“Wait in the car,” Shalini said. “Sorry, but you know how it is. If you come in, we’ll have to drink Horlicks and eat biscuits, chat for an hour before we can leave. I’ll say we’re in a rush.”
She ran across the yard and into the house, her sari pota fluttering behind her, calling out “Prema Uncle! Hello, Prema Uncle!”
Grace surveyed the garden, trying not to think about Duncan and Janie. An old white Nissan hatchback was parked at the edge of the yard. Bougainvillea bushes were flowering near the wooden fence, and mynahs were strutting on the low branches of a mango tree. There were mangoes in the tree, still hard and green. Grace realized she was hungry. She was wondering how long it had been since she’d eaten when Shalini burst out of the front door, holding a key aloft, two bottles of Orange Crush and a packet of Lemon Puff biscuits clutched in one arm. “Cheerio, Prema Uncle!” she called over her shoulder.
“Come on, Grace,” she said, gesticulating. They took Grace’s bags out and loaded them into the Nissan. A man with a head of rumpled white hair emerged onto the small front veranda as Shalini reversed the Nissan out to the road. He hobbled forward in his batik shirt and blue sarong, leaning on a wooden cane. He raised his arm in a wave. “Cheerio! Careful driving!” he called out.
Shalini revved the car down the road, back onto the expressway. “Finally, no need to worry about the bloody car giving up,” she said. She jerked her head at the drinks and biscuits that were lying in the pocket between the seats. “Have a drink. We’ll be there soon. Tell me what else you found out on your end.”
45
DUNCAN
Tuesday
As soon as Duncan mentioned Ms. Logan, Hammond pressed the button that hung up the line. “Who the fuck is Ms. Logan?” he snarled.
Duncan reared back involuntarily, stunned at the venom in his voice.
“I told you not to say anything to—”
“I said that to reassure Grace,” Duncan said. He drew a deep breath, trying to ignore the gun pointing at his chest. “If I hadn’t mentioned Ms. Logan, she would have thought something was wrong. She knew I had planned to take Janie to see Ms. Logan whenever we had any time to relax. She lives in a flat near the Taj Ocean Hotel.”
“Who is she?” Hammond said, his eyes narrowed.
“An old Burgher lady I’ve known for years. She has a bunch of grandkids. Her flat is a kid’s paradise. Plenty of toys for Janie.” Thank God he’d thought about what to say in advance, Duncan thought.
Hammond relaxed visibly. “Sit. Over there.” He pointed to the sofa. “Any quick moves, I shoot.” He showed his teeth in a smile that was more a leer. “Remember that garden out there is dangerous for a kid. Snakes. And most of all, that cliff. One push is all it would take.”
They didn’t communicate much after that. Hammond made and received multiple phone calls. From Hammond’s end of the conversations, Duncan gathered a jumble of information. Hammond was angry that Grace had not been picked up from the airport. He didn’t know where she was. A search was going on for her and a journalist named Janice Perera, who had picked her up. The intent was to bring them here, to the house. For what purpose, Duncan wasn’t sure. What Grace had found out seemed to involve two Cinasat people who had died. Possibly killed, for leaking information? Duncan twisted the ring on his finger, wishing he knew more. All he had were questions. Did all this have something to do with Mo’s photo? Whatever Grace had found out had to be true, if Hammond was going to the length of pointing a gun at him. What was going to happen now? How could he get the gun away from Hammond without jeopardizing Janie?
He kept telling himself that it was unlikely that Janie would be harmed. But could he take the risk, however small? He had to hope that Grace would get the message from Nalini soon. She would know to get help. Cinasat had to be involved in something criminal. Something serious. Had Bent lied to him? What was going to happen? It worried Duncan that Hammond was making no effort to prevent Duncan from overhearing his conversations. Surely he wouldn’t just let Duncan go after all this.
Karuna brought in a tray with a cut-glass pitcher of passion fruit cordial, two glasses, and a plate of ginger biscuits, her eyes sliding over Hammond and the gun he was holding. The stringy braid of her graying hair swung forward over her shoulder as she laid the tray on the coffee table. A knotted yellow cord slipped out of the neckline of her blouse. An amulet was hanging from it, like the one Jotipala had been wearing to ward off the cobras, or maybe some other evil. She avoided looking at Duncan. Hammond hadn’t been bluffing, he realized. They were on his side.
