by John Shors
“A scooter? You didn’t tell me about—”
“I want it.”
“You want to sell it.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I’ll sell it, and I’ll give you half.”
Loc nodded. “And I want something else.”
“Remember your place, cousin,” Vien replied, shutting his phone.
“Bring a camera.”
“Why?”
“Because I want those brats to see what I did to him. When they see that, they’ll never smile again, never hold hands again. They’ll be as good as dead.”
Vien saw the look in Loc’s eyes, and suddenly the room seemed small to him. “We’ll catch him in the hills,” he said, picking up his sunglasses. “But we’d better go now, before he reaches the city.”
BUOYED BY THEIR RESCUE OF MAI and Minh, Noah drove the scooter as he might have as a boy. The road through the low mountains was almost barren, and he weaved along the fresh blacktop, swooping to and fro the way a kite navigated the sky. The sun and wind were invigorating, and he felt freer than he had in many years. He and Thien had done what he’d secretly feared was impossible—they’d saved Mai and Minh, returning them to a place they could call home. And tomorrow, Noah would be able to watch them play and laugh, and later he’d hold Thien in his arms and tell her about his love for her. She would sing to him. He’d gently touch her face. He’d kiss her lips, her neck. And if her desires were the same as his, he would undress her slowly, marveling at the beauty that lay hidden beneath her cap and paint-stained clothes, delighting in discoveries. And perhaps best of all, he knew that she wouldn’t mind his own nakedness. The ugly scar on his forehead, the stump of his leg—to her these would be only parts of him, no different from his hands or his eyes.
Noah shifted atop the seat. Though his back ached from all of the riding, he was too happy to pay it much heed. Instead, he studied the scene around him. To his left, a lush mountain rose about a thousand feet high. To his right, several hundred feet below, waves crashed against a white-sand beach. Several seemingly uninhabited islands interrupted the view of the horizon. Otherwise, the bright blue waters of the South China Sea dominated the distance. To his surprise, only a few fishing boats prowled the swells. Unlike the beach at Nha Trang, which was heavily developed, the sand below was free of humanity’s embrace. No hotels or homes or roads existed. “It’s only a matter of time,” he said quietly, wondering if the huge hotel chains had already bought chunks of the pristine land, dividing them up like chips on a poker table.
He eased back on the throttle, decreasing his speed so that he could better enjoy the view. Another scooter passed him, a woman driving with two small children straddling the seat before her. One of the children waved, and Noah returned the greeting. He loved Vietnam. Parts of it were troubling, of course. The poverty, the exploitation of the young and weak—these were sorrows that he didn’t like seeing. But balancing out such misery appeared to be a genuine happiness that dwelled within most Vietnamese. They seemed to realize that their country was moving in the right direction, that better days lay ahead. Not for them necessarily, but for their children. And what a place to be a child, Noah thought—at least, a child of some means. With mountains, lakes, and thousands of miles of coastline, Vietnam was far more beautiful than he’d have ever guessed, with endless places to explore.
Noah gazed at the distant islands, wishing that Iris could see them. They’d called her from the airport, and her relief at Mai’s and Minh’s safety had overwhelmed her. She hadn’t been able to speak. Instead she’d tapped the phone against something, tapped it until her voice finally returned. She’d asked to talk with Mai, and Noah had watched Mai’s face as she smiled and grew teary eyed from whatever Iris said. After a few minutes Mai had given the phone back to Noah, and he’d listened while Iris told him about hiring Sahn as a security guard, about how Loc would never again step foot in their center.
I owe her everything, Noah thought. Every little piece of who I am right now is because of her. She brought me here. She brought me back to life. And I need to do something for her. Something wonderful. Maybe I could send her away, to a beach like the one below. I’ve seen a lot more of this country than she has, and that’s not right. That needs to change.
