ArHi FF! The Cult [Completed] - Page 12

Garcia: Password was Cullen.

JJ: Of course.

Reid: Colan?

JJ: Cullen, the vampire family from Twilight.

Reid: What's Twilight?

JJ: Do you ever read anything other than technical books?

Reid: Not much in English.

                                      --- Criminal Minds

Chapter 04:

I catch her and hold her close and snatch the photo away from her hand. I look at Shukla and he nods at me. There is fear in her eyes and her breathing is erratic. Shukla hands her a glass of water which she takes gratefully.

"I am sorry for…losing like that." Her apology is directed towards everyone. I usher her out before she goes overboard with her apologies. I don't like to embarrassment in my sister's eyes.

"You don't have to be always sorry." My words come out harsher than I intend them to be. Her eyes are downcast and a chunk of her hair falls across her face. She hides her face effectively as she points me to passenger seat and gently grabs the keys from my hand. I take personal car to station and then use jeep for official purposes. Call me old fashioned and principled. I call it drawing line between personal and professional life. Well, as much as possible anyway.

"I don't know…" She starts but I cut her off.

"It's okay. It happens. Those photos are gruesome. Shukla should have been more careful…" I trail. I cannot pin this one on Shukla, I know. But that's the only line of comfort I can offer my sister. She isn't looking at me right now. Avoiding eye contact was her forte.

"Please don't tell Shyam about it. He will…not take it well." I whip my head to see her give me a look and then shifts her eyes back on road immediately. A thin layer of tears coat her eyes making them glassy. This is one battle I don't let her win. I love her too much to lie about things that distress her.

"Sorry Anjali. I can't lie to Shyam; not about this at least." She nods her head as if she was already expecting that answer from me. I don't want to lie about her fragile mental state to her husband. He knew it very well. Episodes like this were to be recorded and parroted to her therapist when she saw him next.

"Arav was missing you yesterday." She brought up her son – my nephew. A smile roomed in my face immediately.

"How is the little tyke?" I ask her. I have been working late a lot these days and haven't had the time to hang out with him as much as I like to.

"He wanted to call you last night and ask for a bedtime story. I told him that it probably wasn't a good time." There is hesitation in her voice. She wants to know if her decision was right or not. That's Anjali for you. She always wants to be right.

"Thanks Anjali. I was at a crime scene last night…two actually." I reply gratefully. A smile blossoms on her face which delights me.

"That blows. I hope you got something to eat other than Nicorette." She raises an eyebrow. Her meekness is gone and is replaced by grouchy older sisterly act. Much better, I tell myself.

I roll my eyes as a response. "I was hoping for a large breakfast actually… or last night's dinner if you have saved some." I give her the pleasure of playing my caretaker today. Demons lurked in crevices of her mind always trying to come out and consumer her in their darkness. But with help of Shyam, Arav and me, she fought them bravely and kept them at bay.

"I do have some saved and would you like to…" I tune her out effectively and allow my mind to wander. I am not particularly fond of driving and prefer to be driven so this arrangement works wonders. Life passes by me as a blur – masses of various colors and shapes. Breeze ruffles my hair and the morning seven o clock sun is just warm. The blurs start to form a shape – symbols and markings and swivel in front of my eyes. Unlike other times, I allow this deranged way of seeing things – my way of seeing things. The symbols swim and finally stop on a quivering red mass.

The hands which carve the symbol are steady, calm and patient. The person knows exactly what he or she is doing. The symbols come from memory. The hands are skilled and have the deftness of a surgeon. There are no hesitation marks, no incorrect glyph. The hands have practice. There is a difference between carving on cadaver or animals and carving on living breathing human.

I see myself in the room with Vimal on the table. I must drug him to subdue his twitching whenever I run I run sharp instrument on his torso. I give him a muscle relaxant or a neural inhabitant. He is conscious and I can see fear in his eyes. But he cannot feel a thing. I go about my business – carving symbol on his body. As a precaution I have stuffed cloth in his mouth; just in case. I know the symbols from memory. Once I have finished carving, I slit his throat. His purpose is served. I watch the gushing flow of blood in fascination. I start painting the walls with symbols needed.

I am startled when I hear car honk noisily. Anjali yells at a man who crossed the street suddenly. I write a message to Arjun and Shukla explaining the possibility of lifting a print from the markings on the wall. If it was all a ritual, I doubt if they wore gloves when they did it.

