by A. X. Ahmad
There is no mention of the burglaries in the pages of The Boston Globe, but its weekend section has a long profile on Senator Neals, portraying him as a phoenix that has arisen from the ashes of the old political order. Ranjit studies a photograph taken at the Harvard talk: the Senator’s muscular frame is leaning forward, gripping the edges of the podium. The American people, it seems, are hungry for a hero who can jet around the world and get things done.
The article says the usual things about the Senator’s background: born poor in Roxbury, football scholarship to Harvard, his first childless marriage, and his remarriage to Anna Williams, the daughter of a patrician Vineyard family. The next paragraph makes Ranjit stop.
It describes the events of September 15, three years ago. “The Senator was devastated when his daughter, Josephine Williams Neals, aged four, drowned at his summer home in Martha’s Vineyard. After a long period of introspection, the Senator decided to return to public service…”
There is a picture of the entire family sitting out on a deck, the glistening Vineyard Sound behind them. Senator Neals looks much younger, and in his lap is a little girl wearing a summer dress printed with flowers. She has Anna’s dark eyes, and she is squinting up at her father and laughing.
Ranjit stares at the photograph. Betty Green hadn’t told him that Anna’s daughter had drowned. He looks at the picture again, recognizes the sloping lawn, and then he knows where it had happened.
The swimming pool that had lain empty all summer, gathering leaves, though he had offered to fill it. He remembers Anna sitting next to it, staring blankly at her book. She had been keeping a vigil over the place her daughter died.
He reads the paragraph again, and the date of the little girl’s death catches his eye. September fifteenth. That was the day that Anna had come to him, taken his hand, and led him to her bedroom. Left alone on her daughter’s death anniversary, the pain must have been too much for her to bear … He thinks of the little girl who had drowned, and then of his own beloved Shanti. Closing his eyes, he says a prayer.
No power to speak, no power to keep silent
No power to beg, no power to give
No power to live, no power to die
No power to escape from this world
He alone has the power in His hands, he watches over us all
O, Nanak, no one, rich or poor, escapes your sight …
The freighter toots loudly and Ranjit looks out to see the white gas tanks of Vineyard Haven come into view. He presses his nose to the porthole, running through his plan. He’ll retrieve his truck from Mike’s Tow Yard and drive out to the Senator’s house well before the time set for their meeting. This time, there can be no mistakes.
He lifts up his backpack, feeling the heavy doll inside it, and watches the land approaching.
III
RETURN
Even by thinking a hundred thousand times,
He cannot be reduced to thought.
Even by piling up loads of worldly goods, the hunger of the hungry cannot be appeased.
Hundreds of thousands of clever tricks,
But none of them will serve you in the end.
How can you reach the truth? How can the veil of illusion be torn away?
—Guru Granth Sahib, Jup
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Senator and Anna are arguing violently.
It is dusk, but Ranjit can see them clearly through the powerful binoculars pressed to his eyes. He’s lying hidden behind the high shrubbery by the side of the Senator’s house, his white snowsuit blending into the snow.
Watching the two of them is like watching characters in a play, but with the sound turned off.
The living room is dark, except for a tall floor lamp that casts a circle of light over Clayton Neals. He sits slumped in an armchair, wearing gray sweatpants and a red T-shirt. Anna stands over him, wearing a black tracksuit, leaning in so close that she is speaking right into his face.
Ranjit adjusts the magnification on the binoculars. He sees Anna’s mouth open, the tendons of her long neck quivering as she shouts. The Senator suddenly throws up his arms and rises, his face contorted, his hands balled into fists. Ranjit stiffens, realizing that he is on the verge of violence, but Anna says something and the Senator slumps back into the chair, his mouth opening and closing helplessly. She continues to talk, striding in and out of the circle of light, and finally stops in front of the Senator’s chair, blocking Ranjit’s view.
When she moves aside a few minutes later, the Senator is sitting with his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his thick, muscled arms resting limply on the armrests.
