The Lion of Khum Jung

Chapter 2-1

2

Frank opened the door to his hotel room and hit the switch. He hadn’t known what to expect when he finally met the Widow and her son, other than he had been determined not to like them any more than was necessary. Yes, the tragedy on Everest involving Steven Madden had happened a long time ago, and yes, Frank had told himself he had gotten over it, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten it. Added to that was the fact that the Widow and her son were Americans, expecting folks to lay down the red carpet for them. He snorted. They’d soon find out things didn’t quite work that way on the mountain. Frank Kincaid was not a cruise director nor did he concern himself with being their personal valet.

He cleared a pile of regulatory expedition documents from his bed and plopped them on the dresser. Why hadn’t he told his front office to call the son back and cancel the American’s expedition reservation when he found out about it? And letting the mother tag along and live with them at Base Camp? Sure, the extra $10,000 from her would help in financing the classroom addition he was building with the support of the Hillary Trust in Khum Jung; and yes, he’d occasionally allowed family members to be present during expeditions. But that was generally reserved for repeat clients with enthusiastic loved ones. Greg Madden and his mother were neither of those things.

Was the need to see the son and widow of the man who was responsible for killing his best friend so long ago morbid curiosity or did he want vengeance? Frank refused to believe it was the latter because it would mean he was vindictive and self-serving. Yet, with every day leading up to this night, the anger he’d worked so hard to repress over the years had grown exponentially.

He took a long look at himself in the dresser mirror as he unbuttoned his shirt. What were the chances he’d be guiding the son of the man who’d brought so much pain to him and those he cared about? Then again, Frank had learned that karma had a way of reconciling itself. He tossed his shirt over his backpack and sat on the bed, pulling his legs into a lotus position. Lying on his pillow beside him was his satchel. In it was a tattered book of Buddhist stories he’d put down on paper over the years. He pulled it out, leafed through it, and thought of what Ang Tashi-ring would say. He already knew the answer the old Buddhist lama would give him: “. . . what lesson are you about to learn? And are you ready to hear it?”

Frank peered out the window across the courtyard toward the Widow’s room. He knew anger was a ghost, an irrational emotion that could control his life if he let it. He took several deep, measured breaths to take back control of the angst that was twisting his stomach into knots. As he did so, he realized he had a mountain of his own to climb. It was a different kind of mountain, yet no less dangerous than the one awaiting the young American client. At length, he looked down at the book in his hands, drank in the words on the page, and read, “If you light a lamp for somebody, it will also brighten your own path.”

He sighed.