Penumbra (39 page)

‘Please describe the softscreen.’

‘Well . . .’ Bennett gestured. ‘It’s just an old softscreen, showing scenes of an expedition through mountainous territory.’

The sergeant stood. ‘Please stay here. I’ll be one moment only.’ He moved around the desk and left the office.

Bennett slipped the receiver from his pocket. The screen indicated that the softscreen was located directly before him, and less than a metre away.

It was in the sergeant’s desk, then.

He considered looking through the desk while the sergeant was away. But if he was caught. . . No, better to wait, as instructed.

Two minutes later the sergeant returned and took his seat behind the desk. ‘If you would care to wait one moment, please. There is someone who would like to see you.’

Bennett nodded and sat back in his chair, confused by this turn of events. The softscreen, which he had travelled from the Rim to find, was less than one metre from him, and he was absolutely powerless to do anything about it.

He wondered who, in Calcutta, might wish to meet him.

* * * *

20

Rana Rao thought that there were three types of pain. The first was the dull pain of dying, when the injury was so severe that the body shut down and anaesthetised the senses. The second was the sharp pain of recovery, when you often wished that you had died. The third type of pain was the pain of betrayal, and perhaps that was the most agonising of all. She had experienced all three types of pain, from the second Klien fired at her all the way through to being discharged from hospital.

She’d lost consciousness soon after she was shot, then came awake - disoriented and confused - some unknown time later in a private hospital room, abstracted from sensation by sedatives and analgesics. At that first stirring of consciousness, at some lonely time in the dark early hours, she was ridiculously concerned about only one thing. She had never been vain about her appearance, but now she tried to reach up and touch her face. Her arms seemed to be tied down - no, not tied down, but restricted by tubes and catheters, their plastic loops and lengths catching a distant light. She pulled against them and the muscles of her shoulders protested, but she managed to bring her finger-tips up to her cheek and lean forward minimally. She almost wept with relief as her fingers encountered soft flesh. She tried the other side then, and discovered that that cheek was also unscarred.

Then she remembered the shoot-out. Klien had shot the security officers and left her for dead. He’d had no time to scar her.

‘You shouldn’t do that.’ She was aware of the face swimming into her view, gentle hands on hers, forcing her arms down by her sides. ‘Close your eyes and rest,’ the nurse said. ‘There, try to sleep.’

When she awoke next it was to a searing pain in her chest, as if a burning arrow had lodged itself in her sternum. She screamed and opened her eyes and saw many green-smocked medics gathered around her bed, staring at her without expression above surgical masks. In that intense second of agony she wished that Klien had succeeded and killed her. Then the pain diminished, and she closed her eyes and drifted off into oblivion.

She seemed to wake up frequently after that, for short periods between long stretches of sedation, and always the pain was a little less intense. Always she tried to remain awake a little longer, without success.

She remembered fragments from these awakenings. Vishwanath sitting beside her, concern etched on his aquiline face, a hand on hers. He was saying something, asking her if she could recall anything, but when she tried to speak she found that the words would not come. The next time she opened her eyes she saw Naz standing next to the bed, a bunch of flowers in his hand. He reached out and took her fingers. ‘Truce?’ he asked, and this time she managed a few words: ‘Ah-cha, truce.’

The next time she came to her senses, it seemed to her a proper awakening. It was morning, and she was in a different room, with sunlight spilling in through a window, illuminating her bed and so many beautiful, fragrant flowers. She was no longer attached to drips and tubes. She wondered if she were out of intensive care now, if she would live. She looked through the door of her room. An armed guard was stationed there. She closed her eyes, against her will, and slept.

A voice came to her as if from a great distance. ‘Rana?’

She tried to open her eyes, to focus. She recognised the voice. She smiled. It was her father’s voice, and she was five again, and he was playing with her on the lawn of the mansion . . .

She opened her eyes.

‘Rana?’ Vishwanath said. He sat on a chair next to the bed, leaning forward and staring at her.

She turned her head slightly, managed a smile.

‘I don’t want you to speak if it’s too difficult, Rana.’

She tried to lick her dry lips. She was aware that she was thirsty. ‘I’m fine,’ she murmured. ‘Can . . . can I have water?’

He jumped up to fetch a glass of water, held it to her lips. The sensation of the cold, clear liquid wetting her lips and flowing over her tongue was a delight.

She dropped her head back to the pillow. The effort of drinking had exhausted her.

‘You’re lucky to be alive, Rana.’ He squeezed her hand.

‘How . . . how long have I been—’

‘Almost a month, Rana. You were in a coma for two weeks, and then in intensive care on a life support machine for a week. You don’t know how lucky you were. The laser missed your heart and spine by millimetres.’

‘A month . . .’ She marvelled to herself.

‘The killer got away, Rana. When the medics found you, they thought you were dead.’

She tried to return the pressure on his fingers. ‘Did you . . . did you get him?’

Vishwanath shook his head. ‘He killed three security officers and got away. But we have the description of a tall, grey-haired man leaving the apartment buildings.’

Rana tried to sit up, but Vishwanath restrained her.

‘No . . . disguise. He was in disguise. He has
black
hair.’

