Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3) (4 page)

“Happily, I assume,” she says,
not without a giggle.

“Yes, happily. But I’m not happy
about missing out on much of my daughter’s upbringing.”

“And the Renaissance man is a
dad, too,” she says as we pass by a fountain spouting streams of water into a
circular pool that looks inviting enough to swim in. “Will the surprises never
cease?”

Her, the anthropologist, was
born and schooled in Philadelphia by a middle-class Irish Catholic family who
thought she was nuts for spending as much time as she did in India, Nepal, and
other parts of the world that she described as “difficult.” She’s thirty-four
years of age and never had time for marriage, not to mention children, but
looks forward to the day when some little rug rat is running around the house,
calling out “Mommy” every few seconds.

But before all that, she’s
committed to locating the Golden Kali Statue. Nothing will stop her from
finding it. And as she reveals the diamond-encrusted statue key from where it
hangs around her neck by a thick leather strap, she insists she’s close to
locating it. Closer than she used to be anyway.

“I can feel it in my bones,” she
adds for emphasis.

Her enthusiasm is contagious
even for an old sandhog like myself.

“When you’re done, you can write
a book about your experiences, do the talk-show circuit and be famous. You
won’t even remember who I am.”

“Very funny. Science isn’t about
fame, Chase Baker. It’s about discovering the past and learning a little more
about why we exist and how much longer we have to exist.”

“That’s deep,” I say, to which
she responds with a gentle punch to my left bicep. The love tap sends chills up
and down my backbone.

Sometime later, she reveals that
her only claim to fame is her big advertising executive brother who created a
global campaign for a Mexican beer featuring a handsome white-bearded gentleman
who claims himself as
The World’s Most Interesting Man
.

“Come to think of it,” she says,
as we share ice cream cones while watching the little French kids ride the
carousel, “you’re that man…the most interesting man in the world.”

“You should live with me for a
while,” I say, taking a lick of the sweet vanilla ice cream. “You’d be bored
out of your skull.”

Her green eyes take on a sheen that
reflects the sunlight shining down on Paris. I just want to jump into the
pools, swim around inside them for a while, then float on down to her heart,
take a long nap. Without asking, she takes hold of my hand, presses her lips
together. She says, “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

We spend the remainder of the
day looking at paintings in the Louvre, then walk the Seine while fishermen
angle for black, eel-like fish with their extra-long poles. We share a picnic
lunch of red wine, cheese, sausage, and baguette and lie on our backs facing
the sun. I’ve only been acquainted with Elizabeth for a few collective hours
and already I feel like I’ve known her for years and years. After a time, I
roll onto my side, place my hand on hers, lean in to her, and kiss her gently
on the mouth. Much to my delight, she doesn’t pull away, much less slap me.

“That was nice,” she says when
finally we come up for air. “You fancy yourself a tough guy, Chase Baker. But
deep down, you really are a romantic.”

“I live in my own little world,”
I say, kissing her once more. “I like it that way. But then, maybe you can be a
part of it.” Pressing my hand against my heart. “There’s room enough for both
of us in here.”

“Does that mean I don’t have to
pay for the tour?” she says, giggling.

Night arrives gently after a
brilliant orange-red sunset that reflects off the still river. We share a
dinner of steak-frit and a bottle of expensive red while on a riverboat cruise
that sails up and down the Seine. We retire to my room at the Saint James Hotel
on Avenue de Rivoli and make love like we invented it. In truth, I expect her
to be gone the next morning, already on a plane bound for New Delhi. But when I
wake up, I’m ecstatic to find her standing by the open French doors wearing a thick
white robe. She’s holding a cup of coffee in both her cupped hands while
peering out at the view of old Paris, the Eifel Tower so clear and prominent in
the background, it seems like she can simply reach out and touch it.

“Come back to bed, Elizabeth.”

She turns to me, issues me a
pout that makes me want to melt into the mattress.

“Chase,” she says, tears pooling
in her eyes. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“I do,” I say. “We’re proof.”

“I love you,” she says.
“I…love…you.”

