Robin Cook - Foreign Body

Normally she woke at this point, finding herself drenched in sweat, and so it was on this day, too. Disoriented, it took her a few moments to realize she was in India and that the phone was ringing. Jennifer snatched up the receiver in a minor panic while irrationally thinking that whoever was calling had been a witness to her murderous activities.

The called turned out to be Rita Lucas, and she sensed the anxiety in Jennifer’s voice. “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

“No, it’s okay,” Jennifer said, becoming more oriented to reality. “I was just dreaming.”

“I’m so sorry to be calling so early, but I wanted to be certain not to miss you. I’ve actually waited. I never went to sleep. I was at the hospital for most of the night.”

Jennifer checked the analog clock radio. It took her a moment to figure out the time, as the little hand and the big hand were not too different in size.

“I was hoping we could have breakfast together.”

“That would be fine.”

“Could it be soon? I am exhausted. And can I impose on you to come here to the Imperial? I’m afraid I look the wreck that I feel.”

“I’d be happy to come. I can be ready in less than a half-hour. How far is the Imperial hotel from the Amal Palace? Do you know?”

“It’s very close. It’s just up the Janpath.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the Janpath.”

“It’s very close. Maybe five minutes in a taxi.”

“Then I should be able to be there close to eight,” Jennifer said, throwing back the covers and swinging her legs off the bed.

“I’ll meet you in the breakfast room. When you come through the front door, continue straight across the lobby. The breakfast room is to the right.”

“I’ll see you in a half-hour,” Jennifer said.

After hanging up, Jennifer put herself in high gear. As a medical student, she’d perfected the process of getting ready. Early on she decided that the aggravation of hurrying was worth enduring for fifteen minutes more sleep.

She was pleased that Rita Lucas was willing to see her. Jennifer was eager to learn about this third American medical tourist death and exactly how much it resembled the first two.

During the process of showering and throwing on her clothes, she thought about the rest of the day. She wanted to steer clear of the Queen Victoria Hospital so as not to be further aggravated by the pesky case manager. That meant she had to think of something to do for the better part of the morning, lunch, the afternoon, and dinner to avoid obsessing about the frustration of not being able to move forward on her grandmother’s situation until Laurie arrived. As for the late evening, she knew exactly what she was doing and looked forward with great zeal to heading out to the airport.

As she stepped out of her room carrying one of her guidebooks, she felt proud of herself. It was only seven-fifty-three, possibly a new record for her. On the way down in the elevator she went back to thinking about the day’s plans. She had decided to contact Lucinda Benfatti for lunch or dinner or both. In the morning, provided breakfast didn’t drag on, she thought she’d sightsee, even though she wasn’t much of a sightseer. She thought it would be a shame to have traveled as far as she had without seeing something of the city. In the afternoon she thought she’d work out and then just lounge around the pool, a rare treat.

One of the Amal Palace doormen, when she told him she was going only to the Imperial hotel, advised her to walk down the hotel driveway and hail a yellow-and-green auto rickshaw if she was adventuresome. Taking the advice as a challenge of sorts, Jennifer did just that, especially when he told her that it would be significantly quicker than a regular cab during the morning rush hour.

At first Jennifer thought the vehicle quaint, with its three wheel, open-sided design. But when she settled herself on the slippery vinyl bench seat and the conveyance took off as if it was joining a race, she had second thoughts. Being thrown forward and backward as the driver rapidly shifted, Jennifer scrambled for appropriate handholds. Once reaching speed, she was then thrown side to side as the driver began to weave among the exhaust-belching buses. The final indignity occurred from a large pothole that threw Jennifer skyward with enough velocity that her head made contact with the molded fiberglass top.

But the worst episode occurred when the driver accelerated between two buses that were converging. Seemingly oblivious to the possibility of being squished by vehicles fifty times the rickshaw’s size, the driver did not slow in the slightest despite the rapid disappearance of space, such that people clinging to the sides of the buses could have shaken Jennifer’s hand.

Convinced that the auto rickshaw and the buses were going to touch, Jennifer let go of the hand railing, pulled in her arms, and switched her grip to the edge of the seat itself. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, certain she was about to hear the grinding noise of actual contact. But it didn’t happen. Instead, she heard the deafening screech of the buses’ brakes as they rapidly slowed for an upcoming red traffic light. Jennifer reopened her eyes. The auto rickshaw driver, able to stop in a much shorter distance, rocketed forward, shooting out from between the braking buses before applying his own brakes.

The moment the auto rickshaw came to a lurching halt, it was surrounded by a small horde of shoeless, dirty children dressed in rags, ages three to twelve, thrusting their left hands in at Jennifer while making an eating gesture with their right. Some of the older girls were carrying swaddled infants on their hips.

Jennifer shrank back, looking into the children’s sad, dark eyes, some of which were crusted with pus from obvious infection. Afraid to give them any money lest she cause a riot of sorts, Jennifer looked to the driver for help. But the driver did not move or even turn around. Absentmindedly, he raced the vehicle’s tiny engine while keeping the clutch disengaged.

Feeling almost sick facing such in-your-face wrenching poverty, Jennifer was alternately repulsed and awed that Hinduism, with its creeds of punarjanma and karma, could inure its adherents to such contrasts and injustices.

To Jennifer’s relief, the traffic light changed to green and the swarm of auto rickshaws, scooters, motorcycles, buses, trucks, and cars surged ahead, mindless of the children, who had to dodge the vehicles to save themselves.

As promised, the ride from the Amal Palace to the Imperial was short, but after Jennifer paid her fare and started to walk up the Imperial hotel’s drive, since she’d been informed by the auto-rickshaw driver that he was not allowed on the Imperial’s property, she felt as though she’d been through a marathon both physically and mentally. On top of everything else, she had a slight headache from all the diesel fumes she’d been forced to breathe.

As she approached the hotel, she found herself appreciating the building’s appearance, which had a colonial aura, but not the site. In that sense it reminded her of the Queen Victoria Hospital, as it, too, was wedged in among rather unattractive commercial establishments.

Dhaval Narang felt he had the best job in the world because most of the time he just sat around and played cards with several other people who worked for Shashank Malhotra. And when he was called on to do something, it was always interesting and often a challenge, and the current assignment was no different. He was supposed to get rid of a young American woman by the name of Jennifer Hernandez. The challenging part was that he had no idea what she looked like. All he knew was that she was staying at the Amal Palace Hotel. How long she would be staying was also unknown, so he did not have the luxury of spending a lot of time looking for the woman, observing her, and learning her habits. Shashank’s orders had been to get it done and get it done fast.