The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) (14 page)

A blocky, leather-jacketed body traipsed through my mind—a “Zarko” to be sure.

I printed this page.

“What do you think, Tank? Was that the man himself? Could it be that easy?”

If it was Zarko Stasic, he was working odd hours for a CEO. Unless, of course, some of the delicacies he was supplying were items that didn’t travel well in the light of day.

I moved on to the “Purchase” page.

“We accept bitcoins,” the payment form declared.

“Never heard of them,” I said.

But when I squinted at the link to purchase these items with bitcoins, whatever they were, an odd feeling stirred in my belly, the one that straddles fear and excitement. The address was a long string of lowercase letters, numbers, and symbols, but that wasn’t what caught my eye.

The final code in the link was: .onion/.

C
HAPTER
13

I texted Mike:
CALL ME WHEN YOU WAKE UP. I THINK IT’S TIME FOR TOR
.

I texted Bill:
NO JOY IN VAN NUYS. NO SIGN OF SASHA. CALL ME
.

Then my head filled with fog.

I was due at Martha’s later this morning.

Must take nap.

In seconds I had crawled under my duvet and slipped into that sweet space between waking and sleeping, the place where muscles loosen and the mind melts. Downward I headed, down, down when a niggling thought snared me. Something was wrong on that website. What was it?

The answer swam into focus: “Fresh Crop Just Arrived!” Words posted directly above the photograph of the heaped basket of Alphonso mangoes. Only Alphonso season in India was months past. Any mangoes left in the fields would be drowning under the monsoon torrents.

Finally, I slept.

Three hours later, midmorning summer sun baked my bedroom. I was sweating under the duvet. Tank’s nose was close beside my ear as he emitted soft meows, doing his seductive best to wake me up. He didn’t consider the dry food a proper breakfast—he never had. A proper breakfast came out of a can, and as amazing as Tank was, he still hadn’t worked out how to open one for himself.

“Give me a minute.”

Tank hopped to the floor and lowered onto his haunches, shooting me a death stare while I stretched out the kinks from my dawn Dumpster-clamber. Apparently, five minutes of stretching was enough. Tank stalked into the kitchen, tail high.

“Okay, okay.”

I popped the lid on a favorite, Beef Feast, and served it to his royal highness. Tank’s avid gulping was anything but regal. I waited until the contents of his bowl had been gutted, and his scratchy tongue and right paw started to address any residual beef that dared stick to his whiskers.

“Tank?”

He cocked his head, green eyes narrowing.

“Do you think I’ll see her today?”

Tank blinked twice. I took that as a yes, and my stomach knotted accordingly.

My cell phone buzzed. Bill.

“Ten?” No roar in the background this time.

“That’s me. Where are you?”

“In my hotel room.”

“What hotel?”

He paused.

“Bill? In case Sasha turns up?”

He told me, and I scribbled the name on a Post-it. “Holiday Inn.”

I crossed to my desk. In my state of exhaustion, I’d neglected to turn off my computer this morning. “You have your laptop there?”

“Yeah.”

“Check out this website.” I gave him the Agvan web address and waited.

“Got it.”

“Now check out what it says just above the picture of the mangoes.”

“Uh, it doesn’t say anything above the picture of the mangoes. You mean above the dates?”

“No. Mangoes.” I was staring right at it on my computer. Strange that Bill wasn’t seeing the same thing.

I refreshed the page and sure enough, “Fresh Crop Just Arrived” now hovered above a picture of Middle Eastern dates.

“Okay, it moved. The thing is, earlier this morning the ‘Fresh Crop’ line was above the picture of the Indian mangoes. And that got me suspicious. It’s not mango season in India.”

Bill’s cop-brain evaluated the slim slice of evidence. “And you’re thinking maybe it’s some sort of signal about what kind of human cargo is available? Right on the website?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, but it could also mean they’re actually selling mangoes from someplace else and calling them Indian mangoes. That’s a crime, but not a very big one.”

“What do you think?”

“Definitely worth exploring,” he said. “I’m not exactly sure how, though.”

“I’ll think up something,” I said. “How are things going on your end?”

“I’ll have to tell you later.”

Did he think his hotel was also bugged?

I came in from an angle: “No hair dryer nearby?”

His voice acquired a sharper edge.

