by Toby Neal
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Day Twenty-Eight
Pim Wat tested her bonds. She’d been doing that since she’d been captured two days ago, flexing her hands against the duct tape Armita had wrapped her extremities in. So far, she hadn’t been able to get the tape to move. Armita had duct-taped her feet, too, but later had to cut that off and substitute rope since they moved her back and forth between the houses with a pillowcase on her head, so she couldn’t see where she was and fight back.
Fight back and kill all three of the foul demons who’d betrayed her: daughter, sister, beloved maid. She entertained herself with a fantasy of how she would kill each of them.
Drowning. Electrocution. Suffocation. Poison. A razor blade. Or burning . . . the possibilities were endless, but the process would definitely be slow. And painful.
The floor of the storage shed Pim Wat lay upon in her former home was filthy, and dark as a cave. The duct tape over her lips itched against her skin, and her mouth was dry. She wriggled, trying to find a comfortable position on the gritty cement floor, but there was none to be had when lying on her side with her arms bound behind her back.
They were doing this to punish her, to give her a taste of what she’d doled out to Sophie’s men, and to them, each in different ways.
Pim Wat understood that. But she wouldn’t forgive it.
What they didn’t know was that she’d trained under the Master. She was inured to cold, hunger, and pain. She could go into a little room in her mind and spend time there with pleasant memories that released endorphins, buffering her against the discomfort of temporary circumstances.
She settled into what was the best possible position given her limited options, shut her eyes, and went into a calm place more restorative than sleep.
Hours passed. Maybe days.
The screech of the old wooden door against the floor was actually a rude awakening from the sleepy trance into which Pim Wat had sent herself. She opened her eyes reluctantly, recognizing Sophie’s tall outline. She lay quietly as Sophie undid the restraint on her feet.
“I will take you to use the bathroom and get you some water. And then, we will talk,” her daughter said.
This was the first time Sophie had addressed her directly since she’d knocked Pim Wat out with her gun and Pim Wat had woken up a captive. Sophie had avoided her, delegating her care and handling to Malee and Armita. Perhaps it was because she felt guilty for treating her mother so barbarically?
Hopefully that was the case. Guilt was an emotion she could use.
Pim Wat cooperated as Sophie led her to the bathroom—all part of her strategy. Her lack of resistance was confusing to the other women; they expected her to fight and thrash, to provide them with opportunities to hurt her. She was too smart for that. She would be soft and sweet, use her big eyes to beg, and when they least expected it, when they gave her an opportunity, she would strike.
The Master had given her a gift, identifying her with the cobra.
Malee was the weakest of the three, the most conflicted about her sister’s captivity. She hadn’t seen the things the other women described Pim Wat to have done; she only knew Pim Wat’s constant bullying, the little ways Pim Wat had liked to see her suffer but had learned to conceal as they grew up.
Armita would definitely kill her given half a chance.
But Sophie? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps she still had leverage with her daughter.
Pim Wat stumbled on the stairs to test the theory—and scraped her knee severely when Sophie failed to catch or support her. She let easy tears well in her eyes and run down her face, catching on the sacrilege of duct tape over her mouth.
“Crocodile tears, I’ve heard those called,” Sophie said, hoisting Pim Wat up roughly. “Get moving. We’re on a schedule.”
Pim Wat did her business on the house’s old toilet with Sophie standing guard over her. Her daughter tipped her forward and wiped for her—all with the expression of a robot, a withdrawn coldness that she’d never had when young.
Assan Ang had taught her that face, and Pim Wat felt an unwelcome stab of regret. She’d never meant that marriage to be a bad thing for Sophie. Such a shame; Ang had ruined her sweet, biddable girl and made her into this hard, formidable woman—as the Master had done for her. Maybe they had more in common than it seemed . . .
Sophie brought Pim Wat into the empty house’s living room area and tied her to one of the dining room chairs. Pim Wat tested the ropes; they were tight but not inhumane.
Sophie ripped the tape off Pim Wat’s mouth, eliciting a cry. That adhesive hurt! Pim Wat licked fresh blood from her lip, unable to wipe it off. “How can you treat me like this?”
“You’re playing the victim. None of us is fooled.”
“I’m your mother!”
“Don’t remind me.” Sophie’s clearly marked brows drew down, and with her hands on her hips, she looked just like her father, Frank, when he was getting ready to give Pim Wat “a piece of his mind” as he used to call it. “I should treat you as you treated the men who went after my infant daughter—to rescue her from you, I might add. Brave, good men with families—and you gutted and decapitated them.” Sophie leaned down into Pim Wat’s face and spit on it. “That’s how I feel about you. Death is too good for you.”
