City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(93)
“How’s that?”
“Ozmian completely took me in. Until he tried to foist Hightower as a suspect on us, I hadn’t the slightest inkling that he was a possible suspect. That will trouble me for a very, very long time.”
Epilogue
Two Months Later
THE SETTING SUN gilded the flanks of India’s Outer Himalayan mountains, casting long shadows over the foothills and stony valleys. Near the base of the Dhauladhar range of Himachal Pradesh, some fifty miles north of Dharamsala, all was silent save for a distant boom of Tibetan long horns calling the monks to prayer.
A path rose up from the cedar forests, winding its serpentine way against forbidding rock cliffs as it began the long climb toward the summit of Hanuman ji Ka Tiba, or “White Mountain,” at 18,500 feet, the tallest peak in the range. After about two miles, an almost invisible track separated from the main path and—heading away from the peak—hugged the cliff face, chiseled into the rock, as it made several narrow, heart-stopping turns until at last it reached a rocky promontory. Here, a large monastery—built out of the living rock and barely discernible against the mountainside that surrounded it—had stood for many hundreds of years, the carven decorations of its sloping ramparts and pinnacled roofs almost completely worn away by time and weather.
In a small courtyard high up in the monastery, surrounded on three sides by a colonnade that looked down upon the valley below, sat Constance Greene. She was motionless, watching a boy of four play at her feet. He was arranging a set of prayer beads into a pattern of remarkable complexity for a child of his age.
Now the horns issued a second mournful blast, and a figure appeared in the darkened doorway: a man in his early sixties, clad in the scarlet-and-saffron-colored robes of a Buddhist monk. He looked at Constance, smiled, and nodded.
“It is time,” the man said in an English inflected with a Tibetan lilt.
“I know.” She opened her arms and the boy rose and turned to embrace her. She kissed his head, then each cheek in turn. And then she released him and allowed the monk named Tsering to lead him by the hand across the courtyard and into the fastness of the monastery.
Leaning back against one of the columns, she gazed out over the vast, mountainous vista. Below, she could hear a commotion: voices, the whinny of a horse. Apparently a visitor had arrived at the monastery. Constance paid little attention. She looked listlessly out at the woods far below, at the dramatic flanks of the White Mountain as it rose beside her. The smell of sandalwood wafted up, along with the familiar sounds of chanting. As she gazed out over the vast expanse, she was aware—as so often these days—of a vague sense of dissatisfaction, a need unfulfilled, a task undone. Her restlessness puzzled her: she was with her son, in a beautiful and quiet place of meditative retreat and contemplation; what more could she want? And yet the restlessness only seemed to grow.
“Lead me into all misfortune.” She murmured the ancient Buddhist prayer quietly to herself. “Only by that path can I transform the negative into the positive.”
Now voices sounded in the dark passage within, and she turned toward them. A moment later a tall man dressed in dusty, old-fashioned traveling clothes emerged into the courtyard.
Constance sprang to her feet in astonishment. “Aloysius!”
“Constance,” he said. He walked toward her quickly, then stopped just as suddenly, seemingly unsure. After an awkward moment, he motioned for them both to sit upon the stone battlements. They sat side by side, and she simply stared at him, too surprised by his abrupt and unexpected appearance to speak.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Well, thank you.”
“And your son?”
At this she brightened. “He’s learning fast, so happy and full of gentleness and compassion, such a beautiful boy. He goes out and feeds the wild animals and birds, who come down from the hills to meet him, quite unafraid. The monks say he’s everything they hoped for and more.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over them. Pendergast seemed uncharacteristically hesitant, and then he abruptly spoke.
“Constance, there’s no easy or graceful way for me to put into words what I have to say. So I’ll phrase it as simply as I can. You must come back with me.”
This announcement was even more of a surprise than his arrival. Constance remained silent.
“You have to come home.”
“But my son—”
“His place is here, with the monks, as the rinpoche. You’ve just said he’s filling that role admirably. But you’re not a monk. Your place is in the world—in New York. You have to come home.”
She took a deep breath. “It’s not quite so simple.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“There’s another matter to consider…” She faltered, at a loss for words. “What exactly will be—what does this mean for us?”
Quite suddenly, he took her hands in his. “I don’t know.”
“But why this decision of yours? What happened?”
“I’ll spare you the details,” he said. “But there was a night, not so long ago, when I knew, with utter certainty, that I was about to die. I knew, Constance. And in that moment—that last extremity—it was you who suddenly came into my mind. Later, when the crisis had passed and I realized I would live after all, I had time to reflect on that moment. It was then I realized that, quite simply, life without you is not worth living. I need you to be with me. In what way or relationship, precisely, as ward, friend, or…I don’t know…remains to be worked out. I…I ask for your patience in that. But regardless, one fact remains. I cannot live without you.”