I've made the point before, but it bears repeating: When the Infinite Soul manifests in human form, it is not to "save" anyone. It is to provide a new platform from which to continue our spiritual and social evolution, individually and together. The Infinite Soul will not whisk any of us away from our responsibilities, or from the need to complete the lessons of life on the physical plane.
Devotions will not exempt you. That is wishful thinking. Nor will the Infinite Soul make your choices for you. You make them for yourselves.
In that regard I've been asked, what about when your Essence, your inmost being, "speaks" to you? Or a "guardian angel?" But they do not command you, and far more often than not, you, as your personality, ignore them. And when you accept and act on their promptings, it is usual to rationalize, come up with a "reason"in order to protect your paradigm of the physical universe.
Occasionally, in emergencies, you experience a sudden powerful impulse to comply, but even that is not coercion. It is timing and presentation. The choice remains yours, whether or not there is time for preliminary reflection.
Rather often when this happens, the person, the chooser, is changed by it. Not often transfigured, but nonetheless changed for what you might think of as "the better."
From The Collected Public Lectures
of Ngunda Aran
Thomas Corkery was surprised to find a stretch limo in Spokane. It didn't seemed to him a stretch limo sort of city. The town was large enough, but not sufficiently conceited. Still, he reflected, to transport the featured speaker, three bodyguards and five guests, with a policeman in front . . . And they'd hardly ask the man to ride in a van.
He wondered what would happen if he made his try now, in the crowded vehicle. Nothing good, it seemed to him. Assassination was more difficult than most people realized, certainly when the target had professional protection. And this operation was undoubtedly his most dangerous ever. It had started well. The entourage hadn't been checked with a metal detector before getting into the limousine. It would have been an insult to the host city, and terrible PR. But the greatest danger, should he get that far, would be when he drew and fired. Truly he did not expect to survive the evening.
He would, of course, have just one chance. And there was the bloody damned headrest in the waysteel beneath the padding.
Besides himself, it seemed to him the bodyguards were the only watchful people in the limo. One of them was seated on his right. Could he draw, point his weapon, and put a lethal bullet through the brain of the guru in front of him, before he was shot himself, or his gun arm grasped and broken? The bodyguards would have quick reflexes, and they'd have been drilled in situations like this. Also, he had no doubt they wore body armor. Even the guru might, though he didn't appear to. Some models were unnoticeable beneath jackets.
His mulling, he told himself, was nerves, nothing more. His best script for success assumed that the entourage wouldn't be checked at the stadium. The guards and police escort, of course, would all carry guns. And if that many armed men passed through all at once, the detection equipment would melt down from shock.
But if they were checked, it would be off to some American prison for him. Then Ngunda Aran might die of old age for all he could do about it. As for himselfgiven his British record, he'd doubtless get the maximum punishment allowed under the American Anti-Terrorism Act. The amnesty granted by the Dublin Agreement wouldn't cover this. And the police would be authorized to kill, if they deemed it necessary to protect the guru or themselves. Or anyone else for that matter.
The parking lot was nearly full. There were no lines at the ticket windows, but people were still moving through the two entrance gates, showing their tickets and passing through detection. The limo drove past them, turning heads, and let its passengers off at another gate, private and somewhat removed, manned by police.
It was there they encountered a metal detector. Corkery's guts knotted, the breath locking in his chest. If need be, he was prepared to draw and make his try then, first at Ngunda, then at shooting his way out. But they went through the detector without anything happening. Apparently it was turned off. He was relieved, but not surprised, with so many armed guards around the guru.
They entered a tunnel, well-lit and painted white. To Corkery's now hypersensitive senses, their shoes sounded harsh on the concrete. They passed doors and side corridors, then emerged into evening again. Being early June, the sun had not yet set. The sky was cloudless, the playing field vividly green. Beyond the outfield fence were high ridges dark with pine forest. There was a murmur of crowd voices, swelling as people became aware of Ngunda's entrance. Scattered cheers spread, becoming general but not rowdy. The stands were brightly mottled with the red, blue, yellow and green of jackets, for out of the sun, the evening was cool.
Corkery saw and heard it all, but dismissed it. It was meaningless to his mission.
They'd entered from the third base side, bypassing the diamond itself. The grass was thick and yielding beneath Corkery's sturdy black oxfords. Not far behind second base, they climbed the steps to the temporary speakers' platform. There, with uniformed police standing by, they were met by ushers wearing blazers, who led each guest to a designated folding chair, then left the stand.
