No Going Back

by Sheena Kamal

  He hates me so much he’d send hit men after me in Detroit. That he’d reach out to his shady contacts to find me here in Vancouver.

  If I’m so important to him, why isn’t he here to come after me himself?

  He must have other obligations. Something so important it’s keeping him away.

  I message Simone to ask her for her Wi-Fi login and password. She responds immediately with the login. The password comes a minute later. It’s a nonsensical phrase with numbers and capital letters interspersed. She tells me she changes it often, so don’t get too used to it.

  Fair enough.

  I log on to the internet and, about two hours later, find what I’m looking for. It’s the search I’ve been meaning to do since yesterday’s meeting with Lam and Vidal. The reason I went looking for Simone in the first place is she’s the only one I trust to help me with this particular search. Because of her relapse, I have to do it myself.

  Michael Acosta is the poster child for prosperity. He used to be a fundraiser for the Conservative party of Canada but has left politics to pursue his one true love in life: resource extraction.

  Bernard Lam picks up the phone on the first ring. We don’t bother with pleasantries. I explain to him what I have on Acosta and his company, Nebula Corp, which isn’t much.

  “Don’t worry about it. I have someone looking into Acosta for me,” Lam says.

  “Good,” I say. “Have them look into the gold mine in Indonesia that Nebula Corp took over recently. It’s on the island of Lombok.”

  “Why that mine in particular?”

  I forward him a report.

  “Apart from being located in a region that’s prone to earthquakes, landslides, floods, and volcanic eruptions, there’s evidence of terrorist cells creating problems all over Indonesia. And there’s been a certain element of unrest on Lombok for a long time. Violent mobs and organized crime,” I say, after he’s read it and is back on the phone. “Nebula isn’t messing with local police. They’ve got their own security looking after the miners and protecting their property.”

  “Unrest sounds bad for business,” says Lam, with the understatement of the day. “You think Dao is there.”

  There’s a reason he’s not here hunting me down himself. I’ve killed his lover and his previous employer. He should have no obstacles to exacting his revenge in person because what else is he doing?

  He’s doing what soldiers do. He’s working.

  “Yes, I think he’s in Indonesia, managing the situation for Acosta.”

  “Just like he managed difficult situations for Ray Zhang.”

  “Do you have someone who can look into it? To see if he’s there?” I ask, knowing that if anyone has the resources to find Dao in Indonesia, it’s Bernard Lam.

  “I have something even better,” Lam says. “I have a private plane that can take us there to take a look ourselves.”

  “What do we do if we find him?” I ask. I don’t want to give him the impression that I need a man to make plans for me, because I never have. This is about his intentions.

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we get there. What do you say, Nora? You up for a trip?”

  “I could use some sun.”

  Lam laughs. “I’ll make the arrangements.” He hangs up.

  It’s easy to picture him in his Point Grey mansion, cackling to himself over a cigar, loosening his tie, calling his assistant’s assistant to get the plane ready, stat, because he’s in the mood to catch some sun while he takes down a crime syndicate.

  I wonder if he loved that woman as much as he thinks he did or if this is merely a grand ol’ adventure for him. Dao is my endgame, but he’s not Lam’s, which some small part of me is concerned by. A very small part that I choose to shove away.

  Nolan’s body may be in a coffin in the earth right now, I don’t know. I have pushed him so far from my mind that I hadn’t even thought to check. But thoughts of him come back to me now. Who is the instrument of whose revenge here? Lam is using me as surely as I’m using him. But at this moment, sapped of all energy but still unable to fall asleep, I can’t bring myself to care.

  At least there are no neon lights flashing at me through the window. Here there is only a comfortable couch and my dog on the floor beside me and the blessed night. James Carr is wailing from my laptop speakers—well, Leo’s laptop speakers. He’s singing about two strangers at the dark end of the street, where they always meet. Not in the light because the light isn’t for them. They live in darkness, just like me. No, not just like me anymore. Because I’m heading for the sunshine on a private plane, like the socialite I never wanted to be.

