Behind a desk in a television studio sat a formidable news presenter. She glared ferociously at the camera while the program’s dramatic introductory music played. When silence ensued, she launched into the first segment.

“I’m Prashi Gupta of INN, and joining me in studio is Darren Winkworth, father of the missing American we have been hearing so much about.”

She turned to face her guest, a dapper old gentleman.

“Mr. Winkworth…hello. I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”

“We don’t know that my son’s dead,” the man objected.

The news presenter glanced at her notes.

“Correct. That hasn’t been confirmed. Tell me, sir, how are you feeling?”

“As you can imagine, this has been a challenging time for me. Thankfully, I’ve been taking Chillaxin, a leading anti-anxiety medication from Roje Labs, to smooth out the rougher moments, enabling me to lead a freer, more productive life. The name was Chillaxin. Ask your doctor about it today.”

The news presenter frowned.

“Sir, do you have a financial interest in this pharmaceutical you seem to be promoting?”

“I’m offended by the question,” the gentleman answered evasively.

The presenter was confident the man was hiding a story, but it wasn’t the right story. She needed to guide the conversation back to human interest territory.

“Do you have any clue why this tragedy with your son might have occurred?” the presenter prodded.

“Of course I do,” the man assured her. “My son is an imbecile.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

The unflappable presenter was momentarily flapped. Then, she recovered her desire for ratings.

“Mr. Winkworth, do you have a message you wish to deliver to your son, in case his he sees this broadcast?”

The gray-haired American turned to stare earnestly into the camera.

“Do you hear me, child? We’re going to find you. We’re going to bring you home alive, probably. Your mother and I are worried sick about you. She would have loved to be here if the timing hadn’t overlapped with the Paris Haute Couture fashion show, so allow me to pass along her warmest regards instead. Stay strong, child. And say nothing.”

The narcissistic gentleman looked like he was eating up the public sympathy his son’s disappearance had focused on him. He seemed very pleased with himself.

The news presenter noticed another American standing off-camera, gesturing urgently to her interviewee. She thought he might have news about the older man’s son, so she ended the segment, thinking it was time for a break anyway.

“Thank you for visiting us, Mr. Winkworth, and good luck with your search,” she addressed the older gentleman sympathetically.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

She turned to face the camera with a grave expression.

“That was Darren Winkworth talking about his missing son,” she announced. “After the break, why does your nose feel funny sometimes, and what might it be telling you about your future?”

Several station employees teamed up to remove a wireless microphone from the older man after they were off the air. Once free, he strode across the room to confer with several intimidating-looking men in suits.

“We have a lead,” one of them announced. “The rickshaw driver was from a place called Paranjapur. It’s about a third of the way from here to New Delhi.”

“How did we learn this information?” the older man inquired.

“Terrence’s personal assistant received a telephone call. The police found someone in Mumbai who knew the driver.”

“I told you planting a bug on Reggie would be a good idea,” the older man gloated. “Now, let’s get a move on. Why are we still standing here? I need to get to my son before anyone else.”

———

Reggie sat in the back seat of the sports utility vehicle, terrified by the constant near collisions between cars and pedestrians on the chaotic Mumbai streets. Jim tried playing it cool in the front passenger seat, though he shared the same alarm.

Reggie and Jim were racing back to the airport to catch a flight to Indore, where they were to meet a hired driver who would ferry them to the village of Paranjapur. (The term ‘racing,’ of course, actually meant sitting at a standstill in Mumbai’s congested traffic most of the time.)

Reggie was wracked with guilt over Terrence’s disappearance. He felt that his demand to catch a rickshaw when they arrived in Mumbai had led to the entire disaster.

He had been Terrence’s assistant for over a year. He should have known better than to let Terrence get ahead of him and make his own arrangements.

Terrence could do many things well, but making arrangements would never appear on that list.

Jim, Terrence’s hulking bodyguard, was more of a frame of mind to throttle Terrence when they found him. Terrence’s escapade had made Jim look like a professional fraud. His protectee had vanished right out from under his nose. Unlike Reggie, Jim wasn’t particularly concerned about Terrence’s well-being. In his opinion, Terrence was wily enough to survive on his own.

They watched a helicopter pass speedily overhead as they brooded at a standstill, surrounded by the din of honking car horns.

“Probably some billionaire,” Reggie observed enviously.

———

My throat burned as if I had swallowed sunlight.

My hosts had prepared a dinner for me to share with the family elders, and molten lava appeared to have been a significant ingredient.

My palate had been entirely unprepared for the spiciness of the food, and no yogurt could ease my suffering now. I lay in bed and focused on my breathing.

There was still no sign of Reggie or Jim. My tuk-tuk couldn’t have been that much faster than theirs. Why weren’t they here?

Much as it had been with any mention of Martin, people seemed utterly perplexed when I tried to ask about my companions’ arrival. There was no recognition of the names Reggie or Jim.

Something was wrong. I didn’t know what was happening, but I couldn’t just sit around and miss my friend’s wedding. I needed to take action.

From my tuk-tuk journey, I remembered there was a town about ten miles away. In the morning, I would try to make my way there. Surely, I would be able to find someone with a cell phone.

———

Arvind Malhotra, Superintendent of Police, was in the lead vehicle of a four-vehicle convoy from the Central Bureau of Investigation, making his way down miles of unpaved roads to reach a village called Paranjapur.

He had just watched a television appearance by the father of the missing young American the CBI was looking for. The man had described his son as ‘an imbecile,’ and Superintendent Malhotra was inclined to agree.

From everything he could discern, there appeared to have been nothing at work in this investigation but a profound misunderstanding, not foul play.

It seemed like a waste of resources to take the young man’s disappearance so seriously, but there was pressure from high levels of the government to resolve the situation quickly before it became a diplomatic crisis, given the wealth of the missing person’s parents.

A man must do as he is ordered, provided that order is ethical.

So Superintendent Malhotra was leading a crack team of forensic investigators to a little rural village, where he expected to find…an imbecile.

He sighed.