Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3)

by Vincent Zandri

  I take her by the hand, pull her along with me to one of the free seats. She slips into it, securing herself with the belt.

  “Buckle in,” she insists.

  “I’m going to keep the pilot company,” I insist, crawling my way to the cockpit, stealing a quick glance at Anjali along the way. She’s shivering in the cold. Still, she issues me a forced smile, but I know she’s not happy. “Now’s a good time to pray,” I yell to her, but she can’t hear me over the blast of air pouring in through the opening.

  Once I reach the cockpit, I slip myself into the co-pilot’s chair. By the look of the altimeter, we’ve got about ten thousand feet left to work with.

  “Strap yourself in,” says the pilot. “Things could get a bit shaky.”

  I do it. “Shaky’s fine by me. So long as we live to feel it.”

  He pulls back on the yoke. The plane bucks and bounces, the engines scream in protest. The G’s we’re pulling are so intense, my stomach feels like it’s about to spill out of my feet. But after a few seconds, the plane levels out then slowly starts taking on altitude.

  “With that hole in the fuselage, the pressurization is shot,” the pilot says. “We’ll fly her up to twenty thousand for the duration.”

  “You mean you’re going to take us to Nepal as planned.” A question.

  “Those are my orders. We’re alive. The plane flies, and the bad guys are gone.”

  I reach out with my right hand. “Chase Baker. Damn glad to know you.”

  He grips the hand tightly, gives it a shake, releases it.

  “I’m not entirely sure what you’re after, Mr. Baker. But it must be important to attract that kind of trash onto this plane.”

  “You mind my asking who they were?”

  “Radicals,” he says. “Hindi terrorists. Thuggees. Vermin who have promised their souls to Satan and who distort the evil half of Kali for their own selfish purposes. Warped people who do not want you to succeed in your mission.”

  I’m reminded of what Anjali revealed about Kashmiri and his dream of an evil Utopia utilizing Dr. Singh’s six-armed kid. Surely the bad guys would be opposed to our mission to stop them. But, what’s really upsetting is that they already know about the mission.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Captain…”

  “Mumbai. Like the city.”

  “Captain Mumbai. Why’d they let you live?”

  “Same reason you wanted me to live. To land this plane. That terrorist was capable of taking off. But landing was a different story entirely.”

  “Guess they felt the same way about the flight attendant.”

  “They would have kidnaped her in the end had they succeeded, sold her into slavery. She would bring a nice price on the terrorist black market.”

  “Nice bunch of people operating in the name of Kali these days,” I say, my tone full of acid.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” he responds. Then, “Two hours more until we reach Kathmandu. Go on back and try to get some rest. The hole is no longer a danger now that the pressure has been equalized, but it’s cold. The attendant will hand you a blanket.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay right here and enjoy the view.”

  He laughs.

  “Please do, Mr. Baker,” he says. “By all means, sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.”

  11

  We ride in an open-topped Jeep from the small airport into the heart of Kathmandu. The city is as hot as it is congested and smog-filled. The narrow streets can barely accommodate the mix of old and young, dark, leather-skinned natives dressed in bright saris and robes. Cars made in China spit black exhaust while drivers pound the horn and curse to their Hindu, Muslim, and/or Christian Gods for the crowds to move out of their way or else be run down. On both sides of the street, ancient Hindu temples are filled with worshippers while small fires burn in clay bowls and monkeys use the tall minaret style architecture as if they were trees in the forest.

  The temples are surrounded by three and four-story ancient wood buildings that look as if you can blow them down with the gentlest of exhales. Besides natives, the streets and sidewalks provide access to all varieties of animals—including cows—who seem to enjoy the right of way. We pass by a team of young adventurers carrying ropes and climbing boots strung around their shoulders. They wait impatiently for their number to come up in the Everest climbing lottery. That is, if their number comes up at all. Just a couple of months ago a team of Sherpas were killed in an avalanche that also took the lives of the Italian climbers who employed them. Since then, the Sherpas have been on strike, leaving the climbers frustrated with not much else to do but roam the ancient streets.

