corpse was quite the conversation starter, especially among dealers in dead bodies. And the chance to talk to living people who weren’t grieving was also something that loosened tongues, especially when the ones not-grieving were a placid, handsome man; his tall, muscular associate; and a lithe, green-eyed, redheaded young woman—all wearing slightly shimmering, thin, light, gray T-shirts, slacks, loafers, and open, zip-up jackets.
“You’re in luck with this one,” the Dera Baba Nanak mortician had said, obviously having a different standard for “luck” than the average citizen. “My Sujanpur colleague says it is a child’s corpse.”
“Not so lucky for the kid,” Morton Daniels—Key’s tall, muscular, shameless right-hand man—commented.
“No, no,” said the mortician. “Traditionally all Hindus are cremated, except saints and children. The body should be washed in a mixture of milk, yogurt, butter, and honey while mantras are being—”
The team didn’t hear the rest since they were already out the door and into the Ford Ecosport Ecoboost—the fastest sport-utility vehicle they could readily find in India. Terri Nichols, Key’s lithe, redheaded, right-hand woman, had floored it and made the sixty-nine kilometers in record time, despite the habitual traffic on these Punjab roads. The vehicle’s interactive map showed her exactly where the small local constabulary was, but they all studied the area as they neared.
It was a humble, unimpressive town that seemed to be stuck between the 1950s and 1970s, wedged between canals of the Ravi River. The air was heavy with moisture, with the colors of green and brown seemingly coated on everything from wood to marble to metal. Off in the distance they heard calliope music and saw what looked like cheap Christmas lights.
“Place is supposed to have a big garment market,” Nichols murmured, having let the Ecosport’s onboard computer feed her information along the way. “Probably means most townies are good with English too.”
She, like Key, had wanted to get familiar with the local language, until they both quickly discovered that India had more than a hundred major languages, as well as nearly sixteen hundred minor ones.
Nichols pulled in front of the small police department, and Key and Daniels were out the door almost before she had stopped the vehicle. But they all reached the front desk at the same time.
The cooperative constable on duty, who was, indeed, conversant in English, directed them to a cement hut out back, where unclaimed, unidentified corpses were stored. All it took was one look at Key’s impressive International Crime Investigation Department ID. It was so much more effective than any explanation Key could give about the Cerberus organization he ostensibly worked for. No matter how he tried to describe that, even to himself, it hardly sounded credible.
So, although the Sujanpur constable on duty had no way of knowing it, the Cerberus team’s support unit had made sure the hunters were supplied with effective identification cards, and even badges, tailored to whatever location they were sent. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the Cerberus support unit, CID was the name of India’s most popular, longest-running TV series, with more than a thousand episodes to its credit—all of which had been seen by the Sujanpur constable on duty.
“Lucky for us there’s only a couple of thousand people in this backwater,” Nichols murmured as they walked out the rear door of the small station, crossed the worn, muddy, rectangular yard, and stepped into the bunker that housed the bodies.
“We spend way too much time in morgues,” Daniels complained as they all surveyed the depressing enclosure. “Look familiar, Joe?”
There was a low, dirty ceiling with two strips of yellowing, flickering fluorescent lights, two stained metal tables with rusting legs, and a meat locker on the far wall. Naturally Key couldn’t help but recall a similar one in Thumrait, Oman, where they had first seen the devastating effects of their previous, prehistoric, adversaries.
“What, we’re supposed to just rummage around until we find the girl?” Nichols asked, staying close to the entrance.
“Better that than to have a suspicious chaperone,” Key reminded her.
“Aw, just take a look.” Daniels grinned as he ambled toward the meat locker’s freezer door. “Smaller than a woman, bigger than a baby, not breathing—you can’t miss her.”
“Shut up, Morty,” Key sighed as he moved beside Daniels.
“Okay,” the big man snorted as he pulled open the heavy vault door. “Say we got here in time. Say the kid is in here and actually bloodless. So what? What are we looking for?”
“I think it’s one of those ‘we’ll know it when we see it,’ right?” Nichols offered from the door.
Key nodded, stepping into the meat locker. “First things first,” he quoted his father as he surveyed the wooden shelves along the freezer walls. “We claim the body and bring it to Professor Rahal.”
There were two body bags on one side and a naked man on the other. Key stepped toward the smaller of the body bags as Daniels eyed the unclad man across the aisle.
“Fresh meat,” he said drily, then joined Key as the former corporal unzipped the smaller bag.
He looked down into the face of an angelic child who couldn’t have been more than three years old when she died. He then nearly twitched when a voice popped into his ear.
“I guess they all look like that when they’re at peace,” he heard Nichols say gently before looking over his shoulder to see her at his side. The men had known the young lady long enough not to be surprised by her enhanced reflexes anymore. Not after what she, and they, had been through. But they were, constantly.
By then Daniels had checked the other bag, making sure it wasn’t also a child. “Okay,” he said. “We just take it and take off, or are we stopping to check with Barney Fife first?”
That was as far as the former sergeant got when the naked man suddenly appeared, grabbed the child, and ran.
To the agents’ amazement and annoyance, the man had done it so quickly, powerfully, and silently that even Nichols was taken by surprise. Daniels was so startled he didn’t even blurt profanity. They froze an unwanted moment, each chastising themselves in their own way, then took off after him.
Nichols was first out of the bunker, and probably would have been even if her reflexes hadn’t been heightened by an Idmonarchne Brasieri infection and Professor Rahal’s subsequent treatment. Daniels was next, just by dint of his size taking up the entire doorway as he lumbered after her. That was fine by Key, who knew it was best that he get the big picture, focusing in on what had been vague details before.
He was tempted to jump into the SUV, just to keep up with Nichols, but the first thing he realized was that the streets were too narrow and haphazard to make the Ecosport any advantage. The second thing he noted was how fast the naked man was going. He had looked every inch a corpse—haggard, emaciated, aged—but now he was running like a teenage shoplifter. Thankfully Nichols was going after him like a gazelle.
Key saw that Daniels was already drifting to the west. Smart cookie: he was automatically finding another path that would narrow the naked man’s escape routes. So Key moved quickly to the east, to create a trident of pursuit. The naked man was sprinting south, directly toward the calliope music and Christmas lights.
They all ran into thickening crowds. It seemed that everyone in town was
