The PuppetMaster (15 page)

Ralki nonchalantly bent and picked up a fist-sized chunk of the same oily stone I had seen inside. He tossed it a few inches into the air, hefting its weight, letting it fall back into his palm. He observed it for a moment, as if its color or shape might provide a clue as to how it had managed to entomb a man whose name he couldn’t remember. He dropped it quickly and stared at the boulders. “Well . . . I don’t believe there is anything more to be done here. Even if this man were still alive inside that mess, he would be quite dead by the time we had gone to the trouble to dig him out. Simply bad timing for the poor chap.” With a sneer in my direction he dismissed the entire affair with, “Probably angered some god by pissing in the wrong direction or shitting too close to a holy shrine. Right, Mr. Scott? My report will be to the point. Stupid bastard chooses stupid place to nap, unfortunate accident results in one dead low caste. Another minor tragedy of karma.”

I prickled. It was an ugly remark, none of which felt right. Ralki was snapping this shut faster than the cave-in itself, swatting it away like an annoying gnat so everyone could return to searching for mythical terrorists. I remembered that he was rumored to be one of Qereshy’s spies and wondered again if it was he that had followed me the night before. Why me? I thought of Soma and the fact that he questioned her with such ferocity, asking what Devi and I were working on. He dug hard for those details, but now didn’t care to investigate the death of the man inside the cave? The entire thing smelled worse than a latrine gulley.

Dusting his hands off on the sides of his pants, he spat on a scorched weed and turned from the outcropping. I followed. Muktendra was shifting from foot to foot in the same spot, still flipping prayer beads.

Ralki wiped the sweat from his neck onto his sleeve and looked at me. “Well Bhim, I suppose I will have the pleasure of seeing you in three months again when you are Martin Scott, seeking his semi-annual visa. Good day.” With nothing else, he spun and left.

Muktendra looked as if he wanted to at least shake my hand or offer a conciliatory word, but with a shrug and a half-hearted namaste, he turned and followed his companion down the path. I stood and fumed as Ralki climbed into the Maruti. Somehow, I needed to find a way to cut that fat, little bureaucrat down to size. Nothing immediately came to mind.

Alone in the shadow of Jotilal Sukkha’s grave, I watched the sun slip behind the spur of jagged stone, the setting rays bathing our picnic tree in orange light. I thought sadly of the man under the stones. He'd died alone. I’d wondered if he had gone quickly with little pain. I hoped so. I hoped he had gotten to live a few of the right dreams in his life, hoped he had been given the chance to love deeply and been loved in return. That was important.

I picked up a small handful of rouge earth and tossed it into the evening breeze. As the motes drifted, I whispered a short requiem, May you be released from the wheel of all suffering, Jotilal Sukkha. May you find loving peace wherever you are now. It was the best my agnostic spirit could come up with.

As I slapped my palms together to cleanse the dust, I glanced at the ground where I had scooped the dirt. A meter away, lying in a shallow depression, was the burnt tip of Madru Ralki’s beedee. It wasn’t the cigarette that drew my attention, however, it was where it lay. That little cone of eucalyptus and tobacco had landed right in the center of a footprint, a vibram sole, deep-heeled, military-style, boot print.

Twenty-Five

Ram walked me from the Cherokee to my doorstep and sped off into the night. My body and brain were telling me it had been a month since I had sipped coffee at my gate and gone to the marigold fields to play Frisbee with Mej. My Casio told me it had been fourteen hours.

I dragged myself into the kitchen and dined on masala dosas, cheese sandwiches, and mango ice cream with coconut cookies. Sahr set everything out silently, not pressing any questions on me, though I knew she was ready to launch a salvo if I offered an opening. I didn’t. I needed to sort my thoughts.

The cave hadn't collapsed like a card house. I knew that from checking the ceiling, and even though I wasn’t a geologist, it had looked solid enough for me to stand below it.

I also came to the conclusion, sadly enough, that the pundits and I had been naive. If the boot print suggested what I thought it did, we had underestimated an opponent, one I couldn’t set a face or motive to. That was a mistake I didn’t like admitting. It came from a few lessons when I was eight in my first karate class. Never underestimate your adversary. Someone had taken note of our entry into the cave and done what they needed to keep us out. But why?

