Season of Sacrifice Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent titles by Bharti Kirchner from Severn House

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Recent titles by Bharti Kirchner from Severn House

  GODDESS OF FIRE

  The Maya Mallick series

  SEASON OF SACRIFICE

  About the Author

  Bharti Kirchner is the author of seven critically acclaimed novels, four cookbooks and hundreds of short pieces which were published in magazines and newspapers. Bharti has written for Food & Wine, Writer’s Digest, The Writer, Fitness Plus, San Francisco Chronicle and The Seattle Times. Her essays have appeared in ten anthologies. She has won numerous awards for her writing, including a Virginia Center for the Creative Arts Fellowship. Prior to becoming a writer, Bharti worked as a systems engineer for IBM and as a systems manager for Bank of America, San Francisco. She has also worked in Europe and other continents as a computer systems consultant. Bharti lives in the US with her husband. Visit www.bhartikirchner.com for more details.

  SEASON OF SACRIFICE

  A Maya Mallick Mystery

  Bharti Kirchner

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Bharti Kirchner.

  The right of Bharti Kirchner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8724-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-831-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-899-5 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  For Didi, Rinku, Tinni, and Tom

  How fortunate I am to have you in my life

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Warm thanks go to those who stood by me during the creation of this book. Their names (in no particular order) are: Kimberly Ito, Debra Borchert, Elena Hartwell, Tami Euliano, Christine Mason, and Gail Kretchmer. Their optimism and suggestions have helped give life to this project.

  I am also fortunate to have a stellar publishing team. Priya Doraswamy, agent nonpareil, is always supportive and always a pleasure to work with. Everyone at Severn House has given enormous care and thought to this task. I’ll forever be grateful to all of you.

  I am deeply appreciative of my scientist friends whose knowledge has informed the premise of my story. Special thanks go to Mike Hawley, who patiently answered my questions about police procedures. And to 4Culture for a grant that partially supported this project.

  To those not directly connected with my efforts, but who have sustained me over the years, I say thank you. Shau-lee Chow for the trips to the shows and for always having a spirit of joy. Rekha Sood and Santosh Wahi for leisurely lunches and sisterhood. Lakshmi Gaur for wide-ranging conversations that kept me centered whenever we could catch a few moments. Lalitha Uppala for being there. Elizabeth George for somehow managing to find time for tea and shop talk. Deepa Banerjee, Librarian at the University of Washington, for her confidence in me.

  And, finally, to my husband Tom for his love, support and encouragement. You ultimately made this possible.

  ‘Truth exists, only falsehood has to be invented.’

  Georges Braque

  ‘We do not live an equal life, but one of contrasts and patchwork; now a little joy, then a sorrow, now a sin, then a generous or brave action.’

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  ONE

  With the early morning summer breeze tickling the back of her neck, Maya Mallick hurried toward the neighborhood bakery for pastries and a jolt of caffeine. She needed the energy to finish a project she’d acquired in her previous job as a nutritionist.

  Her eyes took in the well-kept Tudors, Dutch Colonials, Craftsman bungalows and occasional modern mansions that typified the Green Lake district of Seattle. Rounding the corner, from half a block away, she spied a crowd of ten or so people. Eyes closed and dressed in white, they overflowed the sidewalk in front of an imposing oyster-gray house that loomed over the intersection. A rally of some sort? Her instinct as a private investigator demanded to know. Or a benefit event? No – they emitted a loud, throaty, harsh and almost spooky chant in an unfamiliar tongue.

  Although she knew she had to get going, Maya approached and stood a respectful distance behind the group. Wearing her white top and matching pants, she blended in; nobody would notice her, or so she hoped.

  A petite young woman stepped forward from the group, turning briefly to face the crowd. Her full body except her eyes was shielded by a dazzling white shroud; a garland of white lilies encircled her neck. Chests vibrating, arms linked, the group arranged itself around her in a tight semicircle and continued chanting.

  An olive-skinned man of medium height with a hat slanted across his forehead nudged the woman forward. He wore a white jacket and dark, wraparound sunglasses, even though the sunlight was feeble. There was something sinister about him. His middle finger sported a wide silver band.

  Watch him, a feeling in her gut insisted. Maya stood on her toes and glanced at him, trying not to be obvious.

  The young woman sank to her knees, whispered a few words to Sunglasses Man and sent him a longing look as he bent over her like an executioner.

