The Case of the Vicious Vampires

by Ketaki Karnik

  At this happy ending (for Venky sir, at least) people started heading towards the exit. I, too, forced the glue off my feet. Fresh air would do me good.

  At that moment, a security guard charged into the room, huffing and puffing, as he addressed Venky sir. “Sir, I checked with the main gate security. No visitors this morning.”

  Deathly silence. Everyone in freeze-frame mode. The implication was obvious: one of us, in this room, was the culprit.

  Chapter Three

  The prey in the gladiator’s arena: Me

  15:58:06:30 Bangalore, 23 June 2017 - Today

  12:28:06:30 Barcelona, 23 June 2017 - Today

  “You guys take care. I’ll move in here, with you, tomorrow, after finishing my work. Unbelievable, but I’ve actually managed to convince my slave-driver boss to give me time off! Meanwhile, no silly bravado,” said Anna, looking pointedly at Varun and me as she climbed into the taxi.

  “Kavya, Kavya are you all right?” yelled a nasal voice, literally excavating the grass with his crocs as he sprinted towards us. Shakespeare Sid (short for Siddhartha, which he hated because it made him sound so ‘plebian’ – Sid’s way of saying ‘uncool’) also known as Sy-D-J (Varun’s creation, pronounced ‘Sigh-Dee Jay’). The only one on campus to trample and loll about the ‘Keep off the grass’ grass. All that the poor gardener could do was throw his hands up in the air, look skywards, implore the forces of the universe to drill some sense into the boy and curse loudly in an alien language. Between the four of us, we knew at least a spattering of quite a few Indian languages and none of them, even vaguely, sounded like what the gardener uttered. Hysterically hilarious!

  From Sid’s perspective, being the director’s son should come with a few perks. Payback for having to stay in a country of boring geeky oldies, while his school friends stayed in main bustling Bangalore, not ‘on Prospero’s island.’ Translation for all ye non-Shakespeare freaks: Prospero’s island = a remote island from one of Shakespeare’s plays. In normal English, like I speak, Sid would have said ‘not on Pluto.’

  “Kavya, are you all right? I heard about the stray bullets fired at the Mall, on TV,” asked Sid.

  “Not stray bullets. Sarla’s shots were meant for me,” I said vehemently.

  “Sarla?” asked a puzzled Sid.

  Raima, Varun and I explained. About four months ago, while holidaying at Varun’s farmhouse, we found ourselves in a gathering of devious burglars. Racing against time, we battled the hounds of horror, survived killer cars and much more. Sarla was the detective in disguise trying to solve the mystery alongside us. She had saved our lives.

  “Why would she shoot you, Kavya? You must be her absolute favourite, given that mystery stories are your lifeline,” said Sid. Raima and Varun nodded.

  Why indeed? That question had been crawling within me ever since the Mall incident. Sid was right. I was her absolute favourite and I knew it. At least, I had thought so till two hours back. But then, you don’t go around trying to kill your favourite person.

  People change, I told myself.

  “Kavya, maybe you mistook someone else for Sarla,” said Raima gently. Trust Raima to read my thoughts. I would give anything for Raima to be right, but I knew what I had seen.

  “I’m certain Raima. Absolutely certain. It was Sarla.”

  No doubt about that. Yet, some inexplicable sense of loyalty stopped me from going to the police (“Police investigation ongoing” news reports announced). They probably wouldn’t have believed me anyway. “Two stray shots by a deranged person,” the police had called it. Ha! Ask me. Had she turned deranged over the past four months? Four months is a long time. Long enough to go totally psycho. In all fairness, I hadn’t met her since we solved the mystery at Varun’s farmhouse. No way of knowing what happened to her during this period… Oh gosh! I am becoming stupider by the second.

  “Guys, Sarla whatsapp-ed me occasionally over the past four months…” I started excitedly. The other three burst out at the same time, “We can call her.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Let’s clear this up once and for all. It’s killing me.”

