A Change of Heart (6 page)

He didn't ask her any more questions. She knew he wanted to. God knew she had answers to them all. But right now she was too weary for questions, for anything more than what she had just done.

He straightened, that alert focus back in his eyes again, and looked like he was going to ask another question after all. “I promise I'll answer all your questions. But not right now. Tomorrow,” she said before he could open his mouth.

He shook his head. “I was just going to ask if I could walk you to your room. You look exhausted.”

She backed away from him, putting distance between them as fast as she could.

“I'm fine,” she said, finding it hard to keep her voice even and kicking herself for it. “You should go get some rest. I'll come find you at the clinic tomorrow.”

She spun around and walked away without breaking into a run the way she wanted to.

Once she was in the elevator by herself, she pulled the ultra-fancy phone out of her pocket and punched in the number from memory before typing out a text.
I'm in. Everything on track.

Then she deleted the text from the Sent folder and deleted the number from the list of calls.

7

 

—Dr. Jen Joshi

 

 

R
ahul Savant often forgot that he had topped the Indian Joint Civil Services Examination. For all the huge deal they made out of the exam, it was just a bunch of questions, and Rahul had never had trouble answering questions, especially the kind that came from books. The real skill, the one no one had found a way to test, was in finding the right questions to ask.

He took a deep breath and raised his arm to knock on the teakwood door that smelled of fresh varnish. This was exactly the kind of moment when he needed to remind himself that he was indeed a top-ranker and that he deserved to be standing here inside the historical Sachivalaya—the South Mumbai office of the state home minister—wearing his Deputy Commissioner of Police uniform as the DCP and not as the minister's protégé. He was well within his rights in asking for what he needed to bring Jen's killers to justice.

He rapped on the wood. But the sharp stab of pain on his always-bruised knuckles did nothing to distract from the shame of having failed Jen.

“Come in.” The home minister's unerringly calm voice invited him in, and Rahul opened the door and marched in with more bravado than he felt.

“Exactly on time, as usual.” Kirit Patil's kind eyes studied him with their usual generous approval. Instead of dissipating, Rahul's shame intensified.

Kirit shut the leather-bound folder he'd been studying and indicated the chair in front of him. Rahul hadn't opened his mouth yet, but he could tell that Kirit knew he came bearing bad news.

“Still no sign of the diary, sir.” He still could not believe that he had allowed such a crucial piece of evidence to go missing. If not for the fact that Kirit had been his mentor ever since Rahul's father took a bullet for Kirit twenty years ago, he might not be standing here addressing the minister at all. He might be opening doors as a security guard outside some fancy hotel.

Kirit shrugged. “It's a closed case, Rahul. If you stop bringing it up, it would be a non-issue. You have to let it go, son.”

“Another disappearance was reported yesterday. That's five that we know of this year. I have reason to believe this has to do with Dr. Joshi's investigation.” Or what should have been
his
investigation. One he should never have let Jen get so involved in.

“This is ridiculous and you know it. We don't have bodies, no proof that these people exist. We don't even have proof that Jennifer Joshi was even actually collecting any evidence. How do you expect me to sanction an investigation when there is no case? I've let slide the fact that the diary was stolen under your supervision. That's as much as I can do.”

Kirit had taken a huge risk keeping such a blunder secret, and he had possibly saved Rahul's job. But Rahul knew better than to thank him again. Kirit didn't need more sniveling gratitude. What he needed was a DCP who did his job.

“I got a call from Dr. Joshi today.”

Kirit sat up, raised one questioning brow, and reached for the stainless-steel tumbler sitting on a tray on his desk.

Rahul poured water into the tumbler from the jug and handed it to Kirit. “It was completely out of the blue. Dr. Joshi has been unreachable for close to two years now.”

Kirit took a sip and raised his chin, signaling Rahul to continue.

“He wanted to know who had his wife's heart. I tried to tell him about the diary and ask for his help with finding the evidence again. But he didn't give me a chance.”

