The Sultan's Tigers (20 page)

Now the museum was almost finished and their shacks were clinging to this high wall. Methi didn't know how much longer he and his family would be here or when the order would come for them to be moved. Until then, they lived alongside the billionaire's museum, watching the artwork arriving, the security guards pacing around the walls, the helicopter flying in and out, bringing J.J. to inspect his most prized possessions.

“What about the tigers?” I asked. “Have you seen them?”

Through the gloom, I could just make out the big smile on Methi's face. “The tigers are very good,” he said. “I love the tigers! They are my good friends.”

“How do you get to see them? Do you climb up and look over the wall?”

He laughed again. He and his friends didn't worry about walls or guards, he explained. When they wanted to see the tigers, they got a lift on one of the trucks driving through the gates and up to the museum. A man arrived every morning with fresh meat to feed the tigers. Methi and his friends sprang aboard as the trucks drove past, then rode them inside.

“Don't you get caught?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then what happens?”

“They beat us,” he said. “Here, see.”

He pulled up his shirt to show me his scars. I could just barely see the welts crisscrossing his skin. He told me that his wrist had been broken by one of the guards and hadn't healed properly, so the bones were still wonky. But he didn't seem to care about any of this damage, as if getting beaten every now and then was just what you had to pay to see the tigers.

Soon we saw some lights glinting on the horizon. As we came closer, we saw they were the headlamps of cars on a main road. That was where Methi said goodbye and we waved down a cab. Methi didn't ask for any more money, but my uncle gave him another bill anyway.

The taxi drove us to the center of Bangalore and delivered us to a slightly rundown hotel where Uncle Harvey had stayed when he was last in the city.

The clerk jotted down the details of our passports, took Uncle Harvey's credit card details, and gave us a key for a room on the ninth floor. The elevator shuddered upward. Not everything in Bangalore was as smart and modern as J.J.'s tower.

The room itself was small and grubby. The window looked out at the ninth floor of other tower blocks. Uncle Harvey bolted the door and propped a chair against the handle. “Better safe than sorry,” he said. “Now, which side of the bed do you want?”

We'd paid for two twin beds, but the clerk had given us a double. I chose the side nearest the window.

“We'll get it changed tomorrow,” said my uncle. “You don't mind sharing for one night, do you? I don't snore.”

He was lying. He fell asleep almost as soon as we got into bed and his snores kept me awake for a long time. I lay beside him, listening to the extraordinary noises coming out of his nose, the rattles and snuffles and snorts, and tried to decide what I would do in the morning when Uncle Harvey called Meera and offered to sell the tiger to J.J. for the bargain price of two million dollars. I knew he needed the money. I didn't want him to get two broken legs. But I wanted justice for Grandpa. Was there any way we could both get what we wanted?

I woke up suddenly
and blinked into the darkness.

What was that? What had just woken me up?

Uncle Harvey?

He was lying beside me. Still fast asleep.

Had he been shouting in a dream? Or snoring again? Had he snored so loudly that I'd jolted awake? Could anyone make that much noise snoring?

Then I heard it again.

Someone was knocking on our door.

No, not knocking. Banging. Hammering. Throwing their whole weight against the panels.

That wasn't the sound of room service or the maid coming to change our sheets. That was someone trying to break down our door.

Who was it? J.J.? Had he come to steal our tiger? Or was it Marko? Would he kill us, wiping out the only people who could connect him to a murder?

I shouted a warning to my uncle. “Wake up! Wake up!”

“Huhhh?”

“Someone's breaking into our room.”

Another crash. Heavier than the first.

Uncle Harvey was already scrambling out of bed. He yelled at me. “Open the window!”

The window? Why the window?
But I didn't question him. I ran to the window and struggled with the lock. I yanked it. The window jerked upward. I thrust my head outside. It was a long drop down to the street. I turned my head to the left, then right, searching for a fire escape, a drainpipe, but there was nothing. No way down. Except jumping. And that wouldn't end well.

I turned around, wanting further instructions. Uncle Harvey had picked up a chair by two of its legs and now he was swinging it from side to side, testing its weight, ready to use it as a weapon.

“The window—” I said, but I didn't manage to speak another word before there was another crash and the door burst open.

A burly man stumbled into the middle of the room. He was wearing a uniform of brownish-khaki shirt and trousers, a thick belt pulled tightly around his waist, and heavy black boots. A beret was pulled down over his head. He looked like a Boy Scout. A tall, middle-aged Scout with a long wooden baton in his right hand, raised and ready to cause some serious damage. He saw me. His mouth opened. Then a chair hit him on the side of the head. He gave a low moan and fell to the floor.

A second man ran into the room. He was wearing the same uniform as the first. My uncle swung at him, too, but this guy was prepared. He dodged backwards, reached down to his belt, and pulled out his own baton.

Uncle Harvey swung the chair back and forth, preparing to take another blow. For a moment, nothing happened. They faced off, the Boy Scout and my uncle, the baton and the chair, each waiting to see what the other was going to do. Then three more men came into the room. They screamed at us.

I didn't know what they were saying. I looked at my uncle. Should I jump out of the window?

No way. I didn't want to drop nine floors. I'd slither a floor or two, then drop the rest of the way.

My uncle was swinging the chair aggressively in front of him. I wished I had some kind of weapon too. There was nothing useful within reach.

One of the soldiers stepped toward me. He lifted his baton and lunged. I dodged. He swung again. I darted backwards. The window was right behind me. I didn't want to fall out. I shimmied one way, then the other. The soldier swung wildly at me, once, twice, then connected the third time and thwacked my shoulder with unbelievable force. I heard the thud before I felt the pain. Then I couldn't think of anything except the agony shuddering through my bones. I doubled over. The soldier hit me again. I slumped to the floor.

