Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3) (2 page)

The entire crowd of onlookers falls
silent as if Piazza Santa Maria Novella were placed on pause by God himself. After
a long, drawn-out moment, Dr. Singh raises his right hand, holds out his palm,
five stick-like fingers extended vertically.

“You will not harm Mr. Baker,” he
says in a commanding tone. “You will turn and leave this place at one.”

“Wait,” Matt chimes in, pushing his
way through the crowd. “What about my window?”

“Calum,” Dr. Singh says.

Calum stands flat-footed, caught up
in a robotic, almost zombie-like trance.

“You will pay for a new window. And
you will never raise your fist against Mr. Baker again. Do you understand?”

It only takes two or three Guinness
pints to turn Calum’s face red beneath his beard. But Dr. Singh’s words make
him go visibly pale. For a second, I’m convinced he might toss the dozen pints
he’d just consumed over the course of three hours all over the tourist crowded
piazza. His burly arms and chest seem suddenly deflated, like a bloated haggis
that’s been poked. He shakes his head, turns, and begins to walk slowly away.

“Ayyyyy…I understand,” he mumbles
in a semi-sedated, trance-like state, eyes wide open. “Me apologies, Chase. Beer’s
on me next time.”

Dr. Singh turns back to me, purses
his lips.

“That man will never harm you from
this moment on,” he insists. “In fact, he will always be in your debt.”

The crowd issues ooohs and ahhhs,
as if they just witnessed the most fascinating circus sideshow on earth. A
group of surgically masked Chinese tourists clap.

“How’d you do that?” I ask the
mysterious, tall, dark man named Singh.

“Perhaps we can go somewhere and
converse alone,” he suggests.

“You got a job in mind?”

“Almost certainly.”

“You like beer?”

“I prefer tea.”

“No surprise there,” I say. “Follow
me.”

Together we head out of the piazza,
my breast pocket still stuffed with Calum’s cash.

We make our way through the central market, past the cheap tourist
eateries, past the gypsies begging for coin in the name of Christ, past the
Iranian leather merchants, and over a narrow side street that houses grocery
stores owned and operated by West Africans who spend their afternoons drinking
away their beer inventory. Coming to a street called Via Guelfa that runs perpendicular
to the side street, I instruct Dr. Singh to go right, which he does. Ahead is a
small café that’s mostly patronized by students and faculty of the nearby
America University. It’s a smart place to sit and talk. Dr. Singh seems like
one smart dude.

We take an empty table outside. He
orders tea and I order an espresso. I sit and ponder where this character came
from until the drinks arrive, soaking up a late afternoon that is neither too
hot nor too cool, the creative bustle that’s always made Florence so attractive
to creative types for a thousand years going on all around us.

“You must be pondering many, many
questions, Mr. Baker,” Dr. Singh says after a time, taking a small, careful sip
of his hot tea. “Not the least of which is who am I and why have I sought you
out?”

“Be a good place to start,” I say,
drinking down my espresso in one swift pull. Chase Baker, man of international adventure
and espresso junkie. “But first, I want to know how you pulled off that little
stunt back there. After fighting more wars than I have fingers on my right
hand, Calum’s sort of off his rocker if you know what I mean. I’m pretty sure
he was about to clean the piazza cobbles by using me as a dish rag.”

He sips more tea.

“My family name is Singh,” he says.
“Which in India means I am a Sikh. Sikhs are warriors by tradition.”

“But you’re American. Talk like one
anyway.”

“Indeed. Born in Varanasi but
raised in Manhattan. My father taught biophysics at New York University. However,
my family ties are strong, and it’s because of those ties that I have learned
the practice of what you might recognize as the evil eye.”

“That’s how you tamed the savage
beast? The evil eye? Isn’t that just a myth?”

He laughs gently. “It’s not really
evil, and it’s not as mysterious or mythical as all that. You see, my
background is psychoanalysis and psychotherapy. It’s actually a hypnotic
maneuver that doesn’t take all that much skill once you learn the technique.”

He presses his lips into a grin,
but my built in truth detector tells me immediately this man isn’t happy. Not
by a long shot.

“Dr. Singh,” I say after a beat,
“what is it you want from me?”

He reaches into the pocket on his
long, button-down shirt, pulls out a photograph. He sets the photo down on the
table for me to see. Initially, the full-color image doesn’t register in my
still slightly buzzed brain. But very quickly it takes shape. When I realize what
I’m looking at, I feel my pulse pick up speed.

“Mr. Baker,” he says, “I would like
to introduce you to my beautiful five-year-old son, Rajesh.”

To say the boy is abnormally
constructed is an understatement of gargantuan proportions. This boy doesn’t
possess a single set of arms. Instead, he was born with one set of arms that protrude
from his shoulders like any normal person, but also two more sets that emerge
from his mid and lower torso, respectively. He looks almost like a human spider,
or maybe a scorpion.

What’s even more remarkable about
the boy is that he is dressed in the princely clothing of the traditional
Indian aristocracy—a Nehru jacket covered in gold stitching, matching
pajama-like pants, and a Sikh turban inlaid with the identical gold stitching.
He’s also sporting matching earrings made of brilliant green jade. In the
photo, he’s smiling like not a thing is wrong or out of synch with both his
spiritual and physical world.

Me, I’m exhaling, wishing I had a
stiff drink to wash all this down with. “What caused this, Dr. Singh? How can
something like this happen?”

