Out of Order (15 page)

Chapter Eighteen

The train made three different sounds as it headed south towards Mangalore.

There was the low rumbling sound of hard earth beneath the thick foundation of crushed stone and cement sleepers, half buried in the red clay, a never-ending roll of thunder that boomed up through the open door. When they blew through a village station or over an improved roadway the rumble jumped an octave, the sound thinner as it echoed off the concrete runners, there and gone as fast as a speeding train through a no-name town.

But it was when they crossed over a trestle bridge and sound dropped off to a whisper that the train was most frightening. The first time it happened Jason felt his grip tighten on the vertical handrails that ran outside the train’s east-facing door, a split-second of terror as he imagined the car flying off the tracks and hurtling down into the sliver of moon reflected in the wide, shallow river. It was a silence that hinted at long drops and pointed rocks.

Jason tried standing like Rachel had stood on that first train trip to Jaipur, one hand on the rail, the other in his pants’ pocket, but the darkness and the unfamiliar sensation of leaning out an open doorway of a speeding train compelled both hands into place.

He had left Rachel asleep in the berth, wrapped in a thick blanket the purser had set on the end of the bed when he saw how she was shaking. She had made a quick dash back to the restrooms, then a second trip, not so rushed, before falling asleep. Jason had sat by the aisle, Rachel’s feet against his leg, and eaten one of the sandwiches, the caffeine from all that chai holding open his eyes. Other than the rumbling thunder of the train, it was quiet when he eased down the length of the car and passed through the soundproof door to stand with his toes hanging out into the warm, black Indian night, a giddy charge running up his spine.

On the ground by the tracks he could see his shadow cast from the weak bulb that lit the entrance area, jumping up to face him as they cut through an embankment, stretching flat again when they hit the open plains, falling away when they flew across a bridge, nothing but air between him and whatever lay below. Lights a mile away stayed in view for minutes while trackside images blurred past. Men with kerosene lamps leading elephant-drawn carts, a mob of late-night bicyclists lined up at an unguarded crossing, a lean-to convenience store with a flickering Coca-Cola sign, miles and miles and miles of farmland or forest, he couldn’t tell which, and in the distance, hills that rose and rolled like those around Corning, his mind suddenly filled with images of his hometown, his job, his street, his apartment, his dead neighbors.

There was no reason why it couldn’t have been a murder-suicide. It seemed that the news was filled with stories of husbands or boyfriends or brothers unloading their anger into a loved one before taking their own lives. To the victims’ families it always came as a shock, no one seeing it coming, the couple appearing so happy, so in love. The psychologists explained to the viewers at home that the men who committed these acts—it was always men—had suppressed their true emotions for so long that they were—again always—“ticking time bombs.” But the authorities were quick to reassure the public that these incidences were “rare,” saying the same comforting lines the next time it happened. Men snapped, Jason reasoned, it happened. But not Sriram.

Sriram loved to talk about computers, about technology and the “magic” that was this
frickin’
close to being commonplace, his eyes sparkling as he threw out acronym-laced examples and Asimovian applications. Sure, there were complaints about the job, but it was all the usual crap—co-workers who didn’t pull their weight, supervisors who didn’t know heads from holes in the ground, copiers that jammed in sync with deadlines, all for a paycheck that wasn’t worth the trouble. But Jason knew that Sriram had loved it. He never complained about the long hours or the stress and Jason never heard a bad word about Raj-Tech’s owner.

“It must be nice to work for a friend,” Jason said one night as they sipped beers on the front porch of the apartment building, and he remembered how Sriram had sighed.

“I can never forget what Ravi did,” Sriram had said. “Someday I hope to pay him back.” Jason sighed now as he recalled the line, wondering how many things he would leave undone if he died.

Not a hell of a lot.

His work at the mortgage company had been divvied up before he left—if he never returned they’d either hire someone to fill his cubicle or, more likely, tell the others the increased workload was now the norm. His parents lived less than ten miles away, but it was different now. No traumatic blowups for the Talleys, just a steady, comfortable slide apart, a neat and predictable relationship, uncomplicated by any real emotions. They were willing to watch Bindi—his cat by default—but he knew enough not to ask for more.

He had a few friends in town, none as close as Mike Myles, his best friend since fourth grade. Mike who showed him how to talk to girls, Mike who helped him get a fake ID, Mike who got him to skip school once in their senior year, Mike who made a special late-night trip to drop him off at the Syracuse airport the first time he flew to Daytona, Mike who went and fell asleep as he drove back home. No one knew how to get in touch with Jason in Florida, and when his return flight landed and Mike was not at the airport as planned and he was forced to pay close to two hundred bucks to rent a car to get home, he had left a long and angry message on Mike’s machine, Mike’s mom calling him the next day to apologize for her dead son’s irresponsibility. You only get so many best friends, Jason knew, and he’d used up his allotment, owing them both more than he ever gave.

