Drake found Spencer by a run-down market. Its interior was illuminated by a single overhead bulb, and a score of faces stared out at them from inside: two muddy Caucasian males were an uncommon sight in the slum. Several tough-looking youths eyed them from a doorway across the narrow way, and Spencer motioned Drake nearer.
“We need to put some distance between us and the hotel. They’ll have a manhunt going soon enough,” Spencer said, never looking away from the thugs.
Their discussion was interrupted by the whoop of a siren from behind them, and Spencer pulled Drake down an alley that paralleled the road, electric wiring spanning overhead like black spaghetti. They hurried along, pushing past locals loitering on their rear stoops, all the while ignoring the occasional pull on their clothes from children pleading for handouts.
“Whose bright idea was it to come to New Delhi again?” Drake asked.
“Trust me, if I could turn back the clock…” Spencer went silent for a moment. “You got any money?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
“About four grand.”
“Cash?”
“I cleaned out my safe. Got a few credit cards, too.”
Spencer shook his head. “Too risky. They’ll figure out we’re together sooner or later.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
Another siren wailed from the far end of the alley, and Spencer’s tone hardened. He indicated another pathway between the buildings, too narrow for anything but pedestrian traffic. “Down this way. Hear the music?”
“No. My ears are still ringing from gunshots and sirens.”
Spencer took off at a fast trot and Drake struggled to keep up. He had no idea where all the people had come from, but when they turned into an intersecting tributary, he found himself in a swarm of locals all jostling to get to where he could now make out the dissonant strains of a melody. Spencer was taller than the majority of the throng, so Drake had no problem keeping him in sight. When they finally emerged onto a wider dirt street, Spencer waited for him to catch up before pressing on.
The aroma of exotic spices greeted them as they neared a junction, where tarps were strung in a procession along one of the roads. Thousands of people wandered along the open-air market, lighting provided by illegal taps of the streetlamps by entrepreneurial merchants selling every imaginable sort of merchandise.
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Spencer grumbled, and shouldered through a group of women haggling with an elaborately bearded man demonstrating a battery-operated herb grinder, his turban bobbing as he enthusiastically assured them the device was foolproof and would last forever.
The howl of a motorcycle approached through the shoppers, and Spencer ducked into a stall selling bags and hats. He selected a black baseball cap and tossed a few notes at the merchant, who wordlessly pocketed it before returning to his newspaper. Spencer pulled on the cap and stepped out of the far side of the stall, and then led Drake further into the labyrinth of vendors. They passed a stall with car stereo speakers blaring what sounded like monkeys banging on pots, and Spencer angled his head toward Drake. “We should be able to lose them in this maze.”
“Why are the police after you, Spence?”
“It’s a long story.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“They were shooting at me, Spencer.”
“Yeah, well, sorry about that. Look at the bright side – at least they missed.” He stopped and looked around. “We need to find somewhere to lie low. Someplace off the radar.” He began walking and Drake accompanied him. “You got your phone?” Spencer asked.
“No. It’s back in the room.”
“You can’t go back to the hotel.”
“Why not? I haven’t done anything.”
“I booked your reservation. They’ll be waiting for you to get to me.”
“But…”
“Just as well you left your phone there. They can track it.”
“Spencer, why would the police want to track my phone?”
Spencer grimaced. “To find me, of course.”
They emerged onto a boulevard teeming with vehicles, and Spencer waved down a green and yellow auto-rickshaw. After a halfhearted negotiation, he and Drake climbed into the back just as a drizzle began pelting the fiberglass enclosure. They sat in silence as the driver battled through the impossible traffic, the chaotic current of vehicles apparently random.
“Where are we going?” Drake ventured.
Spencer eyed the driver and lowered his voice. “More toward Old Delhi. It’s sketchier up there, but also less likely to be plugged in. Our odds of finding someplace discreet are way better.”
“So we’re going to an area that’s worse than what we just left?” Drake whispered, looking around at the squalid buildings and crumbling cinder-block dwellings.
“Oh, that was nothing.”
Drake sighed in exasperation. “You need to tell me what’s going on, Spencer.”
“I will,” Spencer promised, inclining his head at the driver with a raised eyebrow. “Later.”
Drake got the message: he was to stay quiet until Spencer felt it was safe to talk. The rickshaw continued on its stuttering way, and the men fell silent, the events of the last hour obviously weighing heavily on them as they motored through the New Delhi night.
Chapter 4
Bhiwani, Haryana, India
Rhythmic chanting rose from the sprawling complex of Swami Baba Raja’s Ashram of Eternal Bliss two kilometers outside of Bhiwani as the upturned faces of several thousand devotees in the main audience area serenaded the night. At one end of the rectangular space, a group of local celebrities waited expectantly as the swami’s acolytes wandered through the crowd, carrying incense burners, dressed in white robes to symbolize purity of mind and body achieved through spiritual cleansing and meditation.
