The Forbidden Daughter (41 page)

“Minor infractions here and there, which we tried to address.”

Harish noticed that Patil didn’t elaborate on them. The police fraternity was a tight-knit group and very defensive. They preferred to keep their dirty secrets hidden from the harsh, censorious glare of the civilian world.

“Temporary suspension and other disciplinary measures have not worked with him,” admitted Patil. “He thinks he is invinci-ble.” He let out a tired sigh. He was unshaven and tousled from his long overnight journey. “Gowda is too clever to leave any evidence of his crimes around.”

“He probably never expected Karnik to confess—or rather, confess through his wife. He certainly wouldn’t have thought Karnik would have a heart attack and ruin his plans.”

“This must be a shock to Gowda,” granted Patil. “Like I said, he probably had everything planned—taking the money and escaping from the country, most likely to some place like Nepal. I understand it is quite easy to disappear into those mountains.”

Some movement from behind the Jeep caught their eye and all three men glanced in that direction. “Looks like they’re ready,” said Phillip.

Harish’s back stiffened. He returned his gaze to the house. As if on cue, a curtain stirred in one of the windows. He couldn’t see beyond it inside the darkened room, but the eerie prickle on his arms was enough to signal that Patil and Phillip were right.

Gowda was watching them, and he, too, knew something serious was about to happen. He had to be at least a little concerned—the sick, arrogant bastard.

The armed policemen moved quickly and stealthily, like ghosts flitting about in the first light of dawn. Within seconds they surrounded the bungalow, crouching behind bushes and any other reasonably safe place they could find. Harish watched them position themselves out of direct range of the windows and doors.

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Looking around the area, he noticed there were more neighbors spilling out now, some of them getting rather close. News was spreading fast. Patil at once rushed to shoo the closer ones away. They reluctantly moved back a step or two. He returned and motioned to Phillip and Harish to crouch beside him behind one of the Jeeps, the one farthest from Gowda’s house.

With a mixture of dread and fascination Harish followed Patil’s orders. If it weren’t for the fact that there was a child very precious to him facing grave danger inside that house, he’d have considered it an adventure, straight out of a thriller movie.

How much more Bollywood-ish could it get than this? A kidnapped child, an outrageously large ransom demand, and an elite police team deployed in the predawn hours to apprehend a psychopathic criminal—a policeman himself. No wonder all those spectators stood riveted. They were Gowda’s neighbors.

They had to know Gowda personally.

As for Harish, his heart was pounding with terror. Despite the coolness of a typical Palgaum morning, perspiration was gathering on his back and chest, making his shirt damp. A bloody shootout could start any second. People could be killed. Diya could be killed.

But he couldn’t afford to indulge in such dark thoughts. He had to focus on getting her back in one piece.

As he observed the inspector bring out a mobile phone from his pocket and start to dial, Harish knew the showdown was about to begin. He had always imagined a tense, dramatic scenario like this would mean the use of a bullhorn. But in the next instant he realized a device like that would attract the entire neighborhood and beyond. A mobile phone and a quiet conversation with the hostage-taker were more practical.

But Gowda supposedly wasn’t answering his phone. So
then
what?

Harish glanced at the other two men and realized it wasn’t just he who was vibrating with anxiety. The tension emanating from Patil and Phillip matched his own. Perspiration beads were glistening on Phillip’s forehead and patches of sweat were form-THE

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ing around the underarms of his dark blue T-shirt. Patil’s troubled eyes were fixed on the house.

Even the spectators, who so far had been whispering amongst themselves, now stood in tense anticipation. Harish held his breath as he heard the deep bass voice of the inspector speak into the phone. From that distance it was hard to hear every word, but Harish managed to catch some of it. He was informing Gowda that he was surrounded and requesting him to come out unarmed and with his hands held up.

His call probably went to voice mail, because he dialed again a minute later and repeated his words, very slowly this time, enunciating every syllable so there was no room for misunderstanding.

