Myth Man (11 page)

The man reached down and lifted him up fairly easily. He saw the floor as he was carried and then placed in a chair. The visitor held a sword in his hand.

“I wish we had time to chat, but I know it’s a holiday. Some asshole will wander in soon enough. My, my, will they get an extra special treat. Today, the gods will get a real blessing.”

Mocking, he stopped to laugh. “Yes, a sacrifice to Lord Shiva, with love from Kali. See how considerate I can be? What better honor can you bestow than literally giving yourselves to them? I’ll help you do it.”

Helpless, Valkar watched the man smile at him. Evil, he was doomed in his next life.

The sword swept through the air, and Valkar’s head hung, momentarily, until it fell on the fallen body, where it rolled face down on the carpet.

Myth Man smiled and went about his work.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

P
AR MALHOLTRA SKIPPED THE last few yards to the temple door dressed in her light yellow sari. She rang the bell and waited.

Her friends were still sleeping. She, however, had been awake for hours. Today was Maha Shivaratri. Although the service and celebration was not until the evening, she would spend the whole day at the temple.

At an early age, Par was drawn to religion. While the other neighborhood children played outside, she preferred to spend time at her bedroom shrine. And there was no place she’d rather be than, of course, the Kali temple with the pandit, Kamala Valkar.

She had asked her parents if she could talk to the pandit. She wanted to help. Surely there was something she could do. She knew he recognized her dedication.

Par was thrilled the pandit agreed to her proposal. Today was her first chance to prove he had not erred in entrusting a fourteen-year-old girl.

Par rang the bell again and listened. A muffled chime came from inside. She stepped a comfortable space back and waited, her foot tapping lightly from nervous anticipation.

After a few minutes passed, she rang the bell again and debated the situation.
We spoke yesterday. Was it possible he forgot
?
Or did he really not want me after all
? She pushed aside her doubts.
The pandit was a good, honest, smart man. He must be still asleep or inconvenienced
.

Again, she hit the bell, this time with less euphoria. After more time passed, she began to worry. Her concern was no longer for herself; she knew he would not do this to her. Instead, her thoughts were for the pandit. He was old; maybe he was sick or had hurt himself.

Par tried the door. It opened. She took a small step inside, held the open door with her left arm, and announced her presence. She listened. Nothing.

Through the dark, she could make out some of the shrines. A light glowed over Lord Vishnu. “Hello?” her voice quivered.

Still holding the door, she found a light switch and turned it on. The first thing she noticed were red stains in the carpeting. She hoped it was the Red Powder of Holi, which was used as a symbol of sacrifice, but she feared otherwise.

Never had she been this scared. She thought about turning back and getting help. But what if she was wrong?
Silly girl
, they’d say. She might even lose the assignment that she so coveted. And what if the pandit injured himself? He might need her aid.

Her head swiveled like a tank turret looking for danger. Then she saw the first sign that something was wrong. Plaster chunks were on the floor near one of the shrines. She drew a breath and quietly walked over.

“Huh?”
Who would do such a thing
?

Someone had removed Ganesh’s head, one of her favorite deities. Her right hand rose to her gaping mouth. This was a violent act, not a feat of surgical precision. Frightened, Par stepped to the door but then stopped. Then from memory, she heard a voice.
Be brave
, her supportive father often advised.

Par turned back and continued into the temple. The red stains were more pronounced, and she quietly kneeled and pressed her pointer finger to a stain. It was moist. She looked at her finger—dark red. Then she sniffed her finger and found the scent coppery—blood. She’d bloodied her elbows and knees playing in the streets and habitually picked at her scabs. She recognized the fragrance.

She tried to summon her father’s voice again. Now she was scared. Her legs felt wobbly, like she had a blood transfusion that siphoned her platelets and inserted gelatin. When she looked ahead, her underpinnings collapsed, and she fell to the floor. She cried out, not in pain, but in terror.

She tried to doubt what she saw. It was difficult to look again, but she had to. Par pushed herself from the floor and crawled forward, her sari and hands stained with blood. Although strands of her dark hair blurred her vision, she knew she had it right the first time.

Still on her hands and knees, Par rotated away from the scene at Shiva’s shrine. She’d found the pandit and Ganesh’s missing head, the latter atop the former.

