Flashback

“Is Art still here? At the Naropa Institute, I mean.”

Dean looked around apprehensively. His hungry gaze returned to the rear door to the auditorium. “Is Shantarakshita Padmasambhava still here at the institute? Yes, of course he is.”

Nick glanced at Sato, who was making a note in his phone.

“Did you…,” began Nick.

“Shantarakshita Padmasambhava died some years ago,” Dean continued happily, “but he’s still here. Yes. This afternoon at recess, Mrs. Howe will let me work on the Alamo mural with Judy and Calvert and… and… and I forget who else. I’m sorry. I try to remember, I try so hard, but I forget.”

The former Google exec began to weep. Snot ran down his cleanly shaven upper lip.

“Juan,” said Nick. “Mrs. Howe said that you could do the mural with Judy and Calvert and Juan.”

Dean beamed and wiped the mucus away with the back of his hand. “Thank you, Detective Bottom.” The fifty-two-year-old giggled. “Bottom is a funny name. Do they call you Ass Boy at school, Detective?”

“Never more than once,” said Nick. He went over to the other bench, sat next to Dean, and grasped the man firmly by the shoulder. It was like grabbing pure, brittle bone. Nick knew that if he squeezed hard he would hear snapping sounds. “Mr. Dean, did you kill Keigo Nakamura or do you know who did?”

Dean raised his right hand to fondle Nick’s bare wrist. “I love you, Detective Bottom.”

Sorry that he hadn’t brought a second magazine of 9mm rounds, Nick nodded and said, “I love you, too, Derek. Did you kill Keigo Nakamura or do you know who did?”

“No, Detective, I don’t think so. But I will know!”

“When?”

Dean licked his lips and made a show of counting on his fingers. “I’m seven now… almost seven and a half. That only leaves… a lot of years… before I come back to when Keigo talked to me and died the next day. I’m sorry, Detective.” He began to weep again.

“Jesus Christ,” breathed Nick.

“A great teacher,” said Dean, brightening but not wiping away his tears or snot this time. “But not able to lead us on the true path to satori as quickly or surely as… say… Bodhidharma would.” He turned to look at Sato. The security chief was still using his stylus to write in his phone. “You’re Keigo’s friend Takahishi Satoh, aren’t you? I remember you from the day we recorded the interview.”

Sato grunted.

Dean suddenly jumped to his feet. His expression radiated pure joy through his tears. Two monks had come out of the auditorium’s rear door and were headed for the garden maze and Derek Dean.

Nick and Sato also stood. Nick said, “Do we need any more of this?”

Sato shook his head.

They watched as the two monks, each grasping an elbow, led Derek Dean back into the auditorium toward the waiting bed and IV drip. Dean turned once to wave good-bye, waving his entire forearm, palm flat toward them, the way a seven-year-old would.

Nick and Sato walked down the hill and around the dining hall to where several rickshaws and pedicabs waited, their owners squatting nearby or lounging on their backs in the grass. Across the acres of the Chautauqua Green, sunlight gleamed on circles of saffron robes and bald heads in earnest conversation or silent meditation.

“Grab us a double-wide cab,” said Nick. “I’ll check something in the admin building here and be back in a second.”

Nick ran uphill under the elms, but instead of going straight to the administration building, he reentered the auditorium and jogged down steps, checking beds as he went. The monks were just preparing to administer the intravenous flashback to Derek Dean when Nick leaned in between them and the skeleton in saffron.

“Sir,” the tall male monk said softly, “you must not interfere with…”

“Shut up,” said Nick. He grabbed Derek Dean by his saffron robe front with both hands and lifted him closer until their faces were inches apart. Nick could smell death in the older man’s breath and pouring from his pores.

“Can you hear me, Dean?” He shook the man. The rattling sound was not imaginary; it was Derek Dean’s loose teeth clacking together. “Can you hear me?”

The former exec nodded. His eyes were very wide.

“Did you meet my wife—Dara—either when Keigo was interviewing you or later, perhaps at the party?”

“Wife…,” Dean repeated.

“Focus, you worthless sonofabitch.” One of the monks reached to intervene but Nick shook him away as one would a child. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

Nick was holding up his phone with Dara’s photo filling the entire screen.

“No. I don’t think so.” It was a whisper.

“Be sure,” hissed Nick, holding the photo closer. “If I find out you’re lying to me, I swear to Christ I’ll come back here and kill you.”

Derek Dean’s gaze sharpened, focused on the photograph. “No, Detective, I have never seen that woman. But I would enjoy fucking her, if I did see her… which I haven’t. I don’t think.”

“I must protest,” cried one of the hovering monks. “We shall call security. We shall…”

“Go to hell,” said Nick. He dropped Dean back onto the crisp-sheeted bed, tucked his phone away, and left the auditorium.