Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3) (12 page)

We watch pensively as the veteran digger
clicks away, focusing in on a specific plot of forest that’s located all the way
up to the northwest. An area of land that surrounds a town called, Dumkibas.

“According to what I’ve heard from
some of the other diggers in Kathmandu who hang around the bar,” he says, “your
old girlfriend went into the woods somewhere around here before she disappeared.”

Eying the cursor on the map. “That’s
not even in the park. Technically speaking. You ever been to Dumkibas?”

“It’s just outside the park’s
northwest buffer zone,” Tony says. “While the village is pretty densely
populated with poor people living in tin and wood shacks, the town itself is a big
nothing. A small street two-sided with a couple of bars and a general store of
sorts. It’s like the Wild West, only in Asia. It’s surrounded by jungle that no
one likes to enter because it’s also home to some nasty elephant and rhino
poachers. Other than the Nepalese Army, there are no cops, no sheriff.”

Anjali elbows me.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she
whispers. “Now we must deal with poachers in the Wild West.”

“Not if we stay out of their way,”
I say. Eyes back on the map. “Can you be more specific, Tony?”

He shakes his head. “Wish I could.
I only know what I’ve heard, and what I’ve heard is that she entered the jungle
somewhere around Dumkibas.”

“We gotta figure out a way to be
more specific than that or it could take us weeks to find her in that thick
stuff. By then she and the child could be dead. We just gotta hold out hope they
haven’t worn out their usefulness.”

“I’m all up for ideas,” Tony says,
spitting one last wad of black tar into the glass, then taking it with him into
the bathroom to deposit the used up tobacco in the toilet.

“Disgusting habit,” I mumble as he
flushes the toilet, washes out the toothbrush glass, and re-emerges from the
bathroom.

“Perhaps we can visit one of the
bars in Dumkibas,” Rudy adds with a smile. “Surly the bartender will know of
any strange women who’ve passed through the town.”

“Not a bad idea,” Anjali says. “That’s
how we located Tony.”

“I agree,” I say. “It’s like
Occam’s Razor. The answer to our question is the simplest solution. But I’m
afraid simple won’t cut it this time. The bad guys are already onto us, which
means time is already tight. We need to know Elizabeth’s location right this
minute. Not weeks from now, or even twenty-four hours from now. Like I keep
saying, we find Elizabeth, we find the kid.”

“Maybe
all
your focus on is
Elizabeth,” Anjali says, acid in her tone.

I turn quick. “Excuse me?”

“We’re supposed to be focused on
Rajesh. But since we’ve arrived all you speak about is Elizabeth.”

I go to her.

“Look at me,” I say, recalling our
late morning lunch in bed, our lovemaking. “You either trust me and my
decisions, or you find a way to fire me right now and I’ll be on the first
plane back to Florence. You got that?”

Truth is, however, I wouldn’t leave.
Not without Elizabeth or, at least, not without knowing the truth about her.

Anjali’s eyes tear up. I wonder if
she’s also remembering our lunch and what she said about there being no real
feelings attached to it. Of course, she was lying and we both knew it at the
time, but refused to admit it.

“I’m…sorry,” she whispers. “I just
want my child back. So does Dr. Singh.”

After a heavy pause, I take a mini-walk
around the bed, then go back to the window, look out at the diggers still working
on the sidewalk. They aren’t using their jackhammers or excavators right now.
Instead, a tracked skid steer is dumping gravel into a long trench while one
man stands off to the side holding an aluminum pole that supports an electronic
laser transit. Another man is holding what looks to be a remote control unit in
both his hands while looking upwards at the blue sky behind Polaroid sunglasses.
Following his lead, I too look up.

That’s when I see the flying
machine or, what’s more commonly known in today’s high tech world as a drone.
The construction crew is using a drone and its GPS and infrared camera
technologies to achieve the specified height for the new gravel they’re
installing.

I turn to the others. “I think I
have the perfect solution to our time and Elizabeth location problem…a drone.”

“A drone,” Anjali repeats. “Like
the unmanned airplanes Obama uses to kill terrorists within Pakistan?”

Shaking my head.

“No,” I say, raising my hand. “The
little propeller-operated jobs that construction crews, like the one outside
this window right now, are using.”

Everyone stands, gravitates to the
window, and looks out at the airborne drone hovering over the hotel courtyard.

“Well, what do you know, chaps?”
Rudy says. “It’s like the model airplanes I used to fly as a kid back in merry
old England.”

“Tony,” I say, “how difficult would
it be to get us one of those, say, within the hour?”

“I know a guy who knows a guy,” he
says, turning away from the window, his eyes back on me.

“Won’t the bad guys be able to spot
the drone?” Anjali says. “Just like we spotted this one?”

“Affirmative,” I say, “but by then,
we’ll be ready to make our move and snatch both Elizabeth and Rajesh from their
grasp,” I say this with a broad smile on my face as if it will be easy. Chase
the optimist.

“And some diamonds,” Rudy adds.

“Assuming she’s alive,” Anjali
says.

“Like I keep saying,” I repeat, “no
time to lose. Tony, what time you got?”

“A little after one.”

“Can we get the drone within the
hour?”

He pulls his cell phone from his
jeans pocket.

“Let me make some calls,” he says.

“Meantime everyone, pack your
bags,” I say. “We’re heading into the jungle.”

Tony’s calls prove productive.

His friend, who knows a friend, who
knows a friend, leads us to the Kathmandu bazaar in the center of the city. It’s
a congested place with narrow alleyways that access old brick and wood
buildings that house vendors selling everything from metal cookware to jade
jewelry to pet monkeys. The place smells of peanuts roasted outside on small
gas-fired stoves and, unless you know your way or follow someone who knows how
to navigate the maze of alleys and corridors, you might get lost for days on
end. It’s that claustrophobic, that crowded, and that complicated to get around
without a proper rudder.

