Predator (7 page)
Now it was up to Chris to make sure everything was perfect. The lights, the mood, the ambience, the stage – his social standing in the social media would be judged on how successful the party would be. Chris knew that it was the swanky venue that drew the dorks, and he didn’t really give a shit about them.
Chris spent an hour yelling at the workers who were doing the lighting: ‘You’ve got to have lights all over the place, for God’s sake, you fools! There are going to be a couple of hundred people in this clearing – make sure we have dim lights in the nooks and corners for necking.’
The clearing was about a hundred metres in diameter in the middle of the lush grapevines. To the east, a narrow path led to the cellar entrance where his Dad’s wine was stored. Chris decided to have the stage set up there for Prince and his crew to perform. There were narrow, winding lanes radiating out in all the other directions – perfect for private conversations or just privacy.
The bar was to be at the centre and would have the best of Joe’s collection. The buffet spread was well-planned with Salmonella’s help. Chris had taken her opinion simply because she knew Grace’s taste in food.
Some of the guests were his seniors and batch mates who he didn’t care about while in college, and didn’t give a shit about now. But they needed to be there for that’s what a crowd is all about. He made up his mind to be crafty and create a dense smoke-screen around himself, so thick that they wouldn’t be able to even see him.
Chris was excited about one thing however, and eagerly looked forward to meeting his awesome buddies who lived like gypsies on the road, drove around the countryside and led real cool, adventurous lives. Derek Demonia, was a brawny bloke, and Chris suspected he had something going on with his sister for a while. He had a feeling the bastard had been screwing her for a long time, yet Chris adored him. Derek and his buddy, Hound Hitchhiker, used to own a pub somewhere in South Goa. However, it turned out to be a financial abyss which forced Hound to move to some shitty village near London. At least that was what Chris had heard from his friends.
Recently, he had seen a post on Facebook from Hound that he’d returned to India and had been driving around with Derek ever since.
Then there was their inseparable, mutual friend, Goose Goldsmith whose roving eye was nothing short of urban legend. His ability to pick up chicks with his good looks and shallow talk borrowed from the Discovery Channel was spoken of in hushed whispers in the hallowed halls of learning.
Lastly, there was this moron; Chris couldn’t quite remember his name – but remembered that his fetish for an energy drink called Redbull was phenomenal. Chris had heard or read somewhere that he’d been desperately trying to write books to become rich and famous.
Chris hated Chief for it was he who had given the dreadful nickname ‘Salmonella’ to his beautiful, sweet sister – Florence. Yeah, Chief – that’s what they called him, the asshole. Chris hated him.
Derek’s post on Facebook had said that the four of them were driving down from a place called Ladakh just for the party, in their beast of a ride called Motormouth. Now that was super cool.
They were doing a practice run on the sound system, and the Canadian band Nickelback struck up their famous track
‘Photograph
’. It conjured up images in Chris’s mind of his college days. He felt surprisingly nostalgic. His only discernible ambition at the time was to get drunk in the corridors without attracting the attention of the dean. He’d figured that was the only way to get through college without dropping out altogether. After all, his Dad was in the alcohol business.
The entire concept of getting a college education was akin to being fed into a sausage machine, and the graduates emerged in tidy little packages to be sold in the market at a premium. Chris most definitely didn’t need that.
He was there for Grace, but she wouldn’t even give him the time of day. If ever she did look, it would be with lofty disdain. And when her best friend, Florence rushed over to hug her weird kid brother, Grace seemed hard put not to throw up. When Chris gazed adoringly at her, Grace glared at him and he could almost see the violent thoughts chasing through her mind.
‘So much for love’, mumbled Chris to himself as he smiled. He was a wastrel in college, and had educated himself by watching a thousand movies, and getting drunk or stoned. He’d come to college to take a break – but a break from what? Now hopefully Grace would be pleased with him. He’d made a U-turn in his life before he crashed out of existence by driving too fast and recklessly.
Chris had always had a thing for Grace. It refused to go away even after so many years. He realized he wanted everything just so and perfect for her when they were to meet after so many years. She was special. And Chris was thrilled to be finally getting to see her again.
The computer-generated, virtual face that kept popping up on his phone every time there was a message or posting from her to all her friends, was not the same as seeing her in person.
And now, things were so different. This college reunion night could be his special night. Surveying the party site in the warm sunshine, he quietly slid away into the vineyard when he was sure no one was looking.
He quickly walked through a thicket and out of the vineyard. After about half a kilometre downhill, he looked around to ensure he was alone before fishing out a small, intricately designed, gold box from his pocket. He opened it and gazed at the contents smiling.
‘For Grace’, he said softly, caressing the beautiful jewel box, ‘this is my eternal gift to you, my love.’ He heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and Chris wrapped the little box in his handkerchief and pushed it back into his pocket, before hurrying back to the clearing.
Unwittingly, he had dropped a small, white zip-lock packet on the ground where he had stood. The packet contained a few pills and the day’s date neatly labelled on it.
The Morgue
The attendants trundled the stretcher noisily into the morgue and went off to hunt for the doctor on the graveyard shift. Inspector Khan and Joe stood transfixed in the cold, dank, dimly lit morgue. Another body, this one brutally murdered, had joined the endless rows of cadavers.