  Sid promptly plonked himself on the lawn (yes it did have a ‘do not step on the grass’ signboard, and very prominently placed, at that) and stretched out. Dressed in a crumpled, oversized yellow T-shirt and bright blue shorts, Sid looked like the ultimate ragamuffin. Add his clearly uncombed mop of thick black curly hair and my fashionista best friend Raima would have had him deported to another planet. But we were way too fond of Sid, with his wacky sense of humour (very often, irritating PJs at which boys – silly creatures that they are – simply crack up) and crazy desire to be…hold your breath, a playwright like Shakespeare (not poet, not novelist, but a playwright). And, oh yes, nothing remotely connected to science unlike his super-brain Dad, Venky sir.

  Varun followed suit and made himself comfortable on the lawn, ensuring that the alligator symbol on his Lacoste T-shirt was properly visible and ran a hand through his hair so that the spikes in front stood up the way they should. Apparently, he sported a ‘Messi-inspired haircut’ (meaning cooler than Messi, or so Varun claimed) with the lower half closely cropped and the upper half left dense. Totally Ms. Diva Raima’s twin when it came to style (oh well, they were cousins after all!). Varun and Sid came from opposite corners of the universe. Well-toned Varun (hints of muscles he’d show off by folding his T-shirt sleeves), in contrast to the stick-thin Sid. The only vague similarity was that both towered over me. Varun boasted he was 6 feet plus, Sid was a tad shorter.

  Raima and I completed the circle on the lawn.

  I dialed Sarla’s number and turned on the speaker. Finally, I would get an answer. Finally, I would know why Sarla had wanted to kill me.

  Khrrr, khrrr… My heart lurched. I stopped breathing. The ring made sense. It was an outstation ring; Bangalore would be outstation for her. Khrrr, khrrr…the phone rang and rang. No one picked up. I tried again. And yet again. No answer.

  Sarla was unreachable.

  I sighed. That’s it; I’ll never know.

  No one is uncontactable in today’s era, I told myself. There has to be another way.

  “She works at Elite Private Investigators India. Well, used to, when we met her four months back. We could call up the office,” I said.

  “Good idea. A call to Elite will lite-n up Kavya,” said Sid. “Get it?” Varun guffawed while Raima and I rolled our eyes. Sy-D-J – perfect nickname for him, given his ‘sidey jokes.’

  Varun immediately pulled out his phone and started Googling. Gaming junkie Varun automatically loved anything with a screen. “Okay, Kavya, dial this number…”

  The phone at the other end rang twice before a fake American-accented voice answered, “Elite Private Investigators India. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Sarla please,” I said, trying to sound adult-like.

  Long silence. Weird – the receptionist had to simply connect me to Sarla.

  “We don’t have anyone by that name,” she said.

  “What is wrong with her?” mouthed Varun, gesturing wildly and frowning.

  “Maybe she’s new and Sarla left the agency before she joined,” whispered Raima.

  “Ma’am, Sarla was with Elite four months ago, before you joined.” Hopefully Anna would have said something similar.

  “I’ve been here for three years and I know everyone in the office. There is no Sarla. May I know who you are please, and why you want to speak with her?” The receptionist spoke a little too fast.

  Something was wrong and I wasn’t the only one sensing it. Sid touched the mute button on my phone. “She’s lying,” Varun agreed. The litmus test was, as usual, Ms Sensible, Usually-Always-Right Raima. “I’m not convinced either,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I met Sarla a few months ago and since I am back in town, I thought I’d look her up. I’m sure she was working with Elite Private Investigators India.” If only Anna was here. She would have worded this perfec
tly.

  “You are obviously mistaken about the company name. I told you there is no Sarla. Now, I suggest you end this call and check your facts,” came the curt response – a mirror of my English teacher turning glacial (when I used American spelling, instead of the British one).

  “Ma’am, Sarla works at Elite or, at least, did work there. I suggest you check your facts,” barked Varun hotly, before I could respond. I held my head between my hands and let out a long breath. What was it with that imbecile Varun? He was a year older than me and threw tantrums, like a spoiled, out-of-control four-year-old.

  Silence on the phone. More silence.

  I extended my finger to press the call-off icon.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you this,” the voice at the other end said softly and slowly. “About two months back, we discovered that Sarla had gone rogue. She would take money from culprits to ensure evidence disappeared. We aren’t sure how long this has been going on, but the moment we realized, she was fired. I will lose my job if anyone found out I told you this.”