“Rajesh was born five years ago
with a birth defect which can occur when two or more embryos gestating in the
mother’s womb die, leaving only one survivor. In such circumstances, the living
sibling inherits the underdeveloped remains of the once co-joined embryos. This
parasitic embryo manifests itself in the form of additional limbs that are
attached to the torso. The condition is a one in a million occurrence, or so my
extensive research reveals. But then, thirty-four babies are born every minute
in India. The law of odds dictates that not every one of them will be perfect.
Or, looking at the situation another way, perhaps Rajesh is the ultimate
manifestation of perfection.”

My eyes on the photo. Glued to it.

…I prefer the imperfection of
just two arms…

“Is the condition painful?”

Shakes his head slowly,
deliberately. He’s been asked this question a thousand and one times prior. “No
pain. However…I say this with great sadness…children like Rajesh do not live
long. Multiple limbs place undue strain on the heart and circulatory system.
Structurally speaking, there are spinal problems, muscle weakness, excessive
fatigue.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Singh. You must be
broken-hearted. But what gives? Why are you showing me this?”

“You see, Mr. Baker, in my country
a child born with one or more limbs can initially be considered an outcast,
which at one time, Rajesh was. His mother and I were forced to shield him from
the outside world or else face unimaginable ridicule.”

“People are assholes.”

His eyes light up.

“Excuse my French, Doc.”

He appears to be suddenly aghast. A
man who’s clearly not used to being one of the guys.

“But then something else happened
to Rajesh,” he goes on. “News of his condition leaked to a nearby collection of
Jain Dharma, who did not consider him a freak of nature, but instead, something
extraordinary. They consider him a living god. ”

“Jain Dharma?”

“Purists who walk the earth without
clothing, and depend entirely upon handouts for their very existence. They
assume the five major vows.” Raising the fingers on his hand, dropping one
finger per vow. “Non-violence, non-stealing, honesty, chastity, and
non-attachment.”

“They’re always naked? Sounds like
some of my girlfriends at the Elbow.”

“Yes. Always naked. The
representative symbol of Jainism is something that might shock you as a
westerner, Mr. Baker.”

“Try me.”

Extending his index finger, he runs
it through the condensation that’s collected on the tabletop, sketching out the
symbol. The sketch he produces makes me slightly nauseous considering the extended
family I lost in World War II, not to mention six million Jews exterminated
over their religious beliefs.

“The swastika,” I say.

“The ultimate symbol of peace.
Stolen by the Nazis….bastardized. Nearly ruined.”

“The naked swastika guys see Rajesh
as a God.” It’s a question.

“The reincarnation of the Hindu God,
Brahma, in fact. What this means is, Rajesh has gone from causing shame to his
family and village to being revered by all who lay their eyes upon him. For
this reason, I’ve had to deal with a very new and very different concern over
keeping him away from public gatherings. Until recently that is, when his
existence could be shielded no longer.”

I steal another glance at the picture.
“He doesn’t seem entirely unhappy.”

“Indeed, he is famous now. And
wealthy, for Indian standards. Even your
New York Times
and
USA Today
has picked up on Rajesh’s story. Wherever he goes, he attracts huge crowds of
worshippers. Many people come from miles around to receive just a quick glimpse
of him. The hungry come to be fed. The sad come to be happy again. The sick and
the infirmed come to be healed. He lays one or more of his hands on them, and
they experience something out of this world.”

“But, of course, it’s just an
illusion,” I say. “Mind over matter. He’s not really a God. He just plays one on
TV, right?”

He nods. “Under normal
circumstances, I might agree with you. After all, I was educated in the states…at
Harvard, and I am in possession of multiple psychology-related degrees, as I
mentioned. We have little room for hocus pocus, religion, or mysticism in my
working world. It is a field pertaining to the nuances and chemical reactions
inside the greatest mystery known to mankind…the human brain.” He pauses to
take a breath. “But something is different with Rajesh. His condition is not
just physical, Mr. Baker. It is, let’s say, out of this world.”

“You saved my life, Doc, and now
you’ve my attention.”

He lifts up his tea again. This
time when he does, his hand is trembling as if in his revealing the sacred
truth about Rajesh, he has bared his very soul. He sets the cup down without
drinking.

He says, “Rajesh
has indeed
healed
people, Mr. Baker. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He has healed the infirmed,
made the blind see again. He has even…” His voice trails off as if what he’s
about to say is too painful for words. Or too unbelievable maybe.

“Go on,” I say.

He stares into his tea for a while.
Until he raises his head, peers into my eyes with his big brown eyes.

“With his touch, he has given new
life to the dead,” he says.

My mind races with the
possibilities. I’ve been to India. With my dad when we were sandhogs for some
of the archeologists working along the northern border with Nepal. I know
first-hand that India is a land of reincarnation. Where death is celebrated as
much as life. I’ve witnessed men and women who are transported to what will be
the site of their burial by fire along the banks of the Ganges days, sometimes
weeks, before their hearts cease to beat. This is not a callous or even morbid
act. It is instead a celebration. People do not die in that vast, congested
land, so much as they are reborn. Flesh and blood dies and burns. Souls live
on.

But I’ve never before heard of a
child, regardless of how many limbs he was born with or how much he mimics the legendary
appearance of Brahma or Kali, raising someone from the dead. That act was
reserved for one historical man and one man only.

Jesus of Nazareth.

It’s precisely how I put it to Dr. Iqbal
Lamba Singh.

“You are correct about that,” he
says. “But did you know that evidence exists of Jesus’s travels in Nepal and India?
Between his twenty-fifth and thirtieth year, there is a strong possibility that
he studied with the Jainists, became indoctrinated in their belief system, and
at the same time, became a master of Indian mysticism. Something he applied with
great success and also great tragedy to his ministry once back in Jerusalem.”

“If that’s true, then Jesus did not
raise Lazarus, or even himself, because of his connection to a Hebrew God. He
acted on behalf of Brahma.”