Killer Moves Read online

  Killer Moves

  CONTENTS

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Epilogue

  Thank You Note

  Other books by Varsha Dixit

  Acknowledgements

  Meet the Author

  Killer Moves

  By Varsha Dixit

  Copyright © Varsha Dixit 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  Chapter 1

  10:05 pm, March 29, 1996

  Sirsa, Madhya Pradesh

  It was a deathly storm—a storm that could kill, a storm that did.

  The night was like the depths of the Mariana Trench—wet, stygian, and dangerous. The winds howled like a lusty pack of wolves, and the raindrops pelted down with such force that they stung the rare person or animal that had not yet taken shelter. Thick treetops bent down, skimming their roots like old arthritic men tying shoelaces. Electric wires snapped like twigs all over the city. The entire town plunged into darkness.

  The storm did not differentiate between the rich and the poor. It showed the same vengeance to tin roofs as it did to the pride of the state—Sirsa palace, a magnificent 150,000-square-foot sandstone creation on twenty acres of land!

  “Kriti! Kriti! Answer me, Kriti!” The fifteen-year-old lanky boy with a narrow face and floppy hair walked around in the darkness, his hands outstretched in front. The boy was Prince Kabir—heir to the Sirsa royal lineage—and the girl he sought was his twin sister, Princess Kritika. For the last two days, the children were the acting adults to a bevy of servants and staff. Their parents and grandparents were out of town for the inauguration ceremony of a rehabilitation center for abused women in Bhopal.

  Those who knew Princess Kritika also knew that the svelte and soft-spoken teenager did not blanche in the face of bungee jumps, sky dives, and the usual household crawlies. However darkness was her nemesis—a nemesis she was yet to defeat, unlike her brother.

  Chitra Rana, Kabir and Kritika’s grandmother, felt that the fear of the darkness had been planted in her granddaughter at the time of her birth. Kabir’s delivery had been fast and easy, his eagerness to move on to the next thing evident even as an infant. Kritika, however, had struggled in her mother’s womb for excruciating minutes when the umbilical cord had wrapped itself around her delicate neck. She had emerged from the womb, her skin as blue as faded ink and mottled with ugly webs of bumpy red veins. But Kritika had survived. The doctors called her a miracle baby. It was an actual miracle that her grandfather, King Bhoopendra Rana, had not fired the doctors.

  “Kriti! Kriti!”

  All the outside noises were amplified in the quiet and large house, drowning Kabir’s voice.

  The glass door next to him shook as the wind slammed it from the outside.

  A pale flickering light appeared in the room. “Prince! Prince!”

  Kabir saw his nanny, Simi Miss, accompanied by two guards in the blue and white staff uniform embossed with the Rana’s royal family insignia at the pocket—a red maple leaf inside a golden sphere.

  “There is a city-wide power failure because of the storm,” Simi Miss said as she sheltered the candle in her hand to protect the flame from the cold draft that permeated the room.

  “What about the generators, Balbir?” Kabir asked one of the guards.

  “Prince, no one can go to the outhouse because of the fierce winds,” came the prompt reply.

  “The wind should die in some time.” Simi Miss said, her focus on protecting the wavering flame.

  “Whatever! I will find Kriti myself.”

  The Prince sauntered to them, his gait one of arrogance rather than teenage awkwardness. He was being groomed in princely ways since he was in diapers, thus molding his incorrigible defiance into incorrigible superiority. “The path to success is lonely because it is narrow—there isn’t any room for more than one,” is how he often explained his uppity behavior to those who cared enough to inquire.

  “Princess Kritika is not with you?” asked the nanny.

  “Do you see her?” Kabir clucked his tongue impatiently. “But I know where she is.”

  Because I sent her there!

  “Princess fears the dark. We have to find her.” Simi Miss gestured at the staff.

  Kabir halted near her, his smirk loathsome. “If we leave her alone in the dark long enough, Kriti might be cured of this stupid fear. She might finally see the light!”

&nbs
p; Sarcasm came easy to Kabir yet Kriti never grew weary of him. The twin bond was something Kabir could not shake off, even if he tried. Kriti was a few minutes younger than Kabir, but she had a better read on him than he had on her. He might forget her in his pursuit of torturing the world, but she never stopped looking out for him.

  “You think you like to be alone, but you are most miserable when you are, big brother!” she would mock him with the roll of her eyes.

  Kabir grabbed the candle and jogged out of the room, uncaring that he had left the nanny and the guards in darkness. He trotted in the corridor that led to the living room. Rounding a corner, he slipped on the white and black marble floor but caught himself just in time.