When we come to a building that
sports a glass façade displaying a sea of cell and smartphones, digital
cameras, HDTVs, and all sorts of electronic junk, Tony turns to us, and barks,
“This is it!”

We’d enter right away if not for
the short procession of grieving men and women filing past. At the front of the
procession, eight or so men shoulder a flat wooden platform that contains the
body of a deceased man. The corpse is wrapped in a bright orange sheet covered
in a colorful arrangement of flower petals. Soon, the body will be laid to rest
on top of a large square platform of dried timbers that’s been constructed on
the riverbank. The wood will be set ablaze and the fire will consume the flesh
and blood of the dead while the soul enters the body of another in utero fetus
so that it might live again. Or so Hindu faith has it.

Walking through the front door of
the shop is like entering another dimension altogether as the air conditioning
cools our perspiring skin and the noise from the bazaar gives over to the sound
of televisions tuned to stations broadcasting in several different languages.
The man behind a long glass counter, that displays more of the same electronics,
is big and burly. He wears a long green tunic, the sleeves of which are rolled
up past his elbows. His hair is black and slicked back while his round face
sports a thick mustache. The overhead ceiling fan blowing warm air down on him
does little to stem the flow of sweat dripping from his forehead and armpits. He
spots Tony and immediately breaks out into a salesman
Well-if-this-isn’t-
your-lucky-day
smile.

“And you must be Mr. Casale,” he
says in his amplified baritone. “Your cousin described you perfectly.”

Turning to Tony. “Cousin?”

“Pays to have relatives living in
Kathmandu,” he whispers over his shoulder. “Even if you have to invent them.”

While Anjali and Rudy hang back
admiring the television programs broadcast on a dozen different wall-mounted
LCDs, Tony and I belly up to the counter.

“You were made aware of our needs?”
Tony says to the man.

He smiles broadly, holds out his
hand. “First, allow me to introduce myself. I am Bishal, and this is my humble
shop of electronics, communications, and entertainment. A high-tech paradise
like no other on Earth, this side of the Himalayas. I trust you will not be
disappointed.”

“That remains to be seen, Bishal,”
Tony says. “You have drones?”

The big man raises his hand, points
an index finger to the sky. “The world of electronic gadgetry has adopted a new
dimension. And, in keeping with Bishal’s philosophy of cutting edge service, I
am pleased to tell you that I not only have drones but several models in stock,
right this very moment, at very affordable prices.”

The big, perspiring man begins
walking towards the back of the cramped store.

“Looks like we’ve come to the right
place,” I say to Tony. “Even if he does stink to high heaven.”

“Gentlemen, please follow me,”
Bishal insists.

Tony turns quick.

“Don’t get excited, Baker,” he says
under his breath. “These crooks will rob you blind, if you’re not careful. Let
me do the negotiating.”

“Tone,” I say, setting my hand on
his shoulder. “It’s not our money we’re playing with.”

“See, that’s always been your
problem, daddy’s boy. You have no concept of money. If you did, you would have
kept the old man’s business going even while you write your silly books and
travel the world hitting on women.”

Anjali turns then, shoots me a sour
look.

“Let’s not start,” I say, as we
meet back up with Bishal.

He’s standing beside a table that’s
topped with three drones. Each of them different models but bearing the
familiar cross shape. All three sport four, helicopter-like propellers on all
four corners, and all of them are armed with cameras in their donut-hole-like centers.
About the only difference between them is their size and perhaps their range.
Or so it seems.

Bishal stands beside the three
drones like he’s about to be filmed for a segment on the QVC Shopping Network.

“This first model is the largest
but also our most popular model with engineers and real estate professionals,”
he says, waving his hand over its propellers. “It’s a smart little flier
because it contains a Wi-Fi module which talks directly with your smartphone.
In other words, gentlemen, you see what it sees, while it records video and
photos directly to an iOS or Android device in both day and nighttime
situations. And best of all, no additional memory cards are needed.”

“Range,” I ask.

“Twenty-five miles. The maximum for
any drone of this sort.”

“How much?” Tony says.

“We’ll take it,” I say.

Tony turns to me. “Way to wheel and
deal, kid.”

“We’re in kind of a rush. And I’m
not a kid. I’m forty-something.”

“You’ll always be a snot-nosed kid
to me,” Tony says.

“How long does the drone take to
charge up, Mr. Bishal?” I say.

The salesman shrugs broad
shoulders. “Under normal circumstances, it could take three hours. That is, you
plug it into the wall socket. But I have a device in the back that can power it
up in five minutes.” He bears brown teeth to go with his Cheshire Cat smile.
“Will cost you just a little bit extra, of course.”

“Of course,” I say. “Just do it,
please.”

The sweating salesman’s face is
beaming at the easy sale. He takes the drone and its accompanying hand-held
remote control device in hand and slips into the back room. He returns exactly
five minutes later with the drone boxed up. Following him back to the front
counter, I pay him from what’s left of my stack of rupees and we are on our
way.

By the time we exit the bazaar,
it’s going on two in the afternoon.

“We ready to head into the forest?”
I pose to Tony, as we come upon his Casale Excavating 4X4.

Everyone looks at one another like “we
only have the clothes on our backs.” That’s because we are only wearing the
clothes on our backs. Even the weapons Tony and Rudy used in the firefight at
the bar were left behind to burn up along with the bodies of the Thuggee
bandits.

“Okay,” I say, “I realize we don’t
have so much as a toothbrush between us, but we can get all that stuff in Dumkibas.
Agreed?”

“Time is not on our side,” Anjali
says, her now tight face a million miles away from the relaxed expression I
cuddled with earlier on in the day. “So, let’s please do this.”