A Walk Across the Sun (7 page)

His parents walked him to the door. In contrast to the good cheer they had affected at the beginning of the meal, their expressions now were grave.

“Call us if you need anything,” Elena said. “Day or night, we'll be here.”

“I'll be fine,” Thomas replied, giving her a kiss on the cheek and shaking his father's hand. “Don't worry about me.”

But he knew they didn't believe him.

He drove back into the city and made a quick stop at home to change into his tuxedo. He felt profoundly weary. He had been a fool to drive all the way to South Carolina for Christmas. The holidays had their merits, but even in a good year all the socializing gave him a headache. He needed a drink. That was about the only benefit of Clayton's holiday party—bottomless booze.

He hailed a cab to the Mayflower Hotel. The taxi dropped him off at the entrance at nine o'clock. He knew from experience that the late arrival wouldn't be noticed. Clayton's parties went on all night.

He walked into the grand lobby of the old Beaux Arts establishment and heard the din of conversation. Clayton's Washington office—one of twenty around the world—was home to two hundred attorneys and twice as many staff. When the whole group gathered and drinks were served, one had to shout to be heard over the clatter.

He entered the grand ballroom and greeted a group of friends. After trading a few jokes and a bit of office gossip, he excused himself to get a drink. At one of the bars, he ordered a Manhattan and watched the bartender mix the whiskey, vermouth, and bitters. He took the drink and sipped it, looking out across the sea of faces flushed with excitement and inebriation.

He always felt a rush in this crowd. Clayton was one of the most prestigious law firms in the world. In the last decade, especially, the skyrocketing housing market, the rise of international mergers and acquisitions, and the expansion of the global energy sector had turned the equity partners at the firm into multimillionaires and given associates like Thomas a taste of the good life yet to come.

Priya, on the other hand, had hated everything about the firm. She had lobbied hard against Clayton when Thomas put out his résumés. She had argued that a life spent in nonprofit practice was the only path to true satisfaction. He had listened to her. He always listened to her. But he had disagreed. Slaving away for breadcrumbs at a civil rights group might be emotionally gratifying, but as a career move, it was a dead end. He coveted what his father had—a seat on the federal bench. To get there, he had to play in the big leagues.

“Hey, stranger.”

The voice startled him. He turned and looked into the aquamarine eyes of Tera Atwood.

“I called you all weekend,” she said, “but you didn't answer.” She sidled up to him and touched his arm. “Go anywhere fun?”

Tera was a graduate of Chicago Law and an associate one year his junior. She was smart, vivacious, and pretty. Tonight she was dressed in a silver-sequined gown that looked more cabaret star than big-firm litigator.

“I went to the beach with a few friends,” he said, glancing around to see if anyone was looking at them. “I forgot my BlackBerry.”

He tried to relax but couldn't. Tera's effect on him was overpowering. Her presence could be summed up in two words: desire and guilt.

She gave him a coquettish smile. “We could get out of here and go someplace private.”

His guilt mushroomed. “I don't think that would be a good idea.”

Tera looked confused and a little hurt. “My dear Thomas, you forget that Priya left you. What do you have to hide?”

He surveyed the crowd. “They don't know that.”

“How long do you plan to keep it a secret?”

“I'm not sure,” he replied, wishing this conversation were not happening.

“Are you ashamed of me, Thomas?” Tera's tone was light, but the question was barbed.

“Of course not,” he replied quickly. Why was he so keen to placate her?

Tera put her hand on his arm again. “What about tomorrow?”

He saw one of the partners in the litigation division glance toward them, and he averted his eyes. “Tomorrow is better,” he said, hoping she would take the cue and leave him alone.

“Can't wait,” she replied and left him to greet a friend.

He watched her go and wished he could disappear. Tera was one of the incomprehensible parts of his story. He had always despised the profligate culture of the firm—all the hanky-panky among colleagues, the mistresses on the side. He had been devoted to Priya. Tera had worked with him on the Wharton case for three years, but he had considered her a friend, nothing more. Then tragedy struck and the rules suddenly changed. She had reached out to him at just the wrong moment—when Priya's grief had transmuted from a suffering silence into hard-edged bitterness.

The affair had started innocently enough: a laugh here, a pat on the shoulder there. But somewhere in the maelstrom of preparing for the Wharton trial and Priya's caustic depression, he had crossed the line from attraction to infatuation. He stayed at the office later and later, dreading the diatribes he would endure at home for every little failure Priya perceived or invented. He couldn't talk to her about Mohini. She wouldn't even speak the little girl's name. He was profoundly vulnerable, and Tera was available. More than available: she was bewitching.

He had resisted her physical advances until Priya left, but in the last three weeks, he had been to her Capitol Hill apartment twice. He had never stayed overnight. His guilt was far too intense for that. But he had given in to the temptation to sleep with her because she was sensitive and beautiful, and his wife was gone.

He looked at his watch and saw that it was ten o'clock. He drew himself together and made the rounds, traded witticisms with a couple of senior partners, and then took his leave. He left the Mayflower on foot and walked south along 18th Street to K Street. The night was cold and clear. The brighter stars were visible through the haze of pollution. Thomas huddled into his topcoat. He considered hailing a cab but thought better of it. He would walk.

