The Caretaker Page 30

  “I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry. Visiting hours are—”

  Officer Gardner reached up and dusted snowflakes off his peaked hat. “Well, don’t you want to hear about the body?”

  “What are you talking about?” Maybe he’d hit Kohonen a little too hard, perhaps a hemorrhage …

  “A friend of yours, Norman Nash. You know, the guy who broke into the house in Lambert’s Cove. He washed up on South Beach this morning, his pockets full of rocks.” Gardner paused. “And we figured out, from the currents, that the body was thrown into the ocean around Aquinnah, where the Senator, coincidentally, has a house. And I’m not supposed to ask the Senator any questions. You can see the position I’m in.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ranjit repeated. “I’m in a hurry.”

  Officer Gardner ignored him and continued in his calm, reasonable voice. “Last week I had a chat with the Senator’s chief aide. He was asking me about you, said he was worried about your credentials as a caretaker. I told him that you had been a good citizen, told him that you had identified the Nash brothers. Now one of them washes up, dead. And the aide, apparently, he can’t be found. So you see, Mr. Singh, the Senator gets shot, Norman Nash is dead, and the link in common is you. You sure you don’t want to talk to me?”

  Getting into his truck, Ranjit drove away, Gardner’s final words echoing in his ears.

  “National security may protect the Senator, but not you, Mr. Singh. You have to live here, work here, and I’ll be watching you.”

  Now Ranjit walks down the beach, his mind whirling. So Kohonen had done some cleaning up after the shooting, had thrown Norman Nash into the ocean, but misjudged the tides. Where is Kohonen now? Is there any way he can get to Preetam and Shanti inside the prison?

  Ranjit tries Ricky’s cell phone but there is no answer. He just keeps on walking and dialing, and the tenth time he calls, Lallu Singh answers.

  “Lallu? Are they out?”

  There is a fumbling and the phone changes hands.

  “Papaji? Is it you?” Shanti’s high voice fills his ears.

  He stops in his tracks, unable to talk. “Yes,” he manages to say. “It’s me. Beti, I am so—”

  There is a scuffle, and the call ends with a click. He redials the number, punching in each digit with shaking fingers.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Lallu answers. “Everything is all right, we are driving back to Cambridge. A man from the Senator’s office was at the prison, he said it was all a mistake. He even made sure they got their passports back.”

  Ranjit sighs with relief. “Are they fine? Let me talk to Preetam.”

  Lallu’s voice is indignant. “After two weeks in jail, you ask if they are fine? Preetam is so thin, and the little one … Just a second.”

  There are muffled voices, then Lallu returns.

  “Preetam does not wish to talk to you.” In the background he can hear her voice, loud and strident. “She said to tell you that they’re going back to India. They can take the night flight. I will pay for the ticket.”

  “No, Lallu, it’s too dangerous. The General— Look, they must not go—”

  “You are useless, Ranjit, I always said so. The poor woman wants to go home, and I support her.”

  Lallu hangs up. Ranjit stabs at his cell phone, calling back, again and again, but there is no answer. He stares out across the snowy beach at the empty, gray ocean.

  As soon as Preetam lands in India, news will travel through the network of ex–military officers. All it will take is a man on a motorcycle, with a gun or a bomb. Anything can be written off as terrorism these days.

  He runs down the beach, the cold searing his lungs. Starting the truck, he heads back to Oak Bluffs.

  * * *

  The hospital is empty and his footsteps echo as he strides down the corridors. Pushing open the door to the Senator’s room, he sees that the olive-skinned nurse is changing the dressing on the Senator’s chest. Ranjit glimpses purple, pitted flesh before she turns and blocks his view, her face red with anger.

  “Sir, visiting hours are over. It’s seven o’clock.” A wad of gauze is bundled tightly in her hands.

  “Five minutes. Please, it’s urgent.”

  The Senator tries to sit up. “I made the call, Ran-jitt. They should be out by now.”

