Instant karma, p.27
Instant Karma, page 27
For Megan, what had happened felt too much to take in. And the reference to the deer in the forest story was typically, inscrutable Rinpoche. What had that been about?
A cool, afternoon breeze gusting through the branches above, causing leaves to rustle, drawing her back to the present. She glanced at her watch. Keith would be home from work soon. And despite all the excitement, it wouldn’t be long before the family needed to be fed.
“Homework Hayden, while I sort out dinner,” she commanded, leading the way to the house. “Shelley, are you organized for athletics tomorrow?”
In the kitchen she opened the fridge, surveying the contents, before looking in the pantry and freezer. She ran through the options.
Having opted for a quiche, using a pre-made pastry base, about forty minutes later Megan was pouring a mix into the base when she first heard the unusual noise. In the quiet of the countryside, sound travelled far.
Rusty stirred on the veranda and began barking. Hayden evidently heard it too and, always eager for a distraction from thermodynamics, came bounding down the stairs. Megan heard him go outside before scampering back towards her,
“Mum it’s the cops!” he cried. “They’re at the end of the drive!”
Megan’s blood ran cold, her thoughts immediately turning to her husband, driving home.
Outside, Rusty was going crazy.
“Put Rusty in the back room, please.” She tugged the knot of the apron around her waist, and hung it on the back of the kitchen door. As Hayden had said, a Police vehicle, emergency lights flashing, was making its way towards the house. And not only one vehicle. Along with Police cars she made out several gleaming, black SUVs. All of them heading inexorably towards them.
They, alone, weren’t responsible for the clattering din that was drawing closer. It was only glancing up that Megan saw the helicopter circling lower towards the house. For a moment it seemed to skate perilously close over the tops of the Douglas firs before veering into an empty field next to the drive.
Today’s dreamlike surreality hadn’t ended. Even as the sun’s rays were beginning to lengthen there was more. The police cars at the head of the convoy cut their emergency lights and slowed as they approached the house. Evidently this was no regular visit. And what came behind them drew Megan’s attention even more. Because there weren’t only a handful of vehicles, but a whole convoy. Large, up-market, and with a road-presence signaling importance, they were following the police vehicles, right up to the house, and gliding to a dignified halt. Doors were being opened. Executives in suits and police officers were getting out. In the nearby field, uniformed army officers were stepping from the helicopter cockpit and, doubling over, hurrying beneath the slowing rotor blades. As they neared the house their strides were brisk. Even before a word had been said, in the hastening of visitors towards her front door, the rivalry was tangible.
“Mrs. Mitchell, I’m the County Sheriff,” a man in police uniform was the first to approach. “I’m here at the personal request of the Director of the FBI.”
“Bonny Ratcliff, Megan,” a woman in immaculate couture and sparkling earrings struck a more informal, woman-to-woman approach. “Rose Mulrooney, Chair of the Federal Reserve asked me to visit.”
With more and more people approaching—thank God that Rusty was in the back of the house—Megan had already surmised that the visitors didn’t have anything to do with Keith, whose modest car, caught behind all of theirs, had to make a detour off the driveway before pulling into the garage alongside the house.
Out the corner of her eye she saw him appear from the garage, a satchel over his shoulder, and approach the gathering crowd outside his own front door with an expression of bemusement.
A tweed-jacketed man was trying to get her attention on behalf of Commissioner Applebaum whom, he stressed, had been the first public official to mention karma.
Like a group of journalists at a press call, however, it was the loudest who got the attention. This seemed to come in the form of a very tall, suited African American with the build of a professional wrestler, who had climbed out the back of a shiny, black stretch Hummer and was calling, “Mrs. Mitchell, the President of the United States is waiting on a direct line, right here,” he gestured behind him. “He needs to speak to Lama Tashi.”
What could possibly beat that?
The army officers tried. Arriving, somewhat out of breath, they called out, “Mrs. Mitchell! General Alexander Hickman must see Lama Tashi. The security of the United States depends on it!”
“So does our food security!” cried tweedy guy.
“The integrity of our economy is at stake!” Glamor-girl was not to be outdone.
“Ma’am,” African American Hummer reminded her. “The President is right here!”
About to explain that Lama Tashi had already gone, just as Megan drew breath what sounded like a lawn trimmer buzzed over the roof of the house before pausing above the group, hovering. It was a drone the size of a lawnmower and instantly commanded the attention of all present, heads turning and necks craning to see what the hell was going on.
The drone, in turn, seemed to be making the same assessment, swinging this way and that, a lens extending beneath its blades. Then from the undercarriage, a screen the size of a television unrolled. On it, the face of Galaxy’s boss live-streaming from Los Angeles.
“Megan, we spoke earlier—it’s Harvey O’Sullivan from Galaxy,” his voice was genial above the racket. “You know, Lama Tashi’s first and closest media partner? I see you have a few folks here, no doubt on behalf of their bosses. But I’m here virtually myself. And I really need to speak to Rinpoche, so I do.”
“He’s not here!” she called out to Harvey and the assembled throng. “He left an hour ago.”