  But, at least Kathmandu is known as much for its monkey-filled temples as it is its bars. One glance upwards and you can’t help but notice the revelers who lean out the windows of the many drinking establishments, Nepal Ice Beer bottles in hand. With marijuana and hash being as free here as the wind, this is a place where hippies traveled to en masse in the 1960s for spiritual enlightenment and a good buzz. Many of them OD’d, but many survived, thrived, and never bothered to go back home.

  The Jeep finally makes it to the gates of the Kathmandu Guest House, the oldest and most famous of the Kathmandu inns. Or so the old driver informs us.

  “This is where George Harrison, the Beatle, stayed,” he proudly states while retrieving Anjali’s bags and my shoulder bag. “Here, he wrote many, many songs.”

  Inside the lobby of a nineteenth-century wood and stone structure that looks like it was lifted from an old English garden and resettled here, we are handed the keys to two rooms, both of which adjoin.

  At the top of the stairs, we open the door to my room and step inside. That’s when we see that an interior door separates my room from Anjali’s. She shoots me a smile and a wink over her shoulder like I had planned it this way all along.

  “Hey, you’re the one who made the reservations,” I say. “So, don’t blame me.”

  “I’m going to freshen up,” she says. “I’ll assume this door will be locked.”

  As she exits the room, I reach over to the inside door, unlock it.

  “Oh, it’ll stay locked.”

  I make out her laughter as she enters her room. Chase the devious.

  I go to work right away, pulling my computer from my shoulder bag, booting it up. I look up the name Elizabeth Flynn in a Google search, just as I’ve done a thousand times since we parted at the Varanasi train station. Naturally, I come up with nothing. No Facebook or Twitter accounts. No LinkedIn. Nothing. There’s maybe a dozen Elizabeth Flynn’s out there and a dozen more with variations on the given name (Betsy, Liz, etc.), but not my Elizabeth and certainly not one residing in Nepal. It’s as if she disappeared off the face of the earth five years ago. Something not all that difficult to do in a mostly forested and mountainous country where the majority of residents outside of Kathmandu don’t even enjoy the benefits of modern electricity much less internet access.

  Closing the lid on the laptop, I stand, pull Elizabeth’s letter from my jacket pocket, set it on the laptop. I begin to unfold it. But then something holds me back. There’s this pit in my stomach that tells me I’m not only beginning to believe that Elizabeth is alive, but that it’s possible we’ll somehow pick up where we left off.

  That’s insane.

  Even if she is alive, she made it clear that our relationship was over, no matter how much we loved one another. My job right now is to find Rajesh. If I can manage to locate Elizabeth first, she might show me the way to the God Boy. That is, if she isn’t already dead. But then, if she is alive, she’ll have quite a bit to answer for. Like not ever picking up the phone for five years to let me know she’s not dead.

  Suddenly, all the pain of those many nights not knowing where she was, if she were alive or dead, or even in the arms of another man, starts coming back to me. Maybe she entrusted me with the Kali Key and a letter containing an illustration of her most prized obsession, but
that doesn’t take the place of her being my lover and partner.

  Christ, I was willing to settle down with her. Marry her. Have children with her. That’s not something that comes easy for me. But she didn’t want it, and now, here I am feeling like a giddy school kid just back from summer vacation, dying to get a look at the girl I had a crush on all last year.

  I toss the letter down onto my laptop.

  “Screw this. Maybe I’ll be able to locate the kid without having to run into Elizabeth.”

  Picking up the phone, I call the front desk. When the concierge answers, I ask for a bottle of champagne to be sent up to my room.

  “Right away, sir,” he says.

  “Oh and be sure to put it on Dr. Singh’s tab.”

  “Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  It dawns on me that I haven’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours, especially after our in-flight meal was so rudely interrupted. I tell him to also bring up an early lunch. Traditional Nepalese would be fine.

  “And plenty of naan,” I add.

  “Of course. Thank you, sir.”