  “Yes, they are, but—”

  The nurse walks forward, her hands on her wide hips. “If you don’t get out of here, I’ll call security.”

  The Senator smiles his broad politician’s smile. “Nurse, why don’t you see to your next patient? I promise you this pest will leave soon.”

  The nurse backs away, glowering. “I’ll be back in five minutes exactly. He better be gone.”

  When she leaves, Ranjit locks the door and walks over to the bed.

  “Senator, I need to ask you one last question. When you went to India in oh-two, why did you meet Bear Handa? General Bear Handa?”

  The Senator frowns. “Who? I met a lot of Generals back then.”

  “I did some research before I left Boston. There was a photograph in the Indian newspapers of you getting off a plane. General Handa was my commanding officer on the Siachen Glacier, and—”

  The Senator pauses for a second. “The Siachen? Some sort of hotshot climber? Short guy, built like a tank?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The Senator laughs, then gasps in pain. “Yeah, I remember him. He was the worst. He kept trying to convince us that keeping his chunk of frozen ice was essential to India’s security. Why?”

  Ranjit looks down at the floor and his neck burns with shame. “He was my commanding officer. He asked me to do something … unethical, and I refused. That’s why I had to leave India. My wife and daughter are flying back there tonight. If the General finds out, he’ll destroy them. I need your help.”

  “My help?” The Senator stares at him. “I can’t talk to our people in India. If I do, the CIA is going to figure out that I—”

  “Damn it.” Ranjit leans over the bed. His eyes are burning with anger. “Even after all this, you’re only concerned about your reputation? If my daughter dies, her death will be on your head.” He is shouting now. “That’s what you want? Can you live with it?”

  “No, Ran-jitt, for God’s sake, no.” The Senator’s voice is down to a faint whisper. “I still have some informal contacts in India. I’ll make some calls, I’ll see what I can do…”

  The doorknob rattles and an irate voice says, “Hey. That was ten minutes. Let me in, or I’m calling security.”

  “They’ll reach India tomorrow afternoon. There isn’t much time.”

  Ranjit unlocks the door and walks past the furious nurse. He takes the stairs down to the parking lot, his footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell.

  * * *

  Lying on a camp bed in Celia’s office, Ranjit stares at the poster of Rio on the wall, at the hills and bays of a city he will never visit. For an instant Anna and he had dreamed of being together; now she is gone, and all he has left is his family.

  Turning off the light, he stares into the dark, watching a red digital clock on the desk draining time. He calculates and recalculates the hours before Preetam and Shanti arrive in India. If they go via Europe, it will take longer, but if they fly through Dubai, they will be there by midday.

  The dead crowd around him now: Dewan and the Sergeant on the glacier. Norman Nash with his head smashed in. Anna’s teeth stained with blood as she died in his arms.

  He closes his eyes and prays:

  There are so many beggars, but only the Lord can give

  He is the giver of the soul, and the breath of life

  When he dwells within the mind, there is peace

  The world is a drama, staged in a dream, played out in a moment

  Some attain union with the Lord, while others depart in separation

  Whatever pleases Him comes to pass, and nothing else can be done.

  He is still praying when his cell pho
ne rings. The digital clock on the desk says that it is 2:13 A.M.

  The Senator’s voice is faint and exhausted. “I talked to my people. They were in touch with the General till a few years ago, but he’s vanished.”

  Ranjit can barely contain his impatience. “I know that. He’s retired now—”

  “No, not retired. Vanished. He tried to pull some sort of shit. Not clear what. The Indian military has frozen him out, they even axed his pension. He’s disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “This guy is nearly eighty-five, and it looks like he’s finished. You can go to India and bring your family back.”

  “It’s too risky. You said that he vanished—”

  “I worked out a deal for you. You can go back to India. Don’t destroy the microfilm.” The Senator’s breathing is shallow and quick.

  “What kind of deal? I can go home? Are you sure?”

  “I need some time to figure out the details. Come see me tomorrow.”

