Two older men climb out of the first van, dressed in slacks and long-sleeved dress shirts.
Two younger others — one white and one black, both sporting white suits and black T-shirts — get out of the second vehicle, the white one stretching his torso as if it’s been a long trip.
Moments later the huge, military-gray Mercedes Interpol van arrives. Bayott emerges from the driver’s door and pulls open the big sliding door for Marlon and Neldra Sungaard. Marlon wears a trim dark suit and a white shirt. Neldra is all suntanned legs and arms in a snug, sleeveless green dress, her white-blond hair bright in the afternoon sun. Just behind her is Danielle, the sleepy girl from Neldra’s house on Sun Valley Drive, now in an orange dress that shows her good shape. She laughs at something with Bayott.
A whoosh of bewilderment goes through Matt. He knows what he’s seeing but he doesn’t understand it. He recognizes the players but their roles are not clear.
They gather on the portico of the chancellor’s residence. To Matt they look like a tour group. The bell tower casts a shadow on the front lawn.
Mahajad Om emerges from the big double doors, his arms spread in greeting. Then steps aside and motions them in.
Matt remains on his log, speechless and alone. Eats the last of his tortillas, peanut butter and jam.
He gazes at the Vortex of Purity and knows that Jazz is there.
Wonders what Darnell would do.
Wonders what his father would do.
And what he should do.
It’s a long hike back to the van and by the time he gets there he knows, exactly.
55
The Vortex of Purity parking lot is nearly full when they arrive, just after six o’clock. The evening is still, the eucalyptus trees sagging in the heat. To the north Matt sees the big birds circling in the thermals out over Windy Rise.
Matt and his father are in the pickup truck, and as Bruce backs into a reserved space near the auditorium, Matt reads the Hamsa marquee:
“What’s all this about?” asks Bruce.
“They have feasts when followers get to the next level of consciousness.”
“Followers of who, Captain Kangaroo?”
A group of white-robed young people drifts across the parking lot toward the auditorium.
“What’s with the robes?”
“The colors mean how evolved and enlightened they are.”
“The enlightened children of Sodom and Gomorrah.”
Matt looks down at his backpack lying in the bed. It’s heavy and deadly. But what if he needs it but doesn’t have it? He slings it over one shoulder as his father locks the truck.
Sara Eikenberg sits at the welcome table in a yellow-with-daisies sundress. Hair up and smile on.
“Hello, Matt,” she says coolly. “And Mr. Anthony. Welcome to the Vortex of Purity.”
She tears off and hands them each a feast ticket.
“Can you get Mahajad to talk with us after the program?” asks Matt. “In private?”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
Her doubting look. “Of course I can. There are seats still open, near the back.”
It’s long dark by the time the Feast of the Spirit ends and Mahajad Om can talk with Matt and his father.
They cross the campus slowly — the swami in his crimson robe with the high collar and pointy shoulders. He’s barefoot as always and eating from a plastic plate — followed closely by his mother-daughter assistants, and, farther back, four of the men in white.
“So, what do you say, Mr. Om?” asks Bruce.
“I say, if your daughter was a prisoner at the Vortex of Purity, I would know! But yes, please search it all. If you find her I will celebrate with you. I have the keys to everything.”
He waves over the older woman, impatiently, as if he’s hailing a cab. She comes to him and hands him a small steel ring with a few keys of different sizes attached. He puts them in the pocket of his crimson robe and looks at Matt, then Bruce.
“You follow me.”
They start in the two-story library, which is unlocked. The shelves are mostly empty and Mahajad apologizes for the lack of books. It’s open and there’s no place for someone to hide or be held on either floor. There are windows all around, but not the kind that open. Nowhere to launch a glider.
“We are four years here, but not much progress on our library,” says the swami. “Time flies.”
The lecture halls and classrooms are locked but Mahajad lets them in and finds the lights. The rooms feel used to Matt, in a way that the library didn’t. His footsteps echo on the stairs and floors and Matt gets a whiff of the desperation he felt as he counted down the last few unsearched homes in Laguna. What if the Little Wings are wrong? he thinks. What if God answered your prayer with still another riddle?
The chapel is dusty inside and laced with cobwebs. Boxes of cobalt-blue tile stand open in the vestibule. They walk the aisle to the altar. Matt sees rattraps under the pews, some set but most not. The chapel basement is cluttered with paint cans and ladders and used drop cloths.
He’s beginning to feel foolish.
Again.
Om gives him that amused, curious look of his. “And next we have the dorms where some of our Evolvers, Enlighteners, and Ecstatics live and study in an ascetic, communal fashion. Many will be sleeping.”
They cross the commons. Mahajad drops his plate and utensils into a trash can on the path. Matt turns for a look at the women, who smile at him demurely, and the four men in white, who gaze at him blankly.
The dorms are two facing arcades of apartments that Matt and Kyle used to play hide-and-seek in. They interconnect. Mahajad knocks on the first door, which is answered by a mop-topped young man in a swimsuit and an open white robe.
“Swami, what’s up?”
“Have you seen the missing girl, Jasmine Anthony?”
“Who?”
“The girl on the many posters in town.”
“I haven’t been to town lately, Swami Mahajad.”
“Sorry to disturb you...”
“David.”
“Yes, Evolving David. Good night. See you in the morning when we Praise the Light.”
“Yes, sir.”
Some of the followers have been sleeping and it takes them a while to answer Mahajad’s firm knocks. They are all young and nice-looking. Again, Matt wonders how alike they are. Not exactly alike, but similar. Comparable. Bonnie and Sara and Danielle and Jasmine. And many of these others. The boys/men too.
None have seen Jasmine Anthony, though several remember her from early June, when the hippies and tourists were flooding in. One remembers Jazz as the ukulele girl from an LA Moves Happening.
She closes her door and Om turns to Matt and Bruce.
“Matt and father of Matt,” the swami says. “You can go from door to door and talk to everyone. I’m going to sit here on this bench with my assistants, and rest. It’s been a long day. When you’re done, I’ll be waiting.”
It takes them twenty minutes to finish off both rows of dorms but none of the beautiful, fresh young people have seen Jasmine lately, if ever.
Matt and Bruce walk back to the swami, who sits on the bench between the women. The four men in white wait under a nearby sycamore, hands folded.
“I’m sorry,” says Om. “But it’s good you searched. An untaken path can be a torment to the soul.”
“We’d like to see your residence and the bell tower,” says Matt.
“Oh, Matt, that is where I live. I certainly would have noticed if your sister was spending time there!”