by J. R. Rain
Cindy didn’t like staying behind. Although she liked Spinoza, and had met with him on a handful of occasions, she had been in the middle of lining up someone to teach her class and was looking forward to a road trip with yours truly. Who wouldn’t?
I reminded her that my client had had his head blown off just two days earlier. I reminded her that the killer was at large and that he—or she—might have targeted me, too. When someone targets me, I worry about all those closest to me.
Cindy wasn’t happy. She leaned toward Sanchez’s opinion that, since my client was dead, I should drop the case. I suggested that it was probably what the murderer hoped I would do; that is, if my client’s death and the case were related.
At about that point in the discussion, Cindy held my gaze for a long moment, and then looked away with tears in her eyes. She didn’t have to say it, but I knew she didn’t like the chances I took. She didn’t like them, but she respected them.
We didn’t say much after that. Later that night, we slept together, while she snuggled as close to me as humanly possible. Somewhere down by my feet, Junior snuggled with me as closely as pooch-ily possible.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I awoke to hear Cindy in the bathroom, crying softly. She came back a few minutes later and wrapped her arm around me tightly. As she did so, I told her that I was going to be okay. She nodded and rested her head on my shoulder, and was soon fast asleep.
I lay awake for the rest of the night, staring up at the ceiling, holding my girl, and listening to Junior’s light snoring. The images of Clarence’s blown-off head replayed in my mind again and again.
And again...
Chapter Eighteen
Sedona was hard to miss.
Red rock monoliths were scattered everywhere, some grouped in mountain chains, others freestanding. The rocks ranged from reddish to pinkish to brownish. I was also colorblind, so who knew what colors I was really seeing. I tended to get colors wrong. Still, reds were never a major problem for me, although they could sometimes look brown to my eyes; at least, that’s what I’m told. And usually by Cindy.
Now cruising through town, I soon came across the main tourist attraction, a charming group of historic buildings and shops and restaurants, called Tlaquepaque, which, as some linguist has already noted, is impossible for gringos to pronounce.
Tlaquepaque looked like it might have been lifted straight out of Mexico, and I think that was the idea. It had an Old-World feel to it, with floors and doorways that might have been level. It was two levels and seemed to be comprised of a lot of restaurants and bars and art galleries and coffee shops. Pretty much all my favorite things rolled together in one place. Well, two out of three wasn’t bad. Throw in a gym, and we would be golden.
My hotel was just behind the center, and up a short dirt road, which was connected to the shopping center’s main paved road. I parked out front of a squat, rustic-looking hotel.
Not surprisingly, my room continued the rustic theme, although it skewed more toward Western. A saddle on my wall. Roughly-hewn bedposts. A floor that looked like it might have come from a local saloon. Indeed, saloon doors into my bathroom. Once settled, I moseyed over to the toilet, cowboy-like. I might have tipped an invisible ten-gallon hat at myself in the mirror.
When I was done clowning around, I got serious and settled into bed and called Cindy. It had been a long day of driving, and she had spent the better part of it teaching. But now, we were both in bed and on the phone and whispering sweet nothings, although they meant far more than nothing to me. They meant the world. I asked how things were going with Spinoza. She said things were going quietly. No surprise there.
Not too long after that, I was asleep, dreaming of cowboys and red rocks and aliens.
And not necessarily in that order.
Chapter Nineteen
I woke early, as usual.
This time there was no Junior to scratch, or Cindy to cuddle with. Sometimes, I get the two mixed up, especially early in the morning. More than once I had awakened to scratching Cindy’s ass. She didn’t seem to mind. Since Junior was staying at Cindy’s, she was probably scratching him this morning.
No, today there was much to do. I had spent all yesterday driving, and was feeling a strong need to move my body, which is exactly what I did.
I dropped to the wooden floor and did more pushups than most people did all year. And then I did them all over again. And again.
I next headed over to the bathtub and leaned back against it and did triceps dips until my arms burned. And then, I did some more. And then some more after that.
Who needed a gym?
Once done, I threw on some sweats and a t-shirt and my Asics running shoes. I stretched a little, careful of my wonky leg. Then I grabbed my key card and my cell phone, and hit the streets of Sedona.
I headed south, I think, and followed the main road back through town, then followed the signs to a place called the Chapel of the Holy Cross, and then jogged along next to a steady stream of cars that led to, of all things, a church high up the side of the mountain, seemingly embedded into the rock itself.
I hung a right into the parking lot, and then wound my way up past the slow-moving tourists’ vehicles. I soon found my jaw slightly unhinged for the second time in two days. Yes, the church or chapel had been built down into the red rock, with mountains soaring on either side. A ramp was built from the parking lot, spanning over said mountain, to the chapel itself.
Plaques around the chapel suggested this place was a hodgepodge of Catholicism and New Age nuttery. Apparently, the chapel sat on a vortex, which, in New Age lingo, meant everyone stood around oohing and aahing at the slightest tingle in their spines, or twitch in their asses.
