As Night Falls

AS NIGHT FALLS Hunter becomes the hunted. ALKA DIMRI SAKLANI As Night Falls – Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Alka Dimri Saklani. All rights reserved. All rights reserved with the author. No part of this publication must be published, reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover design by Oliviaprodesign and Rishi Nair Edited by Janki Thakkar For My Readers Contents PART ONE Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 PART TWO 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 PART THREE Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 PART FOUR Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Acknowledgment PART ONE THE ACP Chapter 1 The night is familiar. The full moon casts a magical glow over the meadow and the night jasmine glints like stars under its radiance. Swaying like drunken men in the chilly breeze, the drizzling drops add an earthy smell to the air. The weather would have been perfect… if not for the gruesome dead body on the ground. I park my car at a distance, so as to not ruin any evidence by the tyre marks, though the light shower may soon intensify and wash away all the evidence. It is eerily familiar; not the body or the rain, or the fragrance of night jasmine; not just a single element, but the combination – the vibe in the air, the faint smell of petrichor, flowers, and blood. Instead of taking me forward, my every step towards the victim is taking me back in time. A tourist called the police at eight after finding an empty car near the woods. As soon as I got the update, I headed here as I was near Karjat. After instructing Inspector Nishant to come with the team, I reached here, searching for the owner, when I found the corpse lying not far from the car. Being a remote area, the Peb Fort trek isn’t easily accessible. Add to it the narrow slippery road and the drizzle, and it’s no wonder that the ambulance hasn’t arrived yet. Meanwhile, I reach the crime scene and shine the torch over the body. A spark of recognition hits me, but death and gore have changed the landscape of the victim’s personality. His lifeless stare into oblivion appears ghostly, the eyes not blinking even as the droplets fall into them. His hair is matted to his forehead, the wet muck sticking to the strands. I shine the torch downwards when a gold chain hanging down his chest glints in the dark. The blood-stained shirt was probably white before the deed, but the sprinkle of rain is making it difficult to judge, causing the blood to taint the shirt. Though his stomach is protruding from the last open button, I can’t see the flesh; it’s all blood. The sheen of his brown pants, visible even in the faint light, shows how expensive they must be. I then move the torch around and notice the deeper shade of the surrounding mud, tainted by the victim’s blood. There is more blood around the victim than is probably left in his veins. When the torch reaches his hand, I notice the Rolex watch. The man was filthy rich, but the gold chain and Rolex watch still lying with him prove that it was not robbery, and the killer wants us to know this. In his fist is a thorny stem with a white rose, the petals already wilting. Blood freezes in my veins and I instinctively bend, shining the torch over his other hand. In a daze, I notice the three words scribbled on his wrist in shabby handwriting. I DESERVE THIS. FUCK! I pull back with a jerk, nausea rising up my throat. Yes, the night is familiar in more ways than one. Thankfully, the arrival of my team and the ambulance pushes away the ghost of my memories, and I turn around to the sound of sirens. Nishant jumps out of his jeep, already wearing a raincoat. “ACP Arora, when did you come?” he asks, looking at me. “Just a moment back. We need to hurry. It’s drizzling and we can lose the evidence.” The team gets on with the work. They put on their gloves and mark the crime scene. The forensic doctor checks the pulse and shakes his head, though I wasn’t waiting for his confirmation. Two of the team members fix the makeshift shelter of a plastic tarp to protect the body from the rain, even as the cameraman starts clicking pictures. Two officers search the thickets nearby, taking their search dogs and torches, while Nishant and the rookie, Niyati, document the details. “This is horrible!” Niyati yelps, bending down to get a clear view. She shines the torch over the body, covering her nose with a hankie, though the body isn’t stinking yet. Her reaction makes me recollect my first time, how different it was and how it had stumped me. “What’s written on his wrist?” She focuses the torch there. “‘I deserve this’? What had he done to deserve such a cruel death?” She shrugs her shoulders, searching his pockets. It has a licence. “Mohan Chandani?!” she exclaims, passing over the licence to me. Mohan Chandani is a famous film producer. Just last week, his latest film got released. It was an instant hit. “What is wrong with Bollywood?” Nishant questions.