The Breath of God (46 page)

Please, don't be dead
, Ummon prayed.

After a moment, his prayer was answered. Lying face down with his hands secured behind his back, Kinley stirred. He rolled to his side, gathered his legs underneath him, and rose to his knees. Ummon had never seen such a thing. His teacher must be suffering greatly. His brother lay murdered beside him; his swollen face now bled from the blows he'd endured, but he showed no outward signs of pain. Kinley gazed at the demon with the same sad but passive expression he'd worn a minute ago. When he finally spoke, he did so in a quiet, calm tone. Something about Kinley's manner angered the man even more. He hit Kinley again and again.

Ummon closed his eyes. His mind raced. He had to do something. Only he could save his teacher. He opened his eyes and searched the room. Not ten paces from him in the rear corner sat the wood-burning stove they used to cook their meals and heat their living quarters. Next to the stove was the heavy iron poker the elders used to stir the fire. It would have to do.

Kinley fell to the floor again. While he was attempting to right himself, the beast walked to the front wall, where he studied the long bow and quiver of arrows that hung by the main door. A gift from the national champion archery team, the display was merely something to enjoy, not to use. Monks were forbidden from participating in Bhutan's national sport, as Ummon had learned when he'd been disciplined for handling an arrow shortly after arriving. But the bow and arrows now provided Ummon with the opportunity he needed. The demon's back was to him. If he moved quickly and
quietly, he could be inside the room and to the iron poker before the man turned around.

Ummon swung the door open slowly to avoid making any noise. Just as he ducked his head to clear the sill and enter the room, Kinley looked up. His teacher's expression changed instantly from weariness to fear. Ummon pointed to the iron poker and then back to the demon, letting his teacher know his rescue plan. To Ummon's surprise, Kinley shook his head violently. He then mouthed the words, “Bring help.”

But there's not enough time
, Ummon thought. His teacher must be confused from the blows to his head. He climbed through the trapdoor. Kinley's eyes grew wide. Ummon had never seen his teacher afraid before. Kinley glanced over his shoulder at the demon, who was mumbling to himself while pulling two arrows from the quiver. Ummon only needed a few more steps, and he would have his weapon.

Kinley turned to the boy. The fear vanished from his face and was replaced with the determined look Ummon knew too well. His teacher mouthed the words, “Leave. Now.”

The command could not have been more authoritative had Kinley yelled it at the top of his lungs. Ummon glanced at the poker. So close. But he knew not to challenge his teacher. In a second, he was back through the trapdoor. As he reached to close it, the demon began to turn around. Ummon's breath caught in his throat.
I'll be seen!

Kinley faced the Dark One and said something in a voice as strong as the command he'd silently given Ummon. Before the small door closed cutting off his view, Ummon watched the demon look at Kinley in confusion. Although his teacher was the one in need of rescuing, he had just saved his student.

Ummon navigated the narrow ledge faster than he'd ever done before. When he reached the front corner of the building, he climbed down the wooden structure to the rocks underneath the stairway. He stumbled a few times, cutting his shins on the sharp granite as he circumvented the section of stairs where the demon would be able to see him from the open door. Once he was clear of the dorm, he climbed to the stone stairs, taking them two at a time until they ended at the cafeteria. Then he turned down the path that
would get him to the bottom of the mountain the fastest. His chances of navigating the steep trail in the moonless night without falling and breaking his leg were not good, but Kinley's life now depended on him.

T
IM FELT THE RAZOR TIP of the arrow with his finger. He then ran the arrow's shaft along his left forearm, which had started to itch ever so slightly. For a moment, he contemplated pulling up his coat sleeves and lightly scraping the edge of the arrow's tip across the dry scales of his skin, but he had other plans for the arrow.

Tim had grown tired of the silly mind games and doublespeak from the monk. He'd underestimated the man's tolerance for pain, but anyone could be broken. When he turned around, he glimpsed an emotion he hadn't seen yet from the monk—fear. His techniques were starting to work.

“I've lost my patience with you, monk. Where are the Jesus books?”

“I have already told you I am not in possession of them.”

“That wasn't my question,” Tim spat out. He bent forward so that he was level with Kinley. He brought the arrow to within an inch of the monk's eye. “Will you be so clever when I gouge out your eyeball?”

“You must do what you must do.”

Tim felt a burning that radiated from his arms, up his shoulders to his neck, and then out the top of his scalp. He rotated the arrow with a flick of his wrist, and he thrust it deep into Kinley's thigh. He waited for the shriek of agony but was only rewarded with a slight tremor that passed through the monk's body. The extent to which the monk endured physical pain wasn't natural.

The monk gazed at Tim, sweat dripping from his temples. “Does causing me pain serve to lessen your own?”

Once again, Tim was confounded by this strange man. “My own what?”

“Your pain. I can sense it in you as readily as I can sense my own suffering. Your emotions have blinded you to what is good and true in the world. All you see is hatred and fear, and they consume you. But you do not have to suffer so. There is another way.”

How dare this foreigner presume to know what I'm feeling!
Tim didn't operate by his emotions like some helpless woman. Everything he did was planned, based on information he'd gathered and organized. If anything, he was devoid of weak emotions. To prove the point, he would teach this monk about his capabilities.

Tim grasped the arrow and, while holding the monk's gaze, he twisted it back and forth, working the razor tip further into the quadriceps muscle. Blood began to flow freely from the wound. But only silence came from his captive.

“Scream, damn it!”

Kinley's complexion had paled, and sweat now soaked his orange robes. With a final quick twist of the arrow, Tim watched the monk's eyelids flutter and then close. His body slumped forward onto the wooden floor.

