“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.