"We are home." Anjali tells me with a smile. I don't need sleep but when my brother-in-law, Shyam fusses around me like an older brother, I appease. One hour, he bargains.

Instead of going to my room, I go to Arav's room and slip next to him. It's a cot made for children but I am used to it now. He realizes a presence next to him and snuggles closer. There is warmth in my chest. I put my arm around him and pull him closer. The little boy smiles in his sleep. I feel my eyes become heavy and within minutes they are closed.

I am not fully asleep nor am I fully awake. It's a state which tires out a person more than not sleeping at all. Arav always had that kind of calming effect on me.

I open my eyes to see Anjali sitting next to me and shaking me.

"Dinner is ready," she giggles. I chuckle at our lame joke but it's wonderful to see her happy.

"I'll be downstairs in a few." I tell her hoarsely rubbing sleep off my eyes. She nods and leaves me alone in her son's room. I see there is a message from Arjun and there is one from Shukla.

Shukla would be interviewing Helen's family and friends. He wanted to conduct another round of interview with Sharma family along with another inspector.  It was his way of refusing to come with me to meet the professor. I must say that it wasn't unanticipated. Shukla liked good old police leg work. He wasn't much into this academic stuff which I sometimes like to indulge in. I respond a short "Okay" agreeing the change of plans.

The text message from Arjun was…odd. Don't wear your uniform when you meet the professor.

I stare at the text message for several more moments and sigh.

It was going to be a very long day.

*****

I stand in front of university building which housed Sociology department. Anthropology was on top floor and being country's frontrunner in societal studies, the department has a celebrity feel to it. I ask around for Professor Gupta and I am told to go to the top floor. I check my attire again once I am in elevator as I have been getting looks from people whenever I stopped and asked for directions. Blue jeans, black t-shirt and combat shoes. Everything seemed to be in place.

I get off top floor and look around the deserted corridor.

"ACP Arnav Raizada?" I turn around and see a woman standing on threshold of an office and peering at me.

I walk towards her taking in her appearance. I mentally groaned when I saw that we matched; blue jeans of almost similar shade and black t-shirt. "I am looking for professor Gupta," I tell her when she is within hearing distance.

"Come in, you are in the right place." She shifts inside and allows me to enter.

The wide office space is eclectic. A couch, lots of books, clocks, maps of ancient worlds, sculptures littered in the office. If I had the time, I could have looked through the clocks and maps. Looks like the professor had an unusual interest in clocks like I do.

"Where is professor Gupta?" I ask her sitting on couch and taking the tea she handed to me. It was green tea. Not a favorite but the woodsy flavor started to release the knots in my back which I didn't even know I had.

"I am professor Gupta," she didn't bother to hide her bemusement. I spluttered and the tea cup shook violently in saucer.

"I am sorry." I apologize, embarrassed.

"Please call me Khushi. Professor Gupta makes me feel like a fifty year old obese man sitting behind a table and scolding students for asking notes to be emailed to them." She laughed. Her laugh is pleasant. There are streaks of grey in her hair and I am surprised at that. Anjali had cried for three days when she saw more than ten gray strands in her hair. Shyam had tactlessly asked her to get her hair colored which made him sleep on the couch for next two weeks.

In this day and age…a young woman of her age proudly telling the world that she was entering middle age…was devastatingly beautiful.

"Thanks for the tea Khushi." I use her name immediately. Her name rolls off my tongue like sweet candy. She nods with a smile acknowledging my appreciation.

"I was told that you are the person to talk to for the problem I have." I place the tea cup down and pull the file of Vimal Sharma.

"Arjun just mentioned about ancient symbols on dead body you found." She replies. I idly wonder if she is capable to handle the gruesome pictures I have in my hand. She notices my hesitation and smiles. I hand her the file and lean back on sofa.

The moment she sees Vimal's body, her face turns ashen. I notice the slightest tremors in her fingers and the hitch in her breath. She studies the photo for several moments and drops it on table.

"I…need few minutes breather. Let's have another cup of tea." She doesn't wait for my response and walks towards corner of the room. She is spooked, that much is obvious. But by what – she doesn't share. I wait for her in silence and watch the way she moves around the room.