“Where?” everyone wanted to know.
“Didn’t say,” she was shaking her head. “Only that he’d be gone for a while. I’m guessing he’s taken himself on retreat for a few days.”
The disbelief was palpable. How could the man who had become the nation’s most popular guru, the only guy who had all the answers, suddenly absent himself. How could he just vanish? What kind of celebrity did that?
What direction had he travelled in, the police were calling out? Where might he be headed, demanded the FBI? They all knew that Lama Tashi was uncontactable by phone—and therefore untraceable. Harvey O’Sullivan, always first, was offering to sponsor Rinpoche through his retreat. African American Hummer, spur of the moment, offered Camp David as a meditation venue.
Amid the furor, Megan recollected the last instruction Rinpoche had given her—the story of the deer being pursued through the forest. Just as she now knew why he had reminded her of it.
“I truly have no idea where Lama Tashi has gone,” she said. “He is my teacher. My guru. He’s not accountable to me.”
Just as with Hayden earlier, this revelation prompted outpouring of a different kind. There was a particular question the President wanted answered. The same, specific query, he had confided in Hayden earlier—along with the bosses of the Federal Reserve, FBI, FDA, CIA and US Army. Plus a whole lot of other callers with more evident commercial motivations. On the hovering drone, even Harvey O’Sullivan’s eyebrows were raised at the unanimity of the crowd gathered outside Megan’s front door as they requested, demanded, pleaded to know if Lama Tashi had said anything in connection with this subject.
Megan faced the group in the golden sunshine of that extraordinary day. “He didn’t,” she said. “So I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”
They didn’t leave immediately. Instead, they paused, struggling to take it in. Wondering what to do next, and how to report back on the fact that not only had they failed to get hold of Lama Tashi, but the imperative question they all wanted answered by him would have to remain unanswered until who knew when?
Keith was the only one to move, walking through the group and up the three steps to the veranda where he hugged his kids and kissed his wife.
“Good day at the office?” he smiled, ironically.
“You’re home early?”
“It’s been that kind of day.”
There were proffers of business cards and pleas to call as soon as Lama Tashi’s whereabouts became known. In the dusk, Megan was aware that the police were already on their radios, tracking down Lama Tashi’s vehicle registration. The FBI gathered around them, eager to pounce on America’s Most Wanted. Harvey O’Sullivan didn’t depart without extracting a promise from Megan to consider his personal request to appear on a magazine program next weekend about being a student of Lama Tashi’s. And African American Hummer insisted that Hayden come take a look inside the vehicle which had clearly grabbed his attention.
It was ten minutes before Megan finally closed the front door behind her family and, unusually, locked it. “Shelley, let Rusty out the back room, won’t you?” she asked, before returning to the kitchen, unhooking the apron from the door, and tying a bow behind her.
Despite all that had happened, she still felt curiously self-possessed. Perhaps the impact of Lama Tashi rubbing off? On the other side of the kitchen table, Hayden was gabbling excitedly about the communications system installed in the Hummer. Shelley wanted to know if the pretty lady who had visited was from The Real Housewives of Key West—she looked exactly like her! Keith, meantime, just looked baffled.
Responding to the wholesome aroma of baking coming from the oven, Megan regarded her family brightly. “Quiche for supper. Sorry it’s nothing fancy. Today’s been …” she raised her hands, upturned, towards the ceiling, as she searched for the right description. Before giving up.
“There are no words,” she said.
On one of the side roads between Boulder and Omni, behind the steering wheel, Lama Tashi slowed and indicated a left turn.
“This will only take two minutes,” he told Anton.
His student nodded. It was an unpaved path leading into a forest, a turning Anton must have driven past dozens of times without ever noticing. They continued for only a short distance before coming to an entrance to a property comprising a white, timber cross gate set within an imposing stone wall.
Lama Tashi pulled up the handbrake between them and turned to face Anton.
“You drive yourself the rest of the way, okay?”
“Where are you going-?”
“Friends,” Lama gestured the entrance beside him before getting out of the car. “You get going now!” He gestured imperatively.
Anton hurriedly undid his seat belt, climbed from the car, and was soon sitting where Lama Tashi had been. He glanced around. Apart from the impregnable-looking entrance, they seemed to have stopped in the middle of nowhere. “You sure your friends—”
“Yes, yes,” Lama Tashi, clapped the roof firmly. “I will let you know about collecting the car.”
Self-evident
There are two ways to be fooled.
One is to believe what isn’t true;
the other is to refuse to believe what is true.
—Søren Kierkegaard (Existentialist Philosopher 1813-1855)
Later
57
Galaxy Television
Los Angeles
Dan Kavana and Tara Green were behind their news desks, as the large, neon timer, counted them down, 3, 2, 1.
“On this, the first day of instant karma in recorded history,” Dan opened with words penned by Harvey O’Sullivan himself, “we have an extended edition of the evening news.”
They took it in turn to read the headlines, starting with Tara: “The United States endured its worst mass shooting today, when the President of the National Gun Association turned a semi-automatic weapon on his own members at their annual conference in Washington, D.C., killing sixty-eight people and seriously injuring many others. President Trent Grey was injured during the shooting and is currently recovering from surgery at Walter Reed.”