  A boulder-sized lump in my throat blocked any sound. What was there to say anyway? Sarla – gone rouge? That explained her shooting at me. Well, not really, but at least I now knew Sarla has crossed over to the dark side.

  But this was wrong. Totally, totally wrong. I knew Sarla – she is the most amazing detective in the world. Then again, Professor Moriarty would have made one too.

  “Don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone.” Fortunately, Raima the saviour took over. “Where is she now?”

  “Somewhere in Bangalore.”

  My heart stopped beating. I was right. Sarla was my would-have-been murderer. But why?

  “Let’s see, I think I have the name of the place. Sarla took up a security guard job at a small place,” she continued. Papers rustled. “Yes, here it is. A place called ISIC. Don’t ask me what that stands for. The PharmaGlobal Lab in ISIC.”

  Raima barely managed a “thank you” before turning off the phone.

  The four of us stared at each other. Sarla was here, a few metres from us. And here I was, sitting on the lawn, in the open – target practice for babies. A chill bolt passed through me. I shuddered. Could she be behind one of the trees, at this very moment? Watching me, toying with me, sniggering at me as she read my expressions?

  Raima was thinking along the same lines. “Should we move indoors?” she said nervously.

  Varun and Sid stood up without protest.

  Spooky. Insanely spooky.

  “Kavya,” asked Sid, “what does Sarla have against you?”

  Yes, why me? Was it something I had done? Or something I knew about her? If so, what? Sarla had once mentioned that culprits often brought unnecessary attention to themselves by assuming that others notice and remember things they did or said. In fact, most people have terrible memories and poor observation powers. Ironic! I felt like an obsessed archeologist digging up incidents and conversations with Sarla. There had to be something there. But I came up with nothing. Think again, I ordered myself. Nothing. Nothing at all.

  We walked silently towards our room. For a change, even Sid kept a lid on his ridiculous wisecracks.

  Then, in a flash, I knew.

  Chapter Four

  I escape from Alligator’s hollow

  16:40:18:22 Bangalore, 23 June 2017 - Today

  13:10:18:22 Barcelona, 23 June 2017 - Today

  “So we deliberately stroll into the lair of Macbeth’s witches?” asked Sid after I told them my idea. What was it with Sid? He couldn’t utter a single sentence without bringing in Shakespeare.

  “I agree with Sid,” said Raima, glaring at Sid as he dramatically brought his right hand to his heart and declared, “I am so honoured.”

  “Let’s do it. We have to know for sure. Besides we are the Crime Busters,” said Varun, swerving left.

  “Varun, Kavya, remember what Anna said. We’re not to do anything stupid. Crime Busters is just a crazy cool title we made up for ourselves. Stop taking it seriously,” Raima tried again, but from her voice it was clear she knew she had lost the battle. She flung on her wide-brimmed straw-hat. Oops, Raima would never carelessly fling on a hat! She placed it lopsided on her head, lower on the right side than the left, and adjusted her milk-chocolate dyed hair (the in-vogue colour, in case you didn’t know) to ensure the layers didn’t get messed up. Recently, her streaked flicks and medium-length flowing hair had disappeared. “That’s so last century,” Raima had said. Translation: it was totally Paris fashion (or Milan, or whatever is the uber-cool fashion destination) till last month. Instead, she now sported a new hair-style: short at the back and angled sharply all the way to the front, so that the front section was at least two inches longer than the rear.

  We headed towards the PharmaGlobal Lab on the ISIC campus. The Lab was a brisk 15-minute walk from our rooms and granted ISIC was like a city in itself, but it wasn’t a continent. To think Sarla worked on the same campus and we hadn’t even seen her once – weird.

  If it hadn’t been for Sid, we would never have found the Lab. Imagine someone wanting to be totally isolated and therefore building a house on one of Jupiter’s remote moons. You would think that was seriously good enough. But now, imagine camouflaging this house. That pretty much describes the green Lab, hidden away between tall leafy trees. Only a narrow area around the Lab had been cleared. For lots of reasons I couldn’t articulate, this single-story, windowless rectangular block reeked of spookiness. It looked like the top-secret headquarters of a modern day Dracula.

  “Are you sure?” asked Raima, in a low voice. Suddenly, my brainwave didn’t seem like such a good idea after all.

