Meet Phoenix. Marcia King-Gamble

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      I had a feeling this was going to be the trip of two lifetimes—mine and my dad’s.

      Tossing my cell phone into my backpack, I navigated the crowded airline terminal and went in search of Damon. I hadn’t seen him at the gate’s boarding area. The final boarding announcements were now being made. Damon was still nowhere in sight. Please, God, don’t let him let me down.

      There were a few passengers hovering around the counter when I reluctantly boarded the aircraft, none of them Damon. I flopped into the vacant seat next to Althea. The minute the seat belt sign went off, and the flight attendant announced it was safe to get up, I flew out of my uncomfortable coach seat and went in search of Damon. I got to the seat Whit had reserved for Damon, one over the wing with more legroom, and sufficiently far from me. I found a woman seated there.

      Damn him! Now what was I going to do?

      “Try first class. Those passengers are usually the first ones on,” Althea suggested when I returned. “You and I arrived late.”

      I shot her a puzzled look. “What would he be doing there?”

      The Tibetan government hadn’t sprung for expensive seats. We were a team, we sat together.

      “Who knows?” Her expression indicated she was holding back.

      Sauntering by a bewildered flight attendant, I whisked through the curtain separating coach from first and sashayed into the cabin.

      “Miss,” the attendant called after me. “Miss, there’s a bathroom in the back.”

      “I’m looking for a friend,” I tossed over my shoulder.

      I stood at the back getting my bearings. No, impossible, that could not be Damon’s silver-streaked curls in 3B. That would not be him seated with his feet up on the recliner. On his tray table were a bottle of brand-name water and a plate of appetizers. Back in coach we still hadn’t seen anything looking remotely like food.

      “Hey,” I said, presenting myself. “When did you get here?” I swiped a canapé off his plate and bit into it. “Not bad!”

      “Phe,” Damon greeted me as if we were the best of friends. “How nice of you to visit.” He raised his water bottle in a jaunty salute. “Sorry I missed the briefing. Bad traffic on the expressway. I made the flight by the skin of my teeth. My seat was released. I had to plead, cajole but finally persuaded someone to upgrade me.”

      Nothing had changed. He’d always had a problem with tardiness. I bit into the canapé wishing it was Damon’s head. He removed his feet from the recliner and gestured to the plate.

      “Help yourself to as many as you would like.”

      My stomach was growling, but I wouldn’t give Damon the satisfaction of cleaning up all of his leftovers. I’d humbled myself enough, practically begging him to take this job and then splitting my bonus with him. What was wrong with me? I needed my head examined.

      “Come on back,” I invited, although it damn near choked me. “Althea and I can fill you in on the briefing.”

      He made a production of yawning. I wanted to slap him. “Can’t it wait until after I nap?” He propped one leg over the other so that I could see his fancy slipper socks with the airline’s logo. “A nap will do us both some good. You’re starting to look a bit peaked, Phe.”

      I shot him a look that could freeze water and sashayed off. I was up anyway, and needed to work off my frustration.

      In the main cabin, the fancy word for coach, there wasn’t any sign of food or beverages being served. I wasn’t just ravenous now but thirsty, as well. Stopping by my row, I mouthed to Althea, “I’m taking a walk.”

      “Might as well,” she answered in a too-loud voice, which meant music vibrated through the headphones she’d clamped on. “It’s going to be a bitch of a flight.”

      “Flights,” I corrected. “We have a connection to face.”

      Althea groaned, “Oh, God, I hate flying.”

      My sentiments exactly but I wasn’t going to let something like that get in the way. The discomfort would be worth it if what I suspected was true. Maybe, just maybe, the father I loved more than life itself would finally be able to exorcise his demons and join the real world again.

      My father, my inspiration, had undergone a tremendous personality change since he’d been fired from his museum curator’s job. He’d pushed me to be the best I could be, and instilled in me a sense of independence. It was at his insistence I pursued a career in art restoration, a field that required endless hours of intense concentration and tedious attention to detail. That repetition helped me with discipline.

      Dad’s losing his job at the museum had been a major blow to his ego and psyche. It had changed the strong yet gentle man I knew into someone unrecognizable. Seeing what losing his job had done to him was so painful. Now those chronic bouts of depression had left him at times incapable of getting out of bed or taking care of basic everyday needs. His job, his art, his museum, his reputation had been everything to him.

      I wanted my confident, loving dad back again. When Bhaisajyaguru had been reported missing, Dad had been vilified by the newspapers and branded as either incompetent or in cahoots with the thieves. My mission now was to make him whole again.

      I just hoped I wasn’t too late.

      We had five long hours to go before touching down in Frankfurt, then another long flight to Kathmandu and finally to Lhasa.

      At the back galley, I paused. Flight attendants were pulling out beverage carts, and long lines were beginning to form at the lavatories. An attractive African-American attendant handed me a disposable cup filled with liquid.

      “You look thirsty,” she said.

      I thanked her, gulped the drink, and out of my peripheral vision noticed a passenger wending his way toward me. He loped down the aisle with purpose then stopped abruptly at the magazine rack, scanning the offerings. I finished my drink and set down my cup on the galley counter, considering what lay ahead.

      The Buddha statue must already be uncrated, photographed and recorded by a registrar. It would need to be analyzed so that an exact date could be put to the piece. Materials would need to be tested to determine the best and safest way to treat, clean and restore the idol. But the actual hard work would begin once I’d decided how best to repair it. It would probably require endless retouching.

      An elbow jostled me. Liquid spilled. No apology followed.

      “Dang! Excuse you.”

      I stepped aside. The same passenger who’d been scrutinizing the magazine rack whipped through the galley and made a U-turn up the far aisle.

      Rudeness made my blood boil! Instinctively my hands went to the pocket of my cargo pants where I kept my wallet. No fancy purses for me. The wallet was gone, along with my money, credit cards and driver’s license. My passport and other important documents were in the knapsack under my seat.

      Okay, he’d headed up the other aisle. I strode there with purpose, nudging several grumbling passengers aside.

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