He approached a hill, continuing to think about what he might do to help her. Suddenly two motorcycles and a van appeared, driving in the opposite direction. The motorcycles skidded, wheeling around to follow him. Noah’s heart dropped. Instinctively he twisted his throttle as far back as possible. His scooter darted forward, the wind tugging at his hair and loose clothes. The motorcycles were much more powerful and quickly caught him. He glanced at each and saw that they were driven by men in black leather. Noah tried to ease over so they could pass. But the drivers had no interest in overtaking him. Instead they used their larger vehicles to push him toward the guardrail. He squeezed the brake lever, and the motorcycles sped ahead. But then the van came at him. Noah looked behind and saw Loc in the passenger seat, clapping his hands, screaming like a madman. Able to do no more than twist the throttle and race ahead, Noah sought to control his panic. He knew that panic could kill as easily as a bullet, and he tried to remember what he’d passed going up the mountains. The construction crews weren’t too far below. Maybe another mile. Maybe two.
A month earlier, Noah had wanted to die. But not now. Not with Thien and Mai and Minh and Iris in his life. He swerved to the other lane, driving fast the wrong way down the new road. He hoped that a truck would come in the opposite direction. He’d be able to maneuver around a truck, while the much bigger motorcycles would have a harder time doing so and might be forced off the road. And the driver of the van would never risk such an encounter.
“Come on!” Noah shouted, knowing that he didn’t have to go much farther before he reached the construction crews.
A taxi abruptly appeared, its horn sounding. Noah swerved around it, narrowly missing the opposite guardrail. The motorcycles darted toward the other lane, one of them hitting the van, seeming to rebound against it, falling sideways, the driver trapped beneath steel, sliding hundreds of feet down the fresh blacktop.
Noah thought the van might stop and attend to the injured or dying man. But the vehicle didn’t alter its course. The driver opened his window, and a handgun appeared. The gunman gestured for Noah to stop, but he rushed ahead, his scooter rocking dangerously as he hit a fallen branch. The gun sounded, and the seat behind him burst into shreds. A second bullet shattered his side mirror. Noah squeezed the brake lever as hard as possible and was almost thrown off the scooter. The van flew past, but the remaining motorcycle, much more agile, slowed alongside him, its driver producing another handgun. Only a car’s length separated them, and, desperate to increase that distance, Noah swerved to the right, toward a dirt road that headed to the sea. A bullet struck a nearby fence post. He lowered his head and went bouncing full speed down the primitive road. Coconuts and palm fronds littered the way. He dodged most of these obstacles, though several struck his scooter and almost toppled it. For a moment he heard the crashing of waves. Then the roar of the motorcycle filled his ears. He looked for a trail to turn onto, but the road just stretched ahead, ending in sand. Noah swore, reduced his speed, and frantically tried to drive down the beach. He managed to for a few seconds, but the deep sand proved impossible to navigate. His scooter started to fall and he leapt to the side. Without pausing, he half ran, half skipped toward the water. Believing he could dive beneath the waves and somehow outswim his pursuers, he continued on. He didn’t look back. He only ran, eyeing the water, his feet finally hitting damp sand.
The sea was up to his knees when he was tackled from behind. A massive weight pressed his face into the water, but he slammed his elbow into the man atop him, and the weight abruptly lessened. He could breathe again. Two men faced him, with two others approaching. He stepped toward the larger of the two, striking the side of his head. The other man came at Noah even as his com
panion fell. Noah grunted from a blow to his belly, but he brought his good knee up swiftly, ramming it into his adversary’s groin.
Noah dove toward the deeper water. He swam with every last reserve of his strength, pulling at the sea with his hands, kicking with his good leg and his prosthesis. He had always been a strong swimmer, and for a moment it seemed that he’d either escape or be shot at. But then someone grabbed onto his prosthesis, pulling it from his stump. He tried to dive beneath a swell, to escape within the sea that Thien believed was full of dragons. For a moment, he saw their world, saw swirling bubbles and what almost looked like the windswept sand of a faraway desert. Then hands dragged him toward the surface. Something hard struck him on the back of the head, and the white sand turned to black.