“No!” Tim screamed. His only source of information about the texts lay unconscious at his feet. Tim hadn't planned on Kinley's being able to withstand torture to this extent. The monk was using some kind of mind trick to avoid the pain, just like Tim had seen in old kung fu movies.

Grimacing at the crumpled mass in a robe on the dorm room floor, Tim realized his mistake. He'd thought that shooting the old monk would lessen the risk that the man would turn on him or try to escape. The old monk was frail and no match for Tim, but he'd learned his lesson in Varanasi about the consequences of playing cat and mouse with one's victims: sometimes the mouse got away. He'd also calculated that the quick death of the other monk would make Kinley fear for his own life. Tim realized now that a more effective strategy would have been to threaten to kill the old man if Kinley didn't reveal the location of the texts. The monk was one of those soft types who cared more about those around him than himself. If all humans behaved that way, Tim thought, we would still be living in caves. Survival of the fittest.
For all the nonsense Darwin wrote about, that had been one solid theory. Tim glanced at the other empty mats in the room. Kinley had explained that the other monks who usually slept there had gone into town to gather provisions for the monastery—a two-day process. At least Tim had caught a break there.

No matter
, he thought. He would tear apart the monastery temple by temple, room by room. Certainly Kinley had brought the texts with him here. The cliffside monastery was the perfect hiding place.
But how long will it take?
He had a few hours left before dawn, and he wasn't sure when the other monks would return after that. But the monastery wasn't that large. He would just have to be systematic.

Tim unclipped the night vision monocular hanging from his backpack and pocketed it. Next he unzipped the main compartment, moved aside the rope he'd purchased that afternoon at the hardware shop, and grabbed the duct tape he'd brought from India. He wrapped the tape around Kinley's ankles five times, so tightly that it dug into the monk's skin. Tim didn't think Kinley would go anywhere with the arrow in his leg, but he wasn't going to take any chances this time.

Grant fumbled in the dark, randomly punching buttons on the alarm clock, trying to silence it.
Morning already?
He read the glowing green numbers on the clock: 3:16. He and Kristin had collapsed, sweaty, exhausted, and fulfilled, only an hour earlier. When his mind cleared, Grant realized that the alarm clock wasn't ringing; the hotel phone was.

“Hello?” he croaked into the receiver.

“Grant, it's Jigme. Something terrible has happened.”

Grant bolted upright, flicking the switch on the cord of the bedside lamp. Kristin rolled toward him, shielding her eyes.

“What is it?” Grant asked.

“An attack on the monastery.”

“An attack? In Punakha?” Grant asked, confused.

“Taktshang.”

“Tiger's Nest?” The light of realization pierced the darkness of sleep in his brain. He was afraid of what Jigme's answer would be to his next question: “Kinley?”

“We don't know. Ummon was there when a man attacked the dorm. The man killed the other monk sleeping with them, and he was beating Kinley severely when the boy escaped. He ran all the way down the mountain. He thinks he saw a demon.”

“A demon. Are you thinking what I am?”

“It must be him.”

“Jigme, we have to go there right away.”

“We're assembling a party right now. The police should arrive in a few minutes. I'm going up with them.”

Grant stood and hopped into his jeans. “We'll grab a taxi and meet you there.”

“Kristin?”

“As much as I'd like to persuade her to stay here,” he said, turning to the bed where she sat watching him with an alarmed expression, “I don't think there's a chance she will.”

“Kinley,” he said when he hung up the phone. The fog of sleep had completely dissipated from his mind. Instead, a feeling of dread ached through his core. His mind raced with memories of the gentle and kind man who had saved his life, carried him from the river to the dzong, and sat by his bed each day while he recovered. A man who had carefully rescued a ladybug from the leaf of the plant in his room, a man who had patiently taught Grant about Buddhism even when Grant had resisted the teachings. Now this man, this peaceful monk, was suffering in a remote monastery on the side of a mountain, and Grant had brought the killer there.
Please God
, he prayed silently for the first time in many years.
Please let us not be too late
.

“G
ODDAMN IT!” Tim's voice echoed through the empty worship hall. He kicked a large chunk of plaster from the shattered six-foot-tall idol he'd just cast down from its perch on the marble altar. The statue's hand skidded across the floor. He was supposed to be long finished with his mission by now. He glanced out the temple's open door. Still dark, but first light would arrive shortly. Searching the monastery had been more of a challenge than he'd expected. Starting on the fifth level, he'd only made it down to the third in over two hours. Stairways and ladders connected a maze of rooms and temples. Concealed doorways led through windowless passages into other small temples.

He'd visited Kinley several times to no avail. Using a second arrow in the monk's other leg produced the same results as the first. Infuriated, Tim had twisted the arrow deeply, resulting in a spurt of blood that almost hit him in the face.
Must have pierced the femoral artery
, he thought. The monk was unconscious, probably for the last time.

After scratching his arms vigorously, Tim flung a copper offering bowl from the altar against the wall.
What had gone wrong?
He'd carefully planned the logistics. He had years of training, planning, and most important, God to his advantage. Even if he'd made some mistakes, he'd quickly adapted to the unforeseen and made the best out of adversity.

He shook his head. The texts must be hidden on a lower level. He knew from the early press reports as well as from the intelligence provided to him
that he was looking for a number of narrow old books with wooden covers wrapped in silk scarves. He'd seen nothing like that, but he still had time. Before leaving the temple, he held the night vision monocular to his right eye. In other rooms it had revealed temperature differences in the walls, leading him to hidden passageways. Seeing none here, he turned to the door. The monocular flashed brightly.