Myself, I didn’t know a vortex from a chakra, but I did admire the sheer effort of it all. If there’s anything I can appreciate, it’s a modern marvel. As they say, it takes one to know one.
The Chapel of the Holy Cross attracted a lot of people, even this early in the morning. I doubted many were Catholics. I doubted few were here to actually worship. There was a lot of picture taking and goofing around. I photobombed two such pictures on my walk along the skywalk, which led from the parking lot to the church. They’ll thank me later.
A short wall surrounded the church, and more than a few people were sitting on said wall, looking out toward the rising sun, fingers circled, in a posture that suggested they were in deep meditation. Or signaling the mother ship.
I hadn’t meditated a day in my life, and rarely sat still longer than a few minutes, unless I counted the hours on end that I watched football. Anyway, as I drew closer to the curious structure, damned if I didn’t feel an inexplicable shiver that shimmied up and down my spine.
I think I might have been vortexed.
As I stepped through the milling, picture-snapping crowd, as I photobombed precisely three more pictures, I entered the open church, and that’s when my mouth dropped open.
There, sitting in the back pew, was Jack.
Chapter Twenty
We were seated in the back row.
“Fancy meeting you here, Jack,” I said. I kept my voice low, out of respect for those few who were worshiping, and out of reverence for the place itself. Yes, once inside, I forgot that the place was balanced precariously atop a crag or tor or cornice, or whatever the hell this type of rock was called.
“I could say the same for you, Jim,” said Jack. “And we would call this an outcrop.”
I was sitting next to Jack, who was wearing, I was certain, the exact same dirty jeans and stained UCLA sweatshirt I had seen him in the other day.
“Did you just read my mind?” I asked, realizing that I sounded like a crazy man. Then again, I was surrounded by people who believed in vortexes and aliens and Bigfoot.
“Do you think I read your mind?”
“I was wondering what this rock was called and you...never mind. Am I still sleeping? Are you really here? Am I really here?”
“Y
ou ask a lot of questions, Jim, for early in the morning.”
“I’m sleeping. There’s no way I’m sitting next to you now. I saw you a few days ago in Huntington Beach, California. You don’t have a car. Or I don’t think you do. I suppose you could have taken a bus. But then, what are the chances of seeing you here?”
“You’re even making my head hurt, Jim.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“God can be flippant?”
“Why not?”
“I guess God could also be whatever he wants to be...and wherever he wants to be.”
“A good guess, Jim.”
“So, am I really awake? Yesterday was a long drive.”
“Only eight hours, Jim. You weren’t that tired.”
“And how do you know if I was tired...never mind.”
“Deep breaths, Jim.”
“Why...why are you here?” I asked.
Jack didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he surveyed the small crowd of people who had actually made it this far into the open chapel, people who were now kneeling in pews or lighting votive candles or sat with heads bowed and eyes shut. Jack might have been smiling, he also might have been listening to their prayers. Then again, if he was God, who knew what he was really doing? Maybe in these small moments, he was creating worlds, or destroying worlds. Maybe another Big Bang started on the far side of the Universe. Then again, maybe he was blessing someone for sneezing.
“Or maybe all of the above,” said Jack.
“You are one freaky dude,” I said.
“You have no idea, Jim.”
“Are there a lot of you, Jack?”
“There’s only one God, Jim.”
“I mean, are there many versions of you, scattered over this world? Are there Jacks in Tokyo and France and Nigeria? If you are God, you could be in many places at once, or all places at once, and in as many bodies as you want.”
“Or not,” said Jack. “Maybe I’m here just for you.”
“But why me?”
“Why not you, Jim?”
I had a million responses to that. That I wasn’t particularly religious or spiritual. That I was, at times, no better than a hired thug. That I have impure thoughts, especially of Cindy. And that I sometimes acted on those impure thoughts, and only with Cindy. That I have hurt a lot of people, and that I have even killed people.
But I didn’t say any of those things, although I suspected that Jack was very aware of every one of my thoughts.
Finally, I said, “Nice seeing you, Jack.”
“It’s nice seeing you, too, Jim.”
“So, why are you here?”
“You’re asking why God is in a church, Jim?”
“I...” I had no response.
“Just messing with you, Jim. Remember—”
“God is everywhere.”
“Good, Jim. You see, you may not be particularly religious or spiritual, but you have made it a point to be aware, to question. Mostly, to keep an open mind. That is all God asks.”
“I thought God asks for complete devotion.”
“Devotion is fine, Jim, but I do not ask for it.”
“But you’ll take it?”
“If one chooses to spend one’s life in devotion to me, then I am pleased. But one does not need to be a monk, Jim, to find favor in God’s eyes.”
“What does one have to do to find favor?”
“Nothing.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“You know me well, Jim. Remember, God’s love is ever flowing. It is up to you to receive it, to be open to it. My suggestion is to live one’s life in a way that helps one to stay open to God’s love, to the ever-flowing source of Well Being.”
“And how does one stay open to the ever-flowing source of Well Being?”
“By doing things and thinking things that bring one closer to God.”
“That raises your vibration?” I said.
“Right,” said Jack.
“I have a feeling my vibration is fairly low.”