  “Senator, there is one last thing. There’s a friend of mine, a vet, living in an SRO in Boston. He has cancer, he’s all alone. Can you get him into some decent housing?”

  “Not a problem. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” There is a click and the Senator is gone.

  Ranjit sits rigidly in the dark, still clutching his cell phone. It is stiflingly hot in Celia’s office, and the close air smells like motor oil. He grabs his blue jacket and walks through the garage. Standing outside Mike’s Tow, he looks across Masonic Avenue at the house where they once lived. The tall oak tree in its yard casts a dark shadow across the white snow. It is bone-chillingly cold, and so quiet that the silence rings in his ears.

  On the other side of the world is the heat and noise of India. He imagines Shanti looking out of the plane window as it lands, her nose pressed against the glass.

  Home. He thinks about Shanti when he hears that word.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Home. Three days later, dawn is just breaking as the Air India flight descends out of the sky.

  Ranjit looks down at the broad avenues of Chandigarh, interrupted only by regularly spaced gulmohar trees. As the plane flies lower, he sees rows of concrete houses, their rooftops crowded with antennas and potted plants. A few housewives hanging out wet laundry shield their eyes and wave as the plane flies lower, casting its shadow over the city.

  His hands are sweating, and he wipes them on his trousers before taking out his passport, returned to him by the Senator’s office. Slipped into it is a gift from the Senator: three laminated American green cards. And there is something else.

  When he went back to the hospital, the Senator had whispered into his ear, “My people have talked to Indian Military Intelligence. Take the microfilm back to them. They’ve promised to protect your family if you return it.”

  Ranjit had left the Vineyard the same day.

  Home. Almost there, and he feels acid rush into his stomach. The Senator assured him that he would be protected, but this is India; there are wheels within wheels, and levels of complexity that the Senator may not grasp.

  His mind turns to Preetam. After two weeks in a jail cell, he can’t blame her for running from him. But he has to try to save his family, and he has to see Shanti—he feels a physical ache as he remembers hugging her skinny body.

  The plane’s engines whine as it descends. As soon as the wheels bump against the tarmac, people jump up and begin unloading their bags, ignoring the repeated announcements to remain seated. Even before the plane rolls to a halt, the aisle is crowded with bodies.

  Home. The doors hiss open and warm air floods in, smelling of wet earth mixed in with dust and heat and a million other odors. Ranjit grabs his backpack and joins the crush of passengers streaming down the stairs to the tarmac.

  He walks past puddles of water reflecting the bright morning sky, past tattered trees at the edge of the runway, the air full of twittering mynahs.

  Home. He feels the heat soaking his bones.

  Inside the terminal he stands in a long, irregular line, watching children run amid the shouting and laughing. In front of him is a family, stunned to be finally back: a Punjabi matron with her head covered, her husband anxiously scanning their immigration forms, and a teenage girl in jeans and a pink T-shirt. She turns to her parents and addresses them in an American accent, and her bright eyes and dark hair remind him of Shanti.

  He is sweating as he approaches the khaki-clad immigration official, and can smell the sourness of his body, the odor of guilt. I have nothing to hide, he reminds himself. I’m just another Sikh returning home.

  As the line inches forward, he looks down at his hands, noticing the dark crescents of American dirt still lodged under his fingernails. Life on the Vineyard suddenly seems so far away, and the immigration officials guard his entry into India. Everything now depends on the next few minutes.

  When it is his turn, he steps up to the booth and presents his passport. The immigration official gives him an appraising look, taking in the crisp sky-blue turban and the dark suit. Under the turban, his hair is still short, but his beard and mustache have a clipped, military look.

  “Sat Sri Akal, sir,” the official says, and flips through his brand-new passport, taking in the issue date and the green card. “Ah, you are named Ranjit Singh. Like our great last emperor. But now living in America. Tell me, is it good there?”

  “Mixed,” Ranjit says, forcing a smile. The man distractedly taps information into an old gray desktop computer, squints at the screen, then stamps Ranjit’s passport.

  “Welcome home, sir.”