The Kali statue was Elizabeth’s
passion and obsession. As hard as I fell for her, I knew that inevitably I
would be in for a world of hurt if I fell too far. You see, she was too much
like me. If opposites did indeed attract, we were naturally doomed. She was
simply too involved with her work. But then, work wasn’t the right word for it.
She was more like a shaman or a saint who had given herself over entirely to
another power far greater than the mortal sum of all her parts.

Still, the trap door had been
opened and not only did I fall for her, I kept on falling. And when she left me
for good, I forced myself to not think about her. To forget her entirely.
Because remembering her face, her voice, her smooth skin, her hair…was all too
painful. Maybe that’s why I never went after her. Because I was afraid of being
hurt again. Afraid of her leaving me again. But then, I guess you could say,
even after all this time…even after convincing myself that she was dead…I still
love her with all my heart.

***

When we come to number 69 Via Guelfa, I unlock the front door,
flip the light switch in the dark corridor. Climbing the short, but steep and
narrow, flight of damp stone stairs to my apartment, I let us both in through
the thick wood door. Almost immediately we’re greeted by my five-year-old pit bull,
Lulu. Lu takes one look at the tall, turban wearing man and growls.

Some people are deathly afraid of
pit bulls. But Dr. Singh displays not an ounce of fear. He slowly lowers
himself down to one knee like he did in the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, and
gently holds out the back of his hand. Lu takes a quick whiff of it and starts
to lick the hand as if he’s fallen under the Indian’s spell.

Singh stands. “When you are gifted
with such a beautiful animal, life is never lonely.”

“Man’s bestest buddy. Do anything for
you. He’s also one hell of a guard.”

I’m reminded of Lu saving my life
in this very apartment not too long ago, back when I was in search of the
mortal remains of Christ and some crooked cops from the Florence police wanted
the prize for themselves.

I instruct Dr. Singh to make
himself at home in the living room while I cross over the dining room into the
kitchen where I put on a pot of water for tea. In the meantime, I crack myself
a Moretti beer in hope that the buzz I had going an hour or so ago might
quickly return bringing along with it the calming of my still beating, but no
less broken, heart. When the tea is done, I pour a mug and bring it and the
beer out with me into the living room.

“You’ve read all those books?” he
says, nodding at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that cover the exposed brick
wall in the near century-old apartment building.

“If I’m not writing, I like to be
reading. But nothing replaces seeing things for yourself. Traveling, getting
the feel of a place. Smelling the smells, tasting the flavors, touching the
textures. I’m sure you know the drill, Doctor.”

“You speak the truth,” he says,
taking the tea in hand, nodding his head in thanks, then, exhaling. “I suppose
you want to know how I’m convinced your Elizabeth lives and how I’ve become
aware of her whereabouts.”

…You’re Elizabeth…

I steal a drink of beer, feel my
heart beating inside my ribcage. “First of all, Dr. Singh, you must have done
your homework to know that I experienced a love affair once upon a time with a
woman named Dr. Elizabeth Flynn. And second, if you’ve spent that much time
doing your homework, you must be jonesin’ to employ me.”

“Jonesing?”

“Figure of speech.”

“Ahh, yes.” He beams. “Now I
remember…Back when I was in college, students would
jones
for a cigarette.
Or some marijuana. Or some Old Milwaukee beer. Very bad for the digestive
track.”

“Exactly.”

“I can’t reveal precisely who my
sources inside India and Nepal are. But word has come to me that Elizabeth
Flynn is indeed alive and located somewhere near the Chitwan National Forest
along with my son.”

“She and Rajesh are together?”

“Yes.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s
apple running up and down the interior of his neck. “The search for Rajesh is
all-consuming, Mr. Baker. And I can’t think of a better man to get him back for
me…for his parents. Therefore, I have indeed done my research and what I found
along the way might startle you.”

“And, of course, you’re not going to
give me any details about Elizabeth’s so-called resurrection until I locate
Rajesh and bring him back to you.”

“You use the word resurrection, Mr.
Baker. But are you certain she perished in the first place?”

