Caravan of Thieves (19 page)

Back in my room, I sat in full lotus and brought up my vision again, a trial run for later that night. I strained to see more than ever before. Meditation as frustration. Every foray inside felt false. At last I let my mind go blank and stayed like that as long as I could. At one
A.M.
, I went out.

I crossed the lawn toward the rear of the main building, then cut over to the driveway. I walked beside it so not to crunch on the rocks. A quarter moon shed enough light to keep me from falling in a hole. About one hundred yards up the drive, a wooden fence, chained and padlocked, covered in vines, blocked the way. A sign read:

PLEASE DO NOT ENTER.

PRIVATE PROPERTY.

The fence was twelve feet tall and looked flimsy, like it was there for show. I pulled at it slightly and saw the chain-link fence behind it. I walked to the right side of the gate to see if I could go around. No go, the fence continued up along the side and widened before disappearing in the night. Same thing on the other side. I followed along the side away from the buildings.

When I was sure I was completely out of sight and sound range, I climbed over the fence.

My cottonwood was waiting for me, a shimmering silhouette against the sky. I stood next to it and turned all the way around. Little bits and pieces felt like they were coming back to me, but that might have been wishful thinking. I did not want that. The swing hung still but on the left side of the door, not where I remembered it. The windows were closed, no fluttering curtains, but most of
the rest was the way I had built it. Three steps up to the porch. I sat down in front of the house and looked it over to make the corrections.

I went onto the porch and pushed the old swing. The metal chains creaked in the hooks. The door was locked, but I knew exactly how to get in. The second window started to move when I pushed up, then quickly stuck. I wedged my fingers inside and lifted. The window screeched and the curtain fluttered in salute.

White sheets covered the furniture. I crossed into the large farmhouse kitchen. The appliances were relics, at least forty years old, strangers to me, evoking only some generic past. Anyone could have claimed it. What should I picture to give it meaning? Is this where Kate burst into tears because her cake fell? Out back, the low black humpback hills slumped protectively.

There was a den, furniture covered, including an old TV and a stereo. I tried to remember what music Dan preferred. I could see him listening to anything anyone else wanted because he was not really listening. He was figuring. I tried to let it all flood back in, but not much came up other than vague, muddy shadows which I could not trust. I had no photos to prompt me with false memories, and not many stories from Dan. I lifted the sheet on the dining room table and saw Dan tossing me the bread as if I were there, as if I remembered it. But what I remembered was that it was a Dan story. Nothing more.

Without a flashlight, searching for the money would be useless. I climbed out the window and made my way back to my room. I had spent two hours at the house. It felt like five minutes.

G
ood morning, Rollie,” Mark said, just as I had finished my oatmeal. “The lama would like to see you. Please follow me.”

The signal that the meal was over had not come yet. I rose anyway and followed Mark past the smug glances of the campers who had never been summoned by the camp director. When we got outside, I said, “If you see the woman I came here with…”

“Oh, I should have said, she came down early and asked for a ride into Ojai. That was around seven. She said to tell you.” Maybe she figured there were a million Kates, too.

The lama was the old guy who had been staring at me the night before. He met us near the greenhouses. Mark quickly excused himself. The lama gestured for me to follow him along a path that led into the woods. We walked about fifty shaded yards to a clearing and a pond. A gazebo and deck jutted over the water.

“My name is lama Gyamtso. If you’re uncomfortable calling me lama, you may call me Henry. Henry Holland was my given
name. This is our reflection pond. I rarely get to spend any time here when we have guests.”

I assumed the cash had caught his attention along with my seeming experience at puja, and he was going to make a pitch that I hand over whatever fortune I had and sign up with his crew. These outfits always needed fresh blood and money. I kept quiet waiting for the pitch. “Mostly we cater to groups. Very few individuals and none without reservations.”

“And none with cash,” I said.

“And none with cash, and none has ever snuck up to the farmhouse, at night or during the day, ignoring the very clear signs and the very tall fence. You must have had a purpose. Please tell me why you went there.”

His voice held no rancor or tension or threat. To break from his gaze, I picked up a stone and tossed it into the pond. “I lived in that house.”

