Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #2: Books 5-8 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (types of ebook readers txt) 📕

I hung up and Dehan said, “Seven fifty-five tomorrow morning. We get in thirty-five minutes after eleven. I booked a Mustang Cabrio convertible, too.”

“Good.” I closed my eyes again. I felt suddenly drained. I spoke as though I was half asleep. “You better get us a room, too. We don’t know how long this is going to take.”

“A room?”

I opened my eyes and looked at her. She was smiling with hooded eyes.

“Yeah, in case we have to stay over a couple of nights.”

“I’ll get us a couple of rooms, shall I?”

“Yeah—that’s what I meant, Dehan!”

“Dirty old man.”

“Shut up. I’m wounded.”

“Dirty old man.”

“You wish.”

* * *

It was sunny and warm in Arizona.

We picked up the Hohokam Expressway just outside Phoenix International Airport, under a brilliant, clear blue sky, and headed south till we came to Highway 60 and then turned east through the heart of town. Highway 60 through Phoenix is kind of weird, because it is bounded most of the way by high walls, so you can’t see the acres of low houses with their swimming pools and desert gardens. All you can see is the long, straight highway, and the high, concrete walls with tall, thin palm trees towering over them against the perfect, azure sky.

After about half an hour, we finally emerged into the desert, the road veered south and east and we began to rise steadily through Gold Canyon, toward the Superstition Mountains. After ten minutes, we turned east again and began to climb through wide desert scrubland populated with small, gnarled bushes and tall saguaro cacti. After another half hour, the desert landscape began to be replaced by pine woods, steep mountain sides, and deep gorges. Finally, we came to the small town of Top of the World. There we turned onto a dirt track that claimed to be North Pinal Ranch Road and led us through pine forests on a steady climb toward a weird, fantastical, gleaming white temple at the top of a high ridge overlooking the town.

We wound our way up the dirt track for another five minutes and finally came to a large, modern complex of concrete and glass buildings, surrounded by lush gardens. Palms, cacti, and abundant exotic flowers had been arranged around a network of fountains, ponds, and streams with small wooden bridges. A series of signposts directed us to a near-empty parking lot. Dehan killed the engine and we climbed out.

We stood looking at the surreal arrangement of structures and gardens. The track went right through it and continued, up a smaller hill to the vast, domed, gleaming white stupa. It was crowned with a golden spire that shone in the winter sun, and pointed up to the vast, clear dome of heaven.

Dehan took hold of her long, black hair and tied it in a loose knot at the back of her neck. “What is this place? It’s like something out of one of those weird 1960s science fiction movies.”

“I think it’s a monastery.”

“So you think they have a reception desk or something?”

“Let’s go and find out.”We followed a footpath through gardens and over a bridge that spanned a narrow stream to a large building with broad, glass doors into a cavernous room with no windows. The floor was tiled in marble and the walls were painted in elaborate frescos that seemed to depict scenes from Buddha’s life. Stacked in a corner was a pile of mats and small cushions. Dehan removed her aviators and muttered, “It reminds me of a dojo.”

“I think you’re not far off. I think this is where they meditate.”

We stepped out again and crossed a paved area, past a large pond, and headed toward another building which was almost as long, but was on two floors and had plenty of windows. It had ‘administration’ written all over it. As we approached, the door opened and a young man with very short hair, jeans, and a sweatshirt came toward us, smiling.

“You look lost,” he said with all the subtlety of a man in his twenties who has just discovered a spiritual path. I ignored him with all the subtlety of a man in his forties who has met a lot of men in their twenties who have discovered a spiritual path.

Dehan asked him, “Do you work here?”

“I have some duties here,” he answered as though he was gently correcting an error in her perception of truth.

I said, “Good. We are looking for somebody. Maybe you can help us find him.”

“Who are you looking for?” He clasped his hands together, like he was going to pray for us to find what we were seeking.

Dehan said, “His name is Ananda Sri Pannasiha. He’s from Sri Lanka.”

He smiled beatifically and nodded several times with his eyes closed. “Sangha Nayaka Ananda Sri Pannasiha is the senior monk here. He is up at the stupa at present, tending the gardens. Please…” He bowed slightly and gestured with his hand for us to follow the path up to the temple. “He will be pleased to see you and answer your questions.”

I frowned at him. “How did you know we had questions for him?”

“Everybody who comes here has questions for Nayaka Ananda.”

“Thanks.”

He bowed and withdrew like someone auditioning for one of the sillier parts on Star Trek, and Dehan and I started our own trek up the path toward the temple. It was slightly more than three hundred yards, but it was up hill and it took us about ten minutes to reach the steep, white steps that led to the temple doors. The structure was magnificent. It inspired both awe and peace at the same time. Broad gardens surrounded it with palms, cacti, bright flowers, and sand and stones of remarkable colors, arranged in patterns that were startling and evocative.

At the back, we found a stream with