Excerpt: Nighttime Journey to Long Ago
The killing happened as it always had. It was without sound, and Joseph came upon it afterward in the dark. The two men were there.
He lay between them. He was dying; Joseph knew that. Soon he would be gone.
One of the men, heavy and bearded, was wearing a suit. The other was thin. He wore a baseball cap, pulled back on his head, and shorts that hung below his knees. In the shadows where the man with the cap stood, Joseph made out bare, sharp features of his face. It seemed cut of marble—white, cold, and dusted with shadow.
The heavy man knelt on one knee. “Good for you,” he said to the dying man, who was facedown, his head in the middle of a pool of blood. Looking up, as if speaking to someone, the heavy man said in a deep, harsh voice, “This guy deserves it.” Then he cursed under his breath and picked up a small pouch on the highway near the man’s extended right arm.
Joseph turned away. The compact truck appeared now, turned sideways. Next to it stood its owner. He saw the owner’s vaguely male features for the first time. The skin was almost gone, and what was left was being drawn tightly over the bones. Joseph saw the eyes hollowing, the lips and mouth giving way to teeth. The bones were suddenly emptied of flesh.
He saw the dying man’s car now. It had rolled over many times and lay on its side at the crossroads. The killer’s truck also rested on its side. From the shadows at the edge of the road came a figure wearing robes of saffron and maroon. He could not mistake that gentle smile, the quiet gait so poised, and soon Joseph realized that the figure was a Tibetan monk named Tenzin. He came over to where Joseph stood.
“Why?” Joseph asked. He felt tears welling in his eyes. “Why?” he asked the old monk once more.
“How is it these paths have crossed?” Tenzin asked.