THE SOUNDS CAME FIRST—MEN TALKING in a language he didn’t understand. The words seemed to echo inside him, so foreign, so unknown. Visions danced next. In a dark world that glittered with pinpricks of light, he saw vague forms appear. Thien materialized, peeling a tangerine. She set a slice in his hand and departed, even though he reached for her. His mother took Thien’s place, telling him to look both ways before crossing the street. He saw himself selling lemonade. Cars passed and he called out, waving his sign. A few cars stopped, but most sped onward. He collected quarters as the sun burned his flesh pink.
Cold water striking his face finally awoke him, causing him to try to stand up as his eyes opened. His arms and legs didn’t respond, and he blinked repeatedly. He couldn’t remember what had happened and was surprised to see that his wrists were bound to the arms of a chair. His prosthesis lay on the floor. He wanted to rub the back of his aching head but could only roll it in a circle as he tried to drive away his pain. He blinked again and sought to bring the shadows around him into focus. Four men stood nearby. He recognized Loc by his baseball jersey. Next to Loc, a mustached man held a handgun. The other men were dressed as he was—in black leather pants and jackets. Aware that they were watching him, Noah glanced at his surroundings and saw that a handful of fishing boats were in various stages of construction. One was almost finished—painted red with blue trim. Most were mere hulls. The building that they occupied was a large metal structure, curved from top to bottom, as if it were a giant can that had been cut down the middle and set on the ground. At the far end of the building—directly in front of Noah—a pair of tracks went straight into the sea. This side of the building had been partly opened, and Noah saw waves crashing against the shore. He studied the simple beauty of the waves, fearing that he’d never see them again.
Loc picked up a wooden oar and stepped toward him. “Where is they?” he asked in broken English, his swollen lips slurring his words.
Noah looked back to the waves. “Who?”
The flat part of the oar swung through the air, striking Noah’s stump with immense force. He screamed, writhing in his bonds. He’d felt plenty of pain before, but nothing like the agony that now consumed him. He choked back a sob, keeping his eyes on the waves, trying to pick out one and follow it to the shore.
“They go Saigon?” Loc asked, his puffy lips forming a smile.
“They’re . . . safe,” Noah replied, closing his eyes as the oar swung forward. His stump exploded in pain and he thrashed in his chair, almost knocking it over. Clenching his teeth together, he tried to think about Halong Bay, about how he’d touched Thien as she leaned against him. Through the haze of his agony, he listened to her voice. Nothing was as beautiful as the sound of her voice. Not the sea. Not the wind. Her voice transcended everything.
Someone must have moved behind him, for fingers forced open his eyelids. He saw Loc raise the oar to a striking position. Again he thought of Thien. Loc swung the oar. Noah shrieked as it slammed into his stump. He struggled against his bonds, suddenly wanting to kill Loc with his bare hands, heedless of the promise he’d made to himself to never kill again.
“I find them,” Loc said, taking a practice swing. “I find them soon.”
Noah took a deep breath and sought to steady himself. He imagined Mai and Minh riding on the seesaw. He saw Tam smiling from her bed. Thien had been right—they were all dragons, beautiful creatures that had flown into his life and now would never leave, no matter what Loc did with him. “She . . . she was . . . right,” he whispered, moaning, his stump swollen and bleeding.
“Who?”
“You can’t . . . hurt me,” Noah replied, thinking about Wesley, wondering if they’d soon meet again. “You’re nothing.”
Loc swore, twisting his body, swinging the oar with all his might. The pain was like a bomb detonating within Noah. He couldn’t think or breathe or curse. The agony was too absolute, too overwhelming. He fought against the ropes that held him, writhing like a worm that had been chopped in half. As he fought, someone hit him repeatedly on the side of the head.
The oar started to swing again, but this time two men pulled Loc back, and the wood passed inches from Noah’s stump. He managed to open his eyes and saw that five or six newcomers were present. As he shuddered and groaned, he watched an older man speak to Loc. The older man was dressed in green pants and a white T-shirt. He seemed to be angry, pointing at Loc and then Noah.
