Dearly Departed (10 page)

CHAPTER 14

“I
s that the Taj Mahal?”

On the surface it seemed a silly question. Here they were in Agra, just half a mile away, at a hotel known for its magnificent view of the Taj Mahal, standing by the balcony at the rear of the lobby, overlooking a pale dome reflected in a pool of water. “Is that the Taj Mahal?” Really? One of the most famous buildings in the world?

“I don't think so,” said Amy. She waved her arms, as if trying to brush the fog away, but a bright blanket of gray enveloped everything except the faint, hopeful outline in the distance. “I think it's part of the hotel,” she answered. “Maybe a pavilion on the far side of the swimming pool?”

“Are you sure?” Nicole Marconi asked, giving her a second chance.

“I'm kind of pretty sure.”

“That it is?”

“That it's not.” Amy would have loved to confirm the sighting—for herself as much as for them. It was one of the dream destinations still on her list. But when the fog lifted, if it lifted, there it would finally be, the iconic white dome with its minarets, a bit higher up and farther away to the right, leaving the pool pavilion to look like the fanciful pool pavilion that it was.

“Are we ever going to see it?” Nicole asked almost accusingly.

“Of course.” Now, that was a silly question. You could see anything if you were close enough.

Nicole turned away, disappointed, and approached the hotel doorman for a second opinion. Amy watched as the doorman, undoubtedly experienced in this situation, nodded agreeably. Then they stepped outside, and he patiently pointed Nicole through the gray, toward what might be a footpath. She began walking in that direction and quickly faded from view.

The fog can play tricks
, Amy told herself. It was one of the oldest weather-related clichés, right up there with “It's not the heat. It's the humidity.” But she wasn't thinking about the Taj Mahal.

Billy's appearance couldn't have been a trick of the fog. She might have mistaken the face. Although a little taller than average, Billy had that generic middle-aged, swarthy look common the world over. But the way he'd reacted upon seeing her . . . the way he had met her eyes, then had turned and disappeared . . . All right, the disappearing part had been easy, given the weather.

“Miss Amy Travel. Hello.” The doorman approached her now across the lobby's marble expanse. He had obviously learned her name from someone who had learned it from the tour documents. “Did you talk to that nice man?” He smiled and twisted the pointy ends of his long, well-groomed mustache. From the look of them, the mustache received a lot of proud twisting.

“What man?”

“After you and your friends come. He said he did not want to disturb.”

“He came to see me?” She was puzzled. Could it have been a representative from the India tour booker? She knew from Peter that Indian businessmen took the personal connection very seriously. “Did he ask for me? Or for Peter?”

“He said your names, yes. And how many days you be here? And if all your days be very busy? I said, ‘Yes, yes. Very busy. Very important.'”

“Did he leave a card or a name?”

“With me?” He said it with a typically Indian blend of modesty and pride. “No, no. That's not for me.”

Of course
, Amy thought. Which brought up a good point. Why would a travel rep ask a lowly doorman such questions? Besides the fact that a reception clerk or a concierge would have much better information, no Indian of any stature would engage in a conversation like this with a doorman.

“Was this man a foreigner? Like me?” Even as she said the words, Amy had a sinking feeling.

“Yes, yes. American.”

“Did he say his name? Did he say who he was? Did he leave? How long ago did he leave?”

The doorman frowned, confused by her sudden intensity. His right hand rose to the comfort of his mustache, while his left pointed to a corner. “He sat there. I'm so sorry I did not get his name.”

“Thank you.” Under normal circumstances, she would have taken the time to talk and be polite. Instead, she turned on her heels and clicked across the patterned marble and around the coffered wall. No one was sitting in the little alcove, not now. But a cigarette smoldered in a silver ashtray, defacing the Oberoi hotel crest that had been impressed into the white sand.

The strong, bitter smell of tobacco lingered. And if there was any doubt in her mind, it was dispelled by the cigarette pack that lay crumpled on a side table. The red and white diagonal pattern. TEKEL 2000 printed on the upper white half. Probably the most popular brand in Turkey. And Billy Strunk's brand.

“Is that the Taj Mahal?”

Amy was so focused that she hadn't heard them until now. Evan and Barbara Corns had changed their clothes and were ready to attack the sights.

“Sorry if I startled you.” Evan pointed behind them at the lobby balcony and the gray shadow of the pool house. “Is that the Taj Mahal? You can barely see. . . .”

“Yes,” Amy said. “Yes, it is.”

“Really?” Barbara seemed skeptical. “It looks small.”

“Everyone says that,” Amy agreed and, without another word, headed out toward the doorman and the door.

She had no idea where Billy had gone or how she would find him. As odd as it seemed, she knew that he had come to India to follow them. To follow someone. Perhaps she would ask the parking valet. Or better yet, Peter. Peter was right there on the white gravel by the Oberoi gates.

“Billy,” she called out as soon as she managed to catch his eye. “Remember Billy from Istanbul?”