Inspector Khan was off duty, therefore not in uniform. He looked as casual as he could ever get, with his towering frame clad in a brown tweed jacket and his favourite five-pocket, blue denim jeans which hung loosely from his hips. His brown, neatly polished, leather shoes screamed cop, nevertheless.
His blood boiled at the sight of the young, dead girl.
He wondered what kind of people would commit such a heinous crime and why. This was the fifth such incident this year. The sheer brutality of the crime seemed mindless.
‘Gang-raped and brutalized for days by savages. She died a horrible death. Must have bled for days and lived through endless hours of agony and shame. Look at the burn marks above her left breast? She was branded like an animal … perhaps that was what finally killed her,’ murmured Inspector Khan. He covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. Monica’s post-mortem report would only confirm Inspector Khan’s assessment.
Joe bent closer to scrutinize the scorch mark on the body, took a deep breath and said in a flat voice, ‘It’s the number six, three times, joined at the circles, branded on her with a hot iron rod. She’d been missing for six days. It’s the number of the beast. Perhaps, the legend is true and there’s something supernatural about her death … ’
‘Really? You seem to know quite a lot about this stuff, Joe. Any other expert observations? Do you really believe that crap? Also, it’s a sinister tattoo thing that many youngsters seem to be sporting these days. Your son has one too. A coincidence?’ quizzed Khan. It made Joe distinctly uncomfortable. He looked away and stared at the body of young Monica again.
‘It’s freezing in here, mind if I step out?’ asked Joe, rubbing his arms with his hands. He was in a red flannel shirt, cargoes and sandals. He glared at Inspector Khan and continued, ‘you cannot arrest someone just because he has a tattoo that resembles a carving on some slut’s tits!’
‘Watch your mouth, Mr Bigshot. Roam free for now, Joe! I know you have something to do with this girl. I said the same thing to you a few years ago. I know you killed your wife as well. All these years, I’ve not had a chance to get on your case. With this young, dead woman, I’ve got my eyes on you
and
your son … Monica’s death will not go unavenged, I promise you,’ hissed Khan.
The door of the morgue swung open and a figure in a thick denim jacket sashayed in. Chris seemed oblivious to the presence of Inspector Khan and his father. He came closer to take a good look at the corpse, and, as Inspector Khan quietly studied him, Joe fidgeted. His foolish son had picked the wrong time yet again. And in the wrong place, as well.
Chris seemed palpably horrified in the dim light. Inspector Khan was studying him intently. Chris covered his mouth with his palm and whispered, ‘Oh, my God! It’s Monica! The poor wretch! Look what the devil did to her!’
Joe grabbed Chris’s arm and said, ‘What are you doing here, you idiot? Why did you come here? Let’s go!’
‘I knew her, Dad! She was a friend, Dad. Someone very close to me once upon a time. Look at what the devil did to her, Dad … ’ repeated Chris, tears welling up in his eyes. His breathing had grown erratic and drops of perspiration dewed his forehead despite the freezing temperature in the morgue.
‘You fool! You were always unwanted. By this dead girl, by your mother, by everyone!’ thundered Joe, disgusted to see the tears in Chris’s eyes, ‘when will you ever learn?’
‘Show some respect for her, you two. Get out now, or do you want me to throw you out?’ Inspector Khan’s voice was menacingly soft.
As Joe and Chris walked away, Chris began to sob hysterically, ‘Dad! Please tell me that the devil did this! … Please!’
Hickory, dickory, dock; the mouse ran up the clock
,
Trapped in a dungeon, dazed, and in a state of shock!
Naïve and dumb, pretty girl in a white, satin gown
,
You opened the door to a stranger when the sun went down?
You turned your back on him without a care
,
Lost in lust, you should have been more aware
;
Blood on my hands, I’ll make you my bride
,
Blame your vanity, your arrogance and your foolish pride
I won’t let you get away, you cheap, immoral whore
,
I’ll punish you for your follies till you’re gone!
You make me angry! So I smile! You’re a pathetic sight
,
Praise the Devil! For he’s going to feast on your soul tonight!
—The Predator
Return of the Morons
It was almost 5 a.m. Chief looked out of the window as Derek brought Motormouth, their sexy beast of an SUV, to a halt at the railway crossing. Goose and Hound were snoozing in the backseat. The roosters hadn’t begun crowing as yet. Having spent a month in the harsh mountains, the four morons had only seen dawn from the other side of the clock.
The rising sun blazed on the horizon, bathing the sky in shades of tan and orange. The world was waking up to a spectacular sunrise. Life in the idyllic surroundings still lay snuggled in slumber. It was only the village curs that barked now and then. They were probably the only ones who’d sensed the predator on the prowl.
Daybreak was actually a welcome change. Having driven for six bone-jarring hours since midnight over Armageddon roads with more potholes than tar-covered patches in between, Motormouth could have beaten any human toy sent to a faraway planet to study the landscape.
It had been a long drive down from Ladakh in Jammu and Kashmir, and now after four days of driving, they were entering Maharashtra. The terrain had been treacherous and unpredictable in the North. Derek was a good driver and seemed to enjoy navigating the spiralling and corkscrewing roads.
Crossing over the flatter plains of the Ganga, the drive was smoother although the patches of slow moving traffic in the congested towns reduced their speed considerably. They were drawing closer to their destination which was in a border town between Maharashtra and Karnataka, and the stretch leading to Joe’s vineyard was beautiful where the landscape boasted of long, serpentine, tar roads in fairly good condition.