“It’s late,” he said. “I need sleep.”

“At least tell me what’s going on with you and Martha.”

“Not now. Maybe you should investigate that yourself. Let’s connect tomorrow, or I guess tonight, in your case.”

“Have you heard from Mila?”

“Tomorrow!” he said.

He hung up before I could respond.

“This sucks,” I told Tank. Despite the midday heat, I felt a chill. In my unsettled state, Bill was starting to sound not only like a cheating husband, but a criminal. I fled to my Shelby and fired her up.

A half hour later, I rang Martha’s doorbell. Normally, I would walk right in, but these were not normal times. The small knot in my middle had expanded to the size of a tennis ball, and was composed of equal parts worry and anticipation.

Julie opened the door.

The expression that took control of my face had all the subtlety of a rhesus monkey’s toothy grin, and I think we were both a little taken aback by it.

I tried to dial the corners down, but my goofy mouth wouldn’t comply. I was just so happy to see her.

Maude and Lola crashed our reunion. They wrapped their arms around Julie’s legs and clung from either side.

“Auntie Julie is here,” Maude broadcast in my direction. Her face was solemn.

“I can see that,” I said.

“She’s taking us to the park, because we’re sad. We’re going to ride the train, and, and eat pocka-loo-loos.”

“Pocka … ?”

“Popsicles,” Julie said, her voice low. “At least, I hope so.”

Lola, who had been quietly sucking on her fingers, removed them to add her own piece of news. “Daddy’s on a trip,” she announced, and replugged.

“Girls, go ask your mom to put sunscreen on you, okay?” Julie said, and they trudged back inside.

We met eyes.

“Hey, Ten,” she said.

“Hey.”

The delicious aroma of curry assailed my nostrils for the second time in 24 hours.

“You’ve been cooking?”

“For Martha,” Julie said. “Mulligatawny soup.”

“Ah, yes, distant cousin to the elusive rainbow pockaloo-loo,” I said, and was rewarded with a smile. A somewhat clumsy silence between us grew, and I shifted my weight, suddenly tongue-tied. Julie tended to have that effect on me. “So, this feels …” I scrambled for the right words.

“Awkward?”

“I was going to say, weird. But also, completely …”
Completely right.

Martha appeared behind Julie, and the words died in my throat. Martha’s actual body mass seemed to have diminished; she was swimming inside her bathrobe. Dark exhaustion ringed her eyes. She handed Julie a pink plastic bottle of sunblock.

“Can you do this? I can’t seem to deal,” she said. Her voice was dull. She crossed her arms, as if to protect her heart from overexposure. Maude’s fearful look darted between the three adults, searching for a safe haven, and Lola reattached herself to Julie’s leg.

Julie’s worried eyes met mine for a brief stab of connection before answering her sister. “No worries, Martha. Girls? Let’s go. We’ll be back before dinner.”

“Call me,” Julie whispered as she passed me. “I’m worried.”

Their exit left behind a hollow, abandoned silence.

Martha led me into the kitchen. The fragrant pot of stew simmered on the stove, and I realized how long ago I’d eaten my low-calorie burrito.

“Can I get you anything?” she said, the question automatic, and devoid of actual intent.

“I’m fine.”

We sat across from each other. Martha’s eyes reddened, glossy with tears.

“Damn it.” Her hands tightened into fists. “God damn it to hell.”

Martha never swore. I couldn’t tolerate her pain a moment longer. I pushed upright, my chair scraping the floor as I moved around the table and opened my arms.

“Martha.”

She stared at my outstretched limbs, as if measuring them.

“Martha, come here.”

She stood abruptly and stepped into my invitation. My shoulder was soon hot with tears.

“That’s better,” I said. “That’s better.” I fished a handkerchief out of my right jeans pocket and handed it to her. She held it to her nose and gave two prolonged honks.

“Must be time for afternoon chants,” I said.

“What?”

“Tibetan long horns are calling.”

Her smile was watery, but at least she managed one.

I poured us both glasses of water, and we reclaimed our places at the table. Finally, I asked, “Have you talked to Bill?”

“Briefly,” she said. “He called last night.” Her tone was both hurt, and hard. “He’d just landed. He has
things to do
over there. Isn’t sure when he’s coming back.”

“That’s pretty much what he told me.”