Other pieces nagged at me. Ralki’s intimidation of Soma and the questions about what I was working on. The quick dismissal of the cave's collapse. Then there was the boot print. A visit by one of the guards from Imperial Holding? I couldn’t be certain of it. Perhaps someone had merely wandered over to investigate why our rickshaw was parked so close to the mining operation. Or perhaps, as I was beginning to suspect, it portended something more sinister.

I knew why Ralki had chosen Soma to question--part of the five thousand-year-old social pyramid. She was low caste and female, and as a widow, easily manipulated. The pundits, on the other hand, as feeble as they might appear, were far more powerful than Ralki and his superiors. He had selected an easier prey to question. But why?

My eyes were drooping as I licked the last of the ice cream from my spoon. Sahr carried my bowl to the sink with the expression of a lolling puppy. Handing her the spoon, I said, “It was an accident, Sahr. The roof caved in, and there is no sign of Jotilal, and no way to get through. The authorities are going to say he died while he slept. Devi and C.G. will see to his family the best they can.”

She nodded, and rather than quoting from some Christian or Hindu scripture about his soul resting in eternal peace, she set her hand on my wrist and said, “Bhim, this afternoon I have thanked all the gods that it was not you in that place. I know it is not right to be thankful when someone has died, but I am. The gods must follow the laws of the constellations and my cards mirrors those laws. They are rarely wrong. There are no accidents. The gods tumbled that rock when the stars and planets directed them to. And even though I am sad for this man’s life being taken, I am also happy it was not you inside.”

I smiled weakly, though my thoughts were telling me that something other than meddling deities had killed the man. With a brain feeling like day-old pudding, I decided not to enter into a discussion about cause and affect. Besides, Sahr’s beliefs were unchangeable. Or so I thought.

Before I rose to stretch out in complete nakedness below the coolness of my ceiling fan, she announced that tomorrow evening she was going to prepare a feast all the gods would be jealous of.

Twenty-Six

It took less than ten seconds for the lingering sweetness of my dream to be shattered the following morning. I had been strolling in the loveliest of gardens--streams of cool water percolated over round stones, periwinkle, and clover. A fine mist permeated the air. I followed the water down a gentle slope to the ocean, and before me a wide cove spread out with waves curling around a rocky point. Perched like a small tree in the sand, a new surfboard stood waxed and ready. I loved surfing dreams. They always beat the hell out of the other ones, the ones with the bloody bubble.

Above the murmur of the surf, I began to hear yelling, arguing, and an odd moaning. I woke and touched the droplets of mist still sprinkled upon my cheeks. Coming fully awake, I realized the mist was perspiration and the fan above my bed was idle, no electricity--a common occurrence in our part of the city. Sahr was moaning in the salon, an indication something else had gone wrong.

Wrapping a loongi around my middle, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, the sweat from my face, and stepped into the salon.

“Aiyeee. . .” She was yowling and clutching the edges of her sari again. Seeing me, it increased.

I had to almost yell to make myself heard. “What on earth is the matter?” I glanced out the front window, and not seeing Lalji in his hammock, began worrying again that he’d gotten himself into some sort of trouble.

“It is gone, Bhim. Gone! It was here, right here yesterday when I went to the market. I set it on the desk right after you left in the big car. I plugged the wire into the back exactly the way you taught me, and now it is gone.”

The coolness of my dream splintered into a flash of dread. “The laptop?”

“Yes, Saab. It is gone.” She started to wail again and I cut her short.

“Sahr, stop.” Her moaning ceased abruptly and in the silence that followed, we just looked at each other. Then I looked at the empty rectangle amid the papers upon my desk. “First,” I said as calmly as I could, “it is only a computer, not a family heirloom. It can be replaced. I will have a new one sent by train from Delhi in three days. Second, no one has been hurt. Where is Lalji, by the way?”

With a hiss she said, “He is hiding from Saab.”

