To my husband Swapnil — sparring partner and defender of dreams — for prescribing patience.
Contents
Fiery Shadows
The Empty House
The Case
Footprints In The Snow
The Letter
Trickster
Mystery Of The Newfound Family
First Glimpse Of India
The Family
The Mystery Of Manu Mathur
Nosy Neighbour
The Market
Clues
Miss Dolly
Guessing Games
Night Crawler
The Massacre
Zorro The Warrior
Zorro And The Gloves
Subterfuge
Dealing With Death
Healing With Friends
Death Makes A Comeback
Dispelling The Myth
Love Blossoms In The Wild
Following Sunny
Truth Is Always Mundane
The Real Trickster
Ants On My Arms
Stages Of Grief
The Search
Meera Manor
Terror In The Mountains
Safe Haven
The Survivors
Return Of The Prodigal
The Resort
Raghav
Flames And Sacrifices
The Guest
Slaying Demons
Stench Of Blood And Greed
The Tour
Invisible Guests
The Face
Temporary Escape
A Grandfather's Promise
Encounters With The Dead
Professor Mishra's Escape
The Rescue
Lockdown
The Chakwa
The Flight
Tricking The Trickster
Ronnie And Grandpa
Hide And Seek
Into The Woods
The Diversion
End Game
The Graveyard Of Innocence
Acknowledgements
About the Book
About the Author
Copyright
FIERY SHADOWS
M
anu realized that they had been tricked, but it was too late. He tried to warn Meera, but a monstrous furry thing filled his mouth, muffling his words into a garbled whisper. His world started spinning and the last vestige of coherent thought was lost in a dark void.
When he woke up, his world was still dark. Memories trickled back from the cracks around the window of his consciousness.
Meera!
He had to find Meera.
Manu fought against the suffocation of the restraints until he realized it was only the airbag. His hands shook as he freed himself from the rubbery prison.
Outside the windows was solid ground littered with fall leaves.
Meera was slumped against the back window, her head bent at an awkward angle.
He had to find a way to get out of the wreck and seek help.
He must hurry before …
… before what?
Manu could not fathom.
An uneasy urgency tugged at his still-befuddled mind.
Meera moaned in pain. Manu crawled over and cradled her against his chest, trying to comfort her.
Meera’s head was wet and sticky, her blood on his hands.
Other than the faint light filtering through the nearby trees, it was dark. The wind picked up and rustled through the trees; it was supposed to snow tonight.
Meera was in no condition to escape. He would have to leave her in the car and get help.
Manu fumbled with the car door and thought he saw a shadow move – maybe an animal. He could not leave Meera unprotected. He crawled over to the driver’s seat searching for the car keys, but there was no key in the ignition.
Thud!
A shadow darker than those crouching around the car jumped on the hood. Manu’s teeth clamped on his still-thick lethargic tongue.
Death!
‘Manu Mathur,’ the creature whispered. ‘You got away once, but today you cannot escape. Tell me the names of your children and I will let you live.’ The shadow fogged the window with its foul breath.
‘We have no children,’ Manu said in a flat voice.
She had said all of them; all of them meant more than just the two of them.
They should have told Diya the truth, should have prepared her for such an eventuality. Manu hoped that the flimsy barrier of their subterfuge and the warning story he had once recounted would be enough to keep their daughter safe.
The distorted face vanished.
The crisp night air cleared the last traces of the Chakwa’s fetid breath from the glass. Trees regained shape and the distant lights once again twinkled with a promise of safety. Maybe he was gone. Slowly Manu’s ragged breath slowed and his fear-addled mind fumbled for survival options. He almost kicked himself as he remembered the spare keys squirrelled away in the glove compartment. He began rummaging through the glove compartment.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
The sharp rap made him whirl. His blood froze at the sight of the creature peering down at Meera.
‘Your son is dead!’ the shadow shouted.
Meera moaned and stirred.
‘Your daughter is on fire!’
Manu was afraid she would fall for the trick and utter their daughter’s name. He scrambled back to his wife and held her close to his aching heart. He would not be able to save Meera this time. Death had finally caught up with them, but he was determined to make sure that their daughter remained safe.
‘Don’t say the name,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Please, Meera.’
Meera mumbled, struggling to speak.
‘Don’t you want to make sure your children are safe?’ the Chakwa repeated.
Manu squeezed Meera’s arm, warning her not to utter their daughter’s name, but she was delirious.
‘I can save your children; just tell me their names.’
The monster was insidious.
He was sure there were children, at least one child. Vermin like these always bred.
‘Your children are dying and you won’t even tell me their names? I am heartbroken. What kind of parents are you?’
The voice was laden with guilt-inducing disappointment.
Meera mumbled once again; Manu placed his hand over her mouth.
She struggled against the restraint of his hand. In his fear, he tightened his hand over Meera’s mouth. Her breath rattled and her chest heaved; she struggled to breathe as blood oozed from her broken nose.