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced his mind back into his office cubicle.

The gray fabric partition walls. The Far Side cartoons. A plastic Spiderman scaling the side of his monitor. The quarter-inch thick stack of pre-printed, gold-bordered certificates, thumbtacked next to the phone extension list. Most Third-Quarter, Non-Government Loans Prepared Within Mandatory State Guidelines. Quickest Turnaround in Post-Closing Deviation to Correction. Fewest Errors in Calculating APR Rate (Final Copy). Most Festive Desk Decoration, Halloween. There was no aspect of his job he didn’t know, no documentation process he hadn’t mastered. He was twenty-seven years old and the thing he did better than anyone else was file forms.

You can be anything you want, the guidance counselors had said, paralyzing him with limitless options. He had fallen into his job, a vague position, difficult to explain, impossible to justify. He could walk away any time he wanted to, something that made him more depressed than the thought of staying.

The train sped on, fewer towns, no lights, the conductor sounding the horn now and then to keep him company, the train whistling in the dark. He was leaning back, legs crossed, one hand white on the handrail, when the man came out of the first-class car carrying his backpack.

For the five seconds it took the man to push the heavy door shut behind him, the chilled air from the car whooshing around the backpack dangling by the man’s legs and out the open doors on both sides of the train, Jason tried to place where he had seen that backpack before. He could see where someone had stitched up a nasty tear on the top flap, the kind of tear a monkey might make as it searched for tasty toiletries, and there was a bit of red thong poking out of a side pocket that he thought he recognized. But it was the Hello Kitty pink padded replacement shoulder strap that made his brain snap awake.

The man was turning around, heading across the entrance area for the passageway that would lead down the train to third class, when Jason grabbed at his wrist, the green fabric of the man’s windbreaker bunching up under his fingers, Jason’s hand wrapping around the bony forearm.

“What the hell are you doing with my bag?” Jason said, knowing the answer, knowing it was a stupid thing to say.

The man’s eyes widened as connections were made and he jerked his arm free, pulling the backpack up and away as he swung a fist into Jason’s jaw. Jason didn’t notice the hit as he stepped forward and grabbed the black shoulder strap, yanking the bag and the man towards him. A second punch, hard on his cheek, made Jason wince but he held tight to the strap, opening his eyes, things now in slow-motion, watching as the man jerked a black pistol out of his waist band, fumbling to get his finger around the guard and onto the trigger, the roar of the train gone as they crossed a trestle bridge. With both hands on the strap, Jason pushed forward, the backpack crushed between them, the pistol, trapped, held flat against the man’s stomach. The man’s face was inches away, his breath smelling of ginger and tobacco, both men focused on the bag and their balance. Jason pushed, his sneakers slipping on the dusty linoleum floor, the man pushing back, somehow stronger, his arm rising as he worked the pistol free. Jason gripped the strap and gave one final push, his knee snapping up, slamming into the man’s groin, the man gasping, holding tight to the pink strap as Jason rocked back and kicked, his heel thrust into the man’s gut, launching the man backwards, the pack now suspended between them, the gun, free, leveling, the twin cracks as the pink snaps broke free, the man a foot above the cabin floor, the bright flash in his hands, a moment in midair, pink strap waving, the train’s whistle covering any scream, then the dark Indian night, high above an unseen river.

With the flash and the faint pop, Jason doubled over, the pack in the way, a sharp jab catching him just below the ribs. He slumped, sliding down the wall, the backpack flopping against his legs. Eyes closed, his breath came in half-gasps and he ran a hand down the front of his shirt, feeling for the warm dampness. When his hand, still dry, reached the top of his jeans, he moved it back up to where it hurt and rubbed, feeling for the hole in his shirt. When he didn’t find it, he opened his eyes and looked down.

The black backpack, minus a strap, sat on the floor between his legs. His right hand pressed against his stomach. He angled his hand back from his shirt, ready to slam it down to stem a gushing red stream, but saw nothing. With both hands he lifted his shirt to his chin and saw a baseball-sized red mark where he knew the bullet had hit him, a round welt where there should have been a bloody hole. He took a deep breath and checked again, rubbing both hands across his body, certain he’d find the wound. It was then that he noticed the small hole in the front of the backpack.

