Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I grabbed it and flipped it open next to my mouth. Mike’s timing couldn’t have been worse.

“Not now!” I hissed.

There was a pause.

“All righty, then,” I heard Julie say. “Guess I’ll catch you later.” Click .

Great.

I called right back, but her voice mail picked up.

“Sorry about that,” I said after the tone, keeping my voice low. “I thought you were someone else…. I mean someone I work with. A guy, a guy I work with …” Why did I call back? Holy crap but I got goofy around this woman. “Anyway, I’m right in the middle of … this thing. I’ll call you later.”

I turned off my cell and stowed it in my pocket. Sighed. My buzz was killed. It wasn’t her fault, but as I picked my way down the hill to Paradise, I found myself blaming Julie anyway.

The night was cloudless. The full, fat moon spread a blanket of silvery light over the dirt pathway, so my Maglite stayed in my pocket as I worked my way downhill. Crickets sawing a concerto filled the night air with a peaceful rhythm-until I neared the illuminated yurt and heard two angry male voices coming from inside.

I approached from the rear, edging around the perimeter until I reached a window, more of a tent flap, really, with netting to keep the bugs outside. There was no shortage of them here: the mosquitoes dive-bombing my face and arms were intent on a midnight snack.

I sidled up to the flap and peered in. Two men were conversing on the opposite side of the yurt. I couldn’t hear the particulars, but their tone was contentious, the volume rising and falling in tandem with the vacillating tension. The man on the left slouched back in his chair, beefy arms crossed behind his head. Even sprawled, he managed to be imposing. He was in his early 50s, sporting a long white robe of thin cotton, and none too clean. His shaved head gleamed with menace, and his jutting auburn beard moved when he talked.

Crude swords decorated with some sort of scrollwork covered both forearms-primitive blue-inked symbols that shouted time behind bars. A geometric, X-shaped structure composed of small rectangles, like some sort of molecular compound, straddled the nape of his neck. I had never seen a tattoo quite like it. His hands were huge, big as mitts, with flat, spatulate thumbs. Squat toes, wiry with red knuckle hairs, poked out of a pair of leather sandals. His ruddy face looked calm enough under the steady torrent of words from his companion, but I sensed that inside, a suppressed fury was ticking away like a time bomb.

As cult members go, he was a lousy poster boy.

The second man, spidery-thin but with a small paunch, was at least two decades younger. He also had on the white robe and sandals, but he had accessorized his outfit in a unique, attention-getting way: a double-barreled shotgun slung loosely over the crook of one arm. His elder didn’t look worried, though, and the acolyte seemed more clueless than threatening.

I was dying to know what they were saying. I spotted a second window-flap across the way, so I ducked out of sight and inched my way around the structure, doing my best to mimic Tank’s stealth when stalking a lizard. They were right by the opening, too close to risk taking a peek. I hunkered underneath to eavesdrop.

Shotgun was talking. “You keep saying it’s not time yet, but when’s the time ever gonna come?” He had a high, raspy, three-pack-a-day voice.

“You and I both know that God’s in charge of that,” said Thumbs. His low rumble betrayed no trace of the irritation I’d sensed-apparently he was used to dealing with impatient disciples. The cadence suggested some sort of foreign accent, but I couldn’t identify the origin.

“That’s what’s got me wondering,” Shotgun whined.

“What’s got you wondering, Roach?” His voice darkened.

“Oh, so now I’m back to being Roach, hunh?” The whine tightened. “Just because I’m the only one with enough balls to come to you and ask you to your face-”

A low growl made the hairs stand up on my arms. “Stop bumpin’ your gums and get to the point,” Thumbs snarled. His patience was proving paper-thin, as I’d suspected, but hapless Roach plowed on ahead.

“The point is, I’m wondering-well, not just me, a bunch of us are wondering whether you’re getting kinda confused about where God leaves off and Eldon Monroe begins?”

Oh, boy. This Roach needed to brush up on his survival skills. There was a moment of silence, then the creak of a chair, followed by the unmistakable slap of an open-handed blow across the face. With those paws, it probably felt like getting broadsided by a cast iron skillet. Roach’s yelp brought to my mind a whipped dog. Eldon Monroe thought so as well.

“You little cur,” he snarled, the words a hostile burr, “don’t you dare talk shit to me like that.”

Roach was breathing heavily through clenched teeth. I could hear the frantic hiss from outside.

“Don’t call me that,” he whimpered.

“I’ll call you a cur because that’s what you were when you came to me, a stupid lop, a chump nobody but me was willing to school. Is that what you want to go back to? The shoe?”

It sounded like they had served time together. But where? What did ‘shoe’ refer to?

“No.” Roach choked back a sob.

“I’m trying to make you a man and you want to be someone else’s bitch? That’s your goal in life?”

“No!” he moaned, louder this time.

“I can’t hear you, Brother.”

“NO!”

“If you’re not Roach, who are you?”

More heavy breathing. Finally, “I am Nehemiah.”

“That’s right. And what are you, Nehemiah?” Calm again. Almost seductive.

“A night watchman.”

“A night watchman? Is that all you are?”

“No.” As Nehemiah, this guy seemed to recover his confidence. “I’m a night watchman for God, Brother Eldon. I serve God. And I serve you.”

At times like this, I am grateful I somehow learned to value self-discovery over blind obedience to authority. The Buddha himself said we shouldn’t believe his words without question-we must discover the truth for ourselves. “Be a lamp unto yourself,” he counseled his disciples. “Find your own way to liberation.”

Brother Eldon saw things a little differently.

“Obey your God, Nehemiah. Obey me. Go! Guard God’s Paradise!”

I got a sudden urge to “find my own way” out of there, and quick. I scooted around the yurt and hoofed it back up the hill, moving as fast as I could without making any racket. I sprinted toward my wheels, only to slam to a halt, as if collared by the grip of dread. A man stood by my car, his rifle aimed directly at my head.

There was no question of reaching for the Wilson, so I settled for a rapid risk assessment. My opponent was elderly, but built like a barrel. His hunting rifle was an old Marlin, probably from the 1940s. An excellent option for bringing down venison.

Or an unwelcome trespasser.

My eyes further noted the worn jeans and work boots, and my mind tilted, seeking to reconcile his calm demeanor and choice of apparel with the other two members of the cult. The facts didn’t compute.

“Who are you?” I said, finally. It was the best I could come up with on such short notice.

He squinted at me, slowly lowering the rifle.

“You a cop?” he asked, his accent a rough Western twang.

“LAPD,” I said. I figured we could work out the finer distinctions later.

“Thought so,” he said. “Only a cop’d meet a pointing gun with a question. What are you doing way the hell up here, anyway? Them crazy hippies done something wrong?”

He proffered his right hand. “John D. Murphy. Most people call me John D.”