The minister stood. Despite his lean build, the sun shining through the massive windows behind him turned him larger than life. He walked around the desk and put his hand on Rahul's shoulder.

His expression was innately familiar. Kirit's kindness had helped Rahul survive his father's death. Rahul would always carry the weight of Baba bleeding out on his lap after he had taken the bullet meant for the minister at the election rally. But he would never forget that Kirit had refused to flee the scene until the ambulance arrived.

He'd stayed with Rahul through the ordeal at the hospital and held Rahul's hand as he gave fire to his father's pyre. Then he had helped Rahul channel his teenage anger and steered him toward the Civil Services Exam and the police force instead of the limited alternatives available to children like him, if the gangs in the neighborhood hadn't gobbled him up first.

“Rahul, we already have the perpetrators in the Jennifer Joshi murder case in custody. This case is not going to spoil your perfect record. You've already managed to send the black-market organ ring into hiding. These disappearances—you're trying to find a connection where there is none.” He leaned his head forward and let his steady gaze calm Rahul. “It's time to let this case go, son. I don't want you to contact Dr. Joshi again. And you cannot let anyone know about the diary being stolen. If the media finds out that evidence has gone missing, I won't be able to protect you any longer. There is only so much I can do.”

First, the murderers they had in custody weren't the
real
murderers, not the ones who orchestrated the organ stealing that Jen had unearthed. Not the ones who had threatened Jen and then had her throat snapped in an alley. Second, the deaths hadn't stopped. The department just didn't have the resources to go after disappearances of undocumented slum dwellers, not without Kirit's approval. No, this was far from over.

“Sir, I know that the evidence is still out there. I know Jen's . . . Dr. Joshi's husband has access to the evidence. I don't think the diary being stolen is an accident. I just need a little time to get through to him. He's coming up on the two-year mark. Even the most badly affected victims' families are ready to get back to their lives after two years. I know if I can just talk to him that he can lead us to these monsters.”

“You said that when we passed the one-year mark. So far the victim's husband has shown us no sign that he wants to cooperate. We have no case and even if we did we don't have jurisdiction. He's taken himself and all her possessions back to the US. There is nothing more we can do.”

“I need clearance to access the donor records.”

“It's out of the question.”

“Please, sir. I'm begging.”

Kirit squeezed his temples. “You know how hard it is for me to refuse you, son. I would give you anything you wanted if I thought it would get us anywhere. I'll tell you what. I've recommended your name to head up the security team for the Commonwealth Games in New Delhi.”

“You're transferring me?”

Kirit looked hurt. “No, I'm giving you a promotion and the kind of responsibility anyone else with your seniority would kill for.”

“Then don't. I don't deserve it. I haven't earned it.”

Kirit patted Rahul's shoulder again. “You deserve so much more. You just have to learn to keep your emotions out of it. If you get my meaning. This business is too dirty to let your heart get involved.” He held Rahul's gaze, until he was sure his words had sunk in.

This wasn't about Jen, or how he felt about her. But he was not getting into that with Kirit. Based on Kirit's set face, it seemed like Rahul wasn't getting into anything more with him today.

“Come on, son, let it go. It's over.”

But it wasn't over. There were still five people who had disappeared. Jen's donor registry database was still erased without a trace. The diary was still missing from police custody. Nikhil Joshi's dead-man voice was still searching for connections to his wife, a woman Rahul would avenge if it was the last thing he did.

But he had reached a dead end with Kirit and he'd just have to find another way.

Kirit must have seen the resignation in Rahul's face, because he sank into his chair, looking suddenly old and weary. “You're coming home for dinner tonight. Kimi is cooking some fancy foreign food again.”

Rahul groaned. “Come on, sir, do I really deserve that?”

Kirit laughed, and Rahul knew that the minister had switched over to doting-father mode. “Why must I be the only one to suffer her experiments?”