Noah tried to follow what was happening between them, but his pain was too vast, and he began to black out. Again he saw the faces of those he loved. Past conversations reverberated within. He lost track of time and location. His Humvee had been blown up, he remembered. Where was Wes? He shouted out to his friend, but no answer was given. Oh, Wes, he thought, what have they done to you? Where are you? Is Thien with you? She is? Good. Tell her something. . . . Tell her . . . tell her I love her. Tell her . . . I’m sorry. She’ll have to watch the children alone. With Iris. You and Thien and Iris can watch them. Be their friend. Protect them. They’re so wonderful. But they don’t know it. They’ve been told they’re bad, they’re worthless. Tell them the truth, Wes. Tell them the truth until they believe it. You’ll be so amazed . . . at what you see . . . at what you feel. You’ll never forget it. Never. And remember . . . to tell her I love her . . . and that I heard her sing . . . one last time . . . at the end.
Noah felt someone shaking him. “Wes?” he asked, trying to focus his eyes. Someone was kneeling on the floor, untying his hands. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you . . . my friend . . . for coming back to me.”
Water was poured into Noah’s mouth and splashed against his face. He gulped, pulling the liquid into his aching body. He coughed up the water, holding his sides, aware of foreign words again in his ears. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he tried to understand the scene before him. To his surprise, he saw that Loc was still talking to the older man, who seemed as angry as ever. The man pressed his finger against Loc’s chest and then turned to Noah.
“Leave them . . . alone,” Noah whispered, thinking of Mai and Minh.
The older man stepped toward him, his open mouth revealing a golden tooth. “My nephew has told me about these children,” he said in clear, precise English. “Did you take them from him?”
“Take them?”
“Take them from him?”
“No. They . . . they came to me. To us.”
“Why?”
“To live . . . with us. At . . . our center.”
“And you paid him? Two hundred and fifty dollars for their freedom?”
“It didn’t work. But we tried.”
The older man stooped closer to Noah. “Tell me about this center. Why would children go there?”
“To leave.”
“To leave where?”
“The streets. To leave them. To escape. And . . . and to learn.”
“You take care of them? You teach them?”
“Me? I just . . . I built a playground. We made a seesaw . . . for sweet Tam.”
The man raised and dipped his fingers and wrist. “A seesaw? Like this?”
“Yes.”
“And did these children play on your seesaw?”
Noah shook his head, we
akly spitting blood. “They tried. But . . . but he took them. He took them from it.”
The man rose to his full height, grunting. “My nephew,” he replied, “is weak. As weak as a blade of grass.” He turned to Loc and in Vietnamese said, “Your mother and I, we were left on the streets. We had nowhere to go. Nowhere! And do you know what became of us? Do you?”
“You—”
“We became thieves! We stole to survive, and she was only a child herself when she had you! And then she left us both because her shame was so great. She left us and now I’m sure she’s dead.”
“She didn’t—”
“Shut your mouth, nephew, or I’ll feed your tongue to the crabs!” The older man cleared his throat. “Maybe your mother could have been saved by something like this foreigner is doing. Did you ever think about that? Did you think about how I had to crawl through the gutter to get where I am? Through piss and piles of human waste! Do you have fish guts for brains? Where’s the money the foreigner gave you? Did you spend it all on opium?”
“It’s—”
“And you have the impudence to come here, having kidnapped those two children? You bring them to my city! Do you know how many police are looking for them? And you bring them here! And now the foreigner is in my factory! Half-dead? You dare to endanger me? My family? My wife and daughters? My son is no better than the ass of an elephant for bringing you here. His offenses are almost as great as yours.”
Vien stepped toward his father with his hands outstretched, his palms up. “Father, I didn’t mean to—”
“Silence! If I want to hear your pathetic voice, I’ll tell you to speak!” The older man turned again to Loc. “You put me in jeopardy for what? A pair of children? Have you sunk so low? You steal from me, a decade ago, and then you return. And when you return, police swarm about me like bees around their queen! Were you going to kill this foreigner in my factory? Without my knowledge or consent?”