  A loud bang spooked Kabir as a gust of wind sprayed water on him, extinguishing the candle. “Brilliant!”

  One of the many glass doors between the porch and the living room swung open. The wind rushed inside, causing many expensive porcelain and glass curios to slip off their perches and shatter on the floor.

  Nice! Kabir grinned manically. The fury of nature made him feel alive. He tossed the candelabra, uncaring, letting it roll away.

  Reaching for the door, Kabir grasped the damp, slippery knob of the door flattened against the slick stonewall. He jostled with the wind but somehow managed to pull the door shut and reached above his head to latch the bolt.

  The Prince froze.

  What the hell!

  A slim ghostly figure was staggering in the sleeting wind and rain on the terrace garden that jutted out from the first floor above the porch steps.

  Kabir felt his heart knock against his ribs. “Kriti!” he whispered hoarsely.

  Kritika’s white summer frock stuck to her like a second skin. Her thin body was bowed from the waist as she fought the whipping winds pushing her closer and closer to the edge of the terrace with its dangerously low balustrade.

  She does not realize how close she is to it!

  “Stop, Kriti. No!” Kabir screamed.

  She did not hear him from such a distance. She had her back to the balustrade and Kabir.

  Kabir spun around, running in the direction of the curved marble staircase that led to the terrace. The blood pounded in his temples. He slipped on the steps and his chin crashed on marble. Adrenaline caused Kabir to feel no pain, and he was back on his feet, taking the steps two at a time.

  Lightning struck somewhere on the grounds and lit up the palace in ghostly blue light just as Kabir hurtled onto the terrace. Rain pellets hit his face, leaving him with limited vision.

  He heard the soft thud through the forceful gale and beating rain.

  Something had hit the ground.

  A bolt of excruciating pain ripped his chest and his legs gave way under him. Kabir fell on his knees, his face misshapen as his insides experienced bone-crushing pain. The rain and wind beat him down further into the marble floor splattered with broken clay pots.

  “Kriti! Kriti!” Kabir called, his face bowed against the fury of nature as he crawled toward the spot he had last seen his sister. Reaching the metal railing, Kabir caught it and somehow pulled himself up. And then he saw her.

  “Kritika!” A scream ripped out from his throat, the raging storm drowned it.

  The Princess lay on the ground nearly thirty feet below, unmoving, her body broken and splayed awkwardly like a wooden puppet with joints bent at odd angles. Her mouth was twisted in shock. Her eyes were open and stared right back at him. Lifeless and dead! The wind and rain slapped and shook her body like an excited dog tussling with its favorite toy.

  “Kriti! Kriti!”

  Prince Kabir nearly went over the rail after his sister but a hand grabbed him, pulling him back to safety.

  “Kabir, stop.” The hand and voice belonged to Shreya Kulhar, his sister’s best friend from the boarding school. She was here to spend Holi with them. “What are you doing?”

  Shreya was soaked from head to foot and her long hair stuck to her scalp and neck.

  Kabir sobbed. “Kriti! Kriti!”

  Shreya leaned over his shoulder and saw Kriti’s body. Her eyes widened and then she swung her gaze back to him.

  Letting go of Kabir’s shoulder, she hastily backed away from him. “You killed her!”

  “What? No!” Kabir moaned, his voice guttural, his tears mixing with the rain water. “I would never!” A sob escaped his mouth—the first of many.

  “I was in her room when you told her that you had left her Walkman on the terrace. You planned this!” Shreya cried, clutching her sides like they were hurting.

  “It was a joke. I was just messing with Kriti.” Kabir choked. “I would never . . . no! She fell over. I was downstairs.”

  “You are bleeding.” Shreya pointed at his chest.

  Blood trickled from his chin.

  Kabir remembered his fall at the stairs. Deprived of speech and rationale, he curled on the floor, mindless of the storm.

  No! No! Kriti can’t be dead. He had lost the only person he loved. The rain beat down on him, harder than a leather strap.

  Shreya dropped to her knees and pulled at his hands that covered his face. “You didn’t kill her? You promise? Answer me!”

  Kabir continued to weep.

  “Answer me, Kabir, answer me!” she moved closer to his pinched face.

  Kabir was not sure what Shreya saw, but one moment she was pushing him away and the other she was trying to make him sit up.

  “C’mon! We have to go.” She shook his shoulders. Her eyes overflowed like his, and her voice quivered. “Not everyone will believe you.”

