Season of Sacrifice Read online

  Directly below the headline was a headshot of Atticus, a gaunt-faced, serious-looking accountant in his late forties, the same man who’d prevented her from assisting Sylvie. His lips were slightly parted in a smile but the rest of his visage refused to cooperate; his eyes and forehead remained stubbornly gloomy.

  Maya clicked on the Contact Us @ button. A number flashed before her, which she punched into her cellphone. It came as a surprise when the man himself answered. She identified herself by her first name only.

  ‘Oh, Maya. So sorry. Hope your elbow is feeling better. Is there a way I can make it up to you?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like to speak with you. Sylvie Burton was my best friend Veen’s sister. Veen won’t be at peace until she finds out what really happened. When I put myself in her shoes, I feel her terrible desperation. And I knew Sylvie. I want to help Veen by piecing together the last few months of Sylvie’s life.’

  ‘Oh, you knew Sylvie. What a surprise. I dearly loved her, gentle soul. I, too, am in the dark, and having the worst time, but please come over. We can commiserate. My condo is situated right across from the Green Lake.’

  It gave Maya pause, the notion of visiting a stranger in his condo, a man she didn’t trust. ‘Any chance we could meet in a coffee shop?’

  ‘With my leg fucked-up like this – pardon my language – I haven’t been out of the condo much in the last several weeks. A friend has been doing the grocery shopping for me or else I’d starve. I overdid it yesterday by going to the demonstration – been in pain ever since. Now I’m waiting for a client call on my landline. You’ll be safe. I don’t bite and I promise not to hit you again.’

  She replied to his outpouring with a caustic laugh. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re a Bengali, aren’t you? You have that glow about you—’

  ‘When can we talk?’

  ‘Right now. By the time you get here, I’ll have coffee and homemade cupcakes ready. Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten much since yesterday – haven’t felt like it. I’m single, but I cook and bake. My ex-wife – ex as far as I’m concerned – used to say real men don’t make cupcakes, but I’m a real man and I do. I follow a recipe like it’s a mathematical puzzle and, if I may say so, my cranberry cupcakes are delicious raised to the power of two.’

  He seemed a bit too much, this lonely guy. Should Maya call on an overeager bachelor in his lair?

  ‘I can provide personal references, if you like,’ Atticus said in a light tone.

  Maya smiled bitterly to herself. This undertaking might be worth it if she could get some sort of a hint from Atticus, a reaction that slipped out of his mouth, one that pertained to Sylvie. If Maya sensed any threat, she’d run out of his place. And surely she could outrun a man on crutches. ‘What is your address, Mr Biswas?’

  ‘Atticus,’ he said. ‘Please call me Atticus.’ He recited his address, which turned out to be less than ten minutes from her home.

  ‘I’ll be there in fifteen. By the way, have you been calling my office?’

  He mumbled something, which could be either a yes or no, but she knew the answer.

  After rustling through her purse for her car keys, she walked into the kitchen. Her gaze alighted on the tall, glass-fronted cabinet on the opposite wall that displayed her antique teacup-and-saucer collection. Missing was the pink-and-white demitasse, broken and discarded. To the right, hunched over the sink, Uma rinsed a stack of dishes. A basket of purple plums, stationed on the counter, exuded a rich, ripe smell. Uma would keep busy baking a tart, Maya assumed. Still, the thought of leaving her alone worried Maya.

  Amidst the sound of running water and the clattering of dishes, Maya announced that she’d be gone for a while.

  Uma turned. ‘Running off again? Will you be home for dinner?’

  Maya nodded. Before Uma could say more – her eager open mouth and widened eyes a clear sign that she was ready to do that – Maya waved and marched out the door.

  She jerked at the sound of a leaf-blower from a neighbor’s sidewalk. Her eyes rested on a snapdragon patch in front of her house bursting with flaming red, dragon-mouthed blossoms, and she shivered. Might it be the suggestion of a dragon? A reminder of the red flag fluttering over the Chinese foreign minister’s temporary residence? The shock of the frightfully red blaze over Sylvie’s body?

  Before climbing into the car, Maya halted and considered again whether she should visit Atticus.

