My Brother's Keeper

by Charles Sheffield

  I dashed back towards the other car, looking around me in the moonlight for something to put it out of action. The only thing remotely useful was a garden fork that stood upright against the wall. I felt the tines. With my weight behind it there was a pretty good chance it would slice through a tire.

  The windows to my left suddenly came alight. That had been much too quick—either the fuse box was close to the cellar where we had been imprisoned, or there was an auxiliary circuit for some of the ground floor lights. I lined up the fork with the right front tire and leaned hard into it.

  I had done my best, but I was too slow and too out of shape. While I was just getting started, the side door of the house opened and Dixie came running at me. He was still holding his knife. To my terrified eyes, the gleaming blade looked about four feet long.

  Dixie was moving fast and crouching forward. His lower lip was drawn down to show his bottom teeth, and I could hear his strained breathing even when he was ten yards away. No matter what Zan's instructions might have been, Dixie was holding the knife as though injury to me was more important than capture.

  The garden fork was getting nowhere—it's not easy to pierce a rubber tire. As Dixie ran in at me I leaned back against the body of the car. My left hand raised the fork, and I sent it with one vicious underarm thrust up into his chest. It seemed like the instinctive action of a trained killer.

  I saw the tines go in just below the line of his collarbone. They missed the ribs and drove deep into his chest cavity. He gasped and staggered backwards, but long before he reached the ground I had turned and was running back to the other car. Even if we were followed to the station, we had to get away from this house.

  Too late.

  Before I had taken five steps I heard the grating whine of an old starter motor. The engine of the car ahead misfired a couple of times, then caught and revved up hard. There was a horrible grinding of gears.

  Had Ameera somehow started the car, ready for me? I knew that was a ridiculous idea, but it was the only thing I could think of.

  The lights of the car came on. I could see the shape of a woman in the driver's seat—but it was not Ameera. It was Zan. There was another moan of gears, then the car jerked into motion and was off along the drive. I ran after it. The back door handle was close to my hand. Four more steps would have done it, but Zan found second gear and the car accelerated away from me, helped by the long hill that led down towards Cuttack.

  And was that Ameera, sitting up in the back seat? I could not be sure. But surely she would do something, interfere with the driver to let me catch up with them . . .

  The car was a black, noisy dot on the road. I groaned and turned back towards the Toyota. Dixie was leaning against it now, watching the other car vanish into the darkness. Somehow he had managed to stand up, the fork still buried deep in his chest. He was bracing both hands above the tines, trying to ease them free. A trickle of dark blood had run from each round hole and made a long stain down his shirt. Still he worked at the tines, delicately and single-mindedly.

  I felt sick at the sight. But Dixie might have the keys to the Toyota, and that car was my only hope. As I approached him he stood upright, away from the car, and bent forward in an amazing effort to reach for his knife. It was lying on the ground a few feet in front of him. He leaned down, grunted, and toppled sideways into a thick bush. The fork still impaled his chest.

  "Dixie." I leaned over him. There was no time for caution. "I'll try not to hurt you worse, but I'm going to search you. Where are the car keys?"

  The bush he lay in was like a sweet-smelling viburnum. The heavy, snowball-shaped blossoms obscured his legs and trunk but left his face grinning up at me in the moonlight. Blood was oozing out of his mouth, up past the loosened lower dentures and onto his chin. He was trying to speak, but at first there was only a bloodied gargle from his throat.

  I knelt by him, the sap and nectar of crushed blossoms damp on my pants. "Where are the keys, Dixie? I'll get help for you as soon as I reach Cuttack."

  He did not speak. As I watched, his hands came up again to the fork and began to push the tines, easing them away from his body.

  I tried again. "Dixie, if the pain's too bad to talk, try and nod your head. Do you hear me? Car keys—I have to have them."

  He glared up at me in hatred. "Not pain. Got implant. Bloody bastard." The grunted words were barely intelligible.