Grabbing the lone strap, Jason pulled the bag onto his lap. Synthetic fibers fused together, creating a ring of tiny black globs around the edge of the hole, too small to push a pencil through. He unzipped the top flap and felt along the inside of the bag, finding the hole with his fingertips, twisted his hand around and pulled a wadded pair of Rachel’s jeans and some other clothes from the bag. The bullet had made seven holes as it tore through the folds of the jeans, two holes through his favorite polo shirt, four in his last pair of clean khakis. He reached back in the pack and lifted out the sari, a tight bundle with an easy-to-spot hole, a ragged black dot on a red background.

Resting the sari on the top of the backpack, Jason began to unravel the six yards of intricately patterned silk, the hole appearing anew with each turn of the fabric, his hands moving faster, racing to end the damage, when something small and hard dropped from the bundle and bounced onto the floor of the train, rolling under his outstretched leg. With a shaking thumb and forefinger, Jason retrieved the misshapen slug, holding it up to the light for a full minute before leaning his head out the open train door to throw up on the now roaring tracks.

Chapter Nineteen

“You really should eat something,” Jason said, digging his fork into his third masala dosa, the rolled, potato-filled crepe hanging off both ends of his plate. He tore off a three-inch piece and dunked it in the low metal dish of sambar, the spicy soup doubling as a dipping sauce. Rachel looked up under the bill of her cap, her nose wrinkling.

“I don’t dare eat anything spicy,” she said.

Jason pointed to a neighboring table with a dripping hunk of dosa. “Get a couple of idlis. They’re just steamed rice cakes, not spicy at all.”

He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin and took a long drink of water from the metal cup the waiter had brought with his meal. Rachel watched as he downed half the cup, shaking her head, saying, “You really should stick with bottled water.”

“I’ve been stabbed, shot, nearly died of an infection, and was robbed by a rabid monkey,” he said, raising the cup up to his lips as he spoke. “You think I’m scared of a little microbe?”

Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “Be afraid,” she said in a low growl. “Be very afraid.”

Jason had sat in the doorway of the rail car until the horizon turned pink from the approaching dawn. Rachel was still asleep, her arms wrapped tight around her backpack, the blanket kicked off in her sleep. Jason had sat on the end of the bed, his head throbbing, too many thoughts crossing paths at the same time. Just before five, Rachel woke up with a start, grabbing a roll of toilet paper from her pack and heading to the restroom, returning forty minutes later, digging through her pack for a clear plastic cosmetic bag and a foil-backed card of shrink-wrapped pills.

A half hour outside the final station, the chai vendors made their last rounds, one stopping to shake Jason’s hand, miming the song and dance from the night before. Jason bought chai for his section of the car, paying the tab with a lone five-dollar bill he had hidden in his wallet. With ten minutes to go, his fellow passengers started hauling their luggage into the aisle and out onto the entranceway where, as they had slept, one man was shot, saved by a balled-up sari, and another fell flailing to his death. When the Matsayagandha Express entered the station, a herd of red-coated porters climbed aboard, forcing their way down the crowded aisles, each man trying to secure the largest load of luggage, ignoring the light-traveling tourists and focusing on the baggage-heavy families, working out the multi-levy charge in their heads faster than he could have done with a calculator. A minute after the train came to a stop, the car was empty.

They were standing on the platform, shifting their backpacks and getting their bearings, when one of the porters dashed off the train and handed Jason a paperback, turning and running back before Jason could stop him. Inside the battered copy of
The Code of the Woosters
, Jason found a five-hundred-rupee note and two bus tickets to Bangalore, their names computer-printed in red.

The bus station was at the foot of a gently sloping hill, the two-lane street lined with shops and movie theaters, bold letters on one marquee advertising
Mera Bhai, Meri Jaan.
In a restaurant halfway down the hill, Jason filled in the blanks about Sriram and Vidya, the sari, the computer stalker and the two dead men.

“If you want me to go on alone,” he had said as they watched the waiter navigate through the breakfast crowd with his serving tray, “I understand completely.”

“Sure,” she had said, “trying to get rid of me just as it’s getting interesting.”

Twenty minutes later they were sitting on a cement retaining wall outside the restaurant, watching the traffic go by, waiting to board the ten a.m. bus for the six-hour ride to Bangalore. Bicycle-rickshaws filled the street, the drivers joking with their passengers, coasting down the hill or, standing on the pedals, grunting, struggling back up to the train station. Waves of young school children, their blue uniforms clean and pressed, scurried past, while, lolling behind, their high school brothers and sisters exchanged copied homework papers and sticks of gum.