  It’ll be all right, she said to herself, her hands unsteady on the steering wheel.

  FIVE

  Ten minutes later, Maya gazed at the upscale, five-story condominium complex before her, which had taken on a saffron hue in the lazy afternoon light. From each unit a private balcony jutted out, complete with grillwork for the railing. An identical building stood across from it.

  Once inside, she rode the elevator to the second floor, listened to the prattle of children down the hallway and knocked on the door of number 207, stirred by the twang of a sitar striking a sad-sweet melody.

  Atticus opened the door, balancing on his fiberglass crutches. His ears stuck out, creating an impression of constant alertness. ‘Please come in,’ he oozed. ‘You got here in only ten minutes. Do you live nearby?’

  ‘You play a musical instrument?’

  ‘Only for myself.’ Keys jangling, he locked the door from inside.

  ‘Why did you have to—?’

  ‘That’s the way this lock has been designed.’

  She drew closer, snatched the key from his hand and took a pace back, saying, ‘I’ll keep this for the duration of my visit, if you don’t mind.’

  Although appearing to be taken aback, he nodded and ushered her into the living room, which extended into a dining area. Maya’s gaze swept over a snug, luxurious flat, which had bamboo flooring, an ivory rug, a stylishly neutral palette and matching modern furnishings. Large windows let in a wealth of sunlight, as well as a wink of the lake.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to live like Mahatma Gandhi.’ Atticus invited her to a seat at one end of an oval dining table. ‘Haven’t quite made it. Gandhi would probably look at all this and say, “Still too many possessions, young fellow.”’

  Maya smiled. ‘He’d say the same to me.’

  While waiting for him to sit down, Maya checked the rest of the room. A chess set had fallen off an end table. A sitar case reclined in a far corner, surrounded by a haphazard arrangement of cushions. The wall on the left was taken up by a large bookcase laden with books, photographs and CD cases, some items overflowing. Dust had collected on a brass figurine of Goddess Saraswati, the goddess of learning, standing on the same bookcase. The sense of the place was one of culture and learning, being uprooted and not being cared for.

  Atticus stowed his crutches neatly against the far wall, wobbled for a second and perched on a chair at the other end of the table, elevating his leg onto a stool. ‘Imagine an accountant losing his balance! I can’t wait to get rid of these. It kills me, you know, the potholes on the sidewalk, getting into and out of the elevator and, oh, the strain on my shoulders. Normally I relax in a legs-up-the-wall stance, but I can’t quite get into that position anymore. Have to wait a few more days.’

  ‘Were you in an accident?’

  The ceiling light accentuated Atticus’ grave features. ‘Long story. Yes, you might call it an accident.’

  ‘Anything to do with Sylvie?’ Maya spotted the lines of distress on his face. She’d get back to that topic later. ‘I’m still trying to make sense of what happened yesterday.’

  She followed his eyes to a coffee pot and a platter of cupcakes placed at the center of the table. Could she really trust the food? ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’ She made an excuse about having a queasy stomach.

  Atticus served himself, made a sound of satisfaction, soon demolished the cupcake on his plate and looked at her with mournful brown eyes. ‘My wife left me – no warning. I got home one afternoon and all her personal belongings were gone. She’d wiped out my bank account to
o. She even had the nerve to move into an apartment building across from mine. Never another Ukrainian woman again.’

  Maya shook her head. He had a Ukrainian wife, who perhaps spoke Russian as one of her languages. She remembered the nyet from Sunglasses Man, an ominous sound.

  ‘So why were you at the demonstration?’ She noticed a change in Atticus’ expression. ‘It seemed so unreal, like a setup, like I’d walked into the last act of a play with you in it. Nobody would let me help Sylvie. Thinking back, I can’t put two and two together. Might you, as an accountant, be able to do that?’

  ‘What’s two and two? Whatever the tax code says it is. Did you know that two is both even and prime?’

  ‘Oh, cool, but to get back to the urgent matter at hand – I assume you were part of the prayer group who shielded Sylvie?’

  ‘No. I know zilch about them. Never seen them before. Never heard that type of chanting. They don’t belong to our center.’

