19

By Wednesday morning, Finney noticed that the contestants were getting into a routine. Kareem had started the last two days with prayer rituals outside his condo at sunrise, making sure everyone was awake with his loud chanting. Dr. Kline would be the next out, stretching before she took off on her morning run, doing ten or fifteen laps on the sidewalk around the small resort, making Finney tired just watching.

Finney would then begin his own morning exercise, walking around the same half-mile loop two or three times—something far more reasonable. Even that distance made his lungs ache, but he was determined to keep exercising.

Next, the Swami would find a spot on the beach and practice yoga for the appreciative cameras. Ando apparently meditated somewhere inside or maybe just slept in.

The Assassin took careful mental notes about the habits and capabilities of others on the island. He put nothing in writing. Still, he filed away in the recesses of his mind critical details on each person—background information he had gained before coming to the island, physical strengths and weaknesses, personalities, alliances. He knew which contestants played cards together and which contestants operated alone. He knew that Finney started each day with a cigar, coffee, and twenty-five minutes of Bible reading. He knew that Victoria Kline had averaged three minutes and forty-five seconds per lap on day one and three minutes and thirty-eight seconds per lap on day two.

He had already met every security guard at the resort, filing those names away for possible future reference. He took careful note of the firearms and radios they carried. He scouted out the location of every camera on Paradise Island.

It had been only three days, and he had more than a week left to complete his reconnaissance, but he was already getting into the zone. So far there had been no surprises, nothing that would keep him from carrying out his assignment.

In his mind, with a few brain cells not busy cataloging key facts about his environs, he was already counting the money.

On Wednesday morning Finney decided to have a seat on the lounger a few feet away from the Swami. Finney took his Bible with him—there was nothing he liked better than having his morning devotions while the sun crawled up out of the ocean, throwing off splashes of orange and yellow in spectacular fashion.

He took a seat, kicked off his flip-flops, perched his reading glasses on the end of his nose, and watched Hadji for a few minutes over the top of the glasses. The kid was looking out over the water, deep in meditation, and apparently didn’t even notice that Finney had joined him. The Swami was wearing nothing but a pair of baggy plaid shorts and was standing with his feet spread wide, his toes and knees pointed outward, and his arms dangling at his sides. He would squat down while inhaling, keeping his back straight as a board, then would bend his elbows at the waist and emit some kind of “ha” sound. He would inhale again as he extended his arms straight in front of him, then pull his elbows back to his chest with another “ha.”

The Swami did this over and over for a few minutes while Finney watched him, the Bible lying unopened in Finney’s lap. Then the Swami stood, turned his toes forward, and hinged down at the waist, keeping his legs straight and placing his palms on the sand. He slowly rolled up to a standing position and turned toward Finney, smiling.

“Ha kriya,” he said.

“Ha kriya, yourself,” Finney said. He took off his reading glasses and began fiddling with them in his right hand.

“No, Judge O, that’s the name of the exercise. Ha means ‘sun’ and kriyas are ritual actions that unite movements and breath to alter our energetic states. It’s a way to draw on solar power, Judge, to get the kind of energy we’re going to need in the next few days.”

“Yeah,” Finney said. “I can feel it too.”

The Swami looked at Finney, as if unsure whether he was serious. “Why don’t you give it a try, Judge O? I’m just about ready to do something to experience the soothing energy of the water.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I draw most of my power from reading this Book.”

“That’s cool, Judge, but I’m not trying to convert you to Hinduism or anything. I’m just saying that if you want to relax and get ready for the day, this can help you.”

Finney shook his head. “I’ve got cigars for that.”

“But, dude, cigars are poison. This stuff is soothing and rejuvenating.” Then the Swami shrugged. “But hey, man, it’s up to you. I don’t want to tell you how to get in touch with your spiritual side. I do know a lot of Christians who like to meditate, though.”

“Maybe some other time,” Finney said. He put on his reading glasses, opened his Bible, and started where he had left off yesterday. The Swami resumed his yoga.

Finney thought about the Swami’s last comment. Meditation was one thing, but yoga was meditation of a different sort, centering your thoughts on a spiritual force at odds with Christianity. But that didn’t necessarily mean that Christians had to avoid meditation altogether—to concede the field, so to speak. Finney knew a lot of Christians, including a lot of heroes of the faith, who meditated on God and His goodness. Sure, it was more of a Middle Ages practice than a modern one—another spiritual discipline that had fallen victim to fast-paced lifestyles. But there was certainly nothing wrong with meditation per se.

Finney had an idea.

“You ever read this Book?” he asked.

The Swami looked over at him, finished a repetition of what looked like a breaststroke on dry land, and then stopped. “The whole thing?”

“Let’s just say the New Testament.”

“Not really. I’ve heard a bunch of sermons, though. And I watched The Passion once. I think I get the general drift.”

“But you’ve never read it yourself?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Tell you what,” Finney said. “If you read one of the books in the New Testament that I get to choose, I’ll try one of your exercises. But I’m not into all that chanting and meditating, just the exercise.”

The Swami shrugged. “Deal.”

Finney showed the Swami where the Gospel of John started, then took off his glasses, put down his Bible, and received his first lesson in yoga exercises. This one was all about water, the Swami said. He had Finney stand with his heels together and toes apart, place his palms together in front of his body, and then reach up over his head and push the air away, rising up on his toes and exhaling, as if he were swimming through water.

“Are you soaking in the water?” the Swami asked.

“Not really,” Finney admitted, “but I am getting a little tired.”

They stopped the exercise when Victoria Kline wandered their way.

“Want to join us?” the Swami asked.

“No thanks.” She snickered. “Judge Finney, you hardly seem the type for yoga.”

Finney shrugged. “I’m not. I just thought it might help me to focus better on the Scripture I’d been reading.”

“Did it?”

Finney looked at the Swami as if to apologize. “Not really.”

“You sure you don’t want to try it?” the Swami asked Victoria, undeterred.

“No,” Dr. Kline said. “But there is something I’ve been dying to try.” To Finney’s surprise, she motioned to the Hobie Cat sitting a few hundred yards down the beach. “I always wanted to learn how to sail. Judge, did you say the other day that you knew how to sail one of those things?”

The question caught Finney off guard. Was Dr. Kline asking him to take her sailing? “I’m better at sailing than I am at yoga.”

They talked for a few more minutes and agreed on a time for Victoria Kline’s first Hobie Cat lesson. The Swami stared after her as she walked off down the beach.

“Dude,” he said to Finney, “I knew you had good karma.”