  31

  It’s the middle of the night, and they’re in bed. Bonnie can’t remember if Alix had turned in to her or if she’d been the one to turn in to Alix. Now the two of them are kissing and she can’t remember the last time she felt this good.

  This safe.

  At first they’d laughed at how crazy it was that two girls from hip-hop dance class ended up spending so much time together, even though they lived at opposite ends of the city. Bonnie out east in the hipster Leslieville stretch and Alix west of the Latin strip off Ossington. It made sleepovers a lot easier to explain to their parents, a benefit that Bonnie is only just beginning to realize.

  When Alix put her hand up Bonnie’s shirt, she let her, but they had to stop when her fake nose ring got caught in Alix’s springy curls.

  Bonnie hasn’t slept with anyone since she broke up with her ex Tommy last year. She hadn’t been ready. But she might be ready now, she thinks. Besides, this is different than it is with a guy. Playful. She wants to tell Alix everything, even the stupid, embarrassing things. Like this feeling she has all the time now, that people are looking at her.

  She takes her nose ring out completely, so she doesn’t pull any of Alix’s hair, and she later goes into the bathroom to put it back in. As she returns to the room, she runs into Alix’s mom in the hall. The older woman yawns and reaches up to adjust the silk scarf she’s wrapped her hair in.

  “Everything okay? Alix hogging the duvet on you? Here.” Alix’s mom, whose name Bonnie never asked, gives the scarf one final pat, reaches into the linen closet, and pulls out a spare comforter.

  “Everything is great,” Bonnie says. She takes the comforter anyway, though she doesn’t need it. She and Alix may have found a whole new way to stay warm.

  The next morning she gets off the streetcar early with a group of people, thinking she could bring some coffee back for her mom. Lynn often doesn’t have time to make coffee for herself in the morning, so Bonnie’s usually the one to do it. After getting the coffee, she’s still got that stupid grin on her face, the same one she had since she woke up this morning. She turns onto her street. She never told Alix about that stuff from her past and about her new concerns that someone is always looking at her.

  Like now. It’s only a fleeting instinct that something isn’t right, that there are arms reaching for her, but it’s enough of a warning for her to throw both cups of coffee into the man’s face and run, screaming.

  A few seconds later, an SUV with tinted windows peels away, tires squealing.

  Bonnie stands on her front porch, shaking, her wrists and hands burned from the hot coffee, her heart beating so loudly she can practically hear it.

  The front door opens. Her mom comes out. “Oh, hey. Everything go okay at Alix’s last night?” Then Lynn sees the frightened look on Bonnie’s face. “What happened? Bonnie! Say something!”

  “I burned myself with coffee. I bought some for you.”

  Lynn takes Bonnie’s sore wrists in her hands. “Let’s get you inside. What happened?”

  “Nothing,” says Bonnie, breathless. “It’s nothing.”

  She knows someone tried to grab her and that she should say something . . . but she can’t bring herself to do it. When she’d been kidnapped by her birth father almost two years ago, she felt as though it was her fault. She got into the car with him. Believed
his lies. They kept her drugged, but sometimes she acted like she was drugged even when the effects of whatever they’d given her wore off. She spent so much time silent and confused it was embarrassing. She was ashamed of herself, like she is now. It doesn’t make any sense, this feeling. She did nothing but come home.

  “Mom, I think . . .” She stops.

  Lynn puts Bonnie’s hands under the kitchen tap and runs the cold water. “What?”

  “Nothing,” says Bonnie. It all seems so stupid now. Maybe the guy hadn’t been reaching for her at all. Maybe it was just in her imagination.

  Lynn leads Bonnie to the kitchen table and sits her down. She pulls two ice packs from the freezer, placing one on each of Bonnie’s outstretched wrists. “Now,” says Lynn. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Someone tried to grab me. Then there was this car . . . Mom? What are you doing?”

