Nine: Vengeance of the Warrior (9 page)

A good fifteen minutes later, without anyone noticing, Akash removed the oxygen mask and stepped out of the medical unit. Before he walked away, he saw something etched on the side of the van with black paint:
The Kalingan will return
. His mind went blank for a second. He looked again and it was gone! Then he whirled around, heart pounding with anticipation. He searched the area, looking for a face that stared at him in the crowd of commotion. No one seemed odd or out of place. He hurried away, taking the back streets and hastened to his office. He was worried that this time he hadn’t gotten away with being anonymous. Chris would never forget what he had seen. And the worst part, the Kalingan was coming back to hunt them down.

6

Zubin

California

The public health-care centre was crowded. The cries from the trauma unit were loud enough to wake up the dead. Zubin headed straight for the children’s wing and then further into the corner where the terminally ill patients were admitted. The pretty wallpaper, the wall hangings of smiling people belied the bleak desperate faces that visited this section. The kids were dying of incurable diseases. Zubin didn’t want to make it too obvious when he healed them, but it was easier to thank divine intervention for the success rather than a human’s ability to heal. Zubin was careful to make it seem as if it happened simply through faith. Often he came in with a troupe of followers of a religious priest. Sometimes it was a Buddhist monk, other times it was a Christian and still other times it was a Hindu saint. He would be one of the followers, dressed unobtrusively in jeans and a T-shirt, and sneakers. He blended in, mingled and moved as part of the group.

A saint from India was on the way and he would join the troupe soon. While the saint prayed, Zubin would discreetly place his hand on the child’s forehead or shoulder and speak words of love and prayer. He did it a few times and the following week he would hear about the miracles of saints.

After a few hours, Zubin exited the hospice and stood at the corner of the road. It was a late Sunday afternoon. He was about to get on the bus, when he heard weak cries for help. He followed the sound and saw a homeless man across the road. He was on the ground, partially hidden from view by an oversized dumpster. Two street kids knelt by his side. Zubin yelled at them and they ran the other way. ‘Damn!’ he whispered as he sprinted across the road and entered the side street. The homeless man was trembling under a stained and tattered blanket. Gently, Zubin touched him. ‘Hey, I’m here to help.’

‘Leave me alone!’ the man said.

Zubin pulled back the blanket and was shocked by what he saw.
What had the world come to?
What he witnessed would cause anyone to lose hope in humanity. Zubin had seen worse, usually on a dead guy, not on one who was literally clinging to life on sheer determination. The suffering man’s bald head was pockmarked with scratches and scab wounds. His face was bleeding from open sores. There were blue–black mottled marks all over his legs. He was wearing one shoe and his other bare foot was swollen, as if he had a broken ankle. There was an overwhelming smell of decay. The man’s skeletal body seemed to be held together by his meagre, ripped clothing. He clutched something in his claw-like grip.

‘What have you got there, old man?’

‘Nuthin’,’ he said and brought his arm to his chest. He was too weak to hold it any longer, his grip relaxed and a small metal object fell out of his hand. Zubin picked it up and wiped it against his shirt. It was a medal, a commendation for military service.

‘Hey! Give me that,’ he said weakly and coughed violently. He spat out a gob of green in the distance.

‘The kids were going to get that from you, weren’t they?’ Zubin returned the medal.

The man moved weakly, clutching his medal. He groaned miserably as he slid towards the slimy wall and leaned back. ‘What do you want? I got no money. Why don’t you just leave me alone?’ he said in a quavering voice.

Zubin sighed. He glanced around. ‘How old are you?’

‘What does it matter to you?’ the old man retorted.

‘Just tell me.’

‘Fifty something.’

He still had some years to go if he was healthy. The place was a breeding ground for insects and rodents. Zubin didn’t want to even attempt to move the man who was weeping and muttering death wishes.

‘Okay, Mr War Veteran. You get another chance to fix your life. All you need to do is quit being a quitter. Get a job, volunteer, do anything.’

The man gaped. ‘You are insane! I don’t need no sermons, get lost!’

‘What if it is the truth?’ Zubin touched his injured foot and in seconds it was healed. ‘I can help you.’

‘Hey!’ The man stared at his ankle, then looked up at Zubin. ‘It doesn’t hurt any more.’

‘So, do we have a deal?’

The man nodded wildly. ‘Yes,’ he said over and over again.

‘What are you going to do once you are healed?’

‘I will get a job, I will …’

‘… Help others, I will straighten out my life, I will find a place to live …’ Zubin prompted and the man nodded.

Zubin touched his face and head. It was a matter of minutes and the man was looking better. Feeling exhausted, Zubin left him gaping at his arms and legs as if he was seeing them for the first time. ‘Keep this to yourself, you hear me?’ Zubin warned. ‘Or else you will become the old self.’

The man nodded vigorously and fingered a cross across his heart. Zubin hurried out of the alley. He retrieved an alcohol wipe from his pocket and cleaned his hands vigorously. Sprinting, he reached the main street, when he heard the man call out in the distance. ‘Hey you! What’s your name?’

Zubin didn’t bother to respond and headed home. He needed a hot shower and time to unwind. His ear was burning up, the implant was buzzing. He didn’t pay any attention. The implant buzzed like that every time he overdid it.

The public examiner’s office was in the middle of the city. Zubin had arrived early and strode past the forensics evidence room, towards the crime scene services. He pulled on a lab coat. His assistant, Carmin, was a tall, big-boned woman with a plump face. She chewed on gum constantly. She was seated at her computer, staring at enlarged fingerprints on a split screen. ‘What do you think?’ she asked when she saw him. Zubin leaned over her and studied the two images.