Anna stalks away and disappears down the circular stairs in the corner. The Senator leans forward, resting his head on his knees, as if someone has punched him in the stomach.
The scene seems strangely familiar, and despite the insulated snowsuit, Ranjit feels a chill in his bones. When he first got out of prison he was drinking a bottle of Old Monk rum every evening, and at the halfway point Preetam would start screaming at him. Usually he’d just ignore her, but one night he reached the three-quarter mark and could not stand her shrieking voice a moment longer. He’d pushed her away, and she had stumbled and fallen, almost hitting her head against the edge of a marble table. He was so frightened that he had begged her forgiveness and stopped drinking for a whole month.
He raises the binoculars to his eyes, watching Anna as she strides through the room wearing her silver down jacket and orange knit cap. She bends by the door to lace up her running shoes, and then he hears the front door slam. He swivels to see her stride into the snow, steam coming out of her nostrils.
She bends to stretch her back, then launches into a run, her stride lengthening, her arms pumping as she rounds the first curve of the driveway. She is going running now?
He scans the driveway, but she has crested the hill, and must be out on the long, flat stretch of Lighthouse Road. He imagines her moving through the darkness, chest heaving, breathing in air as cold as steel.
Turning back to the house, he sees the Senator’s colossus-sized figure still sitting motionless.
Ranjit shifts uneasily, feeling the snow crunch under him. He sweeps the house again, taking in the darkened lower rooms and the empty decks. The snow around the house is devoid of all tire tracks except for the steel-belted radials of Anna’s Mercedes; it seems that she has succeeded in keeping Kohonen away.
He stands, feeling the hardness of the knife in his boot, brushes snow off his backpack, and walks slowly to the house. As he rings the doorbell he remembers waiting here with Shanti a few weeks ago, her small, warm hand in his, her bright eyes looking up at him.
He hears heavy footsteps, and the tall oak door swings open, letting out a blast of heat. The Senator’s huge frame fills the doorway: he is barefoot, his eyes bloodshot, gray stubble running across his broad chin.
“Ran-jitt.” He squints down, taking in Ranjit’s short hair and clean-shaven face. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, getting Anna involved in this. I should just call the police and have you locked away.”
All the charisma has leaked away, and what remains is a brutal man, his voice tight with anger.
Ranjit smiles, baring his teeth. “You do that, and you’ll never find the microfilm. I know it’s from the Agni missile, and I know you want it back. Anna said you would talk to me—”
“Anna. Of course.” Without looking back, the Senator turns and strides into the house.
Ranjit enters the house, smelling something spiky and hormonal, and recognizes the stink of desperation. He studies the living room, knowing that desperate men are twice as dangerous: papers are scattered all over the sofa and a half-eaten pepperoni pizza lies on the granite island. The room looks foreign, as though Preetam and Shanti had never set foot in it, as though they had never eaten Christmas dinner by the bay window.
The Senator stands in front of the tall lamp, the light catching the sides of his shaved head, his face remaining in deep shadow. H
e’s put on weight, and without a tailored suit to hide his bulk, displays the beginnings of a belly.
“Anna has really taken a liking to you.” The Senator’s lips bow in distaste, and his voice rises. “This is the first time she’s had such poor judgment. How much money do you want?”
“I don’t want your money—”
“Careful, my friend, don’t think you can blackmail me. Anna is a grown woman, she does what she wants. Just give me the microfilm and get the hell out of here. Consider yourself lucky that you’re alive.”
“My wife and child. I want them free.”
“You brought that on yourself, damn it. You play with fire, you get burnt.”
“My daughter is nine years old—you met her, for God’s sake. She has nothing to do with this—”
The Senator runs a hand over his face. “You left me no choice. Give me the microfilm, then we can talk about it.”
Ranjit feels a surge of anger. “No.”
He steps into the circle of light, so that the Senator can see clearly. He takes out the doll and slides its head off with a click, revealing the empty cavity within.