In my head, I travel back five
years.

I’m pacing the wood floor of my apartment,
worried out of my skull because I haven’t heard from Elizabeth in close to a
month. Of course, it’s possible this is her way of ending it, but my gut tells
me different. A call comes on my cell phone. One of those calls that have a
certain ring to it. A ring that signals anything but the garden variety phone
call. A ring that instead stops your heart, sends a shot of ice water through
your veins. I answer the phone, put it to my ear.

“Yes,” the word peels itself
from the back of my dry-as-sand throat.

“Are you Chase?” speaks the
voice of a woman on the other end. “Chase Baker?”

“I am.”

“My name is Samantha. I’m
calling from India. I’m a colleague of Elizabeth Flynn’s. I’m…I’m afraid I have
some bad news for you…”

Dr. Singh is right.

Elizabeth was never reported as perished.
Officially, that is. But what her colleague revealed was that she’d gone
missing in Nepal, somewhere near the Chitwan National Forest. That the Nepalese
Army was looking for her, but coming up with nothing. I can’t begin to tell you
how many times I nearly dropped everything to go look for her. But something
stopped me. A voice inside me that kept telling me Elizabeth didn’t want to be
found. And that if I did succeed in finding her without getting myself killed,
she’d just leave me again…or worse, send me away.

That was half a decade ago, just weeks
after my father died of a heart attack. Since that time, I haven’t heard a
word. Until last month that is, when I received a strange envelope in the mail
that contained no return address. Inside the envelope was the bronze key she’d
discovered in the Rome antiquities shop…the key to the Golden Kali Statue…along
with a letter.

The letter, which contained only a
few words and a couple of hand-drawn but detailed illustrations of the statue,
was signed by Elizabeth. Up until I pulled that letter out, I didn’t know
whether or not to take the key seriously, as if it were an elaborate joke
cooked up by some sick-minded individual.

But then, this was no ruse. It
looked very much like the real thing. A totally legitimate letter signed by the
woman I loved but tried so hard to forget. Maybe at the time I should have been
happy to receive some proof of life, but that proof only made me more confused
and even more despondent.

“No, Dr. Singh,” I say, choosing
not to reveal any news of the bronze key or Elizabeth’s letter to him. “I never
saw her in death. Only in life.”

“Then, perhaps resurrection isn’t
the correct term. But all this is simply semantics. The important thing is that
if you agree to help me, I can lead you to her, Mr. Baker. In fact, your
locating her will be a crucial component of the project.”

“If locating her is the same as
locating Rajesh, why not go after them both yourself? Why bring me into it?”

“Too many eyes are already upon me.
I’m afraid if word were to get out about my personally searching for Rajesh,
his life could be immediately terminated. It’s a risk I cannot take. Which is
why I am asking you to go after him in my stead.”

I drink some more beer to dislodge
the distaste in my throat. Pulling the beer away from my lips, I toss it across
the room, lunge at Singh, grab him by his jacket collar.

“Why are you doing this? Why not
just ask me if I’d like to help? What the hell kind of head game are you
playing, Doc?”

Lu barks, stands four square on the
floor like she’s about to bite Dr. Singh’s kneecaps off should I issue the
order.

“Back off, Lu. This one’s mine.”

“Mr. Baker, enough,” he pleads, his
voice raised a decibel or two. “Please understand, I have nothing directly to
do with Elizabeth Flynn’s life or death. I have made no direct contact with
her. I only know what my information sources relay to me. That you were once
lovers and that she lives and that I am someone who can provide you with at
least some information that could potentially lead you to her whereabouts.”

I let him go and he brings both
hands to his throat as he seats himself down onto the couch.

“That makes my day complete. If
she’s alive, like you say, then you’re using her whereabouts as leverage? What
kind of man are you?”

“I want Rajesh back, Mr. Baker. Simply
asking you for your services is not enough. Money won’t be enough. Not even a
lot of it. I need the utmost assurance that you will indeed find the boy and
bring him back to me, no matter the cost.”