  Really? Maya would have to track down one of the chanters, the mustachioed man with a boxer’s nose whom she’d seen in her neighborhood. For now, she resorted to a different question. ‘Do you mind telling me how long ago you first met Sylvie and where?’

  ‘Two years ago. At our weekly meditation session.’

  ‘I suppose you clicked?’

  ‘Yes, she was a neat woman.’ His eyes were misty. ‘We became fast friends, even though I’m older by more than ten years. Our guru asked me to be Sylvie’s spiritual brother and get her oriented to the practice. That brought us closer together. We’d usually have eight or so people show up for meditation – Sylvie one of them. Once the session was over, we’d all go to the Bodhi Teahouse a block away, then a gang of us would head out to sup.’

  ‘Sounds like a friendly bunch.’

  If only for a second, Atticus’ eyes focused intently on his empty plate. ‘Quite. I’ve been with that group for over a decade, although my attendance did fall off for a period when I got married.’

  He looked up at Maya and, though she’d met him only yesterday, she sensed that he would pour out more of his marital woes at the slightest cue from her. But the mention of the meditation practice had given Maya a pinprick of discomfort. She wasn’t sure why. And the fact that he was Sylvie’s spiritual brother. Maya’s own efforts at meditation had not been successful. She could never set herself in the full lotus position. Nonetheless, she wanted to exhaust the topic.

  ‘Would I be interested in a group like yours?’ she asked.

  He sat back in his chair and spoke in a lofty manner. ‘We don’t speak about our practice. It’s not a religion, only a discipline for maintaining a healthy mind and body, and we don’t proselytize.’

  She kept her face open and friendly as she ventured, ‘Even if someone is eager to give your discipline a try, you don’t welcome them?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Ours is a closed group. We have strict rules for joining as was dictated by our master. He’s ascended to the afterlife, but his disciple – who goes by one name, Padmaraja – is now our guru. Padmaraja channels his wisdom weekly to us, his disciples.’ He gestured toward a silver-framed studio photo on the wall of an elderly, slightly smiling, distinguished East-Asian man. ‘Our beloved master.’

  Weird. A disciple, an earthling, who bridged the material world to the afterlife? In heaven, or wherever the master resided, he came up with a weekly lesson plan for the group? Get real.

  She thought out loud. ‘I wonder why Sylvie, a medical researcher who worked in the scientific community, would be drawn to this practice.’

  His face had shut down; must be to do with her insensitive remark. Still, she couldn’t help but say, ‘So far you haven’t suggested any ties between your meditation group and the immolations.’

  He stared at the photo on the wall and said emphatically, ‘There are absolutely no ties. Our guru had nothing to do with it.’

  She decided to try another tack. ‘You know, Atticus, that guy in sunglasses used the word nyet. Remember? Russian accent. Was he giving you a warning to back off?’

  He expelled a sigh. ‘I’m not a good judge of accents. Nor do I like to overanalyze. I like order and perfection. For me, numbers have to add up right. I find myself in a situation where nothing adds up.’

  ‘Do you have any Russian speakers in your meditation group?’

  ‘None. Except for Sylvie and me, our group is all born and raised here.’

  ‘You told me about the final text Sylvie sent you. Her sister Veen didn’t get a text. I’m sure she would like to know what it said.’

  His face became taut with an unreadable expression. ‘I couldn’t make heads or tails out of that text, which freaked the hell out of me. I had to erase it.’

  You want me to believe that? She’d learned from Detective Justin that people lie to the authorities, sometimes for no reason at all, and also lie by omission.

  ‘Please think hard—’

  Atticus interrupted, one hand extended as though unable to listen to her anymore. ‘My leg hurts if I sit too long.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  He squeezed his eyes shut, as though in pain.

  ‘Sorry to have bothered you.’ She rose heavily. ‘May I call you at a better time – tomorrow, perhaps?’

  He opened his eyes. ‘I’ll have to check my schedule.’

  Maya took up her purse, pulled out her new calling card and slid it across the table toward him. ‘Give me a call when your leg doesn’t hurt and you’re willing to help a grieving family.’