On the screen were fingerprint analyses, comparisons between a suspect and a known criminal in the police database. The computer had given an eighty-five per cent match. ‘It looks like it is a match, but the computer is not giving a 90 per cent and above validity. It won’t hold in court.’

Zubin dragged a chair and sat next to her; he studied the images again. They discussed other evidence and the suspect’s alibi. ‘We can’t make the call. I’ll talk to the detective.’

Zubin hurried towards the toxicology section for a better determination of the cause of death of the victim. Robert, his colleague, was studying tissue samples. ‘There are drugs in his system but his death was the result of a stab wound to the heart. The sixty-year-old man was recently married and the primary suspect seems to be the stepson, who had some prior convictions.

‘Trauma is evident in other body parts, indicating the victim was in a fight,’ Robert continued. ‘He was on heart medication and there was some alcohol in his system.’

Zubin buzzed Phil, the medical investigator. Phil arrived. Zubin told him, ‘Return to the crime scene. I want more data on the location of the body and the surrounding area, if any.’

‘What are we looking for?’

‘Blood splatter. Check areas that may have been wiped clean.’

‘On it,’ Phil said and left.

Zubin turned to Robert. ‘Get me a full toxicology report as soon as possible.’

‘Okay, boss.’

While he was on the case, Zubin got a call from the police. ‘Yes?’ He talked rapidly and hurried towards his office. Removing his lab coat, he called out, ‘Phil, we’ve got a homicide. Get me one of your assistants!’

‘I’ll come with you, doctor,’ Reeve, the newest member of their team, said. She was the forensic pathologist and had a great résumé. She had just moved to Los Angeles. She was an expert in murder cases, having investigated fifty in the city of Chicago.

‘Let’s go.’ Zubin grabbed his kit and headed towards the elevators. As he made it down the elevators, he recalled his days in Minnesota when he was just starting out. Memories of his father and his life before the Nine were not something he liked to mull over. After his stint in India, California beckoned and the sunshine was what he needed. Zubin stepped out of the elevator and held it for Reeve. She nodded her thanks. The men in the forensics team called Reeve a hottie and joked about being jealous because she got to see the dead guys naked. A very morbid joke, but that’s how they got the team to work well together. Anyone would lose their mind facing gruesome murder cases every working day. The world was a crazy place and, from what he had heard from Raakin, it was getting crazier.

They got into the car and headed out of the basement garage.

Murders had been increasing lately, Zubin realized. There had been more of the unusual cases where the killings were a result of extreme emotions.

Reeve asked. ‘What’s the case about?’

‘This was reportedly a dismembered body. Male. Report of a foul smell from an apartment. Police were called and they burst in, found the victim’s legs and arms in the bathtub.’ He shook his head.

She didn’t comment.

Zubin mused that even random killings were getting more brutal, gruesome.
What possessed people to get so violent?
His phone buzzed. He glanced at his device. Carmin and Robert had sent the toxicology report. The details were in his handheld device—the blood results, stomach contents, skin and tissue, and the rest. Zubin would look at it later. They had arrived at the crime scene. Zubin focused on the situation at hand. He needed to keep his mind in an objective mode. The area was cordoned off. ‘I hope you haven’t had a heavy breakfast,’ he mumbled to Reeve.

Her hair was tied up in a neat ponytail, her expression grim. ‘I can handle it,’ she said and slipped on the gloves.

They entered the bathroom and saw the message on the mirror:
The Kalingan will kill again.

Zubin gaped at it. ‘What the fuck!’ he exclaimed. Suddenly, all his objectivity, his thoughts, were blown apart.
Hadn’t they got rid of the Kalingan? What was this about?

7

Tejaswi

Siem Reap

The rain fell in gentle whispers. Tejaswi exited from the airport arrivals hall and scanned the tarmac. The air was thick. She took off her cotton jacket. Underneath was a sleeveless black shirt which she wore with tan cotton trousers. But she still felt the oppressive heat wrap around her like a blanket. Passengers were queuing up for their taxi and bus rides. She gripped the handle of her trolley bag and pulled it roughly towards the queue. Lately, she was irritated with everyone. The incident with Karl had drilled the happiness out of her, leaving behind a heart full of anger. She missed her father terribly. The visit to Mayong was her hope: she couldn’t fight through normal channels, the police were useless and Karl’s goons were constantly threatening her. ‘If you cannot find a way normally, then try abnormally,’ a friend of hers once said. Tejaswi was determined to ensure she had the power to destroy the man who had got her father killed.

Ray of Light Herbal Store
used to be a trendy haunt until it was destroyed by one vicious act by Karl. She kicked a stone in anger. Just the thought of him made her wish she could gut him. She felt the simmering rage almost like a physical extension of herself. The businessman had laughed at her. He had wanted to buy her shop—it was prime property and he was willing to pay her big money. But her father didn’t want to sell. Karl kept on insisting. He was an influential man’s son. And when her father said no, Karl turned into a cunning pig and sent local goons to beat him up. Her father died from his injuries. When Tejaswi went to the police, they accepted the FIR but did nothing after that. When Karl asked her to sign the documents to sell the property which she now inherited from her father, she said no. He sent his goons again. She touched her chin as she recalled that day. The mottled rough skin was a memento of the beating. It was a deep gash from a shard of glass after one of the men had shoved her face against a broken bottle.