I was dying to know what they were saying. I spotted a second window-flap across the way, so I ducked out of sight and inched my way around the structure, doing my best to mimic Tank’s stealth when stalking a lizard. They were right by the opening, too close to risk taking a peek. I hunkered underneath to eavesdrop.
Shotgun was talking. “You keep saying it’s not time yet, but when’s the time ever gonna come?” He had a high, raspy, three-pack-a-day voice.
“You and I both know that God’s in charge of that,” said Thumbs. His low rumble betrayed no trace of the irritation I’d sensed-apparently he was used to dealing with impatient disciples. The cadence suggested some sort of foreign accent, but I couldn’t identify the origin.
“That’s what’s got me wondering,” Shotgun whined.
“What’s got you wondering, Roach?” His voice darkened.
“Oh, so now I’m back to being Roach, hunh?” The whine tightened. “Just because I’m the only one with enough balls to come to you and ask you to your face-”
A low growl made the hairs stand up on my arms. “Stop bumpin’ your gums and get to the point,” Thumbs snarled. His patience was proving paper-thin, as I’d suspected, but hapless Roach plowed on ahead.
“The point is, I’m wondering-well, not just me, a bunch of us are wondering whether you’re getting kinda confused about where God leaves off and Eldon Monroe begins?”
Oh, boy. This Roach needed to brush up on his survival skills. There was a moment of silence, then the creak of a chair, followed by the unmistakable slap of an open-handed blow across the face. With those paws, it probably felt like getting broadsided by a cast iron skillet. Roach’s yelp brought to my mind a whipped dog. Eldon Monroe thought so as well.
“You little cur,” he snarled, the words a hostile burr, “don’t you dare talk shit to me like that.”
Roach was breathing heavily through clenched teeth. I could hear the frantic hiss from outside.
“Don’t call me that,” he whimpered.
“I’ll call you a cur because that’s what you were when you came to me, a stupid lop, a chump nobody but me was willing to school. Is that what you want to go back to? The shoe?”
It sounded like they had served time together. But where? What did ‘shoe’ refer to?
“No.” Roach choked back a sob.
“I’m trying to make you a man and you want to be someone else’s bitch? That’s your goal in life?”
“No!” he moaned, louder this time.
“I can’t hear you, Brother.”
“NO!”
“If you’re not Roach, who are you?”
More heavy breathing. Finally, “I am Nehemiah.”
“That’s right. And what are you, Nehemiah?” Calm again. Almost seductive.
“A night watchman.”
“A night watchman? Is that all you are?”
“No.” As Nehemiah, this guy seemed to recover his confidence. “I’m a night watchman for God, Brother Eldon. I serve God. And I serve you.”
At times like this, I am grateful I somehow learned to value self-discovery over blind obedience to authority. The Buddha himself said we shouldn’t believe his words without question-we must discover the truth for ourselves. “Be a lamp unto yourself,” he counseled his disciples. “Find your own way to liberation.”
Brother Eldon saw things a little differently.
“Obey your God, Nehemiah. Obey me. Go! Guard God’s Paradise!”
I got a sudden urge to “find my own way” out of there, and quick. I scooted around the yurt and hoofed it back up the hill, moving as fast as I could without making any racket. I sprinted toward my wheels, only to slam to a halt, as if collared by the grip of dread. A man stood by my car, his rifle aimed directly at my head.
There was no question of reaching for the Wilson, so I settled for a rapid risk assessment. My opponent was elderly, but built like a barrel. His hunting rifle was an old Marlin, probably from the 1940s. An excellent option for bringing down venison.
Or an unwelcome trespasser.
My eyes further noted the worn jeans and work boots, and my mind tilted, seeking to reconcile his calm demeanor and choice of apparel with the other two members of the cult. The facts didn’t compute.
“Who are you?” I said, finally. It was the best I could come up with on such short notice.
He squinted at me, slowly lowering the rifle.
“You a cop?” he asked, his accent a rough Western twang.
“LAPD,” I said. I figured we could work out the finer distinctions later.
“Thought so,” he said. “Only a cop’d meet a pointing gun with a question. What are you doing way the hell up here, anyway? Them crazy hippies done something wrong?”
He proffered his right hand. “John D. Murphy. Most people call me John D.”
“Tenzing Norbu,” I said, returning his shake. “Most people call me Ten.”
John D worked his brain around my name a few times, then gave up and jutted his chin toward the fields beyond my car. “That’s my farm, across the way.”
“Okay,” I said. “I hope I’m not trespassing.”
“Naw. It’s just I don’t see many folks on the road this late, so I like to take a look.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. Have you lived out here a long time, John D?”
“Yep, my whole life,” he said. “Made my living off ah-mens, till the blight came.”
For a brief, terrifying moment, I thought I had made a bad mistake and John D was a crazy cult member after all, one of those types who believed they were going to survive some cosmic disaster by rising up into the air, leaving the rest of us sinners behind. Then I realized he was saying the word almonds-his odd, nasal pronunciation a half-sigh, half-benediction-and by blight he meant an actual tree fungus.
“My daddy worked these fields, too,” he went on, “but my kids? They never wanted much to do with raising almonds, and I’m beginning to see their point.”
I opened my mouth to commiserate when a raspy voice rang out through the night air. We both reached for our weapons.
“That you up there, John D?” God’s favorite night watchman, Nehemiah, strolled up the hill, bathed in moonlight, shotgun at the ready.
“Hey there, Brother,” John D called down to him. “Sorry, but I can’t quite recall your name.” John D leaned his rifle against the side of my car, and I removed my hand from under my windbreaker.
“Name’s Nehemiah,” Roach called back. He swung his legs over the fence and sauntered toward us. His eyes darted in my direction. They were narrow and beady, like a ferret’s.
“Who’s this?” he asked, in a none-too-friendly voice.
John D didn’t miss a beat. “This here’s my son, Charlie,” he said. “My older son. You’ve prolly met my other son, Norman, that works for the county water department.”
“Don’t look much alike, do you?”
John D laughed that one off. “Charlie here, he comes from my first marriage, to my Chinese wife.”
Mild irritation spider-walked my spine. If you want to rankle a Tibetan, tell somebody he’s Chinese. I mentally exhaled-this wasn’t the time or place for petty sensitivities. There was a bad man with a gun involved.
Nehemiah strafed my features with his lifeless prison-eyes. He said, “What brings you here in the middle of the night?”
John D clapped me on the back and said, “Charlie here is thinking about coming home, getting back into the family business.” He could lie like a champ.
I played along. “It’s a fact. People are eating a lot more almonds these days.”
Nehemiah wiggled his jaw around. “I wouldn’t know. I got teeth problems. Ain’t crazy about real crunchy things.”
“Well, I guess we oughta get on home,” John D said. “Charlie just got back. Couldn’t wait to see the lay of the land again.”