  But Lynn’s phone is already out and she’s calling 9-1-1.

  32

  I drop Whisper off to spend some time with “Uncle Leo,” as he’s taken to calling himself. Uncle Leo is sober, but it’s only the morning. So this isn’t a huge accomplishment. There’s a moment of self-recrimination when Whisper looks back at me as I stand in the doorway of Leo’s friend’s place. Then she gets over it and remembers that it’s best to keep one’s options open in life.

  I wait down the street in front of the Sylvia Hotel until a sleek dark car pulls up and a driver in a black suit takes me to the south terminal of the Vancouver International Airport. The terminal reserved for private flights. Check-in is a breeze. They look at my passport with none of the scrutiny exhibited by the border agents when I left Detroit. I’m told Lam already arranged for the return voyage, so those details were taken care of.

  I have never been treated better in my life.

  “The purpose of my trip is pleasure,” I lie, addressing the attendant at check-in. I’m so off-balance I offer this information without being asked.

  “You look ready for some sunshine!” the attendant lies back.

  What a pleasant life a playboy billionaire can live. To be politely lied to on the way to your private jet, en route to a sunny destination.

  “We’re not going to the US,” says Lam. “Customs will greet us at the plane when we arrive in Lombok. You didn’t have to offer up the purpose of your trip.”

  “I knew that.”

  He grins. “Sure you did.” I can tell he’s taking a certain pleasure at introducing me to the wonders of private air travel.

  I have with me one of Leo’s designer duffel bags, packed with a few changes of the lightest-weight clothing I own. Lam says we’re to stay just a week. I’m not sure how long it will take to look into this mine situation, but a week seems like not enough time.

  In the restroom I avoid looking in the mirror, because I generally do, and also because I don’t want reality to hit just yet. It all feels a bit surreal, to be honest. The driver, the check-in, the private plane I’m to board. When I’d gone to Detroit, there were lineups after lineups. I thought it had put me off air travel for life. Now I see firsthand how the other side lives, and I’ve got to admit, I like it a bit too much. I could get used to this. I make a note to buy a lottery ticket as soon as I get back.

  My luck can’t stay this bad forever.

  The plane is a Global Jet Express with leather and wood paneling on the interior. Waiting for me on board are Bernard Lam and a man in a bad suit who immediately puts me on edge. Lam welcomes me with a smile, acting as though he hadn’t seen me just minutes earlier.

  “Who’s he?” I ask. I’ve never seen the man before. He has a crew cut and is as tall as Lam but muscular where Lam is doughy. He has a twitchy energy I don’t like, eyes constantly roving.

  “This is Ivan. I know I’m supposed to call him by his surname, but he’s got one of those ungodly Eastern European ones. Too long.” Lam says this with a bit of casual prejudice that’s almost shocking. “Ivan is my close protection officer, or my bodyguard, if you prefer, for when I’m forced by my father to do some foreign travel. He’s here to keep the commoners away.”

  Though this is meant as a joke, it isn’t really. There’s nothing funny about the truth.

  “I’ve never seen you with a security detail before. Only at functions.”

  “I refuse to have them with me in Vancouver in my daily life.”

  “Bet your father doesn’t approve of that.”

  “Oh, he keeps tabs on me, but I leave it alone as long as I don’t see his people. With these guys around I can’t say boo without my father knowing. But at least one of them has to come with me when I travel.” He shrugs as if to say, What are you going to do? This is how I roll.

  “Don’t you have a report to file or something?” I ask Ivan. A muscle jumps at the corner of his mouth. He excuses himself to use the restroom before the plane takes off. One final line of coke to get him through the flight. Lucky bastard.

  I watch him go, knowing that Lam didn’t inform him of his travel plans far enough in advance for him to medicate appropriately. I didn’t spend enough time in the military to serve overseas—had left too early for that to even be a possibility—but I do know something about what military types who go into private work go through in order to function in the real world. What they go through is a good portion of their incomes on uppers and downers so they can sleep when they need to and wake up when they get the call.

