Holy Water (29 page)

“
I did,
”
Madden answers.

“
And?
”

“
They said they
’
ll try to be better in their next lives.
”

“
You really think they
’
re gonna kill us?
”

“
Actually . . .
”

Henry doesn
’
t wait for the rest of his reply. Surprising even himself, he shoves the gun away, rises, and begins to take the hood off his head.
“
Screw this,
”
he says.

~ * ~

He wakes up shivering on the edge of a cliff. Immediately he knows where he is. On the edge of a cliff on a remote mountain road in a
mysterious Himalayan kingdom, abandoned by bandits and his lunatic traveling companion.

Believing it, that
’
s a whole other matter.

On the back of his skull is a throbbing, swollen contusion. Beats a bullet hole, he thinks, gently stroking the tender knot with his fingers. When he sits up, it feels as if a sluice gate opens, dispatching every drop of blood in his skull to his belly, prompting him to quickly lie back down before he vomits, or passes out and rolls off the cliff into a remote Galadonian crevasse.

His second attempt at rising is more successful. The cliff, he can now see, rests atop another cliff, so if he had rolled off, he wouldn
’
t suddenly have died. More likely he would have broken his legs or spine and died gradually.

Calling out for Madden is a possibility, but he
’
s not completely sure that the bandits have left, plus calling out for Madden means having to be prepared to deal with the consequences of Madden
’
s potential response.

He stands and walks toward the center of the road. The sky is black and pulsing with stars, but a faint glow over presumably eastern peaks hints at the coming of dawn.

They may have kidnapped Madden. Or they may have killed him. But Henry doesn
’
t think they killed Madden, because if they had, in all likelihood they
’
d have killed him too.

Regardless of what
’
s happened to Madden, the truck is gone. As he takes another step downhill, toward his room at the spa, however far away that might be, Henry
’
s foot comes down on a soft object. Kneeling, he sees that it is Madden
’
s down-filled coat. Inadvertently dragged out of the backseat along with Henry. Inside the right hip pocket he finds the Glock. He scans the darkness once more and, detecting no sign of Madden, weighs the gun in his right hand before sliding it under his jacket and into the back waist of his pants.

A moment later a moan breaks the silence. Uphill on the mountain side of the road, a body slowly rises. As it begins to approach, Henry calls,
“
Madden?
”

“
Correct.
”
Madden is rubbing his head and limping.

“
You all right?
”

“
No, I
’
m not all bloody right.
”

“
Did they hurt you?
”

“
They took my vehicle. My belongings. My recreational drugs. But no, they didn
’
t hurt me. They only hurt people foolish enough to play the hero. Admirable stuff, mate, but damned foolish.
”

“
What about your head?
”

Madden laughs.
“
I smoked a gram of hashish, drank a fifth of Jameson, and slept on the side of a frigid mountain road. If my head wasn
’
t splitting, then I
’
d be worried.
”

“
Do you have any idea how far away we are ?
”

Madden scratches his head.
“
I reckon about an hour, but
—
”

Henry interrupts,
“
An hour
’
s not so bad.
”

“
An hour by truck, Tuhoe.
”
Madden cocks his neck from side to side, then commences the downhill walk home.

Henry catches up and calls,
“
Hey.
”

As Madden turns, Henry tosses his jacket to him.

“
Found it in the middle of the road.
”

Madden weighs the jacket and squeezes both pockets.

~ * ~

Suburban Shambhala

“
Why, exactly, did you decide to resist them?
”

They are shuffling down the ragged mountain road. Sunrise came with a spectacular flourish, igniting the airborne factory particulate brilliant hues of orange and then red before dimming to a languid gray smog that obscures the peaks and valleys.

“
I don
’
t know. In a sense it was an involuntary reaction, but while I was kneeling there, I was thinking about a lot of things.
”

“
Like, apparently, suicide.
”

“
Not really. Just about what a conventional, wasted existence I
’
ve had. It
’
s certainly not the first time this has occurred or been pointed out to me, but the gun to the head, you know, kind of gave it a bit of an exclamation point.
”

“
No more Galadonian hashish for you, Tuhoe.
”

“
Have you ever met Maya, the local woman who
’
s been working with me and Happy Mountain?
”

Madden strokes his goatee.
“
Some kind of botched connection to the palace? Not bad on the eyes?
”

“
Yeah, that
’
s her. We had dinner the other night.
”

