The Breath of God (24 page)

“I want you,” he whispered, sliding his hands further down.

That's when she abruptly pushed away.

“I'm sorry,” he said, quickly moving his hands. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. No. My fault. I just let things go too far.”

“That's okay. We don't have to have sex,” he said, which was true, but he was disappointed to be saying it nonetheless.

“I know. I'm sorry, Grant. I got carried away.”

She shifted off him and sat on the edge of the futon. Her disheveled hair fell around her face in damp strands, making her appear even more beautiful in the unkempt way of a fashion ad. She no longer stared into his eyes but instead gazed somewhere deep into his chest.

“So, what ...”

“Ever since Isabelle's death, with guys—” She brushed her hair out of her face. “I mean, I'm not a virgin. It's just that if I really like someone, I can't—”

“Hey, don't stress about it.” He took her hand. “I understand.”

“It's getting late.” Kristin stood, tucked in the shirt she normally wore loose, and buttoned her jeans. “We need to get some sleep before we get back to work on your situation tomorrow.”

His humiliation at the debate, which he'd briefly forgotten until this moment, seemed to have brought them closer, but now she wouldn't look him in the eyes. Kristin moved toward the bedroom door, her back now toward him. He felt an insecurity expanding within his chest as questions danced in his head.
Was it really the memory of her sister that caused her to pull away or was it something else?
After everything that was going wrong, he wasn't sure he trusted his own judgment. He couldn't afford to have things weird with Kristin. He needed her now as much as he'd needed her camera in Bhutan.

She turned toward him and said, “We have plenty of time to talk later.” The bedroom door closed behind her.

W
HAT DOES BILLINGSLY WANT?
Grant paused outside his mentor's office door.

The professor had called an hour earlier on Grant's cell just as he and Kristin were finishing breakfast. In an unusually strained voice, Billingsly asked him to come alone, so he'd dropped Kristin off at a Starbucks near campus. He thought the professor's request odd, but it was just as well. An awkward tension hung between Kristin and him that morning. Neither had mentioned the events of the previous night.

Reaching for the door handle, Grant wondered whether the professor had made progress with the government of Bhutan through his university contacts in the Emory-Tibet Partnership, a program of study in Tibetan Buddhism. He also hoped that his mentor would have some advice on how he should handle the fallout from Brady's attack. Today Grant needed his counsel more than ever.

As Grant opened the door, a powerful sense of déjà vu sucked the breath from his lungs. Billingsly sat at his desk wearing a stern expression behind his half-moon glasses. Perched in one of the two black maple chairs and dressed in gray wool slacks and a wrinkled blue blazer with brass buttons was Chair of the Religious Studies Department Edward Flannigan. Wisps of white hair were combed over a pale scalp. The hazel eyes behind the horned-rim glasses surveyed Grant as he froze in the doorway.

Sophomore year again
.

“Please, Grant, have a seat.” Billingsly motioned to the other empty chair.

Grant limped to the center of the office but felt as if he'd left his stomach at the door. He lowered himself into the hardwood chair and stretched out his right leg, which had begun to throb.

“Have you seen this?” Dean Flannigan tossed a newspaper into Grant's lap.

Grant had meant to pick up a copy with his nonfat latte at Starbucks, but he had been running late. The paper was folded open to an article with his picture embedded in the copy. The emptiness in Grant's stomach deepened when he began to read.

Grant's fingers shook as he finished the article. Resisting the temptation to hurl the paper across the room took every bit of his self-control. A torrent of questions flooded his mind. How did the reporter discover they'd found the documents in Punakha? Up until this moment he'd believed the monastery to be the one thing the press didn't have a lead on. He'd been careful in the debate not to give any clues that might lead to the dzong. The more important question pounding behind his temples, however, was
where were the texts?
Were they being hidden by Lama Dorji? What had happened to Kinley? He felt the pressure in his head begin to build. Not only was he unable to answer these questions, he was powerless to do anything to get the answers. Bhutan was half a world away.

Then, for the second time in as many days, a more disturbing thought arose. If he was honest with himself, he really didn't know whether the documents were authentic. He'd implicitly trusted Kinley. But Kinley had vanished. And even if the texts were legitimate, no one would take him seriously after the lama's denial. Was it possible that the skeptics in his department were right? Had he thrown away a promising academic career to chase some Holy Grail quest?

“What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Matthews?” Dean Flannigan interrupted the tornado of thoughts in his head.

“You have to understand,”—Grant's voice rose an octave—“Lama Dorji is very much a traditionalist. He doesn't want Westerners in his monastery, and particularly not in the library. He has no interest in cooperating. I just never thought he'd lie about it. He must be covering up to prevent a deluge of media attention on the monastery.”

“Have you spoken with Kinley yet?” Billingsly asked.

Grant dropped his voice and his head. “I'm still waiting to hear from him.”

“So you have no independent verification of the texts?” Flannigan asked.