“I have the doll. The microfilm is elsewhere. You agree to my terms and I—”
The Senator reaches out for the doll. He holds it in his large hands and stares down at its dark, smooth face. “Anna was upset about this, she’ll be glad to have it back.” He looks up abruptly. “You don’t even realize what the goddamn microfilm means. Give it to me, and I’ll pay you for it. I have money, outside, I can—”
Crack.
A glass sliding door suddenly cobwebs and shatters. Shards of glass fly into the room.
The Senator jumps back, dropping the doll. A red dot flickers high on his chest, and he swats at it as though trying to kill a fly.
The dot flickers, searching the room, and settles onto Ranjit’s stomach. He dives for the floor.
The red dot wavers for a second, then swoops downward.
Time slows as Ranjit twists and rolls away.
Crack crack crack. Another glass door bursts apart. Pain like a burning knife slices into Ranjit’s side and he screams.
The Senator is bellowing. Ranjit rolls behind a high-backed leather armchair and a rain of bullets thwacks into its thick leather padding.
There is a blur as the Senator sprints for the stairs, yelling in anger. A glint of his shaved head, and he’s gone.
A trap. The Senator has set a trap. Kohonen is out there with a sniper’s rifle, using a laser targeting scope. A coward’s way to kill.
Slumped behind the armchair, Ranjit touches his side, feels the warm leak of blood, and knows that he’ll pass out soon.
No. Not here, not like this.
The light. Kill the floor lamp. Kohonen could be using an infrared scope, in which case it’s hopeless. Still.
He forces himself up on one elbow and tugs at the base of the tall brass lamp. It topples, its white silk shade buckling against the floor, and the lightbulb goes out.
Crack. A large mirror behind him shatters. Blind, panicked shooting. Kohonen is firing like an amateur.
Ranjit sits up, pressing against the back of the armchair. Its thick upholstery has saved him, but he has to stanch the blood before he passes out.
The silence grows, the echo from the shots giving way to the booming of the ocean. Is Kohonen reloading, or is he trying to fake Ranjit out? What if he has brought help, what if there are two gunmen?
The blood puddles inside Ranjit’s snowsuit. If only he had a gun … his knife is in his boot, useless against a high-velocity hunting rifle.
He has to chance it. He forces himself up, crawling on hands and knees across the floor, his back tense, braced for the impact of a bullet. Crawling behind the granite island, he collapses against the kitchen cabinets.
No shots come.
He pulls dish towels down from a hook and pushes them into his bloody snowsuit. Reaching up, he opens a drawer and fumbles inside. Finding a long silk runner, he loops it around his waist and ties it tightly.
Stars blink in his head, a signal that he is about to black out. Too much blood. He’s losing too much blood.
Think, damn it. Think. From the muzzle flashes, he can tell that Kohonen is out there, by the shrubbery. He’ll come to the house to finish Ranjit off. How long from there to here?
He retraces the route in his head, counting strides. Four and a half minutes, in a half-run, carrying a heavy hunting rifle.
Where will he come from? The front door is farther back, and besides, it offers a poor field of fire. The best option is to enter from the deck outside, with a full view of the living room.
He reaches up, feeling the pain sear into him, and turns a dial on the stove. Then he strains up to the microwave and punches in four and a half minutes.
Everything depends on the timing. If there is more than one man, he’s dead. If they flank the house, or come in through the front door, he’s dead.
Clinging onto the edge of the granite island, he forces himself to stand, darkness gathering at the corners of his vision. Doubled over, he heads for the front door, unlocks it, and slumps against the wall. From here he can see the flickering green numbers of the microwave’s LCD display. Bending down, he pulls the knife from the top of his boot and clutches it tightly in his sweating hands.
His head swoons, and blackness comes.
It is the morning of his father’s death anniversary. He is a child again, standing helplessly outside the bathroom door as his mother bathes. The sound of running water is mixed with her sobbing.
“Guru,” she moans, “why did you take him? Why, why, why?”
