him. He turned into a driveway and through the backyard, climbed a wooden fence and sprinted through another yard and past a trampoline.
Eric jumped another fence and into another yard. He heard a scream and saw a woman on her back porch, bringing inside cushioned chairs that were getting doused in rain. He ran at her as she held up her hands and screamed again. He jumped through the open sliding glass door and shut and locked it behind him before shooting through the house and out the front door.
He ran to an intersection and turned right, ran behind a McDonald’s and around the back into another residential neighborhood; cookie-cutter houses, all square two stories with small front lawns. He could hear sirens in the distance, coming from all directions. His adrenaline kept him going but he could feel the dull ache of lactic acid build up in his legs and his pace began to slow. The Lortab dulled his sensed and winded him. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to run anymore. He went to a white house with immense bushes on the front lawn by the doorway and shoved his money and wallet into the gym bag. Then he shoved the gym bag into the bushes before taking off again.
Eric zigzagged through more streets, but he’d slowed down considerably by now, having sprinted more than a mile. As he turned a corner, a patrol car skidded to a halt in front of him and two officers jumped out with their guns drawn.
“Down on the ground motherfucker!”
Eric put his hands up and lay down on his belly, the wet pavement cold against his chest. He felt the pull of hands grabbing his wrists, and the steel handcuffs against his flesh.
CHAPTER
16
Dr. Namdi Said had lived in Andhra Pradesh briefly as a child though he was originally from Somalia. He remembered only the droves of merchants lined up on the streets of Kavali, yelling and haggling with any tourist that wandered by. A sight that, still in existence, had died down with modern conveniences like the internet. He had not seen the plains-named by the locals “Gold Mines of India” because of the color of the landscape given by the tall yellow grass-until he was in his late twenties and out of medical school.
The jeep he drove in was well past its prime, rust adorning the underside and a constant clicking sound accompanying every rotation of the front wheels. The road to Saint Anthony’s Medical Outpost was bumpy and littered with old bones from animals that had happened in front of moving vehicles. It was rough terrain. More than one tourist died every month in the plains. From animal attacks, from getting lost, from disease… there were thousands of deaths awaiting them here.
The medical outpost had been established by a United Nations relief effort to help the outlying villages attain medical care. It was little more than a couple of operating rooms and a limited pharmacy, but it was better than nothing. In years past the various bureaucrats sapped the villages of whatever value they possessed. Sometimes it was just taking livestock and precious metals. It was rumored by the locals that other times it was pushing the villagers into forced labor. If the government here couldn’t use them they would be rented to other nations. These were people in the lowest caste of society and even their own government saw them as little more than animals. Though the thought of the Indian government selling slaves to other nations was too much even for Namdi to believe.
But Namdi had seen such brutality in the diamond mines of the Congo in his work with Doctors Without Borders. An entire village in the Congo was ransacked. The girls and women were forced into prostitution, chained up on a military base. The boys and men were taken to the jungles, a mine called N’su havu.
He remembered the stink of the mines more than anything else. Since work was never allowed to stop the laborers would have to urinate and defecate on themselves. They slept in a nearby cave and were given the barest minimum sustenance to survive. Usually some type of gruel made from animal entrails and whatever else happened to be in the vicinity of the mines. They were given a few cups of water. In the soaring heat and humidity three cups led to severe dehydration. Most of the laborers died because of the lack of water. They would fall in the mines and their bodies would remain there the rest of the day.
When the day ended the other workers would haul the bodies to the surface and throw them in a ditch or leave them out in the jungle. It was rumored that the Congolese government recycled the corpses as meat, claiming it to be beef, and mixed it with real beef to sell in foreign markets. Namdi hadn’t personally seen it, but he had no doubt it could be true. Once dehumanization occurred, anyone was capable of anything against their fellow men.
The medical outpost was off the side of the road about a hundred yards and made of gray cement with a black roof. There was a policeman’s car out front and a tall Indian in a green uniform sat on the hood smoking a cigarette. He put the cigarette out and hopped off the hood when he saw Namdi’s jeep pull in and park. “Dr. Said?” the policeman said in broken English. “Yes.” “I am Inspector Singh, we spoke on the phone.” “Yes, I remember.” “The bodies are kept inside. There is no icebox. It is not cold.” “I understand. Please take me to them.”
Namdi followed the policeman into the building. The reception area was one open space with a nurse sitting behind a large gray desk. There were two corridors going off in different directions and the policeman led him down the left one and into a small room tiled white from floor to ceiling.
On a metal autopsy table were the remains of a woman. The body was torn apart. The only things left were part of a leg, the ribcage, and a skull with shoulder length blond hair still attached. The face was gone.
Namdi’s heart raced at the sight. He took out a pair of glasses from his breast pocket and put them on before approaching the table. “Could you hand me those rubber gloves please?” Namdi said, pointing to a shelf loaded with supplies.
The officer didn’t move for a time, obviously not accustomed to doing favors. He took the gloves down and handed it to him without saying a word.
The rubber gloves were tight and pulled on the hair of Namdi’s wrist. He ignored it and reached into the woman’s ribcage, looking at the marks on the bone that covered the underside. All the organs were missing and part of the spine was gone. “When did you find her?” “Two days ago.” “Where?”
“Outside a rented home. The rich can stay in those homes. They are for tourists. She has a husband. He said his two children are missing.” The policeman leaned back against a sink and folded his arms. “I’ve seen tigers there. I think they must have been very hungry to attack a person close to the city.”
“This was not a tiger,” Namdi said, running the tip of his finger over deep markings carved in the bone.
“How do you know?”
“Part of the spine and ribs has been eaten; tigers do not eat the bones. The bite marks are too large as well,” Namdi said, flipping off his gloves and throwing them in a nearby trash bin. “What do you think it was?” Namdi put his glasses back in his pocket and stepped away from the body. “I do not know. Can you take me to the husband?” The policeman pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “Yes.”
Namdi followed the police car along the bumpy road for half a mile before they turned off and began driving through the edge of the plains. There were lush green bushes and immense rock formations, boulders stacked one upon the other that looked like giants in the distance. It was a warm day and Namdi had the top of the jeep down but it wasn’t helping. His shirt still clung to him with sweat.
They pulled in front of a white house with a plaque over the porch that said “The Hemingway,” though as far as Namdi knew, Hemingway had never visited India. There was a tire attached to a rope and slung over the branch of a nearby tree.
They walked up the porch and the policeman opened the front door without knocking. The interior reeked of alcohol and vomit. The television was tuned to a show in English and a tall man in his underwear was sprawled on the couch, empty bottles of beer and vodka around him.
“Mr. Berksted,” the policeman said, “this is Dr. Namdi Said. He would like to talk with you.” He turned to
