“No,” Sunny shakes his head. “No. You don’t understand!”
His laughter fills the air.
“I’m free of both of you!” he cries.
He tosses the ring toward Vicky.
“Where do you think Ajay went?!”
Vicky’s smile vanishes.
Sunny staggers backward laughing.
“Sunil Rastogi’s going to die!”
* * *
—
He doesn’t know whether he’s tripped or he’s pushed.
But Sunny comes tumbling down.
A monster from the hills.
He lands with a bump on the ground.
In time with the thumping bass.
A dreadlocked hippie is juggling fire to his left.
The fire elongates in Sunny’s mind.
Says good things about the world.
Tells him it’s going to be all right.
He jumps to his feet, starts to dance, throws his arms in the air.
They’re all watching him.
Calling out his name.
Sunny Wadia is returned!
SUN-NY!
SUN-NY!
And above them, unseen by all, Vicky Wadia takes out his mobile phone.
* * *
—
“One second, please,” Peter Mathews says, removing his battered Nokia, holding a finger in the air. “Yes?” he answers pleasantly. “I see. I see,” he sighs. “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try.”
He hangs up the phone, slips it back into his pocket again.
And Ajay’s finger flicks off the safety around the Luger’s wooden grip.
“Is everything all right?” Brother Sanjay inquires.
Peter Mathews says, “Ev . . .”
But before he finishes speaking, he’s on his feet, wrapping his arm round Sanjay’s neck, pulling him to his feet, grabbing the old priest’s sausage knife from the table as he goes, dragging Sanjay at knifepoint toward the rear pantry behind.
It happens so quick, and Ajay is slow.
By the time his gun is out, Mathews and Sanjay are gone.
The old priest shouts, “What the hell is going on!?”
In the pantry, Mathews drags the protesting Sanjay toward the outer door. As Ajay turns the corner in pursuit, Mathews smashes Brother Sanjay’s head against the wall, shoves him forward through the air so that Ajay can’t take a shot. And when Ajay stumbles over him, Peter Mathews is gone.
* * *
—
A three-story guesthouse rises behind.
Ajay hears footsteps up the stairwell.
Hears the cries of the cook.
Looks up to see Mathews turning the corner of the stairs on the first floor.
* * *
—
He’s in pursuit, racing up the stairs, as the cook dashes out with a cleaver in hand.
On the first floor, all the doors are closed on either side.
And he hears footsteps going higher.
He runs after them, stumbles in his haste.
When he scrambles up to the second floor, he sees an open room.
Without thinking he lurches in.
Runs across the threshold gun drawn, ready to fire.
But there’s no one there.
By the time he hears the footsteps again, it’s almost too late.
He turns to see a metal pipe crashing down toward his face.
He raises his left hand.
The crack of bone.
And now Mathews is on top of him.
They tangle, grapple, Ajay holding the gun for all he’s worth while Mathews tries to prize it from his right hand.
“You’re ruining everything,” Mathews yells.
Ajay’s left hand is in agony now.
So he kicks up with his legs instead, tries to throw Mathews off, but Mathews is disturbingly strong. With no choice left, Ajay steels himself. With all his strength, he jabs his throbbing left hand into Mathews’s throat.
The terrible pain shoots straight up Ajay’s arm.
But the deed is done.
Mathews falls back, choking.
Gasping for air.
And now Ajay has the freedom to put this monster in the sights of his gun.
All he has to do is pull the trigger.
But he can’t.
“Wait, wait!” Mathews cries, tears in his eyes.
And Ajay waits.
That’s all it takes. Mathews’s lips start to curl into an eerie smile.
And Ajay says: “You’re Sunil Rastogi.”
Mathews nods.
“I am.”
Ajay watches as Rastogi comes to the fore. The remnants of meek Mathews evaporate.
Now Rastogi glances toward the door, at the growing commotion downstairs. “They’ll come for you,” he says, “you know this, yes? You better shoot me now, or you better run.”
“I have to shoot you,” Ajay replies.
“Then do it.”