  Kabir snapped his eyes open and jerked. He caught Shreya by the neck “I would never hurt Kriti! She is my sister. Why do you keep saying I hurt her?”

  Shreya made strange gurgling sounds and yanked his squeezing hands away from her throat. “You are choking me!” She took deep breaths. “You fought with her in the afternoon in front of everyone. What did you threaten to do when Kriti would not give you the remote?” Shreya wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  I will bloody throw you off the terrace!

  A new kind of fear gripped the young boy’s heart.

  “C’mon, Kabir! C’mon! I’m only helping you because Kriti loved you and she was my best friend.” Shreya pulled on his shoulders as she got to her feet.

  Shocked into silence, Kabir lurched to his feet. Both teenagers somehow made it to the door. The storm was winding down.

  Screams and loud calls from the foyer pierced the night. Princess Kritika had been discovered.

  Fresh tears trailed down Kabir’s cheeks upon remembering the image of Kriti’s twisted body that was now imprinted on his mind—her lifeless eyes boring into his, her elbows and knees broken like a mangled doll.

  Kriti’s death would always live in him.

  Chapter 2

  11:05 pm, February 2017

  An Apartment in Mumbai

  A bulb with a dirty oval cover lit a square room with minimal furniture. The chipped green wall turned an ugly yellow under the harsh light. The only sound was the constant knocking of the chair legs on the cracked mosaic floor. The single occupant in the room stared at the wall in front of him, his mouth agape.

  “Now you all are truly revealed,” he murmured, wetting his lips with his tongue. His eyes glittered in a feral manner. “My beauties!”

  Jumping up, the man walked to the wall and ran his fingers lovingly over the glossy pictures, tracing the faces of the girls, their bodies. He placed his cheek against the pictures and then turning kissed the pictures longingly.

  He walked back and retook the chair. Unzipping himself, he released the growing bulge in his pants. Within seconds, he was running his hands over himself all the while staring at the pictures. The chair started knocking again, back and forth, back and forth, rising in crescendo. His eyes stayed fixed on the photographs while his mouth loosened, and his eyes dilated. The man climaxed in minutes.

  A sigh tumbled from his mouth that creased in a content smile.
His head fell back as he relaxed in the warm afterglow of an orgasm. He stared at his shrine on the wall.

  “Thank you for letting me be a part of your life . . . and your death.” He murmured gratefully to the pictures of the women he had killed over the years. He rubbed his soft belly. “Time for new pictures. March is coming ladies.”

  He yawned and fell into a deep sleep; a peaceful smile on his thick dark lips.

  #

  3:43 am, February 2017

  An Apartment in Kolkata

  The simple wooden platform bed with the green mosquito net rattled intermittently.

  A quiet moan burst forth from the man asleep on the cotton sheet printed with big red hydrangea blossoms. Streetlight filtered through the open slats of the plantation-style windows, throwing some light in the cluttered, dark room that smelled of old spice and even older newspapers.

  Tkkkktkk! Tkkktkk!

  The bed shook as the man twisted and shot up, his usually piercing gaze dilated with fear. Cold sweat poured down his face and back. It hurt to breathe. He took some calming breaths and reached under his pillow.

  He yanked out a chain with the rudraksha 1beads. His fingers rushed over the corrugated beads as he chanted softly. A few minutes later the man’s breathing mellowed and some color trickled back on his gaunt cheeks.

  The man turned to the empty side of the bed and stroked the bare pillow next to him. “I will lay my life for them, La. But if Aisha does not listen . . . This time Aisha must understand the urgency, La. She has to listen and open herself up to those who seek her.” The man’s voice was deep and raspy like a chain smoker, even though he had never smoked. His eyes were hooded, his nose sharp, and his face gaunt and long.

  Suvabrata Ghosh was a brilliant mathematician and professor as well as a powerful psychic and tantric extraordinaire.

  Suvabrata became quiet and began to nod as if he were listening to someone, someone who mattered. But there was no one else in the room.

  1 Rudraksha is a seed traditionally used as prayer beads in Hinduism.

  Chapter 3

  7:30 am, March 2017

  Morarji Desai Park, Mumbai

  “Staying alive, staying alive! Aah aah! Staying alive.” The woman gritted her teeth as the remix version of Bees Gees classic song pounded in her ears through the minuscule headphones. Her worn gray and blue sneakers struck the cement, crunching light gravel as she swerved to the side to avoid the slow walkers who were slow enough to freeze their fat rather than burn it.