“I’m not saying we jump on the train today. I’ll go and then I’ll find a place and—”
“Train to California?” Her beautiful sculpted brows furrowed. “Oh, because you can’t fly because you’re on a watchlist. People don’t take trains across the country, Vim. Does that tell you anything?”
He fell silent. “Would you consider it?”
“Vim, just tell him you don’t want to cut anymore.”
He released her hand, stepped away and walked to the small window in the side wall of the garage, grimy and half obscured by a persistent weed. He laughed softly at her comment, which appeared to be a non sequitur, but was in fact the whole point of his fight.
His father, the person the police couldn’t protect him from.
The person he was fleeing as ardently as he was the killer.
Vimal loved Adeela Badour. He’d fallen for her the first time he’d seen her. It was in a coffee shop in Greenwich Village—one of the old-time ones, way-way-way pre-Starbucks. She’d been poring over a detailed diagram of the heart in an anatomy book and whispering the names of veins and arteries and muscles—or whatever medical students need to know about the pump, which was presumably everything.
He’d sat down and opened his Michelangelo book.
The ice-breaking conversation was, of course, anatomy. Flesh and blood, in one case. Marble, in the other.
They’d begun dating not long after that and had been in a monogamous relationship since then. From early on the subject of marriage surfaced regularly in his thoughts. On some days, he viewed marrying her as a goal that could be achieved by practical planning, like with most couples. Other days, more frequent, their saying “I do” was about as feasible as using their arms to fly.
The problem was that Romeo and Juliet thing.
The Lahoris were Kashmiri Hindu. Kashmir is a beautiful region in the north of the Asian subcontinent, but one that has for ages been the center of conflict. It’s claimed by India as well as by Pakistan and, halfheartedly, by China. For more than a thousand years, rule of the region as a whole, or portions of it, has traded hands among Hindu, Muslim and Sikh leaders—and the British too, of course, who came up with one of the more curious names ever for a country: the Princely State. In recent years the Hindu population of Kashmir, largely Saraswat Brahmin, lived in Kashmir Valley. Representing about 20 percent of the region’s inhabitants, they were a people moderate in their religious practice and they comfortably blended spiritual and secular lives, avoiding as much as they could the simmering turbulence of the area.
Inevitably, the peace and isolation didn’t last. In the 1980s a militant Kashmiri independence movement arose, composed largely of radicalized Muslims. Its mission was ethnic cleansing, which resulted in the infamous Exodus of 1990, in which more than 150,000 Kashmiri Hindus fled. Those who didn’t risked death. In the end, only several thousand Hindus remained in the valley.
Vimal was born in the United States and had no personal knowledge of these events—which were, of course, hardly topics touched upon by world history classes in American schools. But he was an expert on the independence movement, the rapes and murder, and the Exodus because Papa lectured him and Sunny on the topic frequently. Papa had been in the United States when the Exodus occurred but a number of his relatives had to abandon their homes, leaving all behind, to be relocated to India proper—the congested, polluted urban sprawl of the National Capital Region—Delhi. Several older aunties and uncles died prematurely, Papa was sure, because of the resettlement.
Papa harbored deep, unrelenting resentment toward all people Muslim.
Adeela Badour, for instance—had he known about her.
It didn’t matter that the Badour family had lived here for more generations than Papa and that their forebears had no connection with the radicals in the valley, or that they were moderate in religion and secular in worldview. Nor did it matter to Vimal’s father that Muslims in India suffered their own abuse at the hands of the Hindu majority.
No, no matter.
What irony here: His father had finally and reluctantly abandoned his insistence on an arranged marriage for his sons; Vimal could have married any Hindu woman of his choosing (though Papa occasionally reminded him that Akbar the Great, the most famous ruler of the Mughal Empire, and his courtesans vastly preferred Kashmiri women for wives and—yes, his father actually said—concubines, because of their beauty).
Possibly, eventually, with a great deal of lobbying by his mother, Vimal’s father might have accepted someone non-Hindu.
But Muslim?
Never.
But it was a Muslim who, sipping tea in Greenwich Village and looking over a drawing of a human heart, had stolen Vimal’s.
He now turned back to her, as she leaned against the car, arms folded.
Adeela repeated, “Tell him. You have to.”
I tried, Vimal Lahori thought. And I ended up a prisoner in my own basement.
He told her, “You don’t know him.”
“I’m Muslim, Vim. I know about parents.”
Silence filled the garage, then was suddenly broken by the sound of rain, loud, since the roof wasn’t insulated. Vimal glanced up and saw an abandoned bird’s nest.
With a faint gaze of resignation she said, “Do what you think you have to. I have three years in New York. After that, residency, which’ll be flexible. Maybe California. I could probably make that work. But I need those three years here.”
Her message wasn’t a threat, not by any means. Adeela was never threatening. She was simply and clinically pointing out the undeniable truth: A lot can happen in three years.
“You’re going to go, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
Her eyes closed. And she hugged him hard. “Do you have money?”
“Some.”
“I’ve got—”
“No.”
“You can borrow it. And I know somebody in Glendale.”
“Where’s that?”