Grant stared at the floor.

“And the pictures you said you had of the books somehow mysteriously vanished?”

Grant nodded.

Professor Flannigan cleared his throat. “Mr. Matthews, the school is uncomfortable with the current situation. This publicity reflects negatively on all of us, especially in light of your past problems.”

“Wait! I have an idea.” Grant knew he sounded desperate, but then again he was. “I'll just return to Bhutan and find the texts.”

The department chair shook his head. “In two weeks you'll be given a formal disciplinary hearing. Until then, I have no choice but to suspend you temporarily. Your stipend for living expenses will continue, but your scholarship and any travel-related reimbursement will be curtailed pending the results of the hearing.”

“Harold.” Grant pushed himself halfway out of his chair. “You know this is bullshit. I just need more time.”

His mentor refused to meet his eyes as he replied, “I know this is difficult, but our hands are tied. I think a couple weeks' break from school will be best for everyone.”

Grant couldn't believe what he was hearing.
How am I to defend myself without the time or the resources to do so?
The premature release of the texts, the missing pictures, Kinley's disappearance, Brady's revelation, and now his suspension. The throbbing in his leg had migrated up his hip and combined with the pounding behind his eyes; he was barely able to stand. He no longer saw either of the professors: the obstacles before him obscured everything.

A
SCREECH ECHOED THROUGH the coffee shop as Grant dragged a wood chair from a table over to the plush green armchair where Kristin sat on her knees with her tie-dyed silk skirt tucked under her legs. He noted how the turtleneck clung to her curves as he collapsed into the chair beside her. She wore her hair in pigtails.

“Your meeting?” she asked.

“I've been suspended, pending an emergency investigation.”

“Because of this?” She rotated the laptop he'd lent her. The website displayed the same article he'd read in Billingsly's office minutes earlier. Her blue eyes blazed with an anger he hadn't noticed when he first sat.

“UVA all over again,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Your case doesn't look very strong from an outside perspective.”

“No, but they're not even giving me a chance.” He stood. “Drink?”

She shook her head and pointed to the untouched cup of tea on the small round table beside her.

When he returned with his second nonfat latte of the day, they sat in silence. Sipping from his cup, Grant recalled the pages of notes he'd taken and the outlines he'd typed when he was in Bhutan. He thought he'd planned for every contingency, but nothing was turning out the way he expected.

He gulped his drink and winced when the hot liquid made direct contact with his throat. He removed the white plastic lid, releasing the pent-up steam. Swirling his drink, he watched how the frothy bubbles of milk clung to the
sides of the cup. A memory stirred within him: lying in the monastery bed, his leg propped on blankets, Kinley offering him a cup of water.

Grant brought the latte to his nose and inhaled the rich aroma. He took a more cautious sip, savoring the layers of flavors. He thought about the coffee beans, the plants growing in the tropical sun, nourished by the soil and the rain. He placed his cup on the round table beside his chair and looked to the laptop resting on Kristin's knees.

This was easier in Bhutan
. Without Kinley's guidance, he felt lost putting into practice the monk's techniques.

He glanced out the coffee shop window. The chatter of the other patrons became white noise in the background of his thoughts. Across the parking lot, a lone maple tree grew out of an island within a sea of asphalt. Its branches were bare.

Naked in the autumn wind. Like he was.

The potential unknowns scared him—the changes in his life he couldn't control. But then he recalled Kinley telling him that the future would always be a potential unknown. The essence of life was change, the monk had taught. “Even what you think of as the fixed entity that is Grant Matthews,” Kinley had said, “is an illusion. Physically you are not the same person you were when you were ten years old. Every day, cells in your body die and are replaced with new ones. The neurons in your brain form new connections, as the old, unused ones die away. Memories fade, but are replaced by new ones. The thoughts and worries you have today are different from the ones you had then, just as the thoughts and worries you will have ten years from now will be different from those you have now.”

Suddenly Grant knew what he had to do. He pushed aside his teacher's voice. He decided to make the proclamation he'd made in Billingsly's office a reality. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became. He would prove to the professors, to the Bradys of the world, to his dead father, that he was right. He had one problem, though.

“You can't give up,” Kristin said suddenly, mirroring his thoughts. “You need those texts even more than you realize. Since your accident on the river, you've been on a quest as well. Maybe there's something you're supposed to learn from Issa.”

Grant cocked his head.
My own quest?
He hadn't thought of it in those terms before. “My only option is to return to Bhutan and bring back the texts, but I spent my savings on my last trip. Now with my suspension—”

“Look, I'm pretty frugal abroad. I still have some unspent travel funds, and my next story won't be overdue for another month.”

“You'd do that?” He didn't add
after last night
, but he thought it.

“Of course.” She grabbed his arm and shook it. “For some reason, you're getting royally screwed here. I helped you get into this mess by taking the photos, and I'll help you get out.”