Although Harish didn’t move an inch from his crouched position, from the corners of his eyes he could see more people pouring out into the street. The sun was rising higher and getting brighter by the minute, too.

He noticed Phillip and Patil making a quick survey of the burgeoning crowd around them. “Bloody hell!” whispered Patil. “Why are they all crowding here? We don’t need more ca-sualties. That idiot could start shooting any sec—”

Boom!
A muffled crack split the air, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

A gunshot!

Chapter 34

The sound of the gunshot sent a jolt through Harish. Instinctively he ducked, shuddered. He’d never heard shots fired from a gun in real life before, only in movies and TV shows. A few shocked sounds emerged from the crowd nearby.

Turning around, he saw a man with a large, professional-looking camera furiously taking photographs. The media had arrived!

He wasn’t sure whom the shot had come from—Gowda or one of the policemen. He was itching to rise and take a peek, to find out for himself. But Patil and Phillip had warned him about such behavior, so he remained in place, his sense of doom mounting.

Phillip’s gaze met his. He must have read the question in Harish’s eyes. “It’s Gowda’s gun.”

“How do you know?” Harish’s mind was conjuring up the most horrifying images of Diya blown to bits. Now that Gowda knew he wasn’t going to get his ransom, and that his defeat was near, killing Diya could be his final act of frustration and rage.

“I can tell from the sound,” replied Phillip. “It came from inside the house. It could be a foolish attempt at bravado in the face of adversity. I hope he hasn’t harmed the child.”

Harish’s mouth went dry. “What happens now?”

Patil answered his question. “We continue until we get him—

dead or alive.”

A fresh wave of panic washed over Harish. Dead or alive?

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Gowda could end up butchering everyone in that house along with a few of those brave policemen before he gave himself up or died. Either way he had nothing to lose. The man didn’t seem to have a conscience or a care for his own family. What kind of man would put his wife and children in jeopardy?

Only a psychopath. What Patil had chosen to call
psychiatric
issues
could very well be serious flaws in the brain.

Harish braced himself for another shot. When nothing happened for several minutes, he glanced at Phillip, whose brow was creased in speculation. “Everything’s too quiet.”

“He may be a nut, but he’s a clever one. He’s biding his time, waiting for the police to lose patience and make a move. Then he’ll pounce on them. Cat-and-mouse game.”

A strange buzzing sound made Harish startle and look around for its source. Then he saw Patil produce his mobile phone out of his pocket and flip it open.

“Patil speaking.” The man frowned as he listened to the caller, only grunting out monosyllabic responses, looking more and more befuddled as the caller continued to speak. “Are you sure? Did she leave a number?” Tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder, he pulled out a pen from his pocket and wrote the number on his palm. Then he shut the phone and shoved it back into his pocket.

“Problem, sir?” Phillip asked Patil.

“That was my assistant. Apparently Gowda’s wife just called the station, asking to talk to me. She’s very upset.”

“She actually managed to make a phone call with her husband listening in?” asked Harish, his eyes wide.

Patil blew out a shaky breath. “He was not listening . . . because he . . . shot himself.”

“What the hell!” swore Phillip and pointed to the house.

“That shot we just heard . . .”

“I believe that’s what we heard,” said Patil with a nod. “He supposedly shot himself in the mouth.”

Harish flinched. “Good God!” Despite his medical training there were certain things that still made his stomach turn.

“I think he finally realized he was finished.”

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“The gunshot could be bogus, a plan to trick us, sir,” Phillip cautioned. “His wife could be in this as deep as he is. Her call might be a ploy to create a diversion and help him escape.”

Patil stroked his chin, the stubble making a raspy sound as he turned over Phillip’s words in his mind. “That’s doubtful. I’ve met the lady once or twice at social gatherings.” He rubbed his chin again. “But then, it’s hard to judge someone after a few superficial contacts.”

Harish shook his head. “Mrs. Gowda is a nice woman, decent and very devoted to her children.”