“Karuna, is Janie alright?” Duncan said.
Her eyes flickered over to him momentarily. They looked watery.
“Enough. Get out!” Hammond snapped in Sinhala.
Karuna straightened and padded away on her bare feet, not looking back.
Hammond continued his phone conversation. “If you don’t find them within an hour, we’re going to plan B . . . Enough. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” He set the phone down with a decisive click.
“Look, Hammond,” Duncan said. “I need to know what’s going on. What has Grace found out? And why is whatever she’s found out a problem, if it’s false?”
“If we have to prove it’s false, we’ll have to give away proprietary information,” Hammond said, his voice tight. His skin looked even paler than usual and shiny with perspiration. “Do you realize how many millions this project is worth? How long it’s been in the making?”
“What exactly are we doing here?”
“We’re waiting to talk to Grace and her journalist friend.”
“Why not just give Nalini—Grace’s mother—this number so that Grace can call us?”
“They will be picked up soon, and then they’ll be here,” Hammond said. “It’s best if you stay away from these questions.”
“So what are you going to do after they get here? You’re going to let us all go?”
“Don’t worry,” Hammond said. “In spite of this gun”—he brandished it in the air—“we’ll be on amicable terms soon. You’ll see.” He made an effort to smile, his teeth small and faintly yellow against his pale lips.
The sun was well up now, but the sky was heavy with clouds, the water below a sheet of furrowed slate. The screw pines were tossing their unruly heads, signaling a coming storm. He could hear the booming of the troubled sea against the hissing of the leaves in the wind. The wind gusting in through the side door to the portico brought the sound of Janie’s high voice. Duncan couldn’t hear what she was saying. She wasn’t in sight. He had seen her walk past the windows some time ago with Karuna and Jotipala, on the way to the servant quarters. They were not too far away to hear a gunshot. Hammond had seated himself by the entertainment center. Duncan watched him closely, rubbing his ring, assessing the chances of getting the gun out of his hands.
46
GRACE
Tuesday
“There’s more. Even harder to believe,” Shalini said. “Minowa told Angie—”
“Tell me later. The lane is coming up anytime now,” Grace said, her finger tracing the tattered map stretched out on her lap. “We haven’t even made a plan for what to do.”
“We have to see what the situation is,” Shalini said. Her tone was casual, but Grace saw how tensely she was gripping the wheel.
The sky had turned cloudy, and the light was dim under the trees as they drove up the slope of the lane, past lantana bushes and dark bromeliads, to a black metal gate set in a high gray wall. “Spikes and glass,” Shalini said, pointing at the top of the wall. “Better hope the gate’s not locked.” She parked beside a small structure that looked like a guardhouse. No one was about. She pointed to a brass plaque affixed to the garden wall. “Fernando named the place after his daughter. Maya. She’s a US citizen. Works for some lobbying firm in the States, we found out.”
Grace pushed at the gate. Unexpectedly it creaked open. What if this was a wild-goose chase? What if this wasn’t where Duncan wa
s?
They slipped in. The driveway curved to the right, leading to a stately whitewashed bungalow with a long portico around it. Potted bougainvillea bushes were splashed with bloodred flowers on either side of a set of broad stone steps. A line of crows was perched on the portico balustrade. Grace could hear waves crashing nearby. The wind was urgent, stirring the leaves of the bamboo by the gate.
“Let’s not just go in,” Grace said. “Look, let’s go over here by those bushes, away from the house, and we’ll think about what to do.”
“There are no cars. Maybe no one’s even here,” Shalini said.
“But what if Duncan’s here? What if he’s in danger?” Grace said. “Let’s hide here for a minute and plan what to do.”
She pushed past a cluster of fiery crotons and crouched by the bamboo thicket. Shalini followed. The sun was behind a dark wedge of clouds, and they were in a particularly shadowy corner of the garden under the spreading branches of a breadfruit tree. Ahead, at the back of the house, Grace spotted a garage, and beyond it, a small outbuilding that was clearly servant quarters.