  I hang up, slip my bush jacket off, roll up the sleeves of my work shirt, lean my shoulder against the fireplace mantle. I imagine a nattily mustached British Colonel in leather riding boots and epaulets pinned to his shoulders doing the same thing a century ago, back when this guest house served as a British headquarters for their colonial armies. I know I should set my emotions aside and get back to work on locating Elizabeth. But truth is, I’m also wondering what Anjali is doing next door. If she’s asleep in her bed. If she’s naked or clothed or merely just wearing a pair of panties. Nice little black lace ones. One detail I was quick to notice earlier was the absence of a wedding band. I know she’s Rajesh’s mom, but my guess is she’s no longer married to my boss, Dr. Singh.

  It’s tough to think on an empty stomach.

  Moments later, the doorbell rings.

  Opening the door, I’m happy to see that the wait staff has wasted no time in delivering the food and champagne. I’m just about to have the boy set the stuff on the bed when something devilish dawns on me.

  “I have a better idea,” I say, stuffing three hundred Nepalese rupees in the boy’s white-jacketed pocket. I tell him to take the order next door, compliments of Mr. Chase Baker.

  “A beautiful lady stays in that room?” he says with a smile.

  “Yes. A beautiful lady indeed.”

  “Oh,” he says, the soft cheeks on his tan, young face blushing. “I see.”

  “Yes, you see. Now go.”

  He gives me a look like we both share a man-to-man secret and because of it, we’re now blood brothers. He goes next door, rings the doorbell. Closing my door gently, I then place my ear to the interior door. I make out some shuffling about, then the exterior door opening.

  “Oh my,” Anjali says, “I don’t recall ordering lunch…and champagne too.”

  “Compliments of Mr. Baker.”

  I hear the door close. Suddenly I feel my heart beating just a little bit faster than it was five minutes ago. I head into the bathroom, look at myself in the mirror. Running the water, I wash my face and attempt to straighten out my short hair as best I can for someone whose hairline is receding faster than the Red Sea for Moses. Then, satisfied that my appearance isn’t going to get much better any time soon, I make my way back across the room, set my left hand on the knob of the interior door while wrapping with my knuckles on the door panel with my right. Twisting the knob, I open the door just enough to poke my head inside.

  “Are we decent?” I say. Spotting the food and champagne set out on the bed, I open the door wider. “What’s that, lunch?”

  Anjali is kneeling beside the bed, her hands folded in prayer. She’s wearing nothing but a thick white towel with the Kathmandu Guest House logo printed on the breast pocket.

  “Really, Chase Baker,” she says after a beat, looking up at me with her deep brown eyes. “What if I were kneeling here entirely naked?”

  “If wishes were fishes,” I say. “We’d all have a fry.”

  “What’s that mean?” She smiles.

  “I’m not sure. My mother used to tell me that every time I wished for a new toy.” Then, “Hey, you’re praying just like my mother taught me how to pray. Hands pressed together and everything.”

  “Are you surprised to see that I am a Christian…a Roman Catholic…and a devout one at that, Chase?”

  “Not at all. Millions of Catholics in Pakistan, India, and Nepal.”

  She stands, slides onto the bed. “Now,” she says, smiling slyly while softly patting the empty space beside her on the mattress, “you mentioned something about a toy. Is that what I am to you, Chase? A new toy?”

  “Right now, it looks like you’re lunch, and I thought you were a devout Catholic.”

  “I’m also a big girl who is free to do what she chooses with the gifts God gave her.”

  “And how does my employer, Dr. Singh feel about that?”

  “We divorced not long after Rajesh was born. He left the country, moved to New York.”

  So it’s true…she is divorced…

  “Too bad,” I say, praying that the smile trying to form on my face isn’t noticeable.

  I step into the room, slowly make my way to the bed, setting myself down beside her, resting my back against the soft, down pillow. The sumptuous lunch is laid out before us.

  “Would you care to join me, Chase?”

  “If wishes were fishes, boss lady,” I say, bringing my arm around her, pulling her to me, my lips meeting hers.

