“I’m in the green bird. Make sure they don’t kill me, okay? Tell them I’m going fishing.”
I disconnected, moved to the pilot, and jabbed my thumb over and up. The pilot jerked the joystick and whipped us 50 feet to the right and up, and then stopped dead in the air to hover. My stomach lurched, and I swallowed back bile and terror. I got a visual fix on the scene below. The line of agents and Mexican soldiers was still advancing steadily, guns trained.
I crawled to the open doorway and waved at the men on the ground. “Get back!” I yelled. The wind threw my words back at me, “Get back!”
I turned to find the entrance to the underground facility.
A black helmet appeared, rising from below.
Now the two Hueys pulled closer and hovered like hungry buzzards, waiting for permission to dive.
The line kept advancing.
Can’t they all see what he’s holding?
And then it happened. Gus must have gotten through somehow. Or maybe somebody actually used their binoculars. The men on the ground started backing up swiftly, as a single unit, as if on command. They regrouped 10 yards farther back, then 10 more, repeating the motion until they were at least 60 yards back. The Hueys, too, backed off.
Advancing forward, slow and steady, was Chaco. He had donned a thick bulletproof vest, along with the protective helmet. Rounds of bullets, like deadly necklaces, were draped across his chest, and his wide leather belt holstered two automatic pistols. None of this mattered. What mattered was the heavy launcher balanced on one shoulder. What mattered was the thermobaric grenade, nestled in front. What mattered was the finger poised on the trigger, eager to annihilate all.
I motioned the pilot to drop down closer.
He looked at me askance, as if to say, “Are you crazy?”
Probably I was. But I, too, had made this mess, and now I needed to clean it up.
Chaco glanced up, and I ducked low, out of his line of vision. I could almost taste the rage spraying off his skin like sour spittle, as he realized his pilot had disobeyed his orders to stay put and was hovering overhead.
But if Chaco brought the copter down, he was destroying his only means of escape, guaranteeing at best a life behind bars.
He bared his teeth and swung his rocket launcher upwards. I so wanted to get a decent shot off but fell backward instead, when the panicked pilot launched the helicopter straight up. I closed my eyes and searched inside for an appropriate death chant, but instead my mouth curved into an ironic smile. I didn’t have the heart to tell the poor pilot that there was no escape, no spot in the sky high enough. Bringing down choppers was what Shmel flame-throwers were built to do.
Suddenly my body flooded with pure adrenaline, astringent and tart. My five senses sharpened to a precise moment of knowing, like the deadly tip of a spear.
I was perfectly ready to kill or be killed.
I had never felt more alive.
And I finally understood Chaco’s words, in the cabaña: There is no other way to live but this—close to the flame that eventually must destroy me. In this way, you and I are alike.
I belly-crawled to the open doorframe and sighted my Wilson, propping myself up on my elbows. I motioned the pilot to take me closer. He hesitated, and I swung my gun at his head. He saw from my eyes that hesitation was not an option.
I was hyper-alert. I knew I couldn’t miss. Not him. Not Chaco.
As we descended, I saw the same conviction, the same invincible certainty on Chaco’s face, as he swung the launcher between the Feds, the hovering Hueys, the Mexican militia, and us.
We were both sure, but only one of us could be right. He had the bulletproof vest, the protective helmet, the rocket launcher. But I had the advantage, because he didn’t know I was here.
My trigger finger itched. I was almost close enough.
Something winked at me. A flash of reflected light, near where we’d hidden the guard’s body.
I found the source. A sniper, stretched behind the same chaparral that held the guard’s corpse. His eye was pressed to the scope of a submachine gun, an MP5. He glanced up, then returned to sighting his target. Like me, he had a very tough kill shot. Too much body armor, too few points of access. But at least he was aiming from the ground.
And for one brief moment, I tasted the hot rage of a killer denied his kill.
I had a heart full of revenge and a soul full of bloodlust—my final terrible secret. I wanted to kill again.
Fucker! I’ll take you down first!