  The chanting continued, the chorus ascending and then dramatically descending, sounding
cruel and evil. A second woman came forward, pivoted and faced the assembly. Taller than the first, she was also dressed in a white shroud, with a similar garland around her neck. Maya saw only the woman’s bright eyes above her veil, eyes that looked familiar. They reminded her of Sylvie, a dedicated malaria research scientist and the sister of Maya’s best friend. Sylvie had been adopted from a Tibetan refugee camp in Darjeeling, India, when she was still a baby. Her bloodline could be traced to a Tibetan royal family. But Sylvie, who didn’t have a political bone, wouldn’t come to a street rally. She’d rather be cooped up in her research lab for a twelve-hour day.

  And yet, Maya’s chest tightened. She called out, ‘Sylvie?’

  The chanting stopped for an anxious moment.

  With a sweep of his hand, Sunglasses Man gave the second woman the go-ahead. She took a few shuffling, mechanical steps, unsteadily assumed her place beside her companion and gazed up at the mansion.

  With his thumbnail, Sunglasses Man ignited a pair of red-tipped wooden matches and handed one to each woman. After uttering a few instructions, he backed away to a safe distance. The women accepted the tiny, playful sparks as if in a trance.

  ‘Don’t!’ Maya screamed.

  In delicate, graceful strokes, the women drew the flickering matchsticks along their clothing, which must had been doused with gasoline or another combustible fluid. Flames, accompanied by an audible whooshing sound, billowed, tattooed and engulfed them, burned a dark, malevolent red and shriveled the lilies. Sunglasses Man stood still at a distance.

  ‘No!’ Maya shouted and blinked, still paying close attention.

  Both women screamed; the sound pierced Maya to the bone. She shoved through the human shield but a man pushed her back, nearly knocking her to the ground. A bitter odor settled in the air.

  ‘Stop!’ she yelled. A surge of panic welled up within her, crushing her chest like a vise.

  Her plea brought no reaction. She’d left her cellphone in the car; she couldn’t call 911. She tried to tear the jacket off a mustachioed man in front of her but he shook her off.

  ‘This is a sacred ceremony, miss,’ he said in an edgy voice.

  She’d seen him before but she couldn’t remember where – this sixtyish, ruddy-skinned man with a boxer’s nose and a neatly trimmed mustachio. ‘Ceremony?’ she asked, but received no reply.

  Still screaming, the taller woman tugged an ornament from her forearm. Fingers curling, tongues of blue-streaked flame dancing over her body and showing their rage, she flung it to the ground, the item of evidence. The inch-wide, solid gold bracelet rolled away, hit the edge of the pavement and came to a halt.

  Her mind in a whirl, Maya stared at the burning women and again tried to get closer, only to be shoved back. The air, now thick with a nauseating odor of burning flesh, made her gag.

  Arms extended, the women slumped forward. Sunglasses Man motioned the members of the prayer group to move farther away. The group chanted louder now, a distraction from the women, their white clothes appearing yellow in the glow of the flames.

  A blue Nissan cruised up the side street and slowed. Maya sprinted to the car, frantically waved at the driver and pounded on his rear window. ‘Call an ambulance. Quick!’

  The driver accelerated, as though he hadn’t heard her or noticed the macabre scene.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Maya shrieked. ‘We’ve got to save them!’

  Her eyes filled with tears, her ears rang and her heart threatened to push up into her throat. In her thirty-three years she’d never seen anything remotely like this. Ritualistic suicides? They only occurred in places like Tunisia or Tibet, not in this sleepy Seattle hood. She stumbled back and stood behind the chanters. Chest heaving, she gasped for breath, a putrid breeze around her. The air boomed with the sound of prayer. A few neighbors trotted out of their houses, perhaps to see what the hullabaloo was about.

  The tall woman toppled onto her right; her companion slumped forward. Mouth tasting bitter, her insides churning, Maya imagined how they must feel: dizzy, confused and craving oxygen, with unbearable heat gnawing on their flesh, their hope stolen. The prayer group’s eerie chanting rose to a crescendo, as though inviting more destruction. With her arm outstretched, Maya again tried to get close to the women, to hear their last words, to say or do anything to help ease their suffering, but the wave of heat pushed her back. Then there was a crackling sound.

  Sunglasses Man glared at Maya and yelled a warning – ‘Nyet!’ – to a person who now stood next to her.

  A silver stick sliced the air, struck her elbow and lower back with a sickening sound of metal on flesh and bone. Maya bit her lip, recoiled from the shooting pain and turned to face the attacker, but tripped and lost her balance.

  She stumbled against a maple tree on the sidewalk and grasped at a rough branch. The bark scraped her back, her ankle twisting beneath her, and she slid to a sitting position at the base of the tree.

  A dour, compact, middle-aged man, with a deep mahogany complexion and droopy eyelids, stood over her. Jerk! She wanted to kick him. Clean-shaven, balanced on a pair of metal crutches, he was clad in a crisp white shirt and shorts, his right leg encased in a toe-to-hip cast.