She picks teabags from a wooden box and places its two mugs. She doesn't turn around or even move her body as she waits for the water to boil. Once water is hot, she pours it to the mug. The shaking of her hands is more pronounced and more obvious even from the distance I am at. She notices it too and uses both hands to pour water.

No, she wasn't scared. She was terrified.

"ACP…" She starts softly.

"Please call me Arnav." I try to ease the tension. She nods and takes a shaky breath.

"These symbols…represent a specific Rig Vedic tribe. I am talking pre-Iron Age here. They were nomads who walked along banks of rivers and settled wherever they found turbulence. It was a close group of people who didn't entertain outsiders. "

"Why did they pick such towns?" I am curious.

"In turbulence they found a use for their trade." She looks at me with nonchalance but there is a fire in her eyes. "Black magic"

"Are you serious?" My eyes are wide. I am not a believer of these things which apparently can help or harm a person due to rituals. But my sister does and it drives both Shyam and I crazy.

"They were worshipers of deity which you don't find in normal society. They don't worship a God; they worship a power…a concept." She looks at me hoping I am able to understand what she is explaining.

"They personified the power in itself, didn't they?" I paraphrase. She smiles suddenly.

"Correct. There are studies which claimed that the tribe existed even before Vedic era Arnav and probably migrated during collapse of Indus Valley civilization. And as an offshoot some studies suggest that these few tribes go back as far as Bronze Age. What we are looking here is the one which was deadliest of all and the one which is believed to have survived till this age." There was neutrality in her voice. She was talking about history which is quite fascinating but she isn't explaining the symbols. That unnerves me.

"Khushi, can you please tell me about the symbols?" I ask her openly to cut short whatever she was about to speak regarding the tribe. "This one in particular," I point to symbol on the wall – the one which has been haunting me.

"Where did you find this symbol?" She spreads all the photos on the table and peers at them.

"It was on the wall right opposite to the body. He was facing the symbol." I respond. "Is that important?" Excitement creeps into my voice. Finally I am getting an answer for the question that's been haunting me for fourteen hours.

"It's the signature of the high priestess of the tribe – the one who performed this ritual." She has a faraway look on her face and seems visibly disturbed.

"Are you okay?" I ask her forgetting for a moment about the much awaited answers.

She shakes her head once and then rubs her temple with her palm. She hasn't spelled out the reason for her behavior yet but I am close to concluding that there was something seriously wrong with her.

"Did you tell anyone about coming here?" There is panic in her voice. I shake my head. She nods and relaxes a bit but an unknown fear seems to have gripped her.

"So a woman killed this man?" I ask her trying to get back to the conversation I am interested in.

"But that's not possible…" She mumbles to herself without heeding to what I was saying.

"Why isn't it possible?" I ask her. She ignores my question and looks like she is lost in a world of her own.

"This ritual was a sacrifice." She concludes after fifteen minutes of studying the photos. "I can give you more information by tomorrow. Can you leave these photos with me?" She asks looking up. I find myself nodding at her. She smiles thinly and collects the photos.

The woman is alluring in her own way and I find peace in the way she moves around and talks. It's as if we are in a different universe altogether. I am appalled at my thought process.

"I have seen that symbol before, you know?" I tell her distractedly. I place the tea mug on the table and stand up to see her watching me wide eyed. "I can't remember where or on who but it was definitely tattooed on a patch of skin."

Her breathing is labored. "That's interesting," she notes but doesn't comment further.

There is nothing further to talk and my purpose of visit is now over. She hands me a card with her number written on it.

"Call me in case you need anything." She tells me. I nod. I am about to step out of the door when she calls my name. I turn around and look at her questioningly waiting for her to speak.

"May I look at the crime scene?" She asks softly. I can see the eagerness uprooting fear in her eyes. I am excessively proud of this and muse to myself, 'That's my girl.' The thought flabbergasted me the moment it ran in my head. Honest to God, now I feel like smacking myself for that inane thought.

"We can take a look at it today evening, if that's okay with you. I'll take you there." I tell her and smile encouragingly.

"Thanks Arnav." There is sincerity in her voice and she holds my eyes a moment longer than it's necessary in a civilized conversation.

There is a mild tremor in my heart, an unknown fear grasping it. I do not know the origins but I do know that it pronounced itself loudly the moment I stepped out of her office.

I realize that the fear is not my own but hers.

I feel like a fuc*ing washed up poet.