  12

  “So much for maintaining the boundaries of the sacred employer-to-employee relationship,” Anjali says through a sly but attractive smile while sipping on her second glass of champagne. “But then, I’m not really your boss, am I?”

  We’re both sitting up in bed, the metal pans of food devoured along with most of the champagne.

  “Shall I call down for another bottle?”

  “Or we can get some work done, lover,” Anjali says, feeling for my hand under the covers, giving it a squeeze. “Any ideas about finding your ex?”

  Shaking my head. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that she might still be alive. Took me quite a while to get over her.”

  Anjali snickers. “This proves it,” she says, referring to our little late morning interlude. But then, her light moment suddenly takes on an air of substantial heaviness. “Perhaps you feel it wrong of me to think of making love at a time like this…when my only child is in danger.”

  “I’m no judge of that.”

  “This here…you and I enjoying one another’s bodies for a brief moment…it is also a kind of defense mechanism. Something to keep us, or myself anyway, from imagining the worst.” She looks away. “Sometimes I need to stop my mind from working, churning up bad thoughts of Rajesh.”

  I nod. “It’s not all that different for me. If I were to allow my imagination to take over and truly get used to the idea of Elizabeth being alive…the possibilities…it could be heartbreaking in the end.”

  “Yes, because what if she is alive, and she rejects you once more?”

  “Like I said. I’d rather not think about it.”

  She gently fingers the bronze key hanging from my neck. “What’s this? Or am I not supposed to ask?”

  I explain its presence and the letter that arrived along with it only last month.

  “Proof at last that Elizabeth lives,” she adds.

  “Possibly. But if Elizabeth happens to be alive and we do find her, it will be strictly business. After all, what kind of woman doesn’t contact you for years, even if she did send me a key that quite possibly unlocks the secrets to one of the most sought out statues in the world? What kind of person does something like that?”

  Squeezing my hand again. “Perhaps a selfish woman who doesn’t love you any longer. But also a woman who, at the same time, still trusts you. Obviously, she doesn’t want the key gettin
g into Kashmiri’s hands and there’s only one person in the world who can make sure of that.”

  Her words make my stomach hurt. Or perhaps it’s all the Nepalese delights. But then, she’s right. If Elizabeth truly loved me, she would not have allowed me to go on believing she was dead for as long as she did. That’s cruel. It’s one thing to put one’s career over one’s love life, but it’s another thing altogether to compound the pain of separation by feigning death. But then, did she really feign death? Or did I just want to believe she was dead?

  “If she’s out there, Chase,” Anjali goes on, “we need to find her. She’s our direct link to the Kali Statue, the location of the diamond deposit, Kashmiri and, most importantly, Rajesh.”

  “It’s likely we’ll find all of the above at the same time. But, you’re right. For now, the most logical person to seek out is Elizabeth. If I were Kashmiri, I’d keep the boy hidden inside a cell or a box or somewhere no one can get to him. He is precious cargo. More precious than the diamonds. Elizabeth, on the other hand, she will be found out in the open, digging, searching, proving her usefulness to Kashmiri until she can prove it no longer. But where to start looking? That’s the ten million dollar question.”

  Coming from outside, loud rapid-fire explosions. My senses perk up.

  “What’s that?” Anjali poses, panic in her voice. “It sounds like gunfire.”

  “Calm down.” Slipping out of bed, I head for the window in my birthday suit. “That’s not gunfire. That’s a sound I’ve been listening to all my life. It’s a ninety-pound jackhammer.” Pulling back the curtain on the picture window. Outside in the Kathmandu Guest House courtyard, a crew of construction workers are chewing up the existing concrete sidewalk with a jackhammer and a JVC excavator. That’s when it hits me over head.

  “Excavators,” I say.

  “Excuse me?”

  Turning.

  “Excavators. It’s possible we might find Elizabeth’s location from an excavator….a digger. They’re an essential part of any archeological dig. I should know. I used to be one of them. Only we didn’t call ourselves excavators. We called ourselves sandhogs.”