“You saw him, too?” Peter laughed. “I thought I was hallucinating.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Just now. He got into a taxi.”

“Did he see you?”

“I don't know. Quite a coincidence.”

Amy didn't argue. She turned to face the parking valet a few feet away. “Excuse me.”
Calm and polite
, she had to remind herself. Otherwise, she would seem unforgivably rude. Again.

“Good afternoon, madam.” The valet greeted her with a broad, engaging smile. “Are you enjoying your time here? I think the mist will be lifting anytime soon now.”

“Very good to hear.” Amy tried to smile back. “There was an American gentleman here a few moments ago. He got into a taxi.”

“Ah, yes,” the valet agreed. “He is a friend of yours?”

“What makes you say that? Never mind. Do you know where he went? Where did he tell the taxi to go? Was he following someone?” She was trying to keep her voice slow and friendly but wasn't succeeding.

CHAPTER 15

“T
he Protected Forest.” That was what he said.

Amy got her bearings quickly, almost on the run. The Protected Forest, she knew, was a patch of parkland on a rolling hill overlooking the Taj. Although it was created as a pollution buffer, the views of the monument were magnificent and on non-fog days the forest was a popular destination. It was, in fact, the only thing standing between the Oberoi and the Taj and was an easy walk from the hotel. But Billy had taken a taxi, so they took a taxi.

“You think he's following us?” Peter buckled up beside her in the back of the pink Ambassador.

“He's following someone,” Amy said, leaving herself unbuckled. “Think about it. He strikes up a conversation with us in a market in Istanbul? That wasn't accidental.”

“He wanted to help.”

“He would have found some way to talk to us.” She went back over their first conversation in her mind. Something clicked. “We never told him we were staying at the Four Seasons, but somehow he knew.”

“Are you sure?”

“We were worried about the time, remember? He said that he'd get us back to the Four Seasons in plenty of time. He knew because he'd followed us from the hotel.”

“But he's not following us now. We're following him.”

“That's probably because he's following someone else.”

“He likes following people?”

She wanted to slap him. “He's not interested in us. It's someone from our group. When you met him for drinks in Istanbul, what did you talk about?”

“Talk about?” The taxi was stalled, waiting for a parade of oxen to decide which way they were going before it could pull out on the road. Peter undid the second button on his polo. “I don't know. We were drinking.”

“Did he ask about the tour? The people on the tour?”

“Sure he did. Or I volunteered. Amy, the guy helped us out. He had a right to be curious.”

“Did he ask about anyone in particular?”

“You're saying he followed one of our people from New York? That's crazy. He lives in Istanbul. He speaks Turkish. People knew him at the bar.”

“Then how do you explain him being here? On the same train? Hanging out at our hotel?”

A minute later the taxi turned into the parking lot by the entrance to the forest trail. Amy got out and paid the driver and waited as Peter struggled to unbuckle himself.

“Sorry. Hold on. Damn these seat belts. Where the hell are you going?”

It was a great question. And Amy didn't have a great answer, except to say, “I need to find him.”

“And then what?” Peter was a few yards behind her now, running to catch up. “If he wants to lie, he'll make up a story.” She was already fading in the fog. No one else was in sight, undoubtedly a result of the weather, but still an odd sensation in India, where there were always people. When the path divided, he followed her on the left one . . . he thought.

“I can't just do nothing,” she shouted.

“Why not?” he shouted back.

Another great question. Because I did nothing last year, and someone got killed, she thought. Because I did nothing three years ago, and Eddie got shot. Because right now I'd rather do something, anything, no matter how useless, than do nothing again. A small sign with a silhouette of the Taj pointed up a second path, and for some reason, she obeyed.

“You're never going to find him.”

She could barely hear his voice. Why couldn't he keep up? He was young. His legs were certainly long enough. “Fine. Then I'm getting exercise.”

“We're going to get lost.”

Amy could hear his last complaint, but barely. And that fact, combined with the complaint itself, brought her to a stop in the middle of the dirt path. She spun around and saw nothing behind her. Then she listened for the sound of his footsteps and heard nothing. “Peter?” The adrenaline of the past ten minutes was just beginning to ease.

“Hello?” At least he was within shouting distance. “Amy? Where are you?”

“I'm on the path.” She looked around for landmarks. “I don't know how else to describe it.” As the fog finally started to blow off, there still wasn't much to see. “Follow the signs.”

“There are lots of signs,” he yelled back.

“The one pointing to the view.”

“They're all pointing to the view. There are lots of views.”

“Oh.” She hadn't thought about that. “Just stay there.” It was common knowledge that the best thing to do when lost was to stay where you were. But Amy didn't understand how that would possibly help if they both stayed where they were. “Keep talking,” she said. “I'll follow the sound of your voice.” Then she turned around and headed back on the path.

“What? So you're no longer trying to catch him?”

“Not if there are lots of paths and lots of signs.” Even she realized that. “Peter, keep talking.”