“
I know all about it. A pair of Nikes goes a long way with your concierge. And don
’
t tell me you had a raucous night of sex with her, because you definitely came back to your room solo.
”

“
No, not that.
”

“
Then what?
”

“
We had a good talk. She sort of hates me. But she
’
s, you know, cool.
”

“
Well, good for you, mate. So this new, post-hijacking you, you
’
re wondering how to live a meaningful life. To follow your heart, your dreams. Will it lead to disaster or bliss? And if that
’
s the case, if you
’
re doing what you feel you must, then technically even disaster should be fulfilling, right? A victory of the spirit.
”

“
Something like that.
”

“
Good Christ.
”

“
What? Then why are you here, doing this?
”

“
I came here to get rich and/or to disappear. Whichever comes first. The desire to disconnect completely has always appealed to me, but you know, it gets tougher to disappear every day.
”

Henry disagrees with Madden
’
s hypothesis—that the urge to disappear is somehow more admirable or at least more understandable than feeling compelled to live a better life—but he says nothing. He
’
s tired. His head throbs. He
’
s in fucking Galado. From a place far behind them he thinks he can hear the faint whine of an engine. He cocks an ear to see if it is coming toward or going away from them.

“
Do you know how many fucking people like you I
’
ve come across in my travels, Tuhoe? A million. All thinking they have to travel to the ends of the fucking earth to find so-called meaningful experience, only to get a case of the trots or the clap and major karmic disappointment once they discover the reality. What I want to know is, why can
’
t you find meaningful experiences back in your conventional world in—
”

“
The suburbs of New York. A Manhattan cubicle. But I never said that—
”

Madden waves him off.
“
Why the fuck can
’
t you simply act like a man, or a decent human being, and find meaning and fulfillment in your neighborhood, your cul-de-sac, your bloody job, instead of having to go all W. Somerset Maugham or Indiana Jones?
”

Henry walks with his head down. The vehicle is still far away but definitely coming toward them.
“
That doesn
’
t accurately describe what I did or why I
’
m here,
”
he says somewhat forcefully. Then, almost whispering, he adds,
“
I was transferred.
”

~ * ~

As the truck rounds the curve above them, Madden steps into the road and begins to wave his arms. When the truck, a work-battered Toyota flatbed, squeals to a halt, the large Australian limps over to the driver and begins to speak with volume and emphasis in Galadonian. He points back up the mountain and then to a place somewhere below the smog in the valley. When he is finished, the driver is shaking his head and laughing.

Once they
’
re up on the back of the flatbed, which, coincidentally, is filled with recently felled cedar timber, Henry reaches under the back of his jacket and takes the pistol out of his pants. Holding it by the barrel, he offers it to Madden.

Madden considers Henry for a moment before grasping the gun handle and slipping his forefinger onto the trigger. Before putting the pistol inside his coat pocket, he says,
“
I was wondering how long you were gonna hold on to the bloody thing, mate.
”

“
And I was wondering, if you go to the trouble of carrying it, why didn
’
t you use it?
”

“
Because it was in the backseat. Because I got complacent. Which, as it turns out, is a good thing. Last thing I need is to explain a bunch of bodies on the roadside to the authorities in this hellhole.
”

~ * ~

A small crowd is gathered in the pandanus- and bougainvillea-lined driveway outside the Ayurved Djong and Spa. Shug, Ratu, Maya, even Lacy the masseuse, are standing with arms folded as the timber truck lurches to a stop. With stops and engine trouble it had taken the truck more than four hours to make the drive. As the idling diesel engine rattles and coughs black smoke into
the early afternoon air, Henry and Madden rise and stretch, then notice the others.

“
Looks like you
’
ve been missed, mate,
”
Madden growls, before tapping Henry good-bye on the shoulder and hopping off the other side of the truck.

“
You
are
late, Mister Tuhoe,
”
Shug admonishes after Henry has climbed off the truck
’
s left sideboard.

“
Well, as you can see, I ran into a few complications.
”

Shug shakes his head and begins to answer, but Henry steps forward, placing his face within inches of the older man
’
s face.
“
Your job is to take me where I want to go and to translate what I ask you to translate. If I
’
m not mistaken, your job is
not
to shake your head with disgust, or to judge, or to scold. If I
’
ve gotten any part of this wrong, please tell me. Otherwise I
’
m politely asking you to stay out of the way and keep your mouth shut.
”