  Like Ivan must have when Lam informed him of our spontaneous trip.

  Lam laughs as he, too, casts a glance at the closed restroom door. “Will you marry me?”

  “Aren’t you already married?”

  “Oh yeah,” says Lam, a little too easily. “I forgot about that.”

  “Must be easy to forget when you don’t wear a wedding ring. Did you also forget about Clementine?” I ask, having learned the name of his dead pregnant girlfriend from Brazuca.

  There is a brief, tense moment of silence. Lam’s entire demeanor changes, hardens. “Don’t ever say her name again,” he says quietly. “You got that?”

  “I got it.” And it’s a relief. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I wouldn’t trust Lam the playboy for a fraction of a second. But Lam the grief-stricken lover is more my style.

  “Good,” Lam says. “We’re waiting for one more person.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  Ivan returns from the restroom and takes up his position by the door. I choose a window seat at the back of the plane and ignore the flight attendant who comes around to offer us drinks. I’m riveted by the view outside the window. A man is walking up to the plane with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The man has a slight limp and moves with all the energy of a sea slug out of water.

  Of course it’s Brazuca.

  Part 3

  33

  I’m not in a jungle, I tell myself.

  The humidity isn’t pressing in on me. I’m not surrounded by banana trees and assailed by the sound of monkeys screeching. The late-afternoon sun isn’t trying to attack my exposed skin, and I’m not calm in the face of these extenuating circumstances, trying to hold on to all my hydration in this extreme heat.

  But I am calm, and I am in a jungle. Rather, in a bar near one.

  Too near for my comfort.

  Like many women who’ve been tempted to leave their homes behind in search of something elusive, some sense of recklessness overpowering them, taking hold of their lives, I, too, have been led astray by a man.

  So I am here now in this Lombok bar that has appeared out of nowhere, surrounded by lush trees. The last stretch of wilderness before it opens up to an ugly mining village, which leads to the main road heading into an ugly mine. In the heart of this godforsaken island, one of many in Indonesia.

  Right now, I’m watching a group of mercenaries who have bonded over shit beer and are now drinking buddies. Do they know the man who has painted the target on my back? I think it’s likely.

  I
keep my head down and watch them under the brim of my hat. I’m dressed as any other tourist, but that doesn’t stop the locals from throwing disgusted glances in the direction of my sundress. I am as disgusted as they are, so I understand. Baby blue isn’t my color, and the garment simultaneously provides too much coverage and somehow not enough in this sweltering heat.

  I’m trying to fit in, but this dress is absurd.

  “You stay here, miss?” the young server asks. She’s wearing jeans in this heat. Jeans. Her cotton top is long-sleeved, and a pretty pink headscarf covers her hair. This may be why I look so out of place. Lombok isn’t Bali in a lot of ways. Indonesia is a Muslim-majority country made up of thousands of islands, little nooks where tourists can get buck wild, separatists can plot, outlaws can hide in plain sight, and locals get on with their lives.

  The heat must be getting to me because I completely forget the server is still there, expecting an answer.

  “Just waiting for someone,” I say. “Is it always this busy in here?”

  She shakes her head and clears a nearby table. Shoots concerned looks over at the group of men who are making no attempts to be quiet or blend in.

  A sunburned man walks in the front door and heads straight for me. He sits down beside me at my table and takes my hand, raising it to brush his lips over my knuckles.

  The heat and the screeching monkeys haven’t improved my mood. I pull my hand out of Brazuca’s grip and slap his face good and hard. The resulting thwack is loud. Obnoxious in exactly the way I intended.

  There’s dead silence from the men at the bar.

  I raise my hand to hit him again, letting it hover in the air a moment. Brazuca doesn’t flinch. My hand falls. “You smell like pussy,” I hiss instead. Also quite loud.