  Varun took a deep breath and said, “Yes, let’s go,” but softly this time.

  “Before we go into the Lab, I should tell you we’re not allowed to be here. There’s an agreement between ISIC and PharmaGlobal that no one from ISIC is to enter the PharmaGlobal Lab. Appa will be mad at us if he knows we are here,” said Sid.

  “That’s why I think we should go right back,” said Raima. If it had been anyone other than Sarla, I would have staunchly supported Raima. There was definitely something sinister about the Lab.

  I braced myself and ignored every cell in my body badgering me to turn back. “We’re going in.”

  “You’re crazy,” muttered Raima, shaking her head in exasperation. “What magic words are we going to utter to enter the Lab?” asked Ms. Practical, defiantly.

  “Umm…well…we could say…” Varun and I faltered. What were we going to say?

  “Guys, I’m here. I do have my advantages, remember,” even Sid couldn’t bring himself to be his Sy-D-J self.

  We walked up to the front door of the Lab – the only possible opening in the building. From up close, I saw it was made of solid metal. What in Neptune’s name was going in here? Definitely not a Lab; more a high security prison.

  This wasn’t a place where you simply push the door and saunter in. There was a single press button and a speaker. Varun nodded and Sid pressed the button.

  “Who?” a guttural voice crackled through the speaker, in Hindi.

  Sid responded in English. “I’m Siddhartha Venkataraman, Dr. Venkataraman’s son.”

  Fifty locks clicked open, or so it sounded. Sid pushed the metallic door and we stepped into the 25th century. Concealed white lights flooded the reception area. An orange-coloured glass reception desk stood bang in front of us. To its right was the solid wall of the Lab building. A glass door behind the reception desk opened into the main lab. Another door, to the left of the reception desk, led into a semi-transparent glass cabin. The lower three-quarters of the glass was frosted so I couldn’t see inside, expect that there was a wall-mounted TV peeping from the transparent upper section of the glass. Must be the guard’s cabin, I thought.

  At the reception desk, on an orange bar-stool, sat an alligator. I swear. Scaly, rough skin, sharp paan-stained uneven teeth (absolutely a dentist’s nightmare) and cold eyes. Sid introduced hims
elf and received a stony stare. Alligator’s name was Manish Bhasin and he was the head of security at the Lab.

  “Oh, perfect! We’re here to meet Sarla,” said Sid brightly, as if he were the school principal asking after a student. Despite sounding like sunshine, I could make out he was massively nervous, the way he locked and unlocked his fingers behind his back.

  “Sarla is not here.” Alligator responded in his most polite tone. Even my tyrant basketball coach was politer when he was yelling at us.

  “When will she be back?” asked Sid.

  “I meant, there is no Sarla here. Anyway, why do you want to meet her?”

  No Sarla? Manish Bhasin was lying through his teeth. Sid persisted, ignoring the question. “She works in security.”

  “I told you, no Sarla works here,” his ultra-thin film of civility evaporating rapidly.

  “She does. We know that,” I blurted out.

  Alligator narrowed his eyes. His lips thinned. “You must be deaf. There is no Sarla. Four guards work for me. And none of them is a lady. Now leave.” Each syllable was emphasized and articulated crystal clearly.

  Raima tugged my fingers and whispered, “Let’s go.” With her other hand, she firmly held Varun’s arm and guided him towards the exit. Sid had already turned around, disgust written all over his face. Varun turned his head around abruptly, “We know she’s here.”

  “You know she’s here? You know she’s here?” snarled Manish Bhasin, his features convoluting to resemble an angry T Rex. “I told you there is no Sarla. Do you not understand? Now, get out,” his voice rose to a crescendo towards the end.

  I hated this man so much.

  As Sid pushed down the red handle bar on the door to usher us out of the hell-hole, Raima glanced to the right, at a set of coat hangers. Detergent advert white, full length coats hung from the hooks, each with a badge saying ‘Security.’ Blue shoe coverings lay on the floor. Clean room attire I realised – my science teacher had spoken about this. It’s what you wear over your clothes and shoes when you enter a high-end Lab to avoid carrying dust and other impurities into it. Would be cool if we could actually visit the Lab. Without Alligator around, of course.