I raised my Wilson. Darkness washed across my eyes. I blinked, but the shimmer of black remained, hampering my aim.
And then I heard Lobsang’s quiet voice, reaching through my mind’s shadows: Whenever darkness draws you in, choose the sangha. Choose the light, my friend.
The darkness ebbed, the adrenaline, too. I left that dark and hidden place, and returned to my body.
I took a moment to breathe, and then I told the pilot what I needed him to do.
I set my .38 aside, along with Goodhue’s Beretta, still weighing down my pocket. I stripped off the orderly uniform, the windbreaker underneath, the shoulder holster. I took off my shoes and socks. Soon I was barefoot, in just my jeans and black T-shirt.
The helicopter lowered to about 50 yards above the rippling earth, and maybe 20 yards in front of Chaco. It hovered above him, like a hummingbird.
I inhaled, exhaled, and crawled to the edge of the helicopter. I pushed up onto my knees, centered my breath, and let my attention grow still, felt the delicate shifting of weight as my body danced with the seesaw motion caused by the hovering blades. Wind buffeted my face and body. One mistake, and I would tumble.
May I be safe and protected. May I be healthy and strong. May I be happy and full of ease. May I be free.
If I should fall to the ground and shatter, if my world should explode into metallic shards, if the same air I invite to help me should be sucked out of my body, turning my essence inside out, if I should die, I die knowing this:
I choose light over darkness.
I am not my secrets.
I am myself again.
“Chaco!” I called out. “Chaco Morales! Carnaté!”
He looked up, whether because he heard me or just sensed me, I’ll never know.
His eyes darkened with shock when he realized who was riding shotgun in his helicopter.
I took another tiny move forward, so he could see me, all of me, balancing on the open lip of a flying machine. Placing my hands in prayer posture, I touched them to my forehead and then spread my palms outward, bowing slightly, an offering of loving-kindness and maybe even respect.
“Guess what?” I thought. “I came back to life, too.” And I started to laugh.
Chaco squinted up at me, his face twisted, as if confused by this silent truth. His tipped head exposed a delicate, deadly target for the sniper, as I had known it would.
I saw the sniper’s rifle buck. I saw Chaco’s head snap back, as the bullet entered just under his chin and ripped upward into the dark matter of his brain, tearing it apart. I saw Chaco buckle to his knees and fall, and the grenade launcher bounce and roll to one side harmlessly, settling a yard or two from his still body.
Om mani padme hum. The words radiated through my body like sweet balm, before reaching outward, encouraging Chaco to transform from a state of impurity to purity, from ignorance to the exalted state of Buddhahood. I felt every syllable. I expanded the range of the chant, sent it on to his young daughter, to his beautiful wife. Om mani padme hum.
I returned to my seat and buckled in. I pointed my gun.
“Vamonos,” I said.
I didn’t have to say it twice.
CHAPTER 23
I straightened my tie, keeping one eye on the stone steps leading down to “our” table, the one where Heather and I had had our first date. The Inn of the Seventh Ray was only half full. It was a work night for most. I’d ordered myself a beer and a bottle of red wine for Heather and me to sh
are. I’d chosen a 2006 Windward Pinot Noir, one of her favorites. It sat uncorked and breathing by her place setting. Heather had just texted me that she was running late. A late-breaking autopsy, another young celebrity dead of an overdose. This one was a former child actress, a star whose light burned way too bright, way too soon. That same light had been quenched before she’d reached the age of 30, her trajectory through life like a comet’s, peaking early before crashing into the ocean.
I closed my eyes and wished her well. Expanded my heart’s intention to include Heather. Expanded it further to reach the many others who had traversed my own sky these past few weeks.
The Baja raid proved to be one of the biggest hauls in law enforcement history. Everyone took credit. The DEA bragged about the accuracy of their intel. Homeland highlighted their heat-seeking drone. The FBI pointed to their sniper, and the Mexican Nationals held a celebratory press conference lauding the disruption of a rumored cartel of cartels, complete with table upon table displaying confiscated telecommunication devices for all to see. The ATF checked several hundred Fast and Furious weapons off their “missing” list, and the Department of Defense, after trumpeting the international quashing of a potential terrorist act, quietly removed the Shmels, final destination unknown. Even the San Diego border patrol got in on the Chaco act, after unearthing a highly sophisticated tunnel connecting a warehouse in San Diego with another in Tijuana.