  I was lifting and turning him as gently as I could while I patted the pockets of his coat and trousers. His only sounds were grunts of rage, and he made weak efforts to interfere with my actions. Impatience made my fingers clumsy, and I fumbled and fumed in the darkness, my nostrils full of the scent of blood and flower blossom.

  The bunch of keys was in a little leather pouch in his left-hand coat pocket. As I took them out he made a mighty effort to sit up and grabbed for my hand.

  "Bloody fool. Bloody fool." A film of blood made his neck and chin look black in the dim light. "T-Tippy—Tippy got. Worst of any. Serve you right. Bastard. Serve you right. T—T—"

  Tippy. T.P.?—Leo's bogeyman? There was no time to waste—at any moment Pudd'n could appear from inside the house. But I had to know what he was saying about Tippy.

  "What about Tippy? What do you mean, Tippy got?"

  He was lying back again, eyes like black pools. I shook him. "Dixie. What about Tippy?"

  He smiled again, a death's-head mask of triumph. "Real treat for Tippy—bloody fool, you. Serve you right." The old eyes were glazing, filming into darkness. He seemed quite immune to pain, supported by his hatred.

  Another door slammed inside the house. I had to go, no matter what other information Dixie's brain might hold. I ran for the car. By the time I had the Toyota's engine running another outside light had been switched on. I didn't wait to see who it might be. Rather than reversing I accelerated forward and drove on screaming tires right around the house and onto the road. The moonlight had been growing steadily brighter. Cuttack lay in front of me, a faint sprinkle of yellow lights. I took the car up to ninety and snaked it down the dusty ribbon of road that led towards the city center. If there was anything in my way, God help both of us.

  The eight mile trip to the station was done in a few minutes. I screeched to a halt by the entrance, abandoned the car in the middle of the road, and ran towards the platforms. Cuttack Station was like a miniature version of Howrah Station in Calcutta. There were the same hundreds of people apparently living in the station, eating, drinking, and talking, even though it was one o'clock in the morning. I pushed my way rudely through them, looking for anyone in an official's uniform. As usual, none could be found. The people near me looked curiously at my stockinged feet and dust-fouled clothes, stained with blood, sap, and pollen.

  "Train to Calcutta," I called desperately. "Where is the train to Calcutta?"

  The sleeping and eating multitude stirred uneasily at my call, but there was no reply. I was heading towards the other side of the tracks when a tall, angular man wearing a Sikh turban stepped in front of me.

  "Calcutta? Do you want to buy a ticket?"

  "I have a ticket already. When is the next train?"

  Without the chance of selling me a ticket he showed much less interest. There was a shrug, a turning of the head, and an arm waved casually along the northern line.

  "You just missed the last one for tonight—see its lights there? Now it is necessary to wait for the morning service: six o'clock, arrival time nine-thirty. Do you need accommodation to sleep while you wait—or a place for food or entertainment? I can provide you with all."

  I shook his hand away from my arm. Nine-thirty in Calcutta. I could do a lot better than that by road. The Toyota had nearly a full tank, and according to Chandra there were good highways all down the east coast of India.

  I had stuck the pouch with the car keys in it into my pocket. Now I took it out again. Was I in any condition to drive? My head was pounding, and the station around me was reeling and rolling. Zan seemed li
ke the best of the bunch, but even when I had permitted wild thoughts that she might help us I never considered revealing to her the location of Leo's hideaway. Ameera might think Zan was now on our side. If she followed my instructions and headed straight for home, Zan would be with her.

  What should I do now? Wait for the train, or try it by car?

  I had no choice at all. I discovered that in the next thirty seconds. The pouch containing the keys held more than I had realized. It also had space for paper money and for a driver's license.

  As I opened it Zan's handsome face stared up at me, her expression stern and wooden in a Motor Vehicle Department mug shot.

  Xantippe Gerakis, said the caption. Twenty-nine years old, height 1.7 meters.

  It took a few seconds before I could make the connections. Xantippe; like the wife of Socrates, in keeping with her Greek appearance. But I had been following my ears and thinking of her as Zan. She was Xan.

  Xantippe. Xan-Tippe. Zan-Tippy. Zan-TP.