‘Your son and daughter are calling for their mother!’ The distorted face filled up the window once again.
They were beyond help, but their daughter was safe. They must not say her name, must not even think about her, or the Chakwa would know.
‘Tell me the truth or I will find your children and make sure they suffer a fate worse than death.’
‘We have no children,’ Manu repeated.
Meera struggled against his hand, overcome with a burning desire to protect her child. Tears ran down Manu’s face as he tightened his hold on Meera’s mouth, robbing her of her last breaths. He had no other option.
Her blood was on his hands.
‘I am sorry Meera!’ Manu kissed his wife and held her closer as flames engulfed them.
THE EMPTY HOUSE
T
he empty house huddled under the leaden winter sky like a hibernating animal.
Diya sat in the car, staring at the house, unable to decide whether to go in or not. Her grey-green eyes were still red-rimmed with sorrow.
A car honked and she looked up. It was her mother’s friend, Sultana Shah, and her husband. Mrs Shah waved and Diya waved back.
She was afraid they would stop or talk to her. Thankfully, they drove on.
Worried that they might come back, Diya got out of the car and walked up the leaf-strewn steps.
For a moment, she had an insane desire to ring the bell and wait for someone to open the door.
But no one waited for her on the other side to welcome her home.
Her cold-numbed clumsy fingers struggled to fit the key in. She had to stab at the lock a few times before the key went in. The door groaned, as was its habit on cold, wet days.
‘I will fix it one day,’ her father always promised.
‘That will be the day I sprout wings and soar in the sky,’ her mother would tease.
‘How can I let you go alone?’ her father would laugh, while hugging her mother. ‘I too will sprout wings and join you.’
The memory almost brought Diya to her knees. It was too soon. She was not ready.
Diya shook her head, took a deep breath, and entered the house before she could change her mind.
Inside, the air smelled of stale flowers, but it was no match for the stench of burnt flesh that still filled her nostrils. If the smell of industrial strength antiseptic in the morgue had been unable to overpower that stench, what chance did the sickly-sweet smell of wilting flowers have?
Diya was tempted to run away once again, but stilled her impulse. There was no escape from grief.
She bolted up the stairs and locked herself in her bedroom. The locked door was unable to shut out the deathly silence of the house that echoed with her parents’ absence.
In the two weeks since that morning, Diya had confined herself to her bedroom. She drank from water bottles stacked in a corner of her closet, and ate handfuls of cereal from cardboard boxes.
She’d gone out of the house only twice; once when hunger forced her to seek hot food — from a takeout window — which she wolfed down in the car.
The second time was when she had to visit a laundromat, thanks to the growing pile of dirty laundry.
Diya could not bear to go down to the basement of her home and face the dryer that must still be full of her parents’ clothes.
Saturday was her parents’ date night: dinner and a play or a movie. They had a set routine. While her mother got ready, her father would load the dishwasher and transfer wet clothes from the washing machine to the dryer. After returning home, they would sit in the kitchen with mugs of tea, talking softly as they folded clothes.
Diya did not dare go down to the basement and see the clothes her parents would never wear.
Her parents were on their way back from a movie when their car crashed into a culvert and caught fire.
Diya was in Italy with her friends enjoying a month-long backpacking trip across Europe. Her parents, especially her mother, had tried to dissuade her from going to Europe with her friends, proposing instead that they visit India. There was an urgency to her mother’s tone. That, in fact, was the point of contention between them.
Diya had argued that if she had never visited India, a delay of a few weeks should not matter. She had accused her mother of proposing the idea just to stop her from going to Europe with her friends. She had suspected they did not trust her. Their unspoken mistrust had spurred her into rebellion.
Now she regretted those harsh words. Perhaps, if she had not been so selfish, her parents would still be alive.
Diya peeped down at the yard that was littered with fall leaves. They were turning brown, beginning to rot, like flame-seared flesh. The sporadic patches of red leaves invited her to spill her blood and join her parents in death.
Diya shook her head trying to get rid of the disturbing thoughts. Death always managed to sneak in when she least expected. She had no interest in life, but she was afraid of dying.
Diya longed to go running. At least the hotel where she was holed up after the funeral had a gym where she could run to the point of mind-numbing exhaustion. Maybe she could go out after dark and hope that no one noticed her.
A shadow moved across the brown and yellow monotony of the yard. Sultana Shah was walking up the path. Diya retreated behind the curtain. Mrs Shah rang the bell a few times and waited.
‘Diya beta, are you home? Are you all right?’ she called.
Mrs Shah circled the house, came back, and stood in the front yard looking up at the windows.
Diya stayed firm.
She was not ready for sympathy. What she longed for was family, someone who loved her parents and mourned their loss. Someone she could hold and cry, letting go of the grief that was weighing her down, dragging her into the murky depths of depression.