Swami Baba Raja was a celebrity in his own right, whose followers from around the world were drawn to his simple message of humility, transcendence of self, and service to the unfortunate and needy. He counted among his devoted fans numerous musicians and actors, who in turn spread his philosophy abroad.
Baba Raja was one of India’s numerous holy men, believed to be the reincarnation of another divine figure from the past, one so close to the essence from which all matter springs that he could manifest priceless objects from thin air, was immortal, and could levitate. For decades he had prospered and his fame had grown until he was considered a national treasure, and he was regularly consulted by politicians as a guru whose wisdom surpassed that of any other living being. In the eyes of the faithful he was a god walking among them, incapable of error, and as unflappable as a Buddha, his countenance as perennially calm as the surface of a mountain lake at dawn.
A ripple of excitement swept through the gathering like wind denting a field of tall grass, and then a procession of dignitaries made their slow way through the seated to a raised section near a massive statue of the swami smiling benevolently, behind which was a large enshrouded container, its white linen covering stirring in the gentle breeze. Overhead a tapestry of stars glimmered as though in silent approval, and when drums began thrumming from the rear, the crowd murmured, the moment they had been anxiously awaiting all day finally at hand.
A column of men, with hair as long and untamed as their beards, marched with stern expressions toward the statue, and then the swami appeared, beaming at one and all, a hand raised in silent blessing as the adoring leaned toward him. At his side was a reed-thin man with a studious frown, his spectacles glittering in the torchlight, his head shaved and his beard elaborately braided.
When the procession stopped at the stage, the swami gazed around the area and then thrust his arms out to the side, signaling his openness to the universe’s powerful invisible energy field – the unified field of oneness, as he called it in the verses his group published with regularity, al
ong with icons and images sold at the ashram and on the Internet.
The drumming increased in tempo and volume, the syncopated patterns interweaving as the musicians drove themselves to greater complexity, entranced by the rhythms they created without conscious thought. Two robed assistants were standing by the linen cover, and at Swami Baba Raja’s signal, pulled it aside with a theatrical flourish, revealing a huge iron cage. Inside, a white tiger lumbered from one end to the other with unsure steps, like a sailor on the pitching deck of a ship in a storm. The swami nodded at a pair of men immediately behind him and they removed his ceremonial robe, revealing a white long-sleeved tunic and matching pants cinched with a red silk sash.
The drumming stopped and the throng held its collective breath as the holy man approached the cage, where a young woman, her skin glowing with vitality, waited by a door with her eyes cast down. When he stopped in front of the opening, she slid a bolt to the side and pulled the gate open on oiled hinges.
The drumming resumed, this time with a frenzied enthusiasm that made the earlier pulsing pale, and the swami stepped into the cage and motioned for the woman to close the door behind him. She did so, and the swami waved his right hand in a broad circle as the tiger neared, seemingly entranced by the holy man’s gesture.
A gasp sounded when Swami Baba Raja moved to the animal in a crouch and threw his arms around its torso, raising it up on its hind legs as he wrestled the big cat, which seemed resigned – the manhandling had been a regular feature of its life since a cub, and the drugs in its system so blunted its ability to react that it was almost incapable of remaining upright unsupported. Cheers rose from the faithful when, after a few moments of struggle, the swami slammed the tiger onto the mat and lay on top of it, his arms again spread to the side.
The crowd roared approval at the demonstration of the swami’s prowess as he slowly rose and helped the tiger to its feet, his assistance the gesture of humility expected from one so evolved. The drums slowed their tempo as he climbed from the cage, and the assistants replaced the linen cover so the audience wouldn’t see the tiger instantly fall into a narcotic slumber.
The thin, spectacled man made a short speech filled with benedictions and expressions of wonder at the cosmos’s benevolence while the swami caught his breath and redonned his ceremonial robe. When the oration was finished, the thin man tilted his head at three figures at the back of the stage. The center one approached on bare feet, carrying a ceremonial award crafted from silver – a globe the size of a soccer ball with the swami’s countenance molded into an outline of India, mounted on a polished wooden base.
The swami sidled up to the thin man’s side and whispered in his ear. The man nodded and called out the name of one of the celebrities – a beloved actor who’d gained fame in a string of Bollywood action musicals about an honest cop who takes on the crooked establishment. A hush settled over the attendees as the actor stood and neared the dais, head bowed respectfully as the swami’s entourage gathered around.
Swami Baba Raja touched the actor’s forehead with an open palm and then moved his right hand in a series of tight circles before manifesting a stream of sacred ash, with which he anointed the thespian to amazed and delighted sighs from the attendees. The swami basked in the affirming energy and then spoke in a soft, musical voice as the thin man held out the award for the actor.
“You, who have brought so much joy to so many, are a fitting ambassador for the love that flows from the Ashram of Eternal Bliss. It is with humble thanks that I bestow upon you this award, and–” the swami paused as his hand lingered beneath the base of the award, as though supporting it, and a brief instant of annoyance creased his brow before his countenance settled back into its customary tranquility “–and I also want you to have this token of the universe’s appreciation!”