It was his turn to be caught off guard. His eyes grew wide and he looked away as if to calculate the meaning of that statement. He said: “I’ve lived here almost thirty years. No one named Rollie Waters ever lived in the farmhouse in that time.”

“I’m Dan’s son.”

He froze, so still I thought he would have to be rebooted. At last he said, “Tell me about Dan.”

“He was a charmer, a con artist, a deadbeat, and a sport, a wise man who wasted his wisdom foolishly. He could be trusted to finish what he started, only it was never what you thought it was.” I almost went on, but I wanted to avoid anything that sounded sentimental because it might make him suspicious that I was faking it.

“Would you say he was greedy?”

“Once. And it killed him.”

The lama’s eyes were distant, like a guy watching scenes in his head. “Tell me how he died.”

I told him some of it, leaving out the money. He jumped right on that. “You haven’t told me,” he said, “why they killed him, or why you were there, or why you survived.”

“You first,” I said.

“Dan’s son was not named Rollie.”

“I found out yesterday that I was Jake. Dan never mentioned that.”

That seemed to satisfy him. He looked around to make sure no one was nearby. He gestured and I joined him on another path that led farther away from the buildings.

It would be tough to live here and not be contemplative. The trees seemed to be individually designed and engineered to let just the right amount of sun glide through at just the right intervals. Birds and crickets provided just enough background noise to keep the silence from feeling creepy. The lama spoke softly, confidentially, in a tone that matched the surroundings.

“This property was a convent. The Sisters of Mercy. A decision was made by the church authorities to consolidate and the property was put up for sale. Our group was renting an old campsite near Carpinteria. Our founder, who is dead now, envisioned…all this. He raised money from many sources, but mainly from one woman who donated a large chunk of the down payment. No bank would lend to us, but we found a private lender. We spent the next two years improving the property and building. We dredged that pond, refurbished the housing and the chapel, constructed the
main reception area. It was a great time, building time. Then the lender realized the potential value of the property and convinced the rich donor to join him in taking it back.

“We were on the verge of losing it all. Dan had been renting the farmhouse from the nuns and we had continued the arrangement. We didn’t know much about him, but we asked if he could help. Dan went away, off and on, for a few months. One evening he appeared, just after dinner, with the title and the deed. Free and clear. All he asked in return was perpetual use of the farmhouse.”

I could tell he was not finished. He was searching for the right way to phrase something.

“How did he do that? He couldn’t have bought the land,” he said. “All these years I’ve wondered. Dan is a legend here. Every novice, every monk knows about him. When he visits, it’s a highlight. He chants with us, then…”

“Tells stories?”

“I sit at the pond replaying that evening he returned, trying to imagine how he accomplished it all.… It’s unfathomable.”

For a moment, I thought this was a clever ploy, some Buddhist trick, a way to check if I was really Dan’s son. But this guy, sixty if he was a day, sounded like a troubled kid pleading for the secret behind a magic trick.

I asked, “Did Dan ask for money before he began?”

“We gave him twenty thousand dollars.”

Dan did not tell me this story, but I knew enough about the way he operated to parse it out. Print the legend they say. And since he was dead, I could stand doing Dan this service.

“Remind me of their names, the donor and the backer.”

“She was Gwen. I don’t remember her last name. He was Norman Simpson.”

“Right. Yes.… Both late forties, early fifties at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s how it worked,” I said, as if I were Dan himself. “First Dan flies down to New Mexico and plunks down some of your money for the right to buy a piece of worthless desert. It costs him about five thousand dollars, and he makes sure to overpay a bit so he can make friends down there. Then he goes to Del Mar down the coast from here where he knows Gwen likes the track. Dan’s about twenty years younger than Gwen. He turns on the charm and throws some of your money around, and suddenly Gwen feels young again. The world seems brighter. He tells her he’s in the energy business, and he hints, very tenderly, that he is about to make a huge score, the score of a lifetime. A game changer. Simpson is Gwen’s boyfriend by then and very protective because Gwen is worth so much money. Gwen makes the introduction and Simpson has to make sure Dan is not a threat to his meal ticket. Now Dan wants Simpson comfortable and certain that Dan has no chance if they go up against each other. And the way Dan reassures him is to act like he thinks he is the smartest guy in the world and is holding all the aces. Dan wants Simpson to think he is a fool, which isn’t difficult because guys like Simpson like to think everyone else is a fool. This dance takes weeks: days at the track and on the golf course, dinners overlooking the beach, trips to Las Vegas.