He cannot stand it anymore. He runs from the house, to the gulmohar tree in the corner of the courtyard, blood-red blossoms drooping from its branches. He shimmies up the rough bark and climbs, the branches swaying as he climbs higher and higher. Soon he reaches the top, and the house is reduced to a small rectangle below. Up here is light and air and peace …
His eyes open and he staggers against the wall. He looks across the room at the green LCD draining time. Two minutes and eighteen seconds left.
Blackness comes again.
… he is up in the tree again. He watches bamboo-framed kites rise into the hot sky. Dark mynahs twitter from the treetops. It is so good to be up here, away from Mataji’s tears and choking voice. He will never come down.
But there is his mother, walking into the courtyard below, her wet hair falling limply around her shoulders. Her tiny figure casts a long shadow as she calls his name, “Ranjit, Ranjit, where are you, my son? Ranjit!”
He is stubborn. He will not reply. He will stay in the tree.
But she will not go away, and keeps calling him …
His eyes open. Damn it, he cannot drift off again. He twists the improvised bandage tighter, causing a hot splinter of pain. Aaah. That will wake him up. In his clammy hand, the knife feels like a block of wood.
The green LCD of the microwave says twenty-three seconds left.
Stay awake. Twenty-three, twenty-one. Odd numbers. Always odd numbers. Is death an odd number?
He breathes in, breathes out. Eight seconds left.
A noise on the deck outside. A dark figure is advancing slowly. Rifle held high, ready to shoot. A hand fumbles at the latch of the shattered glass door. Amateur. So much noise.
Four seconds. Three.
The figure is inside the room, advancing, the muzzle of the rifle sweeping the room. Ranjit holds his breath, tenses his legs, willing them to move.
Two. One.
Beep beep beep beep. Triiiiiing. The stove and microwave timers go off.
The figure whirls and fires at the noise.
Ranjit hurls himself out of the front door, staggering, running, the cold air like a slap in his face. Take the enemy onto your terrain. He runs past the shrubbery, hearing the thud of feet behind him. The knife glints in his hand.
Run faster. Faster, to the cliff edge. And here are the stairs, curling down to the bea
ch far below, each granite step gleaming and slick with ice.
He takes the steps two at a time. How many steps? Sixty-eight to the beach. And the one he had been meaning to fix, which one was it? It’s after the middle landing, he knows that.
Behind him, Kohonen is snarling like a dog. Why doesn’t he shoot? Did he bring only a rifle to his assignment? Amateur.
Here’s the first landing. The Vineyard Sound is dark below, the strip of beach strangely empty. Can’t think of that now. Which step is loose?
At a turn in the stairs he feels the granite under his feet rock back and forth. He bends and grips the step with all his strength, heaves, and feels it come loose.
Kohonen is right behind him.
Ranjit runs down four, five more stairs. Then turns, his knife up and ready.
Kohonen lands hard on the loose step and it rocks forward, catapulting him into space.
He falls, slamming a hand into Ranjit’s stomach, pushing him off-balance. Ranjit pitches backward, his hand smashing on stone, the knife skittering away.
Kohonen is on top of him. Their two bodies slither and twist down the stairs. Each jolt is a flash of agony and Ranjit hears himself screaming.
They hit the last landing, and Ranjit tries to rise, but Kohonen’s knees are on his chest, holding him down. Hands reach for his throat, thumbs burrow into his flesh, searching for his windpipe.
A galaxy of stars flashes above. Ranjit tries to pull the man’s arms apart but there is hot breath in his face, scented with rot.
Choking. Breath gone. Blackness rushing in.
Oh. A sudden grunt. The fingers on his throat go slack. The man topples onto Ranjit.
Black as night.
* * *
“Ranjit, Ranjit, Ranjit.”
It is his mother again, calling to him. He will not answer, he will remain up in the tree, free of her tears. But she will not go away, she stands there, calling his name. Sadly, reluctantly, he starts down.
“Ranjit, wake up. Please wake up.”
Anna Neals’s dark eyes stare down at him. She holds a flat piece of granite, its edge dark and dripping.