“You know her?” Patil tossed him an astounded look.

“Both their boys are my patients,” he explained to Patil. “I’ve never met their father, but their mother doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d be involved in anything like this. That’s why when I heard Gowda was the man involved I was shocked.

His wife is such a normal, sociable person.”

Phillip frowned at him. “Are you sure about her? The team could walk into a trap if they think they’re going in there to find a dead man and instead he’s very much alive and shooting away like a maniac.”

Harish pondered Phillip’s words for a long minute. What if his friend was right? After all, his own acquaintance with Mrs. Gowda was superficial, as Patil described it. He met her briefly three or four times a year when she brought the children in for their checkups and sick visits.

The Gowda boys, about nine and five years old now, had been coming to him for the past three years. How much did he really know about their mother? Very little, other than the fact that she seemed friendly, educated, and concerned about her children’s welfare.

“I can’t be a hundred percent sure,” allowed Harish. “But I honestly feel she’s not the type to be engaged in anything illegal, especially if it means endangering her children.” He felt sorry for the poor woman. Had she watched her husband shoot himself? And if those innocent children had witnessed it, they could end up disturbed for life.

Patil did his chin-stroking and pondering routine one more THE

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time and rose to his feet. “I guess I better speak to the inspector, then.”

Harish and Phillip observed while Patil spoke to his man in whispers. Then he dialed the number written on his palm, waited for a reply, and started to talk. The conversation was brief, with Patil nodding several times. Then the two men started to converse quietly again.

After what seemed like ages, Patil motioned Phillip and Harish to approach him. “I think the lady is telling the truth. She is sobbing, and the baby is crying in the background, so it was hard to hear everything, but it looks like he may be dead or seriously injured.” Patil threw a distressed glance at Harish. “Dr. Salvi, would you be able to examine him and see if he’s . . .”

“Of course,” replied Harish, trying hard to keep his mind off the nausea in his stomach. This was not the time to feel squea-mish about examining a man with half or all of his face and brain missing.
Salvi, you’re a doctor, for heaven’s sake! So deal
with it,
he ordered himself and raced to his car to retrieve his medical bag.

The one thing that kept him moving was Patil’s comment about the crying baby. That had to be Diya. She had to be alive.

There was hope.

From the trunk of his car, Harish grabbed his bag and the toy monkey. By the time he started running back toward the scene, the front door to Gowda’s house was open, with two policemen guarding it against the curious onlookers. As Harish jostled through the crowd, various people bombarded him with questions, in three different languages.

He managed to ignore them and quickly made it to the house.

Patil pulled him inside and immediately shut the door. It took Harish’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness and gloom in the house after the bright sunshine outside. A maroon sofa and two matching chairs sat around a small oval coffee table. It was a modest drawing room.

The familiar metallic smell of blood reached his nostrils. A doctor could recognize that odor anywhere.

His attention immediately went to the man lying on the floor 308
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beside the window. A handgun lay on his chest. Harish figured Gowda must have been standing at the window, looking outside on the grim scene that spelled his doom. A little later, having given up all hope, he must have sunk to the floor and put the gun in his mouth.

The bile crept up into Harish’s throat, hot and bitter, the acid burning his chest. True to his expectation, a portion of the man’s head and face were missing, the bloody pieces strewn across the room. It was a revolting sight, with the nearest wall, the curtains, the furniture, and the floor splattered with blood, bits of flesh, and bone. Harish didn’t even have to look twice to know the man was long dead. More than a third of his brain was gone. His face was worse.

God, poor Mrs. Gowda had to witness
this?

Setting aside his private thoughts for the moment, and suppressing the need to throw up, he crouched down and went through the dispassionate motions of pronouncing the man officially dead.

Somewhere in the house he heard a woman weeping.

Mrs. Gowda. A little boy’s desperate sobs mingled with hers.

One of her sons—most likely the little one. He was only five years old. The mournful sounds made Harish wince. He looked again at the dead man.
How could you do this to your family?