Twenty-five minutes later, he arrived home feeling mildly invigorated. He went straight to the kitchen and poured a glass of scotch. He brought the bottle with him to the couch and tried to empty his mind. But the guilt of his encounter with Tera lingered.

He thought again of the kidnapping in Fayetteville. Was his father right about the trafficking connection? Was Abby Davis really in the hands of a pimp? He imagined Mohini as she might have looked at the age of eleven and shuddered. What would he have done if that had happened to his daughter?

He looked around for the book of poetry his mother had given him and saw it on the table by the telephone. He retrieved it and returned to the couch. He wasn't sure why he did it, but he read the poem “Transience” again. This time one of the stanzas spoke to him:

Nay, do not pine, tho' life be dark with trouble,
Time will not pause or tarry on its way;
Today that seems so long, so strange, so bitter,
Will soon be some forgotten yesterday.

He sat back and closed his eyes. He knew then the dimensions of the hole into which he had crawled. And he knew, with equal clarity, that there was only one way back into the light. Something needed to change. He needed a new horizon. He didn't know exactly what, but the status quo was no longer an option.

To do nothing would be to die one day at a time.

Chapter 3

Each being contains in itself the whole intelligible world.
—P
LOTINUS

Chennai, India

Ahalya awoke to a haze of veiled impressions. She had a powerful hangover from the sleeping medication, and she didn't immediately know where she was. For a precious second, the thought crossed her mind that she and Sita were lying in their bed at home, their parents waiting downstairs to greet them with kisses and news of the day. The horror of her circumstances dawned on her slowly.

Sita was in her arms, their bodies spooned as so often they had been in their former life. But the bed was strange and lumpy, and the walls were bare of the tapestries they had hung in their bedroom with their mother's help. A woman came into view and Ahalya's heart lurched. The woman's face was obscured in shadow, but her shape was not Ambini's.

“Time to get up,” Chako's wife said tersely. “The train is waiting.”

Sita stirred in Ahalya's embrace, and both girls sat up on the bed. The digital clock on the nightstand read 5:40 a.m.

“What train?” Ahalya asked, taking her sister's hand.

“You'll find out soon enough.”

Chako's wife went to the door and turned around. “By the way, I discovered your little ruse with the mobile phone. Don't ever hide anything from us again or your sister will suffer.”

Instinctively, Ahalya touched her waist and felt the void. Her heart turned to lead. Her phone was gone.

“Where are you taking us?” she asked, trying to be brave.

“No more questions,” the woman snapped. “Breakfast is on the table. You have fifteen minutes to eat. Prakash and Vetri will be here at six o'clock. They will take you to the train.”

The sisters went to the table and found two sticky cakes of
idli
and two
dosa
crêpes on a plate beside cups of water. It was a poor excuse for breakfast. Taking her seat, Ahalya told Sita she wasn't hungry and encouraged her to eat everything. Sita eyed her closely and refused the second idli cake. Ahalya ate it gratefully.

Prakash and Vetri appeared promptly at six. A knock came at the door and Chako opened it. The youth—Vetri—strolled in and beckoned them with a curt wave. Neither Chako nor his wife spoke to them when they left the flat.

The colony lay dingy and quiet beneath a dark sky when Ahalya and Sita emerged on the street. The area was deserted, except for a few stray dogs sleeping in the shadows of doorways. The fat man—Prakash—stood waiting for them beside a silver SUV that stood out in the dilapidated surroundings. His arms were crossed and he looked them over.

“Caril utkarungal,”
he said, opening the door to the back seat. “Get in.”

Sita climbed into the cabin and Ahalya followed. The vehicle had a new-car smell and reminded Ahalya of her father's Land Rover. She shook off the memory and took Sita's hand.

“Are you all right?” she asked in English, hoping that the men didn't understand.

“Speak Tamil,” Prakash barked, climbing into the front seat.

“I'm all right,” Sita whispered, putting her head on Ahalya's shoulder.

Vetri jumped into the passenger seat and Prakash accelerated down the empty lane. They left the neighborhood and drove toward the ocean. The streets of the city were largely deserted at such an early hour. A few minutes later, Prakash pulled into the parking area at Chennai Central Station. Vetri leaped out and disappeared into the crowd of passengers waiting for the early departing trains. Prakash glanced at the girls in the rearview mirror and locked the doors.

“Where are we going?” Ahalya asked.

Prakash grunted. “No questions,” he said.

Vetri soon returned, clutching a handful of papers. He gave them to Prakash, who scanned them and nodded. Turning around, he looked from Ahalya to Sita.

“The tickets are in order. Vetri will be traveling with you, as will Amar. You will meet him soon. Do what they say without question. Speak to no one or there will be consequences. And do not think of approaching the police. The deputy commissioner is a friend of mine.”

The sisters left the vehicle and followed the two men through the crowd. Entering the terminal, they trailed Prakash up a flight of steps to a footbridge above the tracks. They crossed to Track 4 and went down to the platform. The train stretched out before them like a blue serpent, its carriages too numerous for Ahalya to make out in the gloom. She searched the cars for the name of the train. A sign read
CHENNAI EXPRESS
. She had never heard of it.