The twenty-kilometer ride back to Jodhpur was a high-speed meditation. The desert wind whipped past Neel, cold and sharp, but it couldn't touch the chilling certainty that had settled in his core. The locket in his pocket felt like a brand against his skin. He wasn't just investigating a crime anymore; he was avenging a ghost.
He didn't return to his office in the old city. It was no longer a sanctuary; it was a liability. His every move was likely being watched. Instead, he drove to the upscale area of Shastri Nagar, a part of the city defined by quiet, tree-lined streets and modern bungalows. He parked his motorcycle in the shadows across from a well-maintained, two-story house. He sat there for a long time, the engine off, watching the lights on the ground floor. It was almost 11:30 PM. Taking this step was as dangerous as walking into the fort, but in a different way. It meant trusting someone.
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number he had committed to memory a decade ago, a number he had sworn he would never use. It rang twice before a gruff, sleepy voice answered.
"Prakash."
"It's been a long time, Inspector," Neel said, his voice low.
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a long, heavy silence. Inspector Alok Prakash had been Neel's partner at the CBI—a by-the-book, steady, and honest cop who had been an anchor to Neel's brilliant but erratic storm. Alok had been ordered to cut all ties after Neel's dismissal, and he had obeyed.
"Verma?" Alok finally said, his voice a hoarse whisper, laced with disbelief and a decade of buried anger. "You're dead. At least, that's what I was told to believe."
"I've been in Jodhpur," Neel said, skipping the pleasantries. "I need your help, Alok."
A bitter, humorless laugh came through the phone. "My help? You're calling me now, after ten years of silence, to ask for my help? The last time I helped you, it almost cost me my career. The files on your cases are sealed so tight, they might as well be buried in concrete."
"It's him, Alok," Neel said, his voice dropping, the intensity unmistakable. "The Jigsaw Killer. He's back. Or, he never left."
Another silence. This one was heavier, charged with the memory of the case that had broken their partnership. "Neel, don't do this. Don't drag this up. That case is a ghost. Let it rest."
"It just left a new body in Chimanpura Fort," Neel countered. "A perfect copy of the old crime scenes. And a message, just for me."
"Then report it," Alok said, but his voice lacked conviction. He knew the system. He knew how they would treat Neel.
"You know I can't," Neel said softly. "They'll bury me with the body. But you... you're a respected Inspector in the Jodhpur police now. You have access. You can look into things without raising alarms."
"And risk my pension and my family for one of your wild theories again? No, thank you," Alok said, his voice hardening.
Neel knew he had only one card left to play. It was the reason he was parked across the street.
"He's targeting Abhijit Singh," Neel said, delivering the line like a surgeon's cut. "He gave me the time and place. Umaid Bhawan Palace. Two days from now."
The line went completely quiet. Abhijit Singh was not just an old suspect; he was a national icon, a titan of industry. An accusation against him was professional suicide. An attack on him would be a national crisis.
Neel watched as a light on the second floor of the house flicked on. Alok was awake now. Fully awake.
"Don't call this number again," Alok said, his voice tight with a conflict of duty and fear. "There's an all-night chai stall near the east gate of the university stadium. Be there in thirty minutes. Come alone. And Neel... if this is a game, I swear I'll put you in handcuffs myself."
The line went dead.
Neel put his phone away. He had done it. He had opened a door to his past. Now he had to pray that the man who walked through it was still the partner he once knew.