I surrender.
The mandala had been holding back until she was entirely receptive. Now it moved closer. Pain streamed into her unavoidably, though her guardian increased the flow of pleasure at the same time. She was used to the contradictory mixture. Her whole life had been nothing but pain and the things she took to ease it. At least tonight her pain had a purpose.
A faint gray light came burning through the orange haze. It didn’t trouble her as so many dawns had done, announcing the end of a night’s escape, the inevitable return to a day’s hassles. Her new sense of insight would never wear off and leave her stranded in a gray world. This time dawn hardly registered.
Every wall pointed in her direction. The floorboards rushed to join at her feet. The kitchen tiles sorted themselves with Lenore as their centerpoint, their one aim. When she moved, the center moved with her, and the mandala drifted along like a cluster of black balloons with streamers flowing to her limbs. She climbed into bed and lay very still as she contemplated the great distances yet to be covered.
Minutes passed like hours; she savored the time alone with her guardian, free of distraction.
When she heard Michael’s eyes open, she turned to greet him, smiling, and squeezed his hand.
“Hey,” he said, “good morning. How are you?”
“Great,” she said.
The word was well chosen to fill him with relief, to keep him calm until it was time to goad him on. He squeezed her hand in return, but Lenore was somewhere far away. Something else smiled for her, and kissed his cheek.
PART 3
You are our natural prey, our predestined slaves, and we joyously swear forever to whip you to our bidding until you fall and fail us, when we shall devour you as is our right.
We are your natural guides, your spirit tutors, and have vowed eternally to spur you on to great accomplishments until the time is ripe for you to transcend the mortal plane and rise with our assistance to your cosmic destiny.
11
The offices of Veritas Books, a division of Runyon-Cargill International, were located in a refurbished brick warehouse south of Market Street. The window beyond Bob Maltzman’s desk looked out on a small park with a swing set and a toddler’s gym constructed from creosote-soaked posts that looked like recycled telephone poles. There were no children in evidence. The sandpit resembled a cat box that had never been changed. A ragged man hung in one of the swings, not even bothering to look furtive as he put what Derek surmised was a crack pipe to his lips. Several others sat at tables in the park, or guarded their shopping carts from benches where they sat wrapped in rags, some isolated and rocking back and forth talking to themselves, others in actual conversation.
The door opened behind Derek and Bob Maltzman came in with two cups of coffee. “Too cold for the hookers today, I guess,” Bob said, setting a cup down on Derek’s side of the desk, taking his around to the other side.
“The view’s enchanting all the same,” Derek said.
“So…” Bob settled himself in his chair. There were stacks of manuscripts, proof sheets, everything in neat piles. Bob himself was short, rather plump, well groomed; he was dressed for a financial district office, white shirt and black tie, as if his conservative demeanor might help counteract the implicit flakiness of the books he published. Veritas was a respectable house, atmospheres above the amateurish Phantom Books; it had specialized and prospered for many years by publishing Christian writings and modern interfaith philosophy, before acquisition by the Runyon-Cargill empire. Veritas’s recent venture into the New Age market was a risk that rode mainly on Maltzman’s shoulders, and he carried it well. On the walls were several framed enlargements of book covers that Bob had purchased and published in his line: a new improved Egyptian Book of the Dead, its ancient lessons reinterpreted for the forward-looking yuppie; a colorful Qabala for children; and, naturally, a mandala. “How’d it go in North Carolina?”
“Fairly well. Good practice, anyway, if I can get some larger audiences.”
Bob shrugged. “I’ve still got my fingers crossed, but it’s hard with the New Age stuff. I can’t quite convince the accountants that it’s a growth industry. Eventually they’ll see the figures for themselves.”
“And how are the Mandalas doing?”
“What I’ve seen so far looks promising.”
Derek nodded, but he had come to expect these vague replies. Royalty checks were the real proof, and he was a long way from collecting them for this book.
“What I really wanted to talk about is these Club Mandala people,” he said.
“Oh, yes. I’ve seen their posters around town.”
“They’re total ripoffs.”
Maltzman squirmed almost imperceptibly. “It does sort of look that way.”
“What troubles me is that they started appearing just before the book came out. I’ve been trying to figure out how that’s possible.”
“I take it you have some ideas.”
“Well, it looks to me like someone leaked them.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for Bob to reach the obvious conclusion.
“Someone here?”
“I assume you use temps in your office. Secretaries, receptionists, people who run the photocopiers for instance. People with no particular loyalty to Veritas.”
Bob looked distressed, as if Derek were attacking him personally. “I suppose it’s possible. But we also sent out quite a few review copies, don’t forget. And does it really matter? The fact is, the mandalas are your designs—I mean, insofar as they belong to anyone. Although I suppose the gal who dictated them could make the same claim….”
“The mandalas authorized me to take possession of them, for dissemination,” Derek said rapidly. Bob had asked once, half in jest, to meet “Ms. A,” and Derek had responded that she insisted on anonymity. He suspected Bob had seen through this tale, but he was diplomatic in all things.
“Anyway, you’ve got the rights to them. If you want to enforce those rights, you don’t have to prove how your infringers got ahold of them. But part of the point of the book, I mean, what the mandalas themselves seem to want, is for the widest possible exposure. I know you’re not going to make any money out of this club, but on a broader level, it will bring the mandalas to more people and expand that many more minds.”
“There’s nothing to stop them from distorting the meaning of the mandalas, though,” Derek said. “To use them in a nightclub—it’s offensive.”
“So… insist on involvement. Make sure what they’re doing is in line with the truth. Stay on good terms with them, Derek, and who knows—they might help you promote the book.”
Derek sipped his coffee. Obviously Maltzman wasn’t going to help him ferret out the spy in Veritas. He had been hoping for evidence to intimidate the Club Mandala people when he confronted them. For the moment he was trying to avoid the expense of involving his lawyer.
“Speaking of books,” Maltzman said with a laugh, “how’s the next one going?”
Derek crossed his legs and watched the crackhead staggering away from the sandbox. “I’m still sketching out some ideas,” he said. “I haven’t settled on anything in particular.”
“How about that idea you pitched me a few years ago, before you came up with the mandalas?”
Derek stared at him, feeling blank.