“I'll be there.” It's not like he could refuse the invitation, even though after his last encounter with Kimi he really needed to stay away from her. He gave Kirit a quick salute and left.

The minister, of all people, should know how much damage the black market did to legitimate organ donor lists. Kimi had, after all, waited years for her heart. For Kimi and for Jen, Rahul couldn't possibly rest until those bastards were off his streets.

8

 

—Dr. Jen Joshi

 

 

N
ikhil grabbed hungrily at the scent of freshly washed linen flooding his senses. The feel of long-fingered hands clutched at his skin. Soft strands of the darkest silk pressed into his face. He fought consciousness with everything he was worth. He knew at the other end lay horror—the absence of what wrapped him up right now.

Sure enough, emptiness welcomed him as he broke through to wakefulness. Emptiness and the cold kiss of air against his skin. He had fallen asleep on top of the sheets. His shoes were still on his feet, his overstarched uniform still on his body.

For no reason at all, he thought of the night before when he'd awoken under the sheets. His shoes had been removed, his foul-smelling shirt had been pulled off, and he'd been so out of it he hadn't even noticed.

He turned to the note still sitting on his nightstand and picked it up. The look in Jess's eyes when she'd admitted to coloring her hair flashed in his head. He folded over the piece of paper and slipped it into the drawer. He still couldn't believe what he was choosing to believe.

But he'd never judged a person wrong in his life. His gut had never let him down. Unless an excess of Jack had erased that ability, he knew he'd seen truth in Jess's eyes. Not all of it, because the girl was a clam. How could he not follow this thread she'd handed him? Even though it threatened to unravel the very fabric of him.

He was steady on his feet when he got out of bed. There was a dull ache in his temples. Quite possibly his body's way of rebelling against his sudden forsaking of the Jack. Or maybe his body was thanking him by showing him how much better this was than the usual head pounding he woke up to. He scrubbed his fingers across his forehead. His ring hung loose around his finger. The day Jen had slid it on his finger had smelled of roses. The thick, sweet-smelling garlands hanging from their necks had entangled when he'd broken protocol and kissed her after the priest had finished chanting their vows.

That sweet rose scent, the tang of her sweat, the purifying burn of sandalwood-scented fire—how did one forget a moment wrapped up in those smells? If happiness could fill you up, turn you from the wisp of a sketch into a fully formed sculpture, that moment had been it for him. He had become a life-sized version of who he had played at being. He had been set in stone. You couldn't re-form stone into anything else. Not without crumbling it to dust first.

His thumb found his ring and spun it. Dust. He wanted to be dust.

For the first time since he'd moved into this room, he started his day without his face hanging over the toilet.

He showered and shaved and put himself together with as much care as he had used to assemble Mr. Potato Head as a child. Basically, anything went anywhere. When he stepped out the door he realized that it was only seven in the morning. The clinic wouldn't open for business for another two hours. He headed down anyway.

* * *

A woman, thin and tanned and dressed like she was off to brunch with royalty, was waiting outside the clinic door, clutching the elbow of a little boy who was pressing a washcloth to his knee. It was soaked through with blood.

“Doctor?” The woman raised her impressively arched brows at his name tag and waited for an answer to a question Nikhil hadn't heard.

He punched the code into the alarm panel and smiled at the boy. He had to be no more than five years old. Not only had she made him walk here on that knee, she was using that bracelet-filled hand to keep a safe distance between him and her logo-emblazoned white pants.

Nikhil lifted the child up and carried him into the clinic. He put him in a chair and squatted in front of him. “Do you mind if I take a look?” he asked the boy, trying his best to ignore Mommy-White-Pants.

The boy, like all children, didn't feel the same way. He looked to his mother for an answer. Then nodded when she nodded.

“Alex was running down the stairs when I told him not to.” She glared at the boy, and his lip trembled in response.