As far as I knew, only one agent hit a home run, though. Within days of the raid, ATF Agent Gus Gustafson got a raise, a promotion, and a Cielo Lodero special interview during which Gus marched out of the closet smiling.
She had a bonafide girlfriend within 48 hours of airtime.
Chuy Dos joined Uno in prison. And GTG Services, Incorporated, named for a former Miss Tijuana, Gloria Teresa Garcia, was in the process of suffering an epic financial meltdown, after losing their CEO and all credibility.
Dr. Kestrel was fired, of course, and faced a slew of criminal charges, medical malpractice the least of them. Dr. Gomez, his Mexican counterpart, as well as Señora Delgado had been returned to Mexico, to face their own fates.
As for Bets McMurtry, I’d visited her in the hospital just yesterday.
Her body was shrunken and frail. The lipstick and pink powder couldn’t hide the still-pale cast of her skin. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said, attempting a smile.
“Truer than you know,” I answered. “How are you doing?”
“I’m alive,” she answered. “For what it’s worth.”
“Did Detective Bohannon fill you in on everything?” Thanks to Bill’s quick work, paramedics had found Clara Fuentes unconscious and bleeding, alone on a gurney inside the medical mobile unit. They’d raced her to County/USC, where a team of trauma surgeons cleaned up and reattached what remained of her liver, so the rest of it could eventually grow back.
Bets had struggled upright, wincing. “Tenzing, I swear to God, I had no idea about any of this. All Goodhue told me was there was a donor available. I didn’t know it was …” Her eyes filled. “Clara’s right down the hall, did you know that? She hates me. Never wants to lay eyes on me again, and I don’t blame her. I can’t stand to look at myself either.” Her voice lowered. “This is all my fault. I wish I was dead.”
I felt a twinge of compassion, despite myself. Her choice of Goodhue as go-to man, coupled with a sudden worsening of her health, had triggered an avalanche of consequences.
The slide began with Goodhue’s decision to have Chuy’s men kidnap Clara—a woman, as Bets herself had pointed out—so similar in size and shape they could share clothes, which also meant they could share a liver, if everything else checked out. A woman who presented a serious threat to Bets’s political aspirations and was better off gone. A woman who would not be missed, because she was already invisible. But by veering from the gangbanger-donor model, Goodhue had overlooked two things: one, Bets’s love for Clara and determination to find her, an attachment that overrode even her political ambitions (something Goodhue would not understand); two, the strange workings of karma that somehow threw Chaco and me back into the same ring.
“I’m done politically, of course,” Bets now said, her voice weak. “And it’s a goddamned relief, if you want to know the truth.”
“You’re leaving politics?”
“Already resigned my seat. It’s time for Bets McMurtry to work for political change from behind the scenes for once.” Her smile was wan. “I was so sure God was in charge that I ignored any red flags and refused to look at the men behind the money.” She shrugged. “They say I probably won’t be charged with anything, but if you ask me, I probably deserve jail, or worse, for goddamned willful ignorance and gross stupidity. Either way, I have to make amends. That woman is the reason I’m alive. I owe her.”
The air in the hospital room seemed to roil with some sort of inner struggle. After a moment, her voice firmed up. “Getting that close to evil changes a person, even a tough bird like me. Can I tell you a little secret?”
“Sure,” I’d said.
“God works in mysterious ways, Ten. I still believe that. And so I’m questioning everything. Everything. Our policy on illegal immigrants, for example.” She lay back down and closed her eyes. “Keep an eye on me. I might just surprise you.”
I left her then and moved down the hall to look in on another patient.