Vishwanath frowned. ‘Black hair?’

She tried to raise her head from the pillow, but fell back, exhausted.

‘It was Klien,’ she managed eventually. ‘Ezekiel Klien.’

Vishwanath stared at her. ‘Klien, the security chief at the port?’ His tone conveyed disbelief.

‘Klien . . . the crucifix killings. He did them all. I ... I interviewed him. He knew I was getting close, so ... so he came to kill me. He was in disguise.’

She remembered their confrontation, and his demanding from her the softscreen. But what did that mean? Why did he want the screen? Where did that fit into the scheme of things?

She was exhausted, too wrung out to say another word or even to remain awake. Her last sight was of Vishwanath staring down at her incredulously.

When she came to her senses again, Vishwanath was sitting on one side of the bed, Commissioner Singh on the other. She assumed that minutes had elapsed, that Vishwanath must have called Singh. Then she realised that it was dark beyond the window. Hours had passed.

She blinked from Singh to Vishwanath. ‘Two visitors now,’ she managed. ‘Must be getting better.’

Vishwanath pulled his chair forward. ‘Rana, I want you to tell Commissioner Singh what you told me. About Ezekiel Klien.’

She turned her head to regard the overweight Sikh. She was aware of the weight of his regard, his reluctance to be convinced.

‘Klien,’ she said, her every word an effort, ‘Klien is the crucifix killer. I ... I interviewed him. He knew I was on to him. Someone saw him kill Raja Khan, then walk to his house on Allahabad Marg. Only he was in the disguise of the silver-haired man. Same man who . . . who came to kill me. It was Klien.’ She paused, licked her lips. ‘He has a ... a capillary net. One of the prototypes.’

The words dried up. It was all she could do to look from Vishwanath to Singh, try to assess their reaction.

Vishwanath touched her hand. ‘We’re continuing our investigations, Rana. Rest, now. I’ll see you later.’

The two men left the room. She watched them in the corridor, talking animatedly in low tones.

She closed her eyes and slept.

Soon her cycle of sleeping and waking regulated itself. She slept during the hours of darkness and woke in the morning. The last of the tubes, those inserted directly into her stomach, feeding her for the past month, were removed and she was allowed to eat small meals. Her first breakfast of fried egg, vegetable cutlet and sweet chai was the finest she had ever tasted.

She was allowed out of bed, but only as far as the chair facing the window. The short walk of half a dozen steps exhausted her, but at least there was no pain.

She was examined regularly by a doctor, and once her surgeon introduced himself. ‘The laser went straight through your chest,’ he said with matter-of-fact relish. ‘A millimetre either way and you’d be dead. As it was, it just broke a few bones and nicked your right lung.’ He reached out and rubbed the back of her hand. ‘Touch you for good luck, Rana. We’ll have you out of here in a week.’

She looked forward to Vishwanath’s next visit. She did not want his praise so much as his acknowledgement that her investigations had borne fruit, that her work had led to Klien’s arrest. Then, no doubt, would come his censure for her pursuing interviews without notifying him of her intentions.

The next time Vishwanath visited, Commissioner Singh was with him again. She was sitting up in bed, leafing through a holodrama magazine, when the two men entered the room. Vishwanath closed the door behind him. In silence they took their seats on either side of the bed.

She smiled from Vishwanath to Singh, but they did not smile back.

‘Lieutenant Rao,’ Singh said, ‘the allegation you made against Ezekiel Klien is a very serious matter.’ He watched her with an unflinching gaze.

‘I know that,’ she said. Something turned sickeningly in her stomach. ‘Of course it’s a serious matter. So is trying to shoot someone dead.’

Singh glanced at Vishwanath and sighed. ‘The fact is that we’ve investigated your claims, Lieutenant, and we cannot find a shred of evidence to justify taking any action against Klien in regard of the so-called crucifix killings or your attempted murder.’

She looked from Singh to Vishwanath, wanting to laugh out loud and at the same time wanting to cry with rage at the injustice. Vishwanath was regarding her with the gaze of a disappointed father.

She shook her head. ‘I know who shot me,’ she whispered. ‘It was Ezekiel Klien.’

‘Lieutenant Rao,’ Singh began with manufactured patience. ‘We have questioned Klien as to what he was doing at the time of the killings over the past ten years. He has an alibi to account for his whereabouts on every single occasion.’

‘What about the killing of Raja Khan?’

Singh glanced at Vishwanath, who said, ‘Rana, we have three witnesses who will testify under oath that they saw him at the spaceport that night.’

‘And the morning he tried to kill me? I suppose he’s paid liars to testify for him then?’

Singh said, ‘Lieutenant, I’ve had some of my best men working on your claims. I’m sorry, but no evidence whatsoever was discovered to corroborate what you said.’

She fought to keep her voice calm. ‘Are you calling me a liar, sir? I
know
who tried to kill me!’

Vishwanath said patiently, ‘Rana, Klien was on duty in his office on the morning you were shot. We have witnesses who saw him.’

‘But that’s impossible. Please believe me, I know who I was talking to. I know it was him. He introduced himself!’