The guests and bodyguards sat in a single crescent facing the lectern. Not a straight line. That was deliberate, he was sure, for bodyguards sat at the ends, from where they could see all those on the platform. And on the grass, at each of the platform's front corners, stood a policeman, armed and watchful.
The time is at hand, Corkery told himself, and felt the focused calm that normally settled on him with the moment of truth imminent.
He was next to the bodyguard on the crescent's left end, not ten feet from the target. A squeeze of the trigger, then shove the barrel into the bodyguard's waist for the second round, andpossibly, if he was very fast and very lucky Don't think about that, he told himself. Hope of survival weakens a man. Leave it in the hands of God.
The mayor was first at the lectern. Corkery had wondered how the introductions would be handled. Would everyone on the stand be introduced? And the men whose money had sent himwere they watching from Montreal, Toronto, New York? Might they see him stand, recognize him and feel a rush of fulfillment?
It was the briefest of thoughts, then Corkery's attention was on the mayor again, taking the microphone from its stand. "Ladies and gentleman," the mayor said, "please stand while Bruce Chilgren sings the national anthem."
Corkery's eyes gleamed. This was the time he'd planned for since that first ballgame, when the crowd had stood for the anthem. He watched the mayor turn and hand the microphone to the husky young man who'd stepped forward.
Then Chilgren turned full around to face left center field, where the flag would be raised. All the others on the stand followed his example, eyes toward the flagpole. Now the crescent was inverted, himself at one tail, a bit behind Ngunda to the guru's right. Corkery took a deep breath, let it out.
Most of the men in the stands, and all of them on the platform, had their right hand on their chest. Corkery's slipped inside his jacket, unsnapping the holster's safety strap. His eyes were on Ngunda, not directly but obliquely. His fingers closed on the pistol butt, his index finger entered the trigger guard, his thumb found the safety. The organist played the opening chords, and Chilgren started to sing. Corkery began his draw.
Wearing his security uniform, Luther Koskela lay in the crawl space on a narrow foam mat, peering through the panel. He'd been there since just before the gates had opened to the public.
Most of the outfield was rich with sunlight, and people continued to flow up the aisles to upper seats, the only seats left. The shadow of the grandstand roof was invading the speakers' platform.
He was ready, surgeon's gloves snug on his hands. His trusty Thompson/Center was beside him on the plywood decking, silencer in place, the laser rangefinder beside it. He'd smuggled them in five nights earlier, along with the foam pad. The team had been on a road trip, and Luther hadn't known when Millennium Security and the Sheriff's department would install special procedures. So far as he knew, Stadium Security hadn't been party to their plans; certainly peasants like himself hadn't.
The shadow would soon capture the speakers' platform. The stadium seats were nearly full, and people were still coming in. There had to be more than ten thousand already.
The crowd sound grew, swelled to cheering, and he felt his own surge of energy. There they were, a short file of people marching past third base toward the platform, convoyed by deputies. From the panel he watched through, it was 247 feet82 yardsto what Luther thought of as the pulpit, with its microphone. He'd already set the range on his scope. From where he was, he could detect no breeze. The target wouldn't be in direct sunlight, but ordinary skylight would be more than adequate. Or the field lights if it came to that.
He could easily have shot Ngunda then, but it might not be fatal. He'd wait till the man was standing still, with the crowd looking out at the flagpole. And the organ playing, covering the muffled sound of his "silenced" rifle.
There were ten people on the platform, one a priest, Luther realized. Somehow the man raised Luther's hackles. A heavy-set man stepped out to the microphone and announced the singing of the national anthem, then handed the mike to the singer. All of them turned toward the outfield. Luther positioned his rifle, heard the first organ notes, put his eye to the scope, moved the muzzle toward Ngunda
And in passing saw the priest's hand holding a gun, as if newly drawn from his jacket! Without thinking, Luther paused the cross hairs on the priest's head and squeezed the trigger, felt the recoil against his shoulder, saw the priest fall. And felt a surge of exultation! The sharp gunshot Luther heard was not his own.
On the platform, people scrambled, some jumping from it onto the outfield grass. There were screams from the crowd, though the organist kept playing. Someone had thrown Ngunda down and was lying on him, but whether either had been shot, Luther had no idea. He watched for only a moment. Then leaving rifle, rangefinder and pad in the crawl space, he slipped out through the overhead access, took off his snug plastic gloves, put them in his pocket, lowered himself to the walkway behind the press box, and hurried down the short stairway to an aisle. In his security uniform, no one thought anything of it, if indeed anyone noticed him at all.