She laughed. “Los Angeles. Do your homework. She taught at NYU for a year. She and her husband, they’re good people. Wait here. Taalia’s in the house.”
Adeela’s parents did not know she was dating Vimal but she was close to her younger sister, and the two girls and Vimal had seen a few movies together and had some fast, furtive meals. Better to have no witnesses.
Vimal noted on the workbench her phone, car keys and purse. This gave him an idea. He’d borrow her car and drive it to a suburban town that had a train station, Westchester somewhere. He’d leave it there. She could take the train to pick it up. And he could get a ticket to another train, Amtrak, and head up to Albany, then find a train going west.
He pocketed the keys. She’d understand.
Then he paused. He heard a car roll into the side street and the brakes squeal as the vehicle stopped. The engine went silent. He looked out and didn’t see the vehicle.
Nothing, he was sure. A neighbor. And reflected again that the odds of the killer finding Adeela’s house were just about zero.
He leaned against the workbench and waited for his Juliet to return.
Chapter 46
What a time this was.
As she walked up the stairs from the backyard into her house, she reflected that she could understand Vimal’s wanting to escape his father. Her own—as she’d said—could be overbearing. Oddly, in a culture often male-dominated, it was Adeela’s mother who was the formidable partner in the marriage. (This was the opposite of Vimal’s Hindu family.) After graduating, Adeela would get an internship and residency out of arm’s reach of her mother.
But not too far away. Probably Connecticut (Adeela Badour loved autumn foliage, just loved it). Maybe Long Island.
That was as far as she was willing to go.
California? Of course not.
And it wasn’t right for Vimal either. But she supposed it was not a bad idea for him to leave now, get to the West Coast for a time. Until they caught that madman.
; She glanced into the living room and saw Taalia, on the couch. The ten-year-old was in a Phineas and Ferb T-shirt, and jeans. Adeela had to smile. What a child of our times! The girl was texting on the same phone that was pumping music through the massive pink headset embracing her ears and watching, distractedly, a muted Disney Channel cartoon.
Climbing the stairs to the second floor, Adeela stepped into her room, glancing at a poster on the wall: a periodic table of the elements, each represented by Japanese anime characters—from Sailor Moon as hydrogen to Vegeta as Ununoctium. She’d made it herself, inspired by a similar one she’d found online. Adeela was amused, recalling the fight she’d had with her mother about taping up other posters on her walls when she was in middle school: boy bands. Which depicted boys she had no interest in, bands that played music she never listened to. She’d done it simply out of defiance.
So totally mature of me, she now thought.
She pulled her checkbook from a folder and sat for a moment. Adeela had a decent-sized bank account. She’d worked a number of jobs since high school, and, though medical school was excruciatingly expensive, she had a student loan for most of it (the day of reckoning was some years away). She looked at her balance. A sigh. She wrote Vimal a check for two thousand dollars.
She tore the check out; the noise seemed particularly odd and troubling, something surgical. She thought of Vimal’s wound and his refusal to go to the ER.
Another sigh.
She walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, heading for the back door, when she heard a familiar click.
The front door opening.
Oh, no! Her mother must’ve returned early. But why the front door? The woman would have parked in the alley beside the garage.
Adeela walked to the doorway and peeked around the corner to the living room. She froze and gave a quiet gasp.
A man in a black coat and ski mask, holding one of those box-cutting knives in his right hand, was looking around. He spotted Taalia and moved quietly up behind her.
No, no, no!
Adeela stepped back, looked around the kitchen and ran to the island. A moment later, holding a ten-inch carving knife, she strode into the front hall. Her gaze toward him was pure steel.
The man blinked, glanced at the knife, and smiled. “Ah, little bird. Look at what you have there. You are the big one, Adeela.”
This would be the killer.
“And cute little Taalia, little birds.”
How the hell did he know their names?
“What do you want?” Her voice was firm. In fact, she didn’t feel an ounce of fear. She had told herself that this man was an infection, a weak blood vessel, a shattered bone. This was a clinical problem to be addressed.
He stepped closer. She lifted the knife to waist level. The sharpened side of the blade was up. She’d learned this in some spy movie.
He blinked and paused.
A gun appeared in his other hand, fished from his pocket.
Her resolve faltered for a fraction of a second. But then returned. Somehow, Adeela smiled. “A gunshot. The neighbors are home. They’d hear. You’d get arrested.”
He nodded at her sister, still lost in the oblivion of pixels and digital sound. He asked in an oddly accented voice, “What she listens to? Music kids listening to now. Lots and lots of crap, aren’t you thinking? I like strings, I like smooth horns, you know what it is.”
“You want money? You want the TV?”
He glanced. “Sixty-inch Sony? Ah, yes, yes. You help me carry to car? Thank you, birdie. No, no. You know what I want. And you tell me.”
He pointed the gun at the back of Taalia’s head.
“No,” Adeela growled and stepped closer. Still holding the knife. “Don’t point that at her. Turn it away.”
“Ah, but you sure I not fire gun. Scaredy of the noise. So why you worry?”
“Now.”
He hesitated, not sure what to make of her, and pointed the gun at the floor.
“If I tell you what you want to know, you’ll leave?”