  The names ran like electric shocks through my brain. I recalled Zan's expression when she talked of torture for me and Ameera if we would not cooperate. And now I could interpret that strange look of excitement on her face when Dixie burned my arm back in London. Scouse had sent her away before they tortured me more—not because she hated inflicting pain, but because she was much too fond of it.

  I stood in Cuttack Station and shivered.

  Telephone.

  It took me two frantic minutes to locate one, and ten more to battle my way through a sleepy night operator to the Calcutta number I wanted.

  Chandra was not home. At one in the morning it could be business or pleasure, and I had no possible way to track him down. I left my message with a sleepy and alarmed servant, who seemed to speak just enough English to misunderstand every other word, and half a minute later I was back in the Toyota and bracing myself for a wild and exhausting drive to Calcutta.

  "Regular hours and lots of sleep. Otherwise, there'll be trouble." Sir Westcott had driven the message in as I was leaving the hospital.

  Yes, sir.

  I didn't disagree with his prescription. Following it was another matter.

  - 14 -

  Cuttack to Calcutta: 205 miles as the crow flies, 300 by road. The Indian traffic police apparently all went off duty at dusk. On the empty highways I pushed the car up to over a hundred, gritting my teeth at the scream of the over-revved engine. Even then I was passed a couple of times, once by a lunatic in a Ferrari and once by an old Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith that breathed past me like a moonlit ghost.

  I reached the suburbs of Calcutta in less than four hours, then was slowed to a crawl by dawn traffic. As the sun came up like a smoky red ball, great lines of carts and bicycles crept out to clog the roads ahead.

  Before I reached Howrah I had faint hopes of arriving before the night train. That prospect disappeared as I merged into the sluggish sea of commuters. It was seven o'clock and full light before I jerked the Toyota to a halt by the old double gates of the house and hobbled inside. Running on sharp gravel and six hours of driving without shoes had left my right foot raw and blistered.

  No sign of Chandra's car—but perhaps he had received my message and come over by taxi.

  And no mustachioed guard in the little sentry box. That was the first oddity. He was always there, unless he was sent on some errand.

  I resisted the urge to run straight into the house. Leo's training was at work, as it had been working for me during our escape from Belur's house. At the open front door I forced myself to stand still for several minutes, listening.

  Had I beaten Zan and Ameera in the trip from Cuttack? Surely not—the train would make the trip in little more than three hours. So perhaps they had not headed here at all. Maybe Zan had gone to meet Scouse and taken Ameera with her.

  Dead silence. In my days there the house had never been empty, never silent. It would be quiet like this only if all the servants had been sent away.

  I stole inside, shaking with tension and fatigue. The house was peaceful and spotlessly clean in the morning sunlight. Everything normal—except for that unprecedented and uncanny quiet. At the foot of the stairs I paused, uncertain where to go next. The silence was broken for the first time. A soft, spine-chilling noise came faintly from above me. Someone was crying—not crying, it was more like an animal moaning, faint and broken.

  Ameera.

  I ran up the stairs, forgetting the need for caution. She lay spreadeagled on the big bed in my room, face down and near naked. As I came closer to her I saw that she was tied, hands and feet, and that bandages covered her mouth.

  I bent to remove the gag and felt the first moment of relief. She was here, she was alive, and she seemed to be unharmed. The strips of cloth that stretched her arms and legs towards the corners of the bed were tight-knotted and cut deep into her wrists, but her face and body were unmarked. When I struggled to undo the bonds she turned a tear-streaked face towards me.

  "Lee-yo-nel?"

  "I'm here. It's all right."

  I finally had her wrists free, slid my hand reassuringly along her bare back, and moved down to tackle the ankles. Before I could touch her legs and feet she writhed and gave a warning cry.

  In my haste to remove the gag I had not bothered to look closely at her legs. The curtains of the room were drawn, and in the dim light she had seemed to be wearing a pair of light slippers, purple-red in color and extending upwards only an inch or so from the bottom of her feet. Now I was seeing them more closely.