I got a glimpse of my uncle. He'd been surrounded by two more men. He got one of them in the belly with the chair. Then the other hit him in the face. Uncle Harvey collapsed against the wall, clutching his jaw with both hands.

I tried to get to my feet and help him, but the soldier kicked me in the stomach. I gasped and fell down. He kicked me again. I rolled over, trying to get away from his boots, and found myself face-to-face with my uncle. His cheek had been split open. Blood was dribbling through his nostrils and out of his lips. Even so, he managed to keep control of himself and say in a surprisingly calm voice, “What's going on? Why are you arresting us?”

That was when I realized these men were the police.

What were they doing here?

Oh.

Of course.

They'd come to find the boy who burned down their temple.

How had they traced me here?

Someone must have seen a suspicious foreigner lurking near the source of the fire. The old man, maybe. Or Ram. Or even Suresh. He thought he'd made a new friend, a foreigner. Then he put two and two together and realized I was the one who'd destroyed his temple and ruined his mom's chances of getting better.

The room went quiet
as a guy in a suit stepped through the doorway. From the way the others looked at him, I knew he was in charge.

He nodded to my uncle. “You are Mr. Harvey Trelawney?”

“Yes.”

“And he is Mr. Tom Trelawney?”

“That's us. What's going on? Why did you smash down our door?”

“You were resisting arrest.”

“No, we weren't.”

“You did not open the door. You refused to let my men inside.”

“They didn't even knock!”

“Of course they did, sir. They knocked several times and requested entrance. You did not answer.”

“That's ridiculous! They just smashed the door down! If they'd knocked and said they were the police, we would have opened the door at once. And why did your man hit my nephew? What's wrong with you people? You can't just go around beating up children!”

“Please, sir, not to be shouting. If you will calm down, I will explain everything.”

“You'd better,” said Uncle Harvey. “You can't just break down the door of our hotel room. I'm going to ring the front desk and tell them what's going on.”

“Don't worry about the front desk, sir. They are perfectly aware of the situation.”

“Oh, are they? Terrific. Could you explain it to me too, please?”

“Of course, sir. Right away. Please, you will put on some clothes. Then we will take the chance to talk.”

My uncle nodded to me. We both got dressed. I turned my back on the cops to pull on my pants. As I was turning around again, I cupped my phone from the bedside table and slid it into my pocket. No one saw me. That was good. In a minute, I'd say I needed the bathroom. Then I'd call Mom or Dad and ask them to call . . . Who could they call? Not the police. So who else? A lawyer. That's what I needed. A good lawyer. Someone who spoke the local language. Would Mom and Dad agree to pay for a lawyer? They'd have to. Otherwise they wouldn't be seeing me for a long, long time.

Uncle Harvey sat down on the bed. He mopped his face with the corner of a sheet, leaving a long smear of fresh blood.

I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to ask his advice. Should I act like a tough guy in a movie and refuse to speak a word till my lawyer arrived? Or confess immediately?

I didn't have much experience with the police, but I had been hauled before Authority often in the past. Authority with a capital
A
came in many forms: my mom, my dad, my teachers, the principal, even a social worker once. All of them had called me before them and asked me to explain myself, justify myself, come clean about my crimes.

Confess or deny, that's your choice in such a situation, and I still wasn't sure of the best strategy.

Confession can sometimes lead to a lesser punishment.

Denial only works if there's no actual evidence linking you to the crime.

Which would my uncle choose?

He'd deny everything. I was sure he would. Confession wasn't his style.

What if I'd left fingerprints? What if they had a statement from Ram or Suresh or someone else who had seen me in the temple? Shouldn't I confess everything right away?

“We have had a complaint,” said the policeman. Looking at him, I'd never have guessed that's what he was. His face was plump and comfortable, the cheery features of a butcher or a baker, the type of man who couldn't resist sampling his own products during quiet moments in the shop. “We would like to ask you a few questions. Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” said my uncle.

“Thank you. It won't take very long. May I first make sure of some details? Your name is Harvey Trelawney?”

“That's correct.”

“You arrived in this country when?”

“A couple of days ago.”

“And the purpose of your visit?”

“Business and pleasure. I have a client here, but I've also brought my nephew on his first trip to India.” He was just about to explain further when he noticed what was happening on the other side of the room. “Hey! What are they doing?”

Three policemen were searching my uncle's bag. They'd tipped the contents on the floor and were sorting through his things, running their fingers along the seams of his trousers, opening his paired socks, rifling through the pages of his books.

What if one of them found the tiger?

I glanced at my uncle. The same thought had obviously occurred to him. He was standing up, his face red. “You can't do that! Put that down! Get out of my bag!”

“You do not have worry,” said the policeman. “It is only a precaution.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“This is not your country, sir. The situation is different here. We have no need of a warrant.”

“Where's my phone? I'm calling my lawyer. I'm calling the embassy. You're going to regret this.” Uncle Harvey leaned over to his bedside and scrabbled for his phone.

A shout came from the other side of the room. Everyone turned to look. One of the policemen was holding up two small plastic bags stuffed with tiny white pills. My first thought was relief: at least they hadn't found the tiger. Then I realized what the pills must be. The police wouldn't be interested in aspirin. They'd found drugs.

The room's attention turned back to Uncle Harvey.

“They're not mine,” he said.

“They are in your bag,” replied the cop.

“I didn't put them there.”

“Then who did?”

“You tell me.”

The plainclothes officer gave an order to his subordinate, who brought the drugs to him. He opened one bag and dipped his forefinger into the contents, rummaging through the pills. Then he lifted his head and looked sternly at my uncle. “For this quantity, even if you find the best lawyer in India, I would estimate eight to ten years in a high-security prison.”

“That's ridiculous. They're not mine.”

“It would be very much easier for everyone if you would tell the truth.”