Meet Phoenix. Marcia King-Gamble

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.

      “Sorry,” I mumbled.

      “Hey, what’s the problem? It’s not like you’re going anywhere faster than the rest of us,” a bespectacled man cried as I bumped into him.

      “Miss,” a flight attendant called. “Is there something I can help you with? Are you looking for someone?”

      Several passengers craned their necks. One of the flight attendants began trailing me. She probably thought I was deranged or a new breed of terrorist.

      I spotted the man who’d stolen my stuff as he hurdled into the middle seat, closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. I leaned over the heavyset man occupying the aisle seat and held out my hand.

      “You have something that’s mine. Give it up.”

      The thief opened his eyes and grunted something in a foreign language.

      “What’s going on?” the other occupant, a woman who was clearly terrified, asked, clutching her chest.

      I had no time for explanations. My wallet had been there when I boarded the plane. I’d produced my driver’s license at the gate. My passport and plane ticket had been put back into my backpack after I’d checked in. I needed my money and I needed my ID, simple as that.

      “Give me back my wallet,” I said, reaching across the obese man and grabbing a handful of the thief’s shirt. His eyes bugged out of his head and his neck jerked forward as I began to shake him.

      “Turn it over, now.”

      I’d garnered pretty much all of the attention of the passengers in the surrounding areas.

      The pickpocket’s mouth worked. He made a gargling sound. The woman seated next to him’s left eye ticked. Petrified, she pressed her bony body against the wall.

      I straddled the male passenger and stood in front of the thief, hemming him in. Behind me, bedlam broke out. I felt a hand tapping my shoulder.

      “Miss, you need to calm down.”

      Audible gasps followed as the surrounding people watched me shove a finger into the hollow of my accoster’s throat. His entire body jerked as he gasped for air and made a gurgling sound.

      “I’ll stick my knee in your groin next,” I said, patting him down with my free hand. “Hand over my wallet.”

      I felt a bulky object at his waistband. Victorious, I reached into his pants and retrieved my goods then waved my wallet above his head.

      “As I suspected, you took something that’s not yours.”

      “Take it easy, little lady,” a Southern voice growled from behind me. “You keep this up and we’ll need to restrain you.”

      I glanced over my shoulder, spotting one of the pilots. I eased the pressure on the pickpocket’s windpipe.

      “This man’s a thief. He stole my wallet,” I explained.

      The thief held his throat, rasping. Guttural words came out in the strange foreign language.

      “Is that so,” the pilot said, sounding as if he didn’t quite believe me.

      I held up my wallet, doing a quick check to make sure that my money, credit cards, driver’s license and social security card were still in their respective compartments.

      The pilot attempted to interrogate the man but the passenger didn’t respond. Orders were given to find a crew member proficient in Chinese.

      “I want to press charges,” I said, as yet another flight attendant came racing up the aisle to the pilot’s assistance.

      “We’ll call ahead and have the authorities meet the flight. These things take time, so you’ll probably miss your connection if you have one,” she answered.

      I couldn’t afford to be delayed. Timing on this project was everything. I’d promised to have Maitreya, if that’s who the statue was, restored before Buddha’s Enlightenment Day. That festival drew every pilgrim from the far ends of the earth. It also helped fuel the Tibetan economy.

      So although it went against everything I believed in to let the crook go free, what choice did I have? I didn’t have time for questions or filling out tedious paperwork. I could not afford to miss my connection. I had a deadline to meet. Missing my connection would cost me money.

      And possibly my father’s sanity and his name.

      But why had the pickpocket chosen me of all people to come after? I was dressed in cargo pants and hiking boots, not exactly an outfit that was a fashion statement or said I had money to burn.

      Grumbling, I flounced by the still-gawking passengers. Their loud whispers followed me back to my row. A few even had the gumption to cheer.

      “Way to go!”

      “You’re some gutsy female.”

      I grunted something and sank into my seat and quickly clamped on my headphones. Music would soothe the soul and make me forget how ravenous I was.

      My pickpocket disappeared in Frankfurt and we finally made it to Lhasa, Tibet, without