“And yet, you sit next to me now,” said Jack.
“But I haven’t done anything to raise my vibration.”
“Not consciously, Jim. But you live your life with honor—your own code of honor, granted—but honor, nonetheless. Mostly, you live a life of service.”
“Service raises your vibration?”
Jack nodded. “More than people know. If more people knew the benefits of helping their fellow man had on them, their environment and the Earth itself, you would see a lot more people going out of their way to do more for others.”
“Why don’t people help others?”
“They do, Jim. And more people are doing it every day, and seeing the benefits, as well.”
“So, what’s the benefit of raising one’s vibration? I mean, why bother? Seems like a lot of work.”
“No more work than you spend at the gym. Perhaps even far less.”
“But I can see those results. People a half-mile away can see those results. A person goes to the gym, they see results. A person sits quietly in a room, chanting, ‘Om,’ doesn’t see the benefits.”
“The benefits are subtle, Jim, and not immediate. But they will come. Same as with working out at the gym. It sometimes takes weeks or months to see the benefits.”
“What are some of the benefits?”
“Peace of mind and heart, a positive outlook, inner awareness, self-healing—”
“Self-healing?”
“Yes, Jim.”
“Can you show me how to do that? To self-heal?”
Jack studied me for a moment, the said, “Close your eyes, Jim. Good. Now, I want you to think of the love you have for Cindy, for your mother, even for your dog, Junior. Good. Now, I want you to focus that love here.” He tapped my chest. “Feel the love in your heart, Jim. Love is a living thing, is it not?”
I did as I was told, and I might have nodded. But, dammit, I felt a warmth radiate out from my chest, a warmth that seemed to spread throughout my entire body.
“Focus that love, Jim. This is healing love, the love that emanates from the chest. Now, focus that love into your leg.”
“My...what?”
“Your leg, Jim. Your once-broken and shattered leg.”
I did as I was told, aware of my heart now beating rapidly. I focused that healing love into my damaged leg, a leg that still throbbed from my morning jog, my damaged leg that had taken so much from me, my leg that had been a constant irritant for me for so long.
What I felt next was a thing of dreams.
Yes, surely I was dreaming.
“You asked for the benefits, Jim,” said Jack quietly, his voice barely discernible.
I felt movement in my leg. I felt healing, too. And what I heard next caused me to sit up, alarmed. It was the sound of metal hitting the tiled floor. Many pieces hitting the floor, like metal raindrops.
“One of them,” said Jack, his voice seemingly coming to me from far away, “is to do miracles.”
I opened my eyes. There, on the floor next to my Asics sneaker, were a half-dozen shiny bolts and screws. The same shiny bolts and screws that had held my leg together for so long.
I turned to look where Jack had been sitting next to me. But he was gone.
And I was alone.
Chapter Twenty-one
I walked back to my hotel in a daze.
As I walked, I was fully aware of one thing and one thing only: there was no pain in my right leg. I walked carefully, gingerly, expecting the pain to return at any moment, bracing for what had always been there, at least for the past ten years of my life.
But the pain never returned.
In fact, my leg felt stronger than ever. Soon, I was walking swiftly, with no limp. No longer was my right leg avoiding the bulk of the load, and no longer did my left leg support the deficiencies of the right.
Right, left...I pounded up the sidewalk, my muscles burning naturally from the strain.
And then, I was running.
I put my head down, driving my legs hard, pounding the pavement, running uphill as fast as I could, no doubt looking like a crazy man in the process.
Except I didn’t care.
I had to test my legs. I had to see if this was for real--or awaken from my dream. In my zippered sweats pocket, the nuts and bolts clanged. Nuts and bolts that had, just a few minutes earlier, been holding my once-badly damaged leg together.
But there was no pain. No, my legs burned naturally. My muscles were screaming as I ran faster and faster up the hill.
And when I got to the top, certain that I might have a heart attack from the mad dash up, as I stood and looked down upon Sedona, and out across the ancient rock formations, those magical rock formations...
As I did so, I hid my face in my hands and wept.
But not for very long.
Chapter Twenty-two
I was almost late.
I had returned to my hotel, showered, had a full breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant, and then waited for that moment when I would finally wake up.
But I never woke up.
And the pain never returned.
Now, I was sitting in a small, glass office, waiting for the detective who’d come out to greet me to fetch us both some coffee and donuts. Yes, I’d already had breakfast, but I was never one to turn down a donut or three.
Detective Tom Falcon, who may or may not have the coolest name ever, returned a few minutes later with a paper plate filled with donuts. Maybe six in all. In his other hand, he carried two steaming hot coffees. He might have been the most talented man I had ever seen.
“A little help here, Knighthorse,” he said.
I reached over and plucked one of the coffees and two of the donuts.
“Just two?”
“I didn’t want to seem presumptuous.”
“Presume your ass off.”
I grinned and took another donut, this one a healthy-looking chocolate buttermilk that made me happy just looking at it. Then again, having my leg miraculously repaired made me feel pretty damn happy, too. But the donut was a close second.