“I used to love going to school,” Rachel said, waving to a giggling pack of pre-teens who noticed the roll of toilet paper in her hand. “Especially geography. I had an aunt—Helen—she was a missionary with our church. Lived for years in South Africa. Soweto. This was during apartheid. She had this Zulu spear, called an
umkhonto
,” she said, hefting the imaginary weapon to her shoulder. “Anyway, I brought it to school, thought the teacher would love it.”

“I take it she didn’t.”

“Oh, she loved it all right. It was the principal who had issues. He started ripping into the teacher right there in front of the class, telling her how stupid and irresponsible she was, and I could see she was starting to cry and that pissed me off, so I gave it to him.”

“The spear?”

“Just the point,” Rachel said. “Right in the ass. You’d be surprised at all the blood. Anyway, that’s when my mom started home schooling me.”

Ten yards away, a barber set up shop on the sidewalk, propping a rectangular mirror in a niche on the low wall, setting out his gleaming razors on a dull gray towel. “That really happen, that thing with the spear?” he said.

“Depends. Do I look heroic or just crazy?”

Jason watched the barber as he passed the blade back and forth across the leather strop, testing the edge with his calloused thumb, rubbing the blood off on his trousers. “More heroic I think.”

“Good,” Rachel said, jumping off the wall and slapping the dust off the seat of her baggy jeans. “Then it really happened. Now let me see this infamous sari again.”

“Here? Out in the open?” Jason said, looking up and down the street.

Rachel stopped and looked at him. “You think it makes a difference?”

He thought for a moment and gave a shrug, throwing open the top flap and pulling out the red and gold bundle.

“Jesus, it’s a wreck,” Rachel said, taking it from him, stuffing her toilet paper in her pocket. “Here. Hold the end.”

Twisting and turning, the sari unrolled in clumps, drooping to the sidewalk. He knew there’d be holes, he had seen them that morning as he tried to figure out why he wasn’t dead, but he didn’t think there would be this many. Folded and doubled up against itself, the bullet hole multiplied symmetrically, leaving four holes across the yard-wide fabric. The four-hole pattern repeated every foot down the six yards of the fabric, with a four-foot space in the middle left intact. “I guess that’s where the bullet got stopped,” Jason said, rubbing the thin silk between his fingers.

“You sure you only got shot once?” Rachel said, poking her finger through one of the holes. “There’s gotta be fifty holes in this thing.”

“It’s the way it was wrapped up. It’s just one bullet.”

“Check it out,” she said, accordion-folding the hole-less middle section, pinching the fabric together until it was no thicker than a magazine. “You were this close to being dead.”

Jason rolled up the sari from the far end, leaving the embroidered section draped along the wall. “What’s this look like to you?” he asked.

“You mean besides a bullet hole-ridden sari that smells like cheap cologne?”

“It wasn’t cheap, and yeah, what’s this pattern, the embroidery, look like?”

Rachel stepped back to get a better look, her head tilting from side to side, squinting to focus on the pattern alone.

“Don’t you think it looks like a circuit board?” Jason said. “Like a computer program chip up close?”

Arms outstretched, Rachel examined the sari. “No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“It’s just a pattern.” She held the sari by the corner button as Jason rolled up the design.

“These lines, they could be circuits. And these rounded things, I don’t know, they could be some other kind of computer thing.”

“You’re reading way too much into it.”

“Well, there’s something to this sari. That guy last night was going to shoot me to get it.”

Rachel tilted her head to the side, her ponytail swinging to the side through the opening in the back of her cap. “Is that what you think? That he was after
this
?” She gave the fabric a final shake.

“My friend said it was really valuable.”

“Jason, look at it. The alcohol in the cologne made the colors run, there’s these faded lines where it was folded, and now it’s all full of holes. Even the embroidery is unraveling.”

“Still, that guy was….”

“That guy was looking for
my
backpack,” Rachel said, cutting him off. “But he couldn’t have known I was using it as a pillow. He saw yours—where you left it, on the edge of the bed—thought it was mine, and took it. I mean, what guy has a pink shoulder strap?”

“What about that man that’s looking for me, the guy on the chat room pages. And there was that guy that gave me this,” he said, holding up his bandaged arm. “That was a week before you even had that crap.” He gestured with his chin at her backpack.

“You don’t know what he wants. He may just want to meet you. You say this Sriram guy had lots of friends. Okay, so maybe he’s an old friend. You got the number. Call him.”

Jason shook his head. “He also had a lot of enemies.”

“Oh god,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You have something more important to worry about than some computer hacker.”

“You mean going with you to drop off those packages?”

“Worse,” she said, pulling the roll of toilet paper out of her baggy cargo pocket. “You’ve got to explain to your friend’s mother why you ruined her son’s last gift. Now wish me luck. I’m going to try using that public bathroom.”