A peal of laughter rang out, and then a child’s voice, shouting, “I’m going to show Duncan!” Grace gasped as Janie came into view, running. She was wearing a sleeveless yellow sundress, muddied here and there. Her legs were crusted with sand, her hair flapping against her shoulders in two neat braids.
A man ran out after her, shouting in Sinhala, “Janie baba, Janie baba, wait, wait!” He was barefoot and wiry, dressed in a white sarong and dingy white shirt, with a mustache curling over his lip and oiled hair to halfway down his neck. Janie paused as something she held in her hands fell onto the grassy ground. She stooped to pick it up. It was a tortoise, Grace saw.
A woman emerged from the outbuilding behind the man. She shouted out in Sinhala to the man, “Don’t let her go to the house. He’s holding a gun to Duncan Sir! Don’t let her see!”
The man hurried up to Janie and picked up the tortoise. He guided her back toward the servant quarters, where the woman was exclaiming, her hands against her cheeks, “Aney, aney, poor Janie baba, come, come, we can feed the tortoise.”
After they’d disappeared from view, Grace realized that she was clutching Shalini’s wrist. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Did you hear that? What are we going to do?”
“We can get the help of those two,” Shalini said, but she was looking anxious.
“How do we know? They might not want to get involved,” Grace said. “Otherwise, why wouldn’t they have called the police already?” She glanced up at the house. No one was visible through the windows, although she could see a ceiling fan whirring in one room.
“We’ll have to take a chance and talk to them.” Shalini scanned the windows of the house too. “If the guy—whoever it is—has a gun, better not to go into the house.”
“But what if he shoots Duncan?” Grace said. “I’m going in. You get Janie away from here and see if you can get help.”
“Wait, Grace,” Shalini said, but Grace pulled her arm away and charged toward the house. There wasn’t time to think about what to do. She’d just have to take it as it came.
A bougainvillea branch scratched her bare arm at the foot of the stone steps, but she barely noticed. She climbed up to the portico, treading as lightly as she could. Why was a pestle lying on the floor? The crows on the balustrade craned their necks, their beaks open, and several flapped their thick wings. She listened, her body flattened against the wall beside the front door. There was drumming inside the house and the rhythmic murmur of a voice speaking in Sinhala, but she couldn’t hear it well enough to tell who it was or what was being said. She slipped through the door into a hallway smelling of floor polish and crept forward on the balls of her feet.
Someone was drumming, a mesmerizing, intense rhythm. A man was talking in a soothing voice, but it was English he was using, not Sinhala. It was his cadence that made his speech sound like it was Sinhala. He was describing a scene. Was it a commercial for a resort? Was the TV on? The words were so poetic, and the man was speaking in such a rhythmic voice, repeating the words so musically. It was almost a chant. In the background, there were other voices, murmuring things she couldn’t make out. She waited, trying to make sense of what was happening. Someone spoke in a low murmur, and then the commercial started again. Was it being repeated? She crept forward again, placing her feet carefully on the floor.
At the end of the entrance hall, she came upon a wooden screen carved with a lotus design, set by the doorway to a sitting room. The hallway behind her was dim, and the sitting room much brighter. She wouldn’t be seen, she thought. She peered through the holes in the intricately carved wood and saw Duncan sitting on a sofa, facing a large TV screen. A man was standing beside the TV. She saw, with a jolt of surprise, that it was Hammond. That slight body, the gecko neck. Then Hammond moved, and Grace saw, to her horror, that the woman had been right. Hammond had a short black gun in his hand, pointed at Duncan. From where Grace was standing, she couldn’t see Hammond’s expression. She couldn’t see what was playing on the screen either. The TV was where the drumming was coming from, and the voices. Duncan was leaning forward on the sofa, facing the TV, his skin shiny with sweat, his shirt unbuttoned and yellow stained. His eyes were glazed and his feet bare. His upturned sandals lay nearby, as if they had been kicked off in a hurry. There were flies on his chest, Grace saw, a small cluster of them. They flitted here and there, but Duncan didn’t seem to notice. He was watching the TV intently, his mouth slightly open.