“When parents are coming home?”
“Soon,” she said.
“And father, he is cop or soldier with big gun he carry all the time. Right? And knows karate like Bruce Lee.”
“No. But the more people, the more fucked you are.”
“Ha! No, no, am thinking nobody home for long time. You have nice knife, I have knife. Maybe we roll around and see who is the stabbed one first.” A sick grin.
Still Taalia had no idea of the drama behind her. Her small, perfect head nodded in time to a song.
He lifted the gun to Adeela now. “Not having time for shit like this.” The smirk vanished. “Vimal. Where he is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes.”
He replaced the gun in his pocket and, with his thumb, pushed the blade farther out. He stepped closer to Taalia.
Adeela moved closer yet, chest heaving from the deep breaths, heart pounding, blood pressure through the ceiling, she thought with manic clarity, adrenaline levels soaring.
The man’s blue eyes were cold as marbles. He’d kill a child as easily as talk to her.
But then the frown. He cocked his head.
The sirens were just audible.
At last!
He looked past Adeela, into the kitchen—on the wall, where the central station alarm panel door was open, revealing the panic button for the police that Adeela had pressed when she’d picked up the knife.
The man’s shoulders rose and his eyes filled with madness. He lunged toward Taalia, maybe thinking he’d kidnap her and, somehow, trade her for Vimal.
This was not going to happen. Adeela jumped toward him, slashing with the knife. No design, no strategy, just swinging the blade toward his face, so fast the metal was invisible.
He was far larger than she, surely far stronger—and undoubtedly had experience with his knife. But he hadn’t expected her assault and he stumbled back. Adeela put herself between Taalia and him.
He stood still for a moment, and she fully expected that he’d pull the gun out and kill them both. Not for any particular reason—he had the mask on; she couldn’t identify him. But he would murder simply because he was insane.
Now the sirens were louder.
He grimaced. “You fucking bird. I am remembering you. I come back and visit.” He fled out the front door. Adeela followed and ran onto the porch. She saw him leap into a red Toyota and speed away. She didn’t get the license.
Adeela ran to her sister and pulled her to her feet. The headset fell off the girl, who gave a shriek of surprise and fear.
“What?”
“Come with me.”
“Why? I—”
“Now!” the older sister commanded.
Taalia’s round face—darker than Adeela’s—nodded slowly, eyes filled with fear. She was looking at the knife.
Holding the girl’s hand, Adeela sped out the back door and into the garage.
There, Vimal was looking out the window. He said, “I hear sirens. What’s that—” He stopped speaking as he turned and saw the blade and Taalia in tears.
Adeela raged in a whisper, “He was here. That man was here.”
“That man?”
She spat out, “You know who I mean!”
“No! Where is he?”
“He drove off. I called the police.”
“Are you all right?”
In an even softer, even angrier voice, she said, “After a knife fight, yeah. I’m great.”
“What?” He stared.
She glanced out the window—to make sure the intruder hadn’t circled back.
“We have to go. Get away. Now. We’ll drive to Westchester. You come with me for now, drop me at a train station.”
“No,” she said.
“Yes, get in the car. Please. Hey, Taal, want to go for a drive?” He had forced a smile on his face.
Taalia stepped behind her sister, wiping her tears. “What’s going on?”
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“It’s okay,” Vimal said kindly.
“No, it’s not okay,” Adeela whispered.
Vimal opened the garage door, looked out.
“It’s clear,” he said, dropping into the driver’s seat of the car. “Get in. Get your phone and purse.” Nodding toward the workbench. “We’ll call the police and your parents on the way.”
“No,” she whispered.
“I have to go! I don’t want to leave you here.”
She gave him a soft smile. She walked to the window. And bent down.
He said, “You’re not coming?”
“No.”
She leaned forward and kissed him.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too,” she said.
And plunged the knife into the car’s front tire, which gave a slight shudder and hiss and then settled down to the rim.
Chapter 47
Vimal Lahori was in protective custody. Finally.
The Promisor, aka Unsub 47, had learned the address of his girlfriend and had gone there to, apparently, torture her into giving up the boy’s whereabouts. But the young woman had had the presence of mind—and grit—to summon police and fight him off.
In his parlor, Rhyme was learning these details from Amelia Sachs, who was relaying the conversation she’d had with the young man in an NYPD safe house on Staten Island.
Sachs added that the officers arriving on the scene moments later had radioed for assistance in locating the man’s car—a red Toyota, model unknown—and then detained Vimal.
The young man was sullen but cooperative, Sachs reported. She’d interviewed him in the Staten Island safe house where she’d stashed him. He couldn’t, however, provide any helpful additional insights. He explained that his failure to come forward had been out of fear, though Rhyme suspected it had also to do with the soap opera drama of his family life, as Sachs had suggested. He’d too had in his pocket, Sachs had reported, some chunks of stone—the kimberlite, it appeared. They had bits of crystals, possibly diamonds, in them, and Rhyme wondered if it was some of Patel’s inventory that he’d kept for himself. The fact he’d taken the stones that weren’t his would also have made him reluctant to go to the police.
The Cutting Edge Page 28