Like a crab scuttling from a predator, Par frantically crawled toward the door. Out of instinct, she gazed at center shrine, the temple’s patron deity, Kali. “No,” she moaned from the sensory overload. She began to hyperventilate as the tears gushed from her eyes while warm liquid pooled around her crotch.

Par stared again at the replica of Kali. Above Kali’s head, in her upper-left hand, was an authentic bloody sword. In the arm below hung the severed head of the pandit.

Par fainted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“D
O YOU KNOW WHAT a crisis this has become?” Spencer Hoole looked around the yellow and green décor of a meeting room in Gracie’s Mansion. The fireplace glowed softly compared to the heat simmering among the gathered.

Hoole’s eyes shifted around until they focused on the mayor. “It’s starting to affect your numbers. Your approval rate is at an all-time low. Then he faced the couch across the room where Police Commissioner Tipton and Deputy Chief Inspector Danko sat.

Hoole requested a casual Sunday morning get-together to get a handle on things.

The Mayor had tan slacks and a trendy blue button-down that was less crisp than usual. Both cops wore blue jeans, although Danko’s were further worn. Tipton had an outdoorsman flannel, while Danko sported his NYPD fleece pullover.

Hoole, who stridently emphasized
casual
, had a charcoal pinstriped suit with a sensible, muted yellow silk tie. All business, Hoole believed clothes psychologically sorted and ranked man. Today, he wanted to dominate and overcome the size advantage he gave to the chiseled Danko.

“I must say, Commissioner Tipton, that your inability to remedy this crisis is a concern for the mayor. Need I remind you all of the ethnic diversities in the city? Hate crimes are at an all-time high, and it could get worse if we don’t figure something out. After that buffoon Presto leaked all this conspiracy shit, the public thinks we’re hiding something. Had we not advised sacking that crackpot?” Hoole asked rhetorically and did not pause for an answer. “We have the city economy humming, a balanced budget, and low unemployment; everything is simply peachy,” he said evenly and paused to give the two officers a hard look. “But, this,” Hoole cajoled as he gestured his hands in the air with a wave of futility, “is a public relations disaster.”

Tipton went to speak, but Hoole addressed Mayor Golden. “I can only do so much, sir. You’re either perceived as being biased by your religion or just the opposite—paralyzed, afraid to take action that may show favoritism. You can’t win, sir. Unless these men,” Hoole gestured to Tipton and Danko with disdain, “can do their job, you’re career, let alone re-election, is in jeopardy.”

Mayor Golden nodded in thought. Tipton looked crestfallen. Danko picked at his nails. His hands had to do something rather than yearn for Hoole’s neck.

Mayor Golden looked like a cartoon mouse sniffing nervously about with his small head and oversized ears. “It’s not my fault,” he whined helplessly. Lost was the stern, steady made-for-TV smile.

“Of course it isn’t,” Hoole consoled. “But,” he said deliberately, “my polling shows that they want decisive leadership. Action! In a crisis, the fickle will either blame you or rally behind you. Someone must be accountable.”

Hoole stared at the two cops. Tipton offered a stony smile. Agitated, Danko’s right fist momentarily flexed. He wanted to speak but thought it was the commissioner’s place to respond.

With his eyes still on the two cops, Hoole finished his thoughts. “If you own a ball club and they underperform, the fans get restless. They start pointing fingers. If the failures persist, the fans will turn against the product.”

Mayor Golden winced at the word
product
, but his cocky strategist continued.

“The right thing for ownership is to shake things up. Clearing the decks is better than staying the course on a sinking ship,” Hoole smugly finished. The only audible sound was short snaps from the burning fire and Danko’s knuckles cracking.

Danko looked at Tipton for solidarity, but his visage was distant, almost dismissive. There was no comfort in his gaze.

“Uh huh,” Tipton said with his finger in the air like an apprehensive elementary student. “We’re doing all we can. Most of these hate crimes have resulted in arrests,” he said with meek pride.

“That is true,” the mayor said hopefully.

Hoole shook his head. “All true, but unfortunately that’s not the point. My poll numbers show a public that is uneasy and wants accountability.”

Danko could not stay silent. “Fuck your poll numbers,” he seethed. “We’re working our butts off. We’re …”

“Frankly, I thought you cared for the mayor,” Hoole interrupted. “You see,” he taunted haughtily, “I actually do. It also happens to be my job to ensure the mayor keeps his. I don’t intend to fail him as, thus far, you have.”