Grace tried to make sense of the scene before her. Why was Duncan looking so . . . She didn’t know how to describe the way he looked. Ragged? Feverish? Why was he half-dressed? She was wondering what to do when Duncan spoke, his voice strangely whiny.
47
DUNCAN
Tuesday
“I don’t see the point of watching it again,” Duncan said. “I don’t know what it is you want me to look for. Unusual isn’t specific enough. What kind of unusual thing should I look for?” He wasn’t entirely sure whether he had spoken these words out loud, or whether he had simply thought them. The words seemed very far away from him. Hammond, standing by the video screen with his gun, also seemed far away.
“You’ll see it soon,” Hammond said, pressing a button on the remote control.
The video started again. Duncan must have watched it more than a dozen times. He’d lost count. He could feel the rhythm of the drums deep inside his body. They were beating in his chest, his belly, his blood. There were many voices in the background, murmuring and running together. It was impossible to take his eyes off the large screen where the video was playing. In it, a young man in a bright-orange short-sleeved shirt lingered at a French window, looking out over an expanse of shimmering blue water, describing it. How cool the water looked, he was saying. Saying, or singing? Duncan couldn’t tell. When the man turned away from the window, Duncan could see how pained he looked. How hot it was, the man said. He described the unbearable heat he was feeling, his face contorted with it. His hands fumbled at his shirt, unbuttoning it. He was still so hot. There was a fire running through him, he could feel it. Sweat gleamed on his skin, dripped down his neck in rivulets. The man’s hair was wet with it. It curled around his head in sticky-looking tendrils. He fanned himself with a piece of paper, his eyes wild with the heat he was feeling.
Duncan could feel the sweltering heat too. He took another glug of passion fruit cordial from the glass on the coffee table. The drink was too hot. Hot enough to scald. Some dripped down his chin, searing his bare chest. His shirt was open all the way, but that did nothing to soothe the fiery heat of his skin. The cement floor was burning against his bare feet. It was unbearable.
The man in the video turned back to the open window. He stepped through, his bare, burning feet sinking into the grass outside. A breeze blew back the sides of his unbuttoned shirt. It blew through his hair. He walked toward a strip of sand that edged the water, describing the inviting coo
lness of it, how it would feel on his fiery skin. That was the only way to feel cool again. He had to jump in.
Duncan stood, wanting a view of the water. He could feel the man’s pain, the raging heat inside his body. He could see the sea outside the window, stretching to the horizon. Was it calling him? It was cloudy outside, the water gray blue. The side door out to the back of the portico was wide open, and he could see the sea through there too, inviting him. How close by. How cool it would be. The words the man spoke were Duncan’s own words. Or were they his thoughts? The man’s desire to feel the water was his own desire. He knew it was the only way to calm the heat of his body. He moved toward the door and out onto the portico. He could feel the man’s feet on the scorching portico steps, one, two, three, four. He was floating. The breeze blew over him, blew his shirt back. He could feel it in the man’s hair. Then the man’s feet were on the grass, pressing the soft blades down as he drifted toward the overlook. He caught a glimpse of something among the screw pine roots, but then his attention fell away. High tide. The water was right below. So dark. So cool. So close. All he had to do was jump.
48
GRACE
Tuesday
Grace watched Duncan walk out onto the portico, his movements oddly slow. He seemed oblivious of Hammond. She could see Hammond’s face clearly now. He was watching Duncan silently, the gun still pointed, his expression curious, intent.
Duncan turned to the left and disappeared from Grace’s view. Hammond hurried to the doorway, paused, and then stepped out onto the portico. Grace saw him walk forward to the edge of the balcony, the gun still pointed. What was going on? Grace slipped out from behind the screen and tiptoed quickly to the window. Peering sideways through it, she saw that Duncan was poised by a grove of screw pines, next to a broken old wooden statue, gazing down at the sea below. The water swelled and sank in dark waves. She could hear the water thundering on rocks.
The Mask Collectors Page 27