Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3) Read Free Page A

behalf of Brahma.”
    “Just like Rajesh. Like the
historical Jesus, I have seen him heal the blind by applying an eyepatch of mud
created of loose earth mixed with his own saliva. I’ve seen him cure a malignant
tumor just by laying his hands upon it. I have seen him create many loaves of
bread from one single loaf. You just don’t forget such instances, Mr. Baker.”
    “Have you seen the kid turn water
into booze?” I smile. “Now, there’s something I’d like to see.”
    The man just stares at me, like my
comment is entirely inappropriate. And I suppose it is. In any case, I find
myself biting down on my bottom lip. Something I always do when nervous, or my
interest is entirely piqued, which it most definitely is.
    “So what’s the end all to this, Dr.
Singh? Why did you rescue me from my lovely afternoon of drinking beer and
playing cards if you wanna call it that? Why are you telling me all this?”
    “Mr. Baker, I have read your books
and also read about your exploits in Egypt and the Amazon Jungle. I know what
you are capable of both as an investigator and as a man who fears nothing.”
    Raising my hands, making a time-out
T.
    “I am most definitely not fearless,
Dr. Singh,” I say. “Christ, I don’t even like to fly…Damn, sorry about the
Christ reference.”
    He issues the subtlest of smiles. A
man not without a sense of humor, but also a man who takes pride in his dignity.
    “It is okay. I do not consider my
boy the modern Christ. Instead, I consider him the gifted flesh of his very
mortal parent’s flesh, and they love and miss him so very much.”
    My truth detector lights up. “What
do you mean they miss him?”
    “In answer to your question of why
you are here with me now,” he says, “Rajesh is missing. Gone. Kidnaped by those
who wish to abuse his power for their own dark purposes.”
    “Who precisely?”
    “The Thuggee and their
black-hearted God, Kali.”

 
3
     

     
    I get up from the table, push in my chair.
    “Look, Dr. Singh, I know precisely where this is going. Like
I told you, I’m good with finding missing people, and I’ve even been known to
dig up an archeological relic now and again. But I do not, will not, battle a
satanic cult that will string me up and dissect me alive as easily and
thoughtlessly as cooking up some chicken tandoori on the grill. Only thing that
distinguishes the Thuggee from ISIS is they’ve been around far longer and have
perfected their killing techniques. If my history serves me right, they were
responsible for the slaughter of more than two million innocent souls before
the British put an end to them in the mid-nineteenth century.” I start walking
on Via Guelfa towards my home. “Thanks for saving my ass at the bar and thanks
for the coffee, but I’m not your man. You need the fucking Expendables …excuse
my French times two.”
    “Mr. Baker!” he shouts, so loud his
voice echoes off the old stone and stucco-faced five-story buildings.
    I turn to find him standing by the
table. “There is something I’m not telling you that might change your mind.”
    “What exactly is that?”
    He stares not at me, but into me.
His eyes not blinking, drawing me into their powerful gaze like he managed to
do with psycho-Calum only minutes before.
    “Elizabeth,” he says. “Elizabeth
Flynn.”
    The name hits me like a
sledgehammer to the head. A name that goes with a face I’ve tried my damnedest
to forget about over the last five years.
    “How do you know that name?” Gravel
in my voice, profound heaviness in my heart.
    “Let’s go someplace and talk more.
This is not the place.”
    A car passes. Then a motorbike.
Following that a truck. Foreign exchange and Junior Year Abroad Students fill
the sidewalks with their school bags slung over their shoulders. The bells
inside Giotto’s Tower in nearby Piazza del’ Duomo are tolling the five o’clock
hour. They toll for me. Ominous rings to say the