Danko was not used to men mocking him. He swallowed his venom and grimaced. He could not, unfortunately, act out his wish of slapping Hoole around. He thought Tipton should step up to the plate, but he remained on deck, not swinging his powerful bat.

Collecting his cool, Danko said, “Let’s not make this personal. I do care. You know as much as anyone how much free time I gave to the campaign.”

Hoole stayed derisive. “You’ve been rewarded like any other contributor to the mayor’s campaign,” he countered. “Don’t kid yourself that you’ve attained your rank purely on merit.”

Danko seethed. This was like being continually zapped by a solo mosquito with your hands tied behind your back. It was sure hard not to swat the pest.

Coming to life, Tipton cleared his throat. “We’re all here because of the mayor, and we all want to our best. Let’s lay our cards on the table and clear the air.”

This was not the endorsement Danko had hoped for.

“Indeed,” Mayor Golden announced. “Let’s do that, but,” he said to Hoole, “I think we need to have some press conferences and better explain all we’re doing. We have not made the case.”

“Huh,” sighed a crestfallen Hoole.

“Yes,” Mayor Golden asserted. “There are precedents, Spencer. We have a serial killer on the loose. This was his third victim, by no means a record,” he scoffed with the confidence that made him NYC’s choice. “How long did it take us to finally unearth Saddam Hussein, let alone Bin Laden?”

“True,” exhaled a deflating Hoole. “But I’m reporting to you how the public perceives things.”

“We agree then, Spencer. We must change the perception. That’s your job. And their job,” the mayor said with a flick of his hand toward the cops on the couch, “is to catch this beast. You, them, and me; we all must do our jobs better.”

“You’re the boss,” Hoole offered lamely.

“You got that right,” commanded Mayor Golden with vigor.

Danko’s emotions swung like a soap opera. He could almost embrace the mayor. Hoole, on the other hand, looked like a scorned, jealous lover. Beaten for today but dreaming and scheming about a rematch. Tipton sat there like a useless gift from a foreign dignitary, still and silent.

Mayor Golden suddenly smiled. He recounted the recent hot story where he was photographed with his hand on the naked ass of a guy in leather chaps. He marched in the annual gay parade with a homosexual councilman who had delivered the vote for him. Suddenly a man ahead of him stopped and, according to the mayor, backed up and then bent over as the mayor’s striding hand found the prankster’s rear. Naturally, it was front-page news and was even used as material in the late night TV monologues.

“Saturday Night Live called and wanted me to do a Heineken skit. You can guess the punch line. With difficulty, I turned them down.”

Everyone laughed, even Hoole. As planned, the mayor’s tale, and self-deprecating humor changed the atmosphere. The temperature cooled.

“Hey, at least we’ll get rid of that fat fuck Presto,” croaked Hoole as he tried to joke his way back into the circle.

“My guess is he’ll be thrown off the force,” weighed in Commissioner Tipton.

“I should hope so,” Hoole asserted. “The man is an embarrassment. His actions hurt our approval ratings.”

“He certainly did,” agreed Tipton.

Hoole looked to Danko. “Frank, I don’t mean this in a bad way, but you should have ditched him when previously advised. The guy’s trouble.”

“Then don’t take this the wrong way, Spencer,” Danko said coolly. “Everyone knows that Dom and I are hardly pals. The Feds recommended him to the mayor, but I stand by the decision to keep him. Presto’s responsible for solving some of the most high-profile cases the city has ever seen. He was right about the use of poison and the source of it, which connected an unresolved case. There were other things too. He deserved the chance.”

Danko was not sure if he was defending himself, Presto, or maybe the both of them.

Hoole smiled like a parent reasoning with their child. “That may be so, but with the benefit of hindsight, we can see that, unfortunately, turned out to be a mistake.”

“You may be right. We’ll see. Even I believe someone is innocent until proven guilty.”

“Please?” chided Hoole.

“Come again,” an incredulous Commissioner Tipton said.

Danko leaned back, casually. “Like I said, we’ll see. He may not be a friend, but I respect the man. He’s too smart. This seems too out of character for him. Honestly, I’m dubious.”

Sensing a turn in the conversation, Mayor Golden clapped his hands together. “We all know what we must do. Let’s do it.”