  He checked the card. ‘I did hear you say this morning you were a private investigator. I didn’t realize you worked for Detectives Unlimited of Kolkata. I’ve heard of them. My niece in Kolkata, whose cheating husband was found dead, used the services of D.U. and was extremely satisfied. Please, sit down, Srimati Maya.’

  Maya nodded and regained her seat. Srimati was a term attributed to young women in India. She made a note of his reverence for his motherland. ‘I’ll stay only if you tell me your long story. Mind if I take notes?’ At his nod, she took a pen and notepad from her purse and clicked the ballpoint.

  ‘A gang beat me up because of Sylvie.’

  Yeah? Maya gestured for him to elaborate. Faced with silence, she said, ‘If confidentiality is a factor here, I can fully appreciate that. After all, I’m a stranger. But the same gang could go after your guru and try to harm him. What will happen then?’

  ‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t be able to bear that. In his absence, our meditation center will have to shut down. We’ll be orphaned. The very thought makes me want to throw up.’

  ‘Another possibility. If the police ever find out Sylvie regularly went to that meditation center, they could become suspicious. They might arrest the guru. What then?’

  ‘OK, I’ll tell you my story. You see, I enjoy a midnight snack, a terribly unhealthy habit, you might say. On one night three weeks ago, my cupboard was empty. I drove to the grocery store, parked my car in an almost empty lot and bought a packet of cheese crackers – I’m addicted to that stuff. I was about to get back into my car when two heavyset men wearing ski masks grabbed me from behind and dragged me into the trees at the edge of the lot. One of them had a thick, heavy stick with him.

  ‘“Stop hanging around Sylvie, old man,” one of them shouted at me in a heavy accent that I couldn’t place. “Sylvie and I are just friends,” I told them. I didn’t say the rest: don’t be ridiculous, I’m much older than her and I’m no prince charming, I’m her spiritual brother. And, in any case, my preference is for women with big breasts. They began punching me.’

  Atticus went quiet for a moment. Maya watched him intently for any sign of deception: body rigid, fingers shaking, eyes moving right and gripped with the horror of the memory. His voice rang with honesty. Most likely, he wasn’t making this up.

  ‘Go on, Atticus,’ Maya said, almost in a whisper.

  ‘Well, Maya, I’ve never dealt with gangster types in my life but I could tell these guys were amate
urs. They seemed nervous and constantly looked around; maybe someone had paid them. “Hey, Sylvie and I only talk about mantras and sutras,” I said. I begged them not to twist my arm so hard.’

  ‘Did they say anything?’ Maya asked, still looking to find any holes in his story.

  ‘Yes, one of them told me that Sylvie was trouble and that I should stay away from her. I had no idea what they meant. Sylvie was the last person on earth I’d describe as “trouble.”’

  ‘I share your feelings,’ Maya said.

  ‘I told them that Sylvie and I were worlds apart. That they’d obviously made a mistake. I must have made them madder. One of them raised his stick. I was trembling, practically peeing in my pants. All day long, Maya, I help people with their tax issues, troubles they didn’t know they had. Or I ponder the new largest prime number. Or I do games to cross-train my brain. Those are all I’m good for. The excitement was too much for me.’

  ‘And then?’

  Atticus looked down at his shaking hands. ‘The guy struck me at an angle and smashed my leg. Oh, the pain that zinged through me! All the lights went out before my eyes. I screamed, slipped and hit the ground. “You motor-mouth, you S-O-B,” the guy said. “Shut the hell up. Don’t let the story get out or we’ll be back and the next time we’ll kill you.” They took off, got into an SUV and sped away. I somehow willed myself to drive to the hospital. And here I am, with a broken leg and a broken spirit, wondering who was behind all this.’ He paused. ‘By the way, you’re the only one I’ve shared the full story with.’

  ‘You didn’t talk to the police?’

  ‘No. Couldn’t make myself go to the precinct and offer a statement. I feared those thugs and didn’t want any negative publicity. I have a small business; reputation means a lot in my field. If my ex-wife, Klara, that mad woman, found out, she’d join in my character assassination. I’d have to move to Bora Bora or some such faraway place.’