“Unprecedented bank movements have seen more millionaires and multi-millionaires created today than at any time since records began. The Chair of the Reserve Bank, Rose Mulrooney attributes the trend to the practice of generosity. Individuals and companies donating money are experiencing instant wealth creation on levels previously unseen.”
“Airports are re-opening and transport networks resuming operations after fears of a food virus disrupted the lives of many Americans today. The FDA has assured the public that there is no contagion, but warnings remain in place that eating any meat product leads to serious food poisoning. America is now a vegetarian nation.”
“Spontaneous remissions spiked at levels never before reported by the American College of Radiology, with fifty-two terminal cancer patients showing clear scans and numerous other miracle recoveries reported from coast to coast. Grace Arlingham of farm animal rescue organization, The Arlingham Foundation, and one of the first spontaneous remission cases, says that saving the lives of others is the cause for one’s own life to be saved.”
“The nation’s top ten organized crime bosses and dozens of their henchmen died today according to the FBI. An exclusive Galaxy Television analysis shows that all ten of the men, responsible for drugs, racketeering, sex trafficking and money laundering, were killed during severe, micro-weather events including micro-tornados and earthquakes. According to the FBI, the deaths are evidence that the crime syndicates were putting in motion plans to kill others.”
“Across the nation, people’s personal appearances have been prone to dramatic change. Outbursts of anger have resulted in the significant worsening of facial flaws, blemishes and disfigurements. The opposite has also occurred with deformities disappearing and both facial and physical attractiveness improving in a way never previously witnessed. The American College of Cosmetic Practitioners has announced that anger is the cause of disfigurement and patience the cause of beauty. It will host an emergency summit next week to explore new, non-surgical treatment methods.”
“Celebrity Scoop, the controversial gossip magazine, collapsed today. A sink hole in Manhattan swallowed up the twenty-five-floor building from which the magazine operated. The commercial property is believed to have been deserted apart from the magazine team and owner, who were working on the next issue. A spokesperson for Media Monitors International observed that lies, divisive speech and idle gossip are among the ten worst non-virtues.”
“Helping us make sense of all these and other developments—” it was back to Dan for the final headline. “We bring you a full report on karma, including an exclusive interview with Lama Tashi.”
58
Woodrow Wilson Building, Brooklyn
On the third floor of the Woodrow Wilson building, Amy could barely contain her excitement as the superintendent took the key from his jacket pocket and turned it in the lock.
“Ten minutes,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.”
It had been Karel who’d prompted her to call the real estate agent, when she’d told him how she’d dreamed of living in the building from the first time she saw it. In minutes she’d found her way to a website showing apartments for sale. The realtor himself wasn’t available for a viewing this evening. But he said he’d speak to the superintendent who had keys to one of the apartments. She could have an initial viewing right away.
“What d’you think?!” she asked, thrilled as she stepped into the main living area, a spacious room with beige walls and a high ceiling. “Isn’t this just amazing?!”
Behind her, Karel Sharma looked around him trying to see what she could see. He’d never had much of an eye for aesthetics. But he had an eye for Amy, and he enjoyed her unaffected delight, the enchantment she took just being here. The women he knew socially, mainly through business, worked at being chic and cultivated, and he never really knew where he stood with them. There was a straightforwardness about Amy, a sweetness that put him at ease, and prompted a protective impulse that surprised him.
For a moment he wondered how many of his female friends routinely stopped to give money to the homeless. He had his doubts.
He looked at where Amy was bending, gazing out the window facing Eastern Parkway. Slim, petite, delicately-sculpted features with that cute, up-turned nose.
“The view from here does look pretty amazing,” he said.
She half-turned, laughing as she registered his compliment. “I’d paint the whole place white,” she turned, gesturing the walls. “Make it feel bigger. Maybe put some geometric panels above the doors and windows. Bright colored glass in the kitchen. It’s an art deco building. This place needs to be taken back to its roots!”
She didn’t know what to make of his amused expression. Was he wondering how she could get so excited about a two bedroom apartment in Brooklyn that was undeniably in need of attention? “I know it’s probably nothing compared to where you live,” she said.
It was true that he owned the penthouse of an Upper East side building. But work pressures meant he was rarely there, and when he was, he no longer really saw it, and hardly stepped into half the rooms. The rooftop balcony was a disgrace. It had been lush to begin with, but he’d fired the landscapers and never gotten round to replacing them. The whole place needed the attention of someone who cared.
“What?” she asked, trying to figure out his expression.
He shrugged. “I’m enjoying your enthusiasm.”
“Well, okay,” she headed along the short corridor to look at the bedrooms, still uncertain what to make of the enigmatic Karel Sharma.
After his most unexpected gift of the Bluegrass Horse Sanctuary property, and even less expected hug, she had wanted to call Mr. Deal immediately to tell him the exciting news. Mr. Deal hadn’t been in the best of health for some years and she knew that the stress of trying to rehome all his horses would be the heaviest of burdens.
