CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE
Tribhuvana pulled out a gun and aimed it at Khadka Tshering.
Khadka froze. “Whoa. There’s no need for this.”
“Yes, there is,” Tribhuvana growled. “You murdered Juddha Rana in cold blood. The blood is on
your hands. And now you must face judgment.”
Khadka reached for the sheath strapped to his belt. “Why must you kill me? I did not murder Juddha, he died of a heart attack. That was even confirmed by the doctors. You have no proof that I killed him.”
“I do not need proof,” Tribhuvana spat. Khadka could see that the king’s hands were shaking. He was uncertain, his decisiveness wavering. Khadka jumped at this advantage.
“If you kill me,” the Field Marshal said, “then you will never sleep again. You will dream of this moment every night, and wake up screaming with the image of my bloody ghost burned into your head.”
Tribhuvana blinked several times, and shook his head slightly. “You’re wrong. I can kill you, and never have second thoughts about it.”
Khadka laughed. “Then why haven’t you done it yet?” Tribhuvana didn’t answer so Khadka went on. “I know you have
never killed anyone, oh great king,” he said mockingly. “And you are just a young man. Killing is not easy, contrary to what you may believe. It is not just like turning a doorknob and opening a door. Sure, it may feel easy to squeeze the trigger, but do you know what will happen. A bullet will fly out, hit—”
“Shut up, shut up!” Tribhuvana shouted.
“Are you going to kill me?” Khadka demanded. “Or not. Make your decision, glorious king. We do not have eternity to stand here, stalling.
Your judgment is at hand.”
Tribhuvana lowered his eyes. He thought for a moment, then sighed. “You’re right, I can’t kill you.” He lowered the pistol.
Khadka smiled. “Good, good. I knew you would make the right decision.” The Field Marshal stepped away from the door. “Now, I believe—”
Tribhuvana raised the gun again, and without hesitation fired at Khadka.
The bullet hit Khadka in the stomach. Blood instantly gushed forth. Khadka stumbled backwards, a look of shock etched on his face.
“You son of a bitch,” he growled. Holding his stomach with one hand, Khadka reached for the sheath on his belt with the other. The dying man pulled out a kukri (a blade used by Nepali Gurkhas), and stumbled towards Tribhuvana.
Tribhuvana shot again. The bullet slammed into Khadka’s forehead.
It was over.
Khadka Tshering’s limp body crumpled. He landed with his mangled face staring up at the ceiling. His sightless eyes were empty and had the appearance of glass. His hand still clutched the kukri blade.
Tribhuvana stumbled backwards and leaned against the wall for support.
What have I done?
He looked up and muttered a quick prayer to Brahman.
Please forgive me.
The king looked around.
Did anyone hear this? Do they know what is going on? Are they closing in now?
Tribhuvana hurried over to the door and slid the deadbolt into place. Then he went over to Khadka’s bed and sat down, at least somewhat relieved. Now he would have some time. But how could he explain this?
There is no way to explain this to the Ranas. There is no way for me to be exonerated. I will be convicted and executed. There is no way out, for me.
But then realization hit.
There is a way out, only one way. I won’t have to explain anything, won’t have to prove my innocence. There will be no way for me to exonerate myself.
Tribhuvana looked over at Khadka’s desk. There was a typewriter there, with a roller of paper already inserted.
Perfect.
Tribhuvana sat down at the desk and began to write.
To all my friends, enemies, and colleagues, I have decided to take my life on this night, and there is no way to dissuade me from this grievous fate I have chosen for myself…