  Damn you! More curses welled up in her throat as she rose but Maya didn’t utter them, only managed to squeak out in her flustered state, ‘Why?’

  The man stood before her like a stern disciplinarian. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, miss?’ She noted the rapid delivery and the lilting Indian accent of a fellow countryman, a desi. ‘You mustn’t go any closer. Hear me? Those two ladies sacrificed themselves to protest the Chinese atrocities in Tibet.’

  Maya rubbed her elbow with her free hand, her twisted ankle now throbbing dully as she cast him a fierce look.

  ‘I knew the taller one.’ He looked around nervously. ‘We were members of the same meditation group. She sent me a text early this morning. It was her wish.’

  Should she believe this man? Maya’s voice rose above the chanting. ‘This is insane. You’re asking me to mind my own business? I’m a private investigator.’

  The whining of a siren cut through the air. Maya looked up and took several steps back along the sidewalk. The chanting voices faded; the prayer group dispersed. The gathering pedestrians quickly stepped aside as a fire truck pulled up next to the flaming bodies. Sunglasses Man had slipped away from the crowd. Maya focused on the street, saw his back fast disappearing.

  Firemen in full gear charged from the truck. Several crouched over the bodies, extinguished the few lingering flames and checked for vital signs. An ambulance screeched to a halt by the truck. So did two blue-and-white police squad cars, their lights pulsing.

  ‘I am Officer Rand from the city,’ a uniformed policeman, displaying his badge, announced to the onlookers. ‘Please move back.’ He sealed off the area with yellow crime-scene tape.

  Maya crossed the street to the opposite sidewalk. The man on crutches was also there. He stared at her and she could read his unspoken thought: You’re from India, too? It would be natural for him to reach this conclusion since Maya had typical Indian features: dark eyes dominating a honey-colored, round face, a small forehead and bushy eyebrows. She was five foot four and wore a mid-length, layered haircut like many modern Indian women.

  ‘You know about the Chinese foreign minister Hui Yu’s visit, don’t you?’ said the man in a strained voice, pointing at the oyster-gray mansion across the street. ‘The criminal is staying there – his son’s home – instead of at the Chinese consulate. The limo parked in front is his official car. It’s all in today’s daily.’

  Maya peered up at the modern mansion, the tallest building in sight. The Chinese national flag, red strewn with gold stars, fluttered above its roof. She was aware that the Chinese used red to symbolize passion, happiness and revolution as well as sacrifice. The black limousine parked in front had two small Chinese flags fluttering on short poles affixed to the mirrors. Those flags in the car indicated it
was, indeed, the temporary home of a dignitary from Beijing.

  Paramedics wrapped the blackened bodies in white sheets, loaded them onto a pair of gurneys, slid them into the back of the ambulance and sped away. A few people stepped forward, bent down and touched the ashen dust in a gesture of respect.

  ‘Our two sisters are so brave,’ the man on crutches mumbled.

  Were so brave. They were no longer brave. They were no longer anything at all. The unbearable stench and thick smoke were proof. Several bystanders wiped their eyes, as did Maya. Somewhere a bird made an intermittent chirping noise.

  It couldn’t have been Sylvie.

  A light of devotion in his gaze, the veins of his throat bulging, the man on crutches said out loud, ‘May our beloved sisters find peace. May we keep them in our hearts forever. May we all be kind to one another.’

  Maya sensed movement around her. With gloved hands, a police officer started taking measurements of the area. Another officer had begun gathering bystanders for interviews. He didn’t notice Maya standing off to the side.

  A second look at him and Maya turned to stone. Detective Justin Stevenson of the Seattle Police Department. The cool cop – tall, lanky and handsome, blue eyes turning indigo in the intensity of the situation – was a former lover who had come close to being Mr Right. Until he’d ditched her.

  As an eyewitness, shouldn’t she speak with him about this bizarre and violent incident? Then, as she glanced at her watch, an alarm bell went off in her head. She had already cancelled an appointment with her client once before due to a schedule mix-up. She couldn’t afford to cancel again; she needed the funds. Bending to touch her swollen ankle, burning with pain, she felt the need to sit down. Another glance at Justin Stevenson and she decided to call him from the privacy of her car, when her senses would be sharper.

  Heads low, steps heavy, keys jingling, part of the crowd melted away. Others took pictures and conversed in low voices. Video camera in hand, a journalist arrived. Thank heavens the bodies were already on their way to the hospital. Maya started walking, the ache of her ankle overwhelmed by the discomfort in her gut.