“Okay.”

Amy waited for more. “Peter? Talking?”

“I'm thinking. Okay.” He cleared his throat. “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent . . . Okay, that's all I know. Amy, you know you're being crazy, right?”

“Keep talking.”

“Just because you had a bad experience . . .” He sounded more than a little exasperated. “I mean, we find an envelope in a piano. So what? And a guest has a nut allergy. And we meet someone, and we see him in a different country—if it even was him to begin with. That doesn't mean murder. It doesn't even mean bad. I don't know what it means.”

“Keep talking.” Amy wasn't listening to his words, just the sound and the direction. “I'm getting closer.”

“I wanted to get to know you,” he shouted into the gray. Even as the visibility grew, their conversation still felt private, cut off from the world. “This was a simple boondoggle. Idiot proof. No offense. And nothing's gone wrong, outside of the ashes thing, and we fixed that. We should be happy. Can't you enjoy yourself anymore? I don't know. Maybe you need to talk to a doctor or get medication. Or change your line of work. Because no one's going to die. I've been on hundreds of trips, and no one ever dies.”

“Shut up.” Her voice now sounded slightly farther away.

“That's no way to communicate.”

“No, shut up. I hear someone.”

“What do you hear?”

“Shut up.”

It had come from the other side, away from Peter. At least she thought so. Was it a shout or a scream? No, she didn't even want to think that. But it had been human. They couldn't be the only people wandering through the haze, hoping for a photo op.

There it was again. A human sound, definitely, but different this time, higher in tone, like a cry of pain. Okay, maybe someone had twisted an ankle. Or dropped a camera. There was no reason for the adrenaline to start pumping through her again, but it did. Maybe Peter was right. Maybe she did need to see a doctor. She would consider this option, seriously consider it, just as soon as she discovered the source of the human cry of pain and knew it wasn't murder, although it probably was murder. She could sense it.

The extra little surge focused her senses and sent her scurrying around two or three of the meandering bends. The scrub caught at her ankles. And when the path split again—one downhill, one up—she instinctively took the up. The cry had come from up.

“Amy! Where are you?”

Damn. Couldn't the guy take direction? She tried to shut out his voice and made another choice at another split in the path. Up again. Not far ahead of her she could suddenly see a clearing and an outcropping of rocks and ran toward them. A second later she saw it and stopped in her tracks. “Oh, my God!”

The sight was unbelievable.

“Oh, my God,” she said again, almost in a whisper.
As much as you think you're prepared for this moment
, she thought,
it probably takes everyone by surprise
.

The mausoleum of Sh
h J
han was directly in front of her, its dome dominating everything, perfectly framed among the green, scrubby hills, parting the river haze, a smoky white butterfly edged in pink emerging from a soft gray chrysalis. A sight at once so familiar and so startling.
Like seeing a unicorn
, she imagined. The Taj Mahal.

It took her several moments—long, blissful, utterly satisfying moments—to tear her eyes away from this amazing view and notice the dying man.

He was sprawled by a stone bench on the grass, facing the view, perhaps ten feet back from the outcropping's edge. He might have been sitting there when attacked. Had he come here to meet his attacker? Or had he been caught unawares, knifed in the side with this long, colorful, almost laughably ornamental dagger? He wasn't dead, not quite.

Amy just stood there, watching the man gasp and bleed out. What could she do? Give first aid? She had no supplies, and it would do no good. Use her phone? She hadn't bothered to bring her phone. Put her ear to his lips and ask him who had done this to him? Too late. He had just eked out his last senseless, wet gurgles, and his eyes glazed over.

Once again, Amy had done nothing. And Billy Strunk was officially dead.

She could hear footsteps now—hurried, frantic footsteps—and turned with a start. It was Peter. His feet stumbled over the pebbly grass, and his gaze took in everything that Amy's gaze had taken in a few moments before. After it finally registered in his mind, he turned to her and frowned and shook his head in disbelief.

“Are you happy now?”

“He was just killed. That's the sound I heard.”

“Do not say, ‘I told you so.'”

“I'm not saying, ‘I told you so.' A man's been murdered.”

Peter looked at the dead man a little more closely this time. “Is that Billy?”

“Yes, it's Billy.”

“Then you can't even say, ‘I told you so.' He's supposed to be the killer.”

“He's not supposed to be anything,” she protested. But Peter was more or less right. And he was taking this very calmly. “I think you should call the police.”

Peter pulled out his phone, then hesitated. “I don't know how.”

“Dial nine-one-one,” Amy said, then stopped herself. “Wait a minute. Isn't that the country code? What's the country code for India?”

“It's nine-one.”

“Then what do they use for nine-one-one?” Amy demanded.

“They don't have nine-one-one. I don't even think they have emergency services. Have you seen the inside of an Indian hospital? The whole country is one big emergency. Why would they have a special number?”

“Call the hotel. They'll know.”

“Good idea.”