“After a night of drinks, Dan tells his new best friends about a property he has in New Mexico bursting with uranium, the high-grade stuff. As the night goes on, Dan lets slip that he doesn’t actually own the property yet; he has an option to buy it, for which he
paid two hundred thousand dollars. A big chunk of his inheritance. Simpson suggests a trip to New Mexico to check it out, offering to help Dan with financing the deal. By now, Simpson is completely enthralled by Dan and at the same time convinced Dan is ripe for the taking. Dan rejects the offer a few times until, after suffering heavy losses in a casino, he gets sentimental, wanting to visit his secret treasure chest with his new best pal. They drive down together. Sure enough, the Geiger counter makes all the right noises because Dan had it rigged to detect radon. Dan recites like an Irish poet as he paints pictures of his dreams, big dreams of empire and alliance, monopoly and domination. He’s giggly with enthusiasm. They celebrate. Wine, women, and song: women supplied by Dan. Simpson thinks he is getting Dan loaded and into position so he can move in for the kill.

“The next day, they fly back to Los Angeles and Simpson asks Dan up to his office to talk business. Simpson intends to make the kind of deal on Dan’s land that he made on this property, one where he could call in the loan and take over the title. Simpson explains that he knows Dan is hard up for cash. Dan hears him out patiently and expresses his delight that Simpson is interested in the New Mexico property. ‘You can have it,’ Dan says. ‘The price is two hundred thousand dollars…and the former convent property.’ He had never mentioned this place before. Simpson doesn’t understand. Dan repeats the offer, keeps the charming smile shining in spite of Simpson’s growing tension. Then Dan reaches into his briefcase and extracts an envelope, which he pushes across the desk. Dan keeps his eyes on Simpson as he opens the envelope and pulls out the contents: photos of Simpson naked with the naked prostitutes. ‘It’s real simple,’ Dan tells him. ‘Gwen is worth close to
two hundred million. You have about a million in the convent property. New Mexico could be worth a billion someday. If you make the deal, the worst you come out with is Gwen. If you don’t make the deal, you own some buildings in the woods near Ojai. By the way, I called Gwen earlier. She’s meeting us here in about an hour.’ Dan keeps quiet for a little while to let Simpson see the One True Way. Then, to close the deal, Dan lowers the amount Simpson would have to pay him to one hundred thousand. How much did he bring back to you?”

“Ten thousand.”

“The rest were legitimate expenses. Everyone was happy.”

The lama thanked me a few times while he chewed it over, enjoying all the subtle flavors he had been craving for so long.

We had circled back toward the buildings. The lama led me into his office, a small cedarwood room with saffron-colored cushions on the floor in one corner and a desk and chair opposite. Behind the desk, a tall bookcase was filled with hardcover volumes about prayers and holiness. One shelf was devoted to Christianity and another to Judaism. Buddha supervised it all from the middle of a credenza which ran along under the window. The lama invited me to sit on a cushion. He unlocked a desk drawer, pulled out one of those wooden boxes that are a puzzle to open, and he opened it in a couple of easy moves.

He laid ten thousand dollars, crisp ones, in a packet on the desk.

“Is this what you’ve come for?”

My turn to freeze. He brought it around the desk with him and tossed it on the floor in front of me. He sat down facing me.

“Dan left that and a lot more in the house about seven years
ago. He’s only been back three times since and he never touched the money.”

“You checked.”

“It’s easy for an alcoholic to give up liquor if there is none for a thousand miles. The challenge is in keeping your temptation close at hand. As I’m sure you have learned, facing one’s weakness develops one’s strength. It’s hidden where you used to hide. I think Dan knew that I had found the money. I think it pleased him to test me in this way.”