“Uh huh. And did he mention before he went into hiding why he was not guarding the house when somebody broke in.” I was rising from a slow simmer to a full boil.

“After I helped his feeble memory with the palm of my hand, he admitted that he had strolled over to Ramuna’s to boast about driving that car he has never set foot in.” Ramuna was a young beauty, the daughter of my tailor, who lived three streets to the north. Lalji had been trying for months to woo her with stories of bravery and wealth. She, being of sound wit and good vision had measured up his courage and finances accurately, and spurned his advances.

Worried that I was going to receive yet another unpleasant answer, I asked, “And what about the backpack? Was it taken as well?” The camera, notes, and jump drive were in the inner pocket. They held the only remaining images of the cave.

“No, Bhimaji. I set it in the kitchen last night to get your canteen ready. It was still there this morning.”

The thief, whoever he or she was, had slipped in through the front, snatched the most valuable object in sight and exited the same way. Considering all that had happened, I couldn’t help wondering if it was a random theft or something planned.

“Well, I suppose we can thank those friendly constellations of yours that my backpack happened to be in the kitchen.” She smiled for the first time that morning. Not a big smile, but it expanded when I asked, “Do you think you could brew some of that Nilgiri dark roast and a rustle up a few goolabjamins? Also, fetch me the phone and the largest knife we have in the kitchen. Then have someone go fetch Lalji to me.”

Understanding my intentions, she smiled a bit wickedly. I was going to make certain my watchman never left his post unguarded again.

Twenty-Seven

Before that morning, Varanasi had been somewhat of a cloak for me. I’d moved about its avenues and gullies, wandered alone along the Ghats, and pulled that covering around me in relaxed anonymity. Big cities do that for people. It had been a shawl shielding me from the pain of memory and the memory of pain. Now it had been yanked from my shoulders and I felt exposed. Theft does that to people.

I stood on the corner of Sonapura Road attempting to hail a rickshaw to take me to Devi’s and felt a dozen eyes watching me. More than at any time, I was aware of being a foot taller than anyone on that road. Looking in both directions, I realized was the only blond one as well.

My driver and I didn’t exchange more than three words during the journey to Devi’s. Just before the turn to Raja Ghat and the lane to the back gate, I had him stop in front of a bicycle-walla. Miss Ugly needed some repairs, and I didn’t want to be burdened with walking her up through the alley to have her fixed.

With a rapid namaskar and less of a smile than usual, I gave the walla—a scrawny teen who looked capable and owned a decent set of patching materials—some very clear instructions regarding my needs. Half the price up front, the balance when I returned. She would be parked inside Master’s unlocked gate, and he would need to fetch her, patch her, and more importantly, treat her with the respect due an aged lady.

I had phoned Chandragupta earlier and left a message. Whether he received it or not, and had been able to accomplish what I suggested, was unknown. If he hadn’t, it would be a short morning for all of us.

I pushed open the gate, leaned my miserable looking bicycle against the wall and closed the door. Turning around I found myself staring directly into the dazzling, but shaded, eyes of Sukshmi. A thoroughly traditional Hindu shawl was drawn about her head.

“Bhim, this is so awful,” she said. She reached out to give my hand a gentle press. “This poor man had two children, a wife, and his mother to feed. It is so sad.”

“What did he do for work?” I asked. “I mean, before he started with us?”

“Father says he was a brass shaper, made pots and bells and candleholders, but his shop had shut down from competition. It is a hard business in the slums. The tourists buy on the Ghats, never in the poor sections. But, father says his family will be seen to. I think he and C.G have put something in place. A few of the neighbors have also donated.”

“I’m glad people are helping, Sukshmi.” I sighed. “It was an awful death.”

“There is too much death in this city, Bhim; too much death and old ritual.” She stared in the direction of the river. I understood more of what she wasn’t saying than what she was. The same feeling had come over me that morning. Varanasi felt less like home and more menacing now. She had grown up in the gardens and been taught the traditions. Now her father wanted to employ another—the selection of a proper husband. Like a bird sensing a capturing hand above its wings, she wanted to fly.