t you worry that he’ll relapse? He wasn’t ready —”
“I know,” Simjay croaked, genuine regret in his voice.
“You said he wouldn’t be ready for years . . . that he was still holding on to things that would weigh down his spirit . . .”
Portia’s and Bernie’s eyes slid over to Simjay, whose face had turned a deep shade of red. “That would be his yacht . . . and the Maserati.”
Portia’s mouth fell open.
Conrad was still having a hard time processing the fact that Quest Ranch was gone. “But your gurukula . . . Our community . . .”
There was a long uncomfortable silence. Bernie shook her head. She knew that Simjay was stewing in guilt, and after their long heart-to-heart on the way there, she was worried that he was about to spill everything.
She wasn’t concerned that Conrad wouldn’t give them any information if he found out that Birapaar had been full of shit. Any hope of Conrad providing useful information had flown out the window when she’d seen just how far removed from reality he already was. But if Conrad was crazy, he might be so furious that he decided to sic his dogs on them.
Finally, Simjay let out an agonized groan. “Conrad, I have to tell you something.”
“Birapaar . . .” said Portia in a warning voice.
“Stop it,” said Simjay. He looked from Conrad to Bernie with remorseful eyes and then let out a heavy breath of defeat. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what?”
“I can’t keep up with this charade.”
Conrad gave a small shake of his head. “I don’t understand . . .”
Simjay covered his face with his hands.
“Go on,” said Conrad. “You can tell me.”
Simjay released the breath he’d been holding and dropped his hand. “You’re going to hate me.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will. Even I hate me.”
“Tell me, Birapaar.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Simjay muttered, looking up toward the heavens as if begging for support.
“Don’t,” Bernie whispered, kicking him behind the coffee table.
Simjay ignored her. “I lied to you,” he said, throwing up his hands. “There. I said it. I lied to you. I lied to everybody. I even lied to myself.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
Simjay let out a heavy breath. “There is no Birapaar.”
Conrad fell silent, his eyes crinkled in bewilderment.
“I’m not a guru,” Simjay sighed. “I never was one. I was an arrogant kid who thought I could make a lot of money by getting people to donate their shit to my cause. I didn’t lose the ranch to the Bureau of Land Management . . . I lost it when I was sent to prison. That’s where I’ve been for the past three and a half years.”
Conrad shook his head, a bizarre expression playing on his face. “Well, yeah.”
Simjay froze. None of them said a word. They were all staring at Conrad as if he might suddenly explode.
Then, to Bernie’s surprise, he let out a raucous burst of laughter. “I know that!”
Simjay glanced at Bernie and then back to Conrad. “No, I mean, Birapaar isn’t even my real name. It’s Simjay Kapoor.”
“Well, none of us figured that Birapaar was on your birth certificate,” said Conrad, his face lighter than Bernie had seen it yet. “I don’t think any of us thought you were the real deal. Well, maybe Serena. But she was . . .” He made a cuckoo gesture with his hand. “You were just a kid. Nobody thought you were the second coming of Yogananda or anything.”
“They didn’t?” Simjay sounded relieved but also a little disappointed.
“No!” said Conrad. “At least I didn’t. I just thought you had some good ideas.”
“Then why did you follow me?”
“I was fucking miserable!” said Conrad. “I was working sixty hours a week doing . . .” He trailed off and shook his head, as if trying to dislodge a bad memory. “Long story short, I hated what I was doing. You know that. I’d just gotten a divorce; my kids wanted nothing to do with me. I wanted to kill myself. Seriously! I needed some crazy kid with big ideas to shake me out of my own head.” He met Simjay’s gaze dead-on. “You saved my life.”
“I . . . I did?”
In that moment, Simjay looked so taken aback that Bernie sensed it might be going to his head. She kicked him in his uninjured leg, and he seemed to snap back to reality.
“So all those people who gave me their shit . . .”
“They were happy to be rid of it,” said Conrad. “Those people were all richer than God. You think they couldn’t just tap into their trust funds if they ever wanted to buy another Porsche?”
Simjay let out a deep breath. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I lied to so many people.”
“At least you never killed anybody,” said Conrad. His tone was light, but Bernie sensed that he hadn’t just pulled that comparison out of thin air.
“Right . . .”
“I didn’t know you went to prison for it, though. That’s fucking crazy.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Simjay mumbled.
“So why did you come here?” asked Conrad. “You never did answer my question.”
Simjay took a deep breath. “Our friends were taken. We escaped from prison about a week and a half ago, and we were on the run. Homeland Security finally caught up with us, and we think they took three of our friends.”
Conrad’s expression darkened, but Simjay didn’t notice. He seemed emboldened by his confession and cont
inued to blaze through their story as if he were desperate to get it all off his chest.
“We need to find out where they’re being held and if there’s a way we can get them out.”
Conrad shook his head. He was no longer looking at Simjay. He was staring off into space, and Bernie had the feeling that he was being dragged into a horrible memory.
“No,” said Conrad.
Simjay paused. “Conrad . . .”
“No!” he repeated, more insistently this time. Conrad had begun to rock back and forth, shaking his head. His eyes were bulging and unfocused, and he looked as though he were in an extreme amount of pain. “I can’t go back there . . . I can’t be part of this.”
“Conrad, please,” said Simjay. “You have to help us. You’re the only person I know who —”
“I don’t work for those people anymore!” said Conrad. “I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’ve freed myself.”
“It’s all right. I’m not asking you to work for them,” said Simjay in a slow, calming voice. “I’m just asking you to tell us anything —”
“I can’t!” Conrad yelled, jerking back as though Simjay had burned him and then staring up at the ceiling.
Bernie drew in a tense breath of air. Her heart was pounding, and her gut was telling her that they needed to get the fuck out of there. Conrad was losing it, and she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his craziness.
“Can’t go back,” Conrad muttered, rocking back and forth. “Can’t go back. Can’t wind the clock. Can’t go back. Can’t wind the clock.”
“What the —”
But Conrad had completely checked out. It was as if they weren’t even there. He was sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, pressing his fingers into his temple so hard that Bernie thought he might bruise his face.
“Can’t go back. Can’t go back. Can’t go back.”
“Conrad!” Simjay yelled, standing up with a grimace.
But Conrad had fallen back into his own little world. With his wild hair and beard, he looked like an escaped mental patient. Bernie could hardly believe that the man sitting before her was a former air force pilot who had once been a highly paid government contractor.