Nikhil lifted the washcloth from the tiny knee and checked out the cut that went clean across the bony kneecap but wasn't deep enough to warrant stitches. His relief at not having to sew up the child's knee was ridiculous. But he had a hard enough time suturing adult skin with his shaking fingers, there was no way he was taking a chance on the child's knee.

If he had needed stitches, Nikhil would have had to call one of the nurse practitioners and face those pity-filled glances that were bandied about when he couldn't perform the basic procedures he was paid to perform.

“He needs some antiseptic and a bandage and he'll be good as new. Just make sure he stays off it today.”

“Stay off it?” Mommy Dearest adjusted the rhinestone-studded shades perched atop her head. “But today is a shore-fun day and we've purchased our land excursion already.”

Nikhil handed Alex a tissue, but when the boy continued to stare at the gauze Nikhil was pressing to his bleeding knee, Nikhil reached out and wiped the tears off his cheek himself.

“Who's your friend?” Nikhil pointed at the action figure peeking from the child's pocket.

The child's mood lifted. “He's Tony Stark!”

Of course he was.

Jen had loved Robert Downey, Jr.

“Doc?” She was giving him the “What the hell is wrong with you?” look again. She must have asked him a question that he hadn't heard, again.

Her hand was on the boy's shoulder. Suddenly, she was a model of motherly concern.

Nikhil got up and went to the supply closet and retrieved some gauze and bandages. The boy looked terrified, but he didn't sidle up to his mother or make any effort to draw comfort from her.

Nikhil's own mother was the very embodiment of comfort, her motherliness so over the top she had a way of mothering the heck out of any child who came into her sphere. Maybe it was her or maybe it was all the orphans he'd treated over the years, but despite his awareness that he didn't know this woman at all, the fact that she stood so stiff and tall next to the crumpled boy made him want to break things.

Jen had never wanted to be a mother and she'd always been honest about it. She had believed she would be terrible at it. But he'd watched her treat kids, seen her goof around with them, seen her bleed at their pain. She had been so wrong.

He cut out a piece of tape and handed it to the boy. “You know how Tony presses Arc Reactors into his chest and it makes him Iron Man?” He made a thick pad out of gauze and cut it into a perfect circle like an Arc Reactor. Then he squeezed some antibacterial ointment on it. “Bandages are just like that. When I put it on you'll have a super knee and when I take it off the boo-boo will be gone.”

It was a pathetically stretched-out analogy, but the boy smiled. The mother looked at her watch.

“You can even go on your shore-fun excursion.” Nikhil dabbed the area with some Betadine.

“Oh, no no. Alex isn't going, it's a grown-up excursion.” She winked at Nikhil. “Alex is going to have fun at Camp Camel Caravan, aren't you, Al-bun?”

Al-bun gave a distracted smile, his entire focus on what Nikhil was doing to his knee.

“In that case, his battery pack is going to work even better. Maybe Dr. Nic can come and check up on him after lunch?”

The boy smiled.

“Okay, here it comes.” He placed the gauze over the cut and pressed the tape over it. The boy didn't wince. Nikhil patted his head. “No running today. Maybe just video games?”

“For real?” The boy couldn't believe his luck.

“Perfect!” Mommy smiled at her watch.

She was going to make the shore excursion after all.
Yay!

By the time Nikhil had her sign the paperwork and walked them out, his anger levels were nuclear. She was probably a decent-enough mother. He was fully aware that the sadness and anger overwhelming him had nothing to do with her. All the things he was angry about had nothing to do with her.

What he really needed to do was call his mother. It had been months since he'd seen his parents. They came by and met him in Miami every few months. But he hadn't gone home in two years.

The kind of relationship his mother and Jen had had made him feel like such an outsider sometimes. No matter where in the world Jen was, she had called Aie every week. For the past two years, Aie had diligently continued those weekly calls in the face of his inability to do anything more than answer her most basic questions and then hang up.