  No slippers; her feet were bare. The skin had been flayed from the soles in neat half-inch strips. I could see how the first shallow cut had been made on the hard skin of the heel, before a uniform band was peeled off and run across the exquisitely tender area on the ball of the foot, all the way to the delicate toes. The operation had been carried out with diabolical skill. Zan must have taken several hours to do it. By now the bleeding had stopped, but a clear lymph was seeping from the stripped surfaces and oozing onto the bed sheet. As I touched her ankle, Ameera cried out in anticipation.

  "Lee-yo-nel! No!"

  I put my hand lightly on the back of her head. "It's all right, Ameera. I see it. I won't touch your feet."

  As I bent to work on the knots my fatigue was washed away by an enormous and overwhelming rage. Much of it was directed toward myself. My curiosity about Leo's past had led directly to Ameera's torture. If I had been content to lie low in England, there were a dozen places where Scouse would never have found me . . .

  A noise downstairs jerked me upright. Leo took over. I spun around, ready to kill without warning if it was Xantippe coming back for Ameera. When soft footsteps came up the stairs I moved silently to the doorway, poised for action.

  One hard chop to the side of the neck . . .

  A sleek head poked in through the door. I pulled back my hand at the last moment.

  "Chandra!"

  He turned swiftly to stare at me. "What is all this, Lionel? Messages in the middle of the night, frightening my man out of his negligible wits. What has become of that famous English sangfroid? What is happening here?"

  As he spoke he turned to stare at Ameera on the bed. She had moved to bring her tortured feet clear of the sheet. Chandra's eyes, quicker than mine, saw at once what had been done to her. He went across to the window and drew back the curtains with one rapid and angry motion.

  "Who did this?"

  "The same people who have been pursuing me. They were waiting for us in Cuttack."

  "And they followed you here?"

  "My fault." I nodded my head towards Ameera. "We have to get her to a hospital." At Chandra's voice she had tried to wrap the bedsheet around her, but the pain from her feet was too great to permit the movement. Chandra questioned her briefly in Bengali, his voice calm and reassuring, and she made a brave attempt to smile before she replied. He asked her another question, then nodded at me.

  "No hospital. We are agreed on that. The care she would get for t
his injury is no better there than we can bring to her here, and she would like to be among friends."

  "But she must have a doctor." I looked at the raw wounds, and shuddered again.

  "Of course. I will arrange for that immediately." Chandra was already moving towards the door, his smooth face determined and angry. "Leave all those arrangements to me. You stay here with Ameera. Do you think that they might come back here?"

  Ameera gave a frightened little cry, and I moved to take her hand in both of mine.

  "I don't know. If they do, then God help them."

  He paused in the doorway. "God is fickle. Sometimes he chooses to help the wrong group. You are not Superman, Lionel. And you are exhausted. I think a little help from the Calcutta police would not be out of place here. I will call them."

  He seemed to be taking over, and that felt like a good idea to me. He was right, I was worn out and running on nerves. I went downstairs with him and locked the doors of the house as he left. We wanted fair warning of visitors, welcome or unwelcome.

  Ameera was lying flat on the bed when I went back upstairs. She shivered as I came into the room.

  "Lee-yo-nel?"

  "Try and lie quiet. Chandra will be here soon with the doctor."

  "Will she come back?"

  "She will not dare. Ameera, I am sorry. I should not have left you alone in the car. It was my fault."

  There was no reply for several minutes, and I wondered if after her ordeal a natural emotional exhaustion had taken over. Finally she sighed and turned towards me as I sat on the edge of the bed.

  "Lee-yo-nel, it was my fault. All of it. I am afraid to tell you this, but I did not speak the truth to you. About Lee-yo, and where he went."

  "You told me he went to Cuttack—that was true." My brain was too dulled to go beyond the obvious. I wriggled my stiff and aching shoulders. "I should not have taken you there with me. Even when you wanted to go, I should have refused."

  "Not Cuttack, Lee-yo-nel." Her voice was trembling. "I knew he had been there, and come back safely. It was the other place, the place that he was afraid to go. The place that he did not come back from."