Thomas Corkery never knew another thing in his life, simply collapsed onto the platform. The bullet from his pistol slammed into the right buttock of the man to his left. The bodyguard on his right ignored the splatter of Corkery's brains on his own face and neck. Charging over the corpse and brushing the wounded man aside, he rode the unwounded Ngunda to the deck, shielding him. His partner and the sheriff's people would handle anything else.
After the stadium had been cleared, Art Knowles met with Sheriff Edwards. The very preliminary assessment was that the "priest" had been a would-be assassin, and judging by the angle of his wound, had been shot by someone on the grandstand roof. By someone with tour security, the sheriff was sure, though Art Knowles insisted he'd had no one up there. The sheriff pointed out that his own snipers had not been equipped with silencers, yet the shot had not been heard. And none of his own snipers admitted having seen the priest draw his weapon, or firing their own. It seemed to him Millennium's security chief was lying.
Meanwhile, Edwards needed to account for the killing. It would be a damned legal nuisance, and cost the county money, but there was no way around it, even though the priest had almost surely intended to kill Ngunda Aran. But on the other hand, whoever the murderer was, he'd saved Spokane a lot of terrible publicity.
Edwards did some serious figuring that night. Afterward, getting to sleep had taken two jolts of bourbon, an hour more of lying awake, then more bourbon. But he had a decision of sorts: he'd voice no speculation till the autopsy report was in. He'd simply tell the press that the unknown gunman had apparently fired from the stadium roof. They'd speculate like crazy, but he could live with that.
Two days earlier, Luther had told friends, including his supervisor, two other guards, one of the boarders and Signe, that he'd had a phone call from a friend in Oakland. There was a job for him there if he wanted it, with the Port Authority. A job less agreeable, but paying somewhat more.
After the shooting, he completed his shift, then drove home to his aunt's. Before going to bed, he packed most of his things in his large, scuffed leatherette suitcase. When he did go to bed, he slept like a baby.
As usual he slept till nine, then went to the kitchen and rustled up his own breakfast. Signe had almost nothing to say to himavoided looking at him, as if she wondered. That shook him. Driving to Seafirst, he went to Security wearing civvies, and turned in his uniform. It seemed to him they looked at him speculatively. He said he'd send an address when he had one, so they could mail his final paycheck. After that he sat around in the coffee room for a few minutes, joking with a couple of guys.
Afterward he drove back to Signe's. To his relief, she was out on errands.
After stowing his suitcase and sleeping bag in his trunk, he drove east, not south or west. That afternoon he located an old buddy in Lolo, Montana. After supper they drove into the Bitterroot Mountains, where Lute picked his careful way up a primitive road, his friend following in a pickup. At the edge of a rugged wooded canyon, he stopped and removed his license plates. Then the two men pushed the car over the edge, watching and listening to it bounce and smash its way almost to the bottom. Someone would find it eventually, of coursesome hunter or foresterbut by then . . .
Next his buddy drove him to Missoula, where he bought a bus ticket to Salt Lakefor cover. He buried the ticket in a pocket, and his friend drove him all the way to Great Falls, where he jumped a freight train.
Ever since he'd left the crawl space, he'd known it was time to get honestas honest as possible without turning himself in. He'd find a job of whatever sort, hope his past didn't catch up with him, and start a new life.
Two days later he was in Duluth, where he got an under-the-table job in a scrap iron yard. No formal employment, no papers, no questions. Just show up for work, do his job, and be paid in cash. It would take quite awhile to accumulate money for new counterfeit papers.
Meanwhile he had no further interest in Ngunda Aran, and didn't wonder about it.
He'd acted none too soon. The evening after the shooting, Spokanites heard on the six o'clock news that the unknown gunman had apparently fired from the stadium roof, behind the third base line. And that police snipers there denied having fired, or seeing anyone else fire.
An electrician heard the newscast. It was he who'd wired the new press box, when the ball club went triple-A, and remembering the crawl space, phoned the sheriff's office. By eight o'clock, the rifle and rangefinder were in the sheriff's evidence room. Then stadium security reported Karlson's fortuitous departure. No prints were found, but questioning Signe brought out that Karlson's real name was Koskela. That he was an ex-Ranger and mercenary, who obviously carried false ID. He became the lead suspect.
Meanwhile an Interpol check of the dead man's fingerprints uncovered his actual identity as an ex-IRA terrorist. This shifted the investigation to the FBI, and the sheriff's office was glad to be rid of it. The FBI, in turn, theorized that someone with an old grudge against Corkery had caught up with him: someone Irish or English.
It was hardly compellinga theory of convenience. But the bureau was swamped with cases, and no one was clamoring for an arrest on this one. They gave it a low priority, and it faded from sight.