The swami raised his right hand, in which he clasped a gold chain, which he showed to the assembly by turning slowly with it outstretched, its links winking in the light. The actor’s expression was enraptured at the demonstration of manifestation of rare metal from the ether, and he accepted the chain with shaking hands and a blush that would have shamed a debutante.
“Oh, Swami, I am honored! You are indeed miraculous, and I bow to your grace,” the actor said, the lines a customary salutation following one of the swami’s famed manifestations.
The swami smiled and nodded as he presented the actor with his globe and then blotted his forehead with a hand towel, exhausted by the effort of acting as the conduit for the unified field’s unfathomable power. The actor bowed again, and the swami waited until the man had returned to his place in the crowd before moving slowly back down the aisle, manifesting yet more divine ash while passing through his flock and tossing it to their open hands. The drumming increased in intensity as the swami left the area, and then stopped abruptly when the procession of the holy had disappeared back into the main ashram residence.
A youth of no more than fifteen began chanting one of the swami’s devotional mantras, and the rest joined in, collectively spent from the exhibition of divinity they’d witnessed. The drummers rose and filed from the assembly, leaving the faithful to their bliss, which would continue into the early hours of the morning, praising Swami Baba Raja, their tiger-wrestling God in human form.
Chapter 5
New Delhi, India
Drake and Spencer stared up at the neon green sign hanging crookedly over the entrance of a building that would have been at home in a war zone. They exchanged a glance and Drake shrugged.
“Backpaker’s Hostel. Refreshing how they left out the c in packers. An auspicious omen,” Drake said.
“My kind of place. Probably won’t ask a lot of questions,” Spencer observed.
“I like hotels where the fleas have fleas.”
“Then you’re in luck.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“We need someplace we can use as home base. This is as good as any.”
Drake looked down the street and considered their surroundings. “This is an armpit. Come to think of it, this gives armpits a bad name.”
“An armpit where they won’t be looking for a billionaire treasure hunter.”
“You going to tell me what’s really going on?”
“Once we’re off the street.”
Spencer led the way into the lobby of the hostel, where a middle-aged man sat watching a black-and-white portable television. Bass boomed from the wall behind him. Drake leaned over and peered through the door at the side of the counter, where a darkened bar with the world’s grimiest disco ball played gangsta rap for an audience of drunk European hikers – German or Danish, by the sound of their occasional whoops.
Spencer negotiated a room for a giveaway price and took the key from the proprietor after forking over a wad of rupees. He and Drake mounted a set of rickety wooden stairs and walked down a dank hall to their door.
Once inside, Drake wrinkled his nose in disgust. “This place smells like a urinal.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Spencer responded as he lifted one of the two mattresses and set it back with a frown. “Although if you’re into spiders, you’re going to have a field day.”
“That’s reassuring.” Drake took a tentative seat on the second bed and fixed Spencer with a stare. “All right. Time to spill the beans. What the hell is going on, Spencer?”
Spencer sat heavily in the only chair and exhaled noisily. “My friend’s dead.”
Drake’s eyes widened. “What?”
Spencer nodded. “Carson was killed the night I called you – right after we had dinner together. Murdered. And Drake…it was beyond gruesome. Whoever did it cut his frigging head off.”
“They did what?”
“You heard me.” Spencer drew a finger across his throat. “Decapitated.”
Drake’s expression darkened. “Why didn’t you call?”
“I did. Your phone was off. By the time I found out, you were alr
eady in the air.”
“I didn’t find any messages when I laid over in Singapore.”
“I didn’t leave one. Figured I’d see you in a few hours.”
“Why are the cops after you?” Drake asked.
“They like me for it.”
Drake’s mouth fell open. “They think you killed him?”
“That’s the way it’s shaping up.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“He forgot his phone in the restaurant – we were both kind of drunk – and I picked it up. Anyhow, I ran out of the place like my ass was on fire, with his phone, which I guess looked suspicious.”
“Were you the one who found him?”
Spencer shook his head. “No. He was gone by the time I got outside.”
“Then why do they think you killed him?”
Spencer sighed. “I have no idea, other than that I’m the easy target. They’ve got witnesses at the restaurant that put me with him. I went running out. Nobody saw me on the street, so for all they know, I could have followed him and offed him.”
“Decapitated him? Wouldn’t you have been covered in blood?”
“You’d think so. But they aren’t particularly worried about all the details. They seem like they want to close the case, and I’m the nearest warm body they can hang it on.”
Drake frowned. “How do you know all this?”
“They woke me at three in the morning and dragged me down to the station, where I got to observe their interrogation techniques up close and personal for about twelve hours. I told them I had no idea what had happened or who killed Carson, but they weren’t really listening. They’d already made up their mind. Lurid murder, and I’m Jack the Ripper. Case closed.”
The Goddess Legacy Page 3