The Forbidden Daughter (33 page)

But her heart was pounding madly. Her instincts were on full alert. It was much too quiet inside. Her babies were in there.

Anything could have happened to them. She
had
to go in.

No matter what Harish said, she couldn’t very well abandon her children and Sundari to God knows what and hide in her safe little dress shop. She’d never forgive herself if she could have done something to prevent a catastrophe but was too afraid to open a door.

Drawing in a single, fortifying breath, she grasped the doorknob, gently nudged the door open, and stuck her head inside.

The drawing room was in total darkness, except for a single, thin shaft of light from the streetlight coming in through the gap in the curtains. All she could hear was her own harsh breath, the blood pounding in her head. She let her eyes adjust to the dimness before taking a visual inventory.

She reeled backward in alarm. The place had been ransacked!

The furniture was upside down, the children’s toys were tossed on the floor, and all kinds of papers were strewn around.

What in heaven’s name had happened here?

In spite of the fact that every nerve in her body sensed danger, she stepped inside, stood still for a moment, her damp right palm curled around her keys. With the hair on her arms prickling, she waited for someone or something to pounce on her.

When nothing happened, she forced her rubbery legs to move, to tiptoe and pick her way through the clutter into her bedroom to check on Diya. The baby was her first concern.

The bedroom was in worse shape than the drawing room. In the glow of the nightlight she stood gaping at the destruction.

Her
almirah
and dresser stood open and all the contents were spilled on the floor. The bedsheets were also on the floor; the pillows and mattress had deep gashes, with their cotton ticking pulled out and tossed in every direction.

THE

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It looked like something from a horror movie—the work of a sick monster on a rampage.

Despite the sense of utter loss, her mind was still on Diya, so she stepped over the debris, eased up to the cradle and looked in. Empty! The tiny mattress was slashed all over. Her stomach plunged. Had the baby been hacked to pieces, too?

Oh God! No. Not Diya, please!

But there was no blood anywhere.
Calm down,
she ordered herself.
Don’t assume the worst. Maybe the baby’s asleep beside
her big sister in the other room, or in Sundari’s lap
.

Making a mad rush to the other room with no thought for her own safety, Isha stumbled on something large—and squealed.

Blindly reaching for the wall with one hand, she barely caught herself from falling on her face. Then fumbling for the light switch, she turned on the light and looked at the floor. Sundari lay on her stomach on the bedroll.

“Sundari!” she squeaked, forgetting the children for the moment. “I—I’m sorry I stepped on you.” But Sundari didn’t budge. She was lying dead!

Sinking to her knees beside the prostrate woman, Isha touched her arm. It felt warm. Reassured a little, she gingerly touched the side of her neck. That’s what they did in television shows and the movies. There was a pulse! It was slow, but it was there. She patted the old woman’s back. “Sundari, wake up.”

But Sundari lay still. It wasn’t like her. She was a light sleeper and woke up at the slightest noise. Isha put her hands on her shoulders and shook her hard, but Sundari’s deep breathing continued on. What was wrong with Sundari? Had she suffered a stroke? Had she slipped into a coma? “Sundari! Please tell me you’re not unconscious!”

Was she totally paralyzed? Well, at least she was still breathing. That was worth something, wasn’t it? The good thing was Harish was on his way. He’d know what was wrong with Sundari.

“Please, wake up,” Isha cried to the old woman, despite knowing Sundari couldn’t hear her. “Are you in pain?” No response. “Don’t die, Sundari, please,” she whispered and took 242
Shobhan Bantwal

one rough, wrinkled hand in hers. “Help is coming. We’ll take care of you.”

Guilt settled in as Isha looked at the disheveled coil of gray hair and the rumpled and faded pink sari that had ridden up to her calves, exposing dark, dry-skinned legs, and heels with deep cracks caused from walking barefoot for years and years. Dear, sweet Sundari. How could Isha have thought of her as careless?

Sundari was never remiss in her duties. In fact, where the children and their well-being were concerned, she bordered on obsessive. The poor woman had suffered a stroke, perhaps a seizure, or a heart attack.