Her eyes raked my face, her expression hungry. “What exactly did he say to you? Did he talk about me at all? What did he tell you, exactly?”

I summarized the conversation, and she stared at my moving mouth, as if by reading my lips she might change the actual words.

“So I told him I’d be in touch,” I concluded.

Martha shrugged. Fresh tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “Meet the new Bill.” She dashed them aside. “I liked the old one better.”

I was inclined to agree, although doing so felt disloyal. But then, so did disagreeing, like choosing sides on a battlefield where I’d never belonged in the first place.

“Julie says I shouldn’t make any decisions. Not when I’m like … like this. What do you think?”

“I think Julie is very wise,” I said.

Martha lurched forward and grabbed my hands. Hers were icy cold. The words spilled. “Ten, I know Bill. He’s a good man. He’s just, he’s acting crazy right now. But I know him! He doesn’t want to be
that guy.
My God, he’s always hated
that guy,
the husband who has a fucking midlife crisis and takes off, ups and starts a whole new family, like it was nothing!”

I kept quiet. My marriage experience hovers at right about zero, my record with long-term commitments several degrees below noteworthy.

Martha’s eyes bored into mine. Her dilated irises were like dinner plates. It occurred to me that the shock of this event had slightly unhinged her. “I’m not ready to give up yet. But I’ve got to know that he wants what I want. And what I want is for this to be his family. I want him to show me, no, to
prove
to me, that we’re number one, we come first.” My mind gaped as I stuttered the utterly ridiculous, “Well, let’s hope so.”

Martha’s clutch tightened. “No! I need more than hope from you, Ten. I need you to go over there. Talk some sense into my husband. He’ll listen to you! I know he will! I want you to bring my Bill back.”

I wondered if Martha could hear the brakes squealing in my brain. “That’s not a good idea.”

“I knew you’d say that, Ten. But is that the partner talking? The friend of Bill’s?” She squeezed so hard my knuckles ground against each other, bone on bone. “What about me? What about being
my
friend?”

I pulled my hands free, as a spark of anger flicked and took hold behind my concern. Since when did Martha poke with a guilt stick?

Bill wasn’t the only one around here who’d changed.

She progressed from poking to twisting. “I’ve never asked you for anything, and I won’t ever ask for anything again. Please, do this one thing for me, Ten.”

“Martha …”

“Even Julie thinks it’s a good idea.” The final, painful turn.

The kitchen walls closed in around me. I couldn’t seem to get enough air.

Don’t do it. Don’t agree.

Even Julie thinks it’s a good idea.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

Martha sprang to her feet and ran to me. She cupped my cheeks and planted a kiss on my forehead.

“Thank you, Ten. Thank you. I know that Bill will thank you, too, one day.”

My phone beeped, signaling a text, and I leapt on the sound as if it were a death row reprieve.

“I have to get going,” I said. I submitted to a hug, ran outside, and again jumped behind the wheel of my Shelby. I zigzagged up and across three side streets to Melrose and veered left, cutting in front of an open-air Hollywood tour bus. “Whoa there, cowboy!” boomed a tour guide’s electronically amplified voice, as a dozen wide-eyed tourists gawked at the crazy dude in the bright-yellow Mustang.

I accelerated up Gower toward the freeway, speeding like a drag racer, until a still, small voice of sanity piped up from the back of my brain.

Slow the fuck down.

I pulled over next to a towering church, just south of Franklin. “Come unto me, all ye that travail and are heavy-laden, and I will refresh you,” announced a large sign.

I was so heavy-laden I couldn’t breathe.

My lungs weren’t functioning fully enough to allow me to count breaths. I moved on to plan B: I placed my hands on my thighs, closed my eyes, and lightly traced each finger with my inner eye while sensing their light pressure against my quadriceps muscles.

Thumb. Forefinger. Middle finger. Ring finger. Pinkie. Thumb. Forefinger. Middle finger. Ring finger. Pinkie.

After five rounds, I was able to switch attention to my breathing. With each in-breath, I directed warm acceptance to the taut, cantaloupe-sized tumor of resentment in my stomach, hoping to loosen, if not release it.

Nothing doing. If anything, the sensation hardened. My hands clenched into fists, just as Martha’s had moments earlier. I was about to give up, when a familiar voice stepped in with reinforcements.