Clara Fuentes was fast asleep in her hospital bed. It had been touch and go, but she turned out to be as resilient as her former employer. Even asleep, she looked kind. I nodded and smiled at the young man sitting by her bedside. Carlos was keeping vigil, as he had since I’d let him know where Clara was. A new little family unit was forming, forged by grief.
The waitress placed a basket of warm bread in front of me. I grabbed a whole-wheat roll, slathering it with butter. I’d dropped about six pounds over the past few months and lost some muscle mass besides. Too many skipped meals and workouts. Too many skipped everythings.
Not anymore. Yeshe and Lobsang had listened to my full confession and had assigned me a new regime of two visits a day to my meditation cushion, to which I’d added at least 45 minutes of sweaty exercise. This morning, I’d sat on the cushion after months of neglecting my inner world. My eyes had found the small statue of the Buddha.
You’re still here, I thought.
Look inside: I never left, he seemed to reply.
I popped the final morsel of roll into my mouth. The diner at the table next to me, a very handsome man, nudged his companion, another very handsome man, and directed his attention across the restaurant. They were looking at a woman making her way down the stone steps. Both men gazed in awe, as if viewing a favorite work of art.
Heather was here, parting waves, as usual, with her beauty.
She had dressed up for the occasion as well, and her white silk halter dress managed to be demure and incredibly hot at the same time.
She pecked me on the cheek and sat.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
I poured her a glass of wine. She took the bottle from my hand, read the label, and hummed with appreciation.
We clinked glasses and drank.
“You look beautiful,” I said. “How are you?”
She met my eyes. “Are you asking, or, you know, really asking?”
“I’m really asking,” I said.
“Then the real answer is, I’m a bit of a wreck, but I’m going to be okay.”
“Good,” I said. “Me, too.”
“Ten, I have to tell you something before I lose my nerve. I … I’ve been seeing this doctor …”
I reached across the table and touched her hand.
“I understand. And I’m really sorry things happened the way they did. I wish Kestrel hadn’t turned out to be such a crook.”
Heather blinked at me. “What?”
“He’s under investigation. Didn’t he tell you?”
“Ten, what are you talking about?”
“Your affair,” I said. “With Kestrel. You know, the doctor you’re seeing.” I looked away, and then forced myself to meet her eyes. “I found the Post-it, Heather.”
“The Post-it?”
“‘Dr. K., 6 P.M.’?”
Heather’s face cleared, and she started to laugh. Hard.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, Ten, I do love you sometimes. The Post-it.” She wiped her eyes. “Not that kind of doctor. Not that kind of seeing.”
Now it was my turn to blink.
“Let’s try this one again,” she said. She took a deep breath and met my eyes. “I have an eating disorder, Tenzing. I’ve had it for years. It’s called bulimia, but the name doesn’t matter. I binge on food, and then I purge it. It’s this big, horrible, secret thing I do, my most unfixable and shameful thing. But I’m finally getting help for it.”
A series of moments flashed across my mind, like a sped-up slide show. The trips to the bathroom after every meal. The reddened eyes, when I thought she’d been crying. The breath mints, not quite successfully coating over something slightly sour when I kissed her. The missing …
I cleared my throat. “So the, uh, the peanut butter?”
She nodded. “Hopefully, my last binge,” she said. “Oh, Ten, I’m so sorry. This thing has been like a wall between me and the rest of the world—between us, this whole time. I thought I was better. I mean, I was better for a little while after I met you, but it came back, got worse even, especially after you left and I was promoted to ME. I just felt so much pressure all the time.”
“So Dr. K … ?”
She smiled. “Kirsten, Kirsten Lewis. Clinical psychologist, specializing in eating disorders. Dr. K.’s lovely. You’d like her. I’m seeing her three times a week for now. She says it’s a long road back to healthy, but she’s confident I can do it.”
The waitress arrived with menus. “Would you like to hear our specials?”
I waved her off quickly. Heather cocked her head at me.
“Sorry, but I mean, can you eat?”
Heather started to laugh again, before she started to cry.
“I’m going to really miss this,” she said. “You.”
The Third Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery Page 30