But the children? That’s when the alarm exploded in Isha’s brain once again. Where were they?

She shot to her feet and ran to Priya’s bed and found her asleep and breathing. The mattress beside her was slashed like everything else. Peeling back the sheet to examine the sleeping child, she ran her hands over Priya from head to toes to make sure everything was okay. Disturbed by the probing, Priya stirred and changed positions.

Priya seemed fine. She had obviously slept right through whatever had occurred to hurt Sundari and turn the room upside down.

Priya was always a deep sleeper. An incredible
whoosh
of relief left Isha’s lungs to see her daughter unharmed.

She looked about the room. Every drawer in the dresser was open and the contents tossed, just like the
almirah
. Nothing had been left untouched by the robber. He had invaded her home and everything private and precious.

There was a sickly sweet odor in the room. But she didn’t recognize it.

Never mind the odor, she told herself. It wasn’t important.

Priya was fine and Sundari was obviously in serious condition.

The minute Harish got here he’d have to examine Sundari. She probably needed to be moved to a hospital immediately.

But then . . . where was the baby? “Diya,” she whispered and looked on the floor, feverishly picking up clothes and linens to see if she was sleeping, buried under them. Had the child slept THE

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on the bed with her sister and rolled off? Desperate for a sign of her baby, Isha looked under the bed, inside the ransacked
almirah,
every conceivable nook. But Diya was nowhere to be found.

Frantic with worry, Isha turned on all the lights in the flat and searched the drawing room, the kitchen, and the bathroom.

Every room looked like a cyclone had passed through it, even the kitchen. Every container had been ransacked. Sugar, flour, cereal, rice, and
dal
lay scattered on the kitchen floor. The refrigerator door stood open.

What could have happened to the baby? Diya was a mischievous little imp and managed to get around very well. She was also a lighter sleeper than Priya. Had she woken up, found Sundari unconscious, her sister fast asleep, and crawled out of bed?

“Diya, where are you, sweetie?” she repeated several times, the pitch of her voice rising progressively and turning more frantic. She wondered whether the child could be underneath a piece of furniture, crushed by the weight of it. With some effort she set the sofa back on its feet.

When that yielded no sign of Diya, she tried something else.

“Diya, Mummy has ice cream for you.” The child loved ice cream and no matter where she was, the word
ice cream
enticed her to come crawling forward and clap her tiny hands with glee.

But all Isha got in response was silence. She cocked her ears, listening for the familiar sound of Diya’s knees and hands shuffling along the floor. But there was nothing but emptiness and the ticking of the kitchen clock.

Had the child seen the open door and found her way out?

Dear God, she could have crawled through the hallway and tumbled down the stairs. She could be badly hurt . . . even dead by now.

“Diya!”

Just as Isha moved to make a beeline for the door, her eyes fell on a piece of paper on the upturned coffee table. It had a single sentence written in bold red crayon, meant to grab attention.

244
Shobhan Bantwal

DO YOU WANT YOUR CHILD BACK?

Priya’s box of crayons lay open beside it.

Both the handwriting and the message were precise and neat—

a grownup’s note written with a child’s crayon—mocking evidence of how easy it had been to break in and take her baby.

The terse simplicity of it was terrifying.

Clutching the piece of paper in her trembling hands, Isha collapsed onto the wrecked sofa. The same shade of ashy gray that had enveloped everything when she was informed of Nikhil’s death now seemed to settle over the room. Even the vivid maroons and yellows in the throw pillows gradually turned gray.

Every one of the spilled crayons acquired the same frozen tint.

Her brain lurched, then shifted into slow motion, and gradually shut down.

Only a single thought remained: Her baby was gone.

Chapter 28

Harish tried to take the shortest and quickest route to Isha’s flat. In the process he ran his car through a couple of red lights, despite Phillip’s wry comments about blatant disregard for the law. His big, muscular friend sat in the passenger seat, reminding him to use more caution.

But Harish had neither the time nor the inclination to take his wise friend’s advice.