  It is that simple. After all these years, he cannot believe it.

  Home. He walks through the baggage claim, sidestepping men dragging overstuffed suitcases off the conveyor belt. In a few minutes he is through the green channel and out of the exit doors.

  Outside is the chaos of India. The arcade is crowded with touts who see him emerge and notice that there is no family to greet him.

  “Mister! Here! Taxi?”

  “No, no, here. Hotel, mister? You have dollars?”

  Men and boys swarm around Ranjit, tugging at his backpack.

  Ranjit strides down the arcade, saying, No, no, no.

  He is busy keeping his backpack in sight when a lanky young man falls in by his side. The man’s hair is shorn, aviator sunglasses cover his eyes, and he’s wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and pressed khakis, the clothes favored by out-of-uniform army officers.

  The Senator was wrong. The General is still powerful, and Ranjit will be dead within minutes. Can he keep walking? Can he run?

  “Captain Singh?”

  The touts crowd around Ranjit, blocking any escape. The young man turns and shouts at them in Punjabi, and hearing the authority in his voice, they scatter.

  He turns to Ranjit. “Sir, I was sent by the Battalion. We were alerted of your arrival through certain channels. You have something for us? I was sent to collect it.”

  The microfilm. It’s not the General after all. Relief floods through Ranjit, and he unslings his backpack and takes out a small manila envelope. Inside is the microfilm, retrieved from James on the way to Logan Airport.

  “Here it is. I was promised protection in exchange.”

  The young man slips the envelope into his breast pocket, then looks around, the blank aviator shades hiding his eyes. “Sir, we promised to protect your family. But if you stay here…” He shrugs his muscular shoulders. “Well, that is a difficult situation.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “We cannot protect you, Captain. Your presence here will attract too much attention. Yes, we have resources, but even we have limits.” He gestures to a jeep at the end of the arcade. “Can I drop you somewhere? I have transportation.”

  “Listen to me. The deal was for permanent protection—”

  “I am just the messenger, Captain.” The young man salutes smartly and walks away.

  “Wait.”
Ranjit’s voice is hard. “I served this country. I gave everything for it. I deserve better than this.”

  The man pauses by a pillar, then turns and walks back. His voice is halting now, losing its military crispness.

  “Sir, I am speaking unofficially now. There will never be an official apology, but the military knows what General Handa did to you. You are an honorable man, Captain, and what happened to you was wrong.”

  Confusion spreads through Ranjit’s mind. “What are you referring to? My court-martial?”

  The young man takes Ranjit by the shoulder and leads him behind a pillar. “The court-martial was unnecessary, Captain. You were innocent all along. General Handa knew it was our own people up there. He deliberately sent you to the wrong sector. It seems that he wanted to prolong the war, even if it meant killing our own men and blaming it on the Pakistanis.” The man’s voice hardens with rage. “We only found out a year ago. We would have court-martialed the bastard, but he’s a war hero, he’s even been awarded the Param Vir Chakra. All we could do was force him to resign.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Now he’s vanished, but there are still officers loyal to him. They won’t hurt a woman and child, but there is a price on your head. My advice to you, Captain, is don’t stay here. Sooner or later someone will recognize you.”

  The young man salutes crisply. “Good luck, Captain.” He walks quickly through the arcade, vaults into a jeep, and it roars away through the crowds.

  Ranjit slumps against the pillar, stunned.

  The briefing before his last mission. He has carried the memory of it with him all these years.

  He is sitting with Khandelkar in a darkened auditorium at headquarters. Two men in plainclothes pore over maps, showing them the route. Maintain radio silence, they say. No transmissions. No helicopter evacuations, no ammo drops. And there is a darkened figure sitting at the back of the room, listening, and not saying a word. Halfway through the briefing the man leaves, and Ranjit sees, pinned to his chest, the flash of a round medal, something vaguely familiar about it.

  Now he knows. That medal was the Param Vir Chakra. Both General Handa and his father had received the same medal for the same battle; the General had made it a point to tell him about it.