The First Rule of Ten (29 page)

There’s a lot of money at stake here, boyo.

My landline rang inside the house.
The hour is upon us.
I hurried inside to answer.

“Ten? It’s John D.”

Of course it was.

“John D,” I said. “So you know.”

“I hate to trouble you this time of night,” John D said, as if he didn’t hear me. “But there’s something doing next door.”

An icy finger wormed up my back. “Go on.”

“I woke up a few hours ago, felt like I’d been punched in the gut or something, and I couldn’t fall back asleep. I was just laying in bed, worrying about nothing, and that’s when I heard it. A chopper, Ten, seemed like right on top of me. ’Course I went outside for a look-see. Turns out it was landing in them hippies’ field.”

“Police raid?”

“That’s what I was thinking, but fifteen minutes later it took off again, and I got a good look at it. It was an old Huey, a big one. And then, ’bout thirty-five minutes later, it came back.”

A muffled pounding, like a massive drumbeat, swelled in volume through the phone line.

“There she goes,” John D yelled. “I’m going over to take a look.” And he hung up.

I ran to unlock the safe. And stared at the empty canvas Wilson kit. My prized gun was in the glove box of my prized Shelby, and my prized Shelby was gone. There was no time to even process my feelings, attached or otherwise.

I grabbed the Glock and an extra clip. Then I called Mike.

“Yo,” Mike said.

“I hope you’re good at geometry,” I said. “Point A is the Children of Paradise. Point B is however far a transport helicopter can fly in fifteen minutes, twenty max. It’s a Huey, and probably loaded down, so take that into consideration when you calculate radius and circumference. Oh, yeah, and it has to be somewhere remote. Mike, I need to know where that chopper is landing.”

“Is this going to be on the final?”

“Do it now, Mike!” I said. “People are going to die.”

I ran to the Toyota and prayed it would hold together one more time. As I careened down Topanga, I pushed away the image of my Mustang, smashed at the bottom of some cliff, my beautiful custom Wilson locked inside. At least I still had …

And realized I couldn’t remember the last time I saw Tank. I had no idea where he was. I was three for three.

This was turning into a bad, bad night.

I left a message on Julie’s machine. I had to.

“Julie, I can’t talk now, but will you please go back to the house and look for Tank? If he’s gone underground, he won’t come out for just anybody. Use tuna water.”

I covered the 70 miles in just over an hour. Don’t ask me how. As I smoked past Paradise, sure enough, a big transport helicopter lifted off the field and banked south. I floored it to John D’s farmhouse and jumped out just as he limped his way across the field to me.

“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.