Isha and her children were in grave danger. That was all he could focus on. She had hung up the phone abruptly, or maybe she’d dropped it. That must mean something had happened to her. Maybe someone had grabbed her? She was so petite, so fragile. He could only pray she had enough strength to fight her attacker.

Phillip put a reproving hand on his arm. “Slow down, Harish! You want to get there in one piece or not?”

“Come on, Phillip! They could all be dead by now—stabbed, just like Isha’s husband was. I’m telling you, that bastard Karnik has no conscience and no scruples whatsoever.”

“Then why didn’t you call the local police? This is not my jurisdiction.”

“I told you why. I don’t trust them! Right after I left a message for the superintendent, someone started to follow me home and now they’re after Isha. Some blackguard in the police department is on Karnik’s payroll. Who knows, maybe it’s the 246
Shobhan Bantwal

same man who’s Karnik’s hired killer, too. There may be more than one.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Karnik is over seventy years old and not at all big or fit. I know he couldn’t take on a man of Nikhil Tilak’s age and size.

Karnik wouldn’t be foolish enough to do it himself, either. Believe me, Phillip, there’s a rat in that rotten-as-a-sewer police department.”

“Okay, okay,” said Phillip, attempting to placate his disturbed friend. “But you’re going to get yourself and me killed if you don’t slow down,” he repeated, between clenched teeth.

“This is not a Bollywood movie. The streets here are narrow and there are still some cars and pedestrians around. At least give some thought to
their
lives if not yours and mine.”

Heeding Phillip’s voice of prudence, Harish eased his foot off the pedal, but only a fraction of a millimeter. “I know Isha’s in trouble, or she wouldn’t have hung up on me.”

Two minutes later he brought his car to a grinding stop in front of Isha’s building.

In a heartbeat he was out the door and running toward the main entryway. Phillip ran after Harish, his gun drawn . . . just in case. Their shoes made a loud, clapping sound in the quiet of the night as they sprinted across the concrete footpath, through the short lobby and then up the stairs to the second floor, taking them two at a time.

Harish veered right at first, toward the dress shop, but seeing the door to her home wide-open, he abruptly swung left and barreled in. When he stopped dead in the next instant, Phillip bumped hard into his back, swearing under his breath.

The lights were on everywhere. The floor was littered with papers, pillows, and toys. Two chairs and the coffee table lay upside down. The photographs Isha had so lovingly placed in wooden frames were ruined, their glass shattered.

Harish sucked in a painful breath. What the hell had happened here?

His eyes went instantly to Isha. She sat on the battered sofa THE

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with a piece of paper clutched in one hand. Her eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor.

“Isha!” His immediate reaction was to reprimand her for entering the flat when he’d specifically ordered her to go back to the dress shop and lock herself in. But something stopped him from tearing into her: that dazed look on her face. Going closer to her, he asked gently, “Why did you hang up the phone, Isha?”

It took her a moment to come out of the trance. “I didn’t.

The battery ran out.”

“Oh.” Why hadn’t he thought of a simple explanation like a dead battery? “Are you all right?”

She held out the piece of paper. “They took Diya.”

“What!” He grabbed the paper and read the note—a couple of times. There was no mistake. Someone had kidnapped Diya and left behind this: a not-so-subtle threat.

He passed the note to Phillip, knelt on the floor beside Isha, and put a hand on her knee. “We’ll find her. I promise you, we’ll find Diya.” He knew he was making empty promises, but he’d do anything to get her to snap out of this frozen, expressionless state. He would have preferred to see her sobbing, hysterical, livid—anything but this.

“Sundari . . .” she murmured.

“What about Sundari?” He looked around, his eyes once again measuring the destruction wreaked over the room, wondering what kind of demon could have done this. “Where is she, anyway?” Wasn’t she supposed to be watching the children?

“I—I think she’s had a stroke.” Something seemed to be lodged in Isha’s throat, because she kept swallowing. “She won’t wake up. I tried to wake her . . . I tried so hard.”

“A stroke? What makes you think it’s . . . ? Never mind.”

How was she supposed to know the symptoms? “What about Priya?”

The look on Isha’s face was still not entirely focused. “She’s sleeping in her room.”