Now that he was already at the clinic he should have checked out some charts or taken inventory or something. But he had never been early to work on the ship, so he had no idea what to do with himself.

He'd gone to the clinic in the Himalayas straight out of med school and then into the MSF right after that. In both those positions he had never been faced with a moment that didn't beg to be filled with at least three things that were already past critical. Sitting around in the clinic until it opened was not an option unless he wanted to return to his room and hit the Jack early.

He shut the clinic door behind him and walked to the slatted wooden bench outside.

He could have sworn the bench was empty when he sat down, but when he looked up Jess was sitting next to him.

“Good morning,” she said in a tone that sounded as if she were saying, “Take a deep breath, the world is still spinning.” Then she held out a brown paper bag and a cup of coffee.

He took the bag from her and peeked inside. It was full of miniature muffins. Lemon poppy seed. The smell kicked off that ever-present nauseated feeling. They used to be one of his favorite things. And practically the only thing Jen ever baked. She had let Aie teach her how to make them and had perfected Aie's recipe to a point of being a gastronomical piece of art. Amazingly, no matter which corner of the world they lived in, poppy seeds were always available. Poppy seeds, of all things, were a universal equalizer. As were lemon, flour, sugar, and butter.

“Morning,” he said, curbing the urge to return the bag to her and stuffed a muffin into his mouth. It was like dry sponge. He worked to hold it down, but he was going to need help from the coffee in her hand.

“I wasn't sure how you took your coffee. It's black but I have cream and sugar in the bag.”

“Thanks. Black's fine.” He took a sip and let the bitter brew wash down the glop and make an unsavory tumble in his belly. “She told you which muffins I like but not how I take my coffee?”

“I told you I can't control what she wants to say.” She offered him another muffin, but he shook his head and tried not to bring up the one that was struggling to see daylight again.

“Aren't you going ashore?” he asked, mostly because he couldn't bring himself to respond with, “Why don't we just forget everything else and you tell me every word Jen's ever said to you and then repeat it again.”

“No. Are you?” She folded her hands in her lap.

“Nope, I'm working. Clinic opens in an hour.” And he never went ashore. Solid land was too much of a reminder of permanent unchangeable things.

She looked confused. “Didn't you just see that little boy?”

So she had been here awhile.

“They just showed up. But it's another hour before the clinic officially opens.”

His daily dose of patients would start rolling in soon enough. Tummy aches, sunburns, and bruises, mostly. Every once in a while, someone showed up with something stuck in an aperture where it didn't belong. Cruises made people gluttons, daredevils, and sexual adventurers. All three things made for patients he had no trouble treating.

“Was the little boy okay?” She pointed her chin at the elevator the boy and his mother had taken.

“He's fine. Just a split knee and a mother who almost missed a shore excursion.”

Her brows drew together in a frown. “His mother is going ashore? Who's going to stay with him?”

“They have day care on the ship.”

Anger sparked in her eyes, and he noticed for the first time that they were brown, an array of shades all flecked together. Her lips pressed together in a livid hiss. “She's leaving him all by himself when he's hurt?”

Nikhil shrugged. “It's just a surface cut.”

“Well, on the knee it's just a cut. But he's so little. He's just a—” She cleared her throat, realizing that she'd shown too much, clamped her jaw shut, and arranged her face back into her usual meditative demeanor.

“Who's watching Joy right now? His dad?”

Her spine straightened even more under her blacker-than-black sweatshirt. Other than that, she remained still as a lily pond on a windless night, not a ripple on the surface. But her stillness held no peace. Under all that calm he sensed an earthquake. He latched on to it. He had focused on nothing but himself for, well, for two years. Focusing on someone else was unexpectedly restful.

She surprised him when she answered, an intense surge of emotion rolling under her whisper. “He's staying with a friend.” If Nikhil didn't have such an intimate relationship with pain, he might have missed the cold, hard blast of it in her eyes as she said it.