But there was no one.
Her parents were orphans and she had no siblings. When she was young, she had longed for a sibling, and had begged her parents for one. Only last year had she found out about the baby that had died in her mother’s womb. Now she missed her unborn sibling as much as her parents.
THE CASE
‘M
s Mathur, can you come and meet me today?’
It was Sergeant Conway, one of the officers handling her parents’ case. Preoccupied with her grief, Diya had forgotten that the investigation into her parents’ death was still unfinished.
‘How’ve you been?’ the Sergeant asked.
‘Ok ...’ Diya tried to smile.
‘I am waiting for Captain Bailey. He should be here any minute.’
Conway fiddled with the papers on his desk, peeked inside a file, and cleared his throat. ‘Are you still living in the hotel?’
‘No, I moved back home.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Good morning,’ Captain Bailey said.
His usually booming voice was soft, like a dangerous animal on leash, ready to spring into action at his command. Well over six feet tall, with muscles to match, Captain Bailey towered above crowds.
‘Have you given her the report?’ he asked Conway.
The chair creaked as Bailey sat, dwarfing his deputy and the girl with his bulk. His shaved head gleamed like polished mahogany under the harsh white light.
‘No, no.’ Conway placed his chubby hands on the file, ‘I was waiting for you.’
‘Go ahead. I am here now,’ Bailey leaned back in the chair.
Diya was afraid Captain Bailey would topple over, but miraculously the chair held.
Conway opened the file and glanced at something. ‘You say you have moved back home.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you live alone? No boyfriend or girlfriend?’
‘No,’ Diya said. Why were the cops interested in her living arrangements?
‘Ms Mathur, did your folks drink?’
‘I already told you, they were teetotallers.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ They never drank, even when they went out on their own every Saturday. She would have known. ‘Yes, I am sure.’
‘What about other things?’
‘I am not sure I understand.’
‘Were they on any medication?’
‘No, they were both healthy.’
‘Let’s not beat about the bush,’ Bailey said, ‘Ms Mathur, were your parents in the habit of getting high, purely for recreational purposes?’
‘No!’
‘Then how do you explain the presence of a cocktail of marijuana, morphine and something else we are still working to identify in their system?’
‘Your lab must have made a mistake.’
‘We had the tests repeated,’ Conway said, ‘Look for yourself.’ He pushed the file towards her.
Diya’s hands trembled as she opened the file. The first page was a transcript of the 911 call at 11p.m. on 17 October when a passer-by noticed the flames. Next came the autopsy reports that concluded her parents had died of asphyxiation, trauma and severe burns. The report did not say if they were still alive when the fire started.
In the middle of the file was a stack of crime scene photos. Charred vegetation laced with colourful fall leaves surrounded the mangled remain
s of her parents’ blue SUV. Some curious animal had walked around the car, its smudged footprints visible in the ashes. Maybe it had come in search of food.
Bile rose in Diya’s throat at the thought of an animal circling around her dead parents in search of a meal. She averted her eyes, but it was too late; the gruesome image was firmly imprinted on her mind.
The last three pages were the toxicology reports. They confirmed Bailey’s statement about the drugs in her parents’ bodies.
‘I am sure there is a mistake,’ she repeated. ‘Anyway, the report says traces.’
‘Yes…’ Bailey leaned back and the chair creaked. ‘But enough to impair judgment.’
‘Someone must have given it to them without their knowledge.’ Tears stung Diya’s eyes and her breath came out in bursts.
‘Is there any reason why you suspect foul play?’ Conway asked.
‘No, I don’t suspect foul play, but I find it hard to …’ Diya could not continue as tears filled her throat.
‘Your father paid for dinner using his credit card at 8.25 p.m. They left the restaurant at 8.30 p.m. If the accident happened at 11 p.m., where were they and what were they doing for more than two hours?’
‘They always came home before 9 p.m.’
‘I am sure they had a lot of friends and business associates. They could have gone to meet someone,’ Conway said.
‘They were planning to go for a movie and then go back home. I spoke to them that morning.’
‘But they were on their own …’ Bailey left the sentence unfinished.
‘My parents were creatures of habit. They never did anything on impulse.’ She told them about her parents’ Sunday routine.
‘Did you see the dishes in the dishwasher and the clothes in the dryer?’ Bailey asked.
‘No, I mean, I don’t know …’
‘Were they there or not?’ he persisted.
‘I have not checked. I am staying in my bedroom; I am not using the rest of the house.’
‘Well, let’s do this. We will come with you and check if there is anything suspicious. Maybe there is another answer to the riddle.’
The cops followed Diya in their car. She unlocked the front door and led the way to the basement. It smelled musty and stale. Conway opened the dryer. ‘It’s empty,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to the kitchen.’
The kitchen was tidy and the dishwasher, empty.
The Trickster Page 1