Pim Wat blinked in astonishment—her daughter really hated her! She wiped the spittle from her face as best she could by rubbing it on her shoulder. “Insolent bitch.”
“The only reason you’re alive at all is that I hope the CIA has a rough interrogation plan for you, and a long incarceration without possibility of due process.” Sophie tugged a chair over and sat down facing her mother. “Let’s clear the air, shall we? You stole my daughter from me when she was twelve hours old. Why?”
“I thought the baby might be a match for the crown prince’s bone marrow.” Pim Wat shrugged, but embarrassment heated her neck. Saying these things aloud sounded bad. “We were going to take you, but you delivered earlier than scheduled. Momi was easier to move than you would have been. I’m sure Armita told you all of this.”
“And when Momi wasn’t a match?” Pink stained Sophie’s tawny cheeks as she flushed with emotion. “You kept my daughter anyway. With not even a word to me. Didn’t even offer any kind of deal or ransom—you just stole her.”
“What can I say? I wanted a ‘do-over’ as they say in America.” Pim Wat tilted her head, eyeing Sophie. “I discovered that I had . . . regrets. About you. About our relationship. And Momi is a pretty baby. She will grow up to be a beautiful woman. As you were, before that scar ruined your face.”
Sophie clapped a hand to the cheek that had been rebuilt with prosthetics and a skin graft. “Oh, you are so cruel, Mother! It makes it easier for me to hand you over to people who will not treat you gently.”
“I was only speaking the truth. People can’t handle the truth.” Pim Wat shook her head. “I will always be your mother. I gave you life. That is the truth, and you owe me for that.”
“No, Mother. I paid that debt in blood, long ago.” Sophie rose to her feet. “I just wanted to have this little chat and tell you, so you can think about it, that all of this death and drama was unnecessary. I would have come to Thailand, gone to a hospital, and donated bone marrow for the Prince—if you’d only asked me.” Sophie’s honey-brown gaze bored into Pim Wat’s. “You assume everyone is like you and needs to be coerced. Some of us still have a conscience, and simple compassion, especially for children.” Sophie blew out a breath. “I, too, have regrets about our relationship. I regret all the love, care, and obedience I gave you, without question, for so many years.” Sophie picked up the roll of duct tape resting on the counter and ripped off a piece. “Any last words, Mother?”
“I’m sorry, Sophie Malee.” Pim Wat’s eyes welled up, and she wasn’t in control of the wetness that spilled over to run down her cheeks. “I am not like other people, the Master tells me—but knowing you makes me wish that I was.”
“Thanks
for the apology,” Sophie said. “I accept it on behalf of the men you killed. And it changes nothing.”
The tape sealed Pim Wat’s mouth, but she had nothing more to say, anyway.
The increasing whump whump whump sound of an approaching helicopter made Sophie hurry to undo the ropes binding Pim Wat to the chair. “Your time with us has come to an end, Mother.”
Fear cast a chill over Pim Wat for the first time, and so did regrets that she couldn’t name, couldn’t explain, and could do nothing about. “My, how the mighty have fallen,” her sister had mocked her, yesterday in the garden. “You get to go to prison and be tortured, just like you’ve done to so many others.”
Tears continued to soak the tape on Pim Wat’s face. Her body felt like lead. Her heart beat with heavy thuds. What was this? Grief? What a strange and terrible feeling . . . Sophie tugged Pim Wat, feet dragging, through the house and toward the steep flight of exterior stairs leading down from the upper story.
“Come on. The CIA doesn’t have all day.” Sophie held Pim Wat’s arm in one hand, and the banister in the other—and tugged her forward. “Let’s go.”
The CIA.
Guantánamo.
Torture lay ahead, regret lay behind.
Pim Wat pitched forward, her arm wrenching out of Sophie’s grip.
Maybe she even jumped—did it matter?
She fell with a cry that never escaped, trapped by the tape on her mouth—but that scream echoed in her mind as she felt the hard edge of the steep wooden step as it came up to meet her helpless, bound body.
Pim Wat bounced down the stairs, every sharp edge biting into soft flesh and breaking bones. She felt every crushing blow dealt by inertia and gravity until the very last step, at the bottom.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Day Twenty-Eight
Armita held the baby close against her shoulder. Momi’s warm weight felt like both an anchor and a buoy, lifting her and holding her in place at the same time. She rubbed the infant’s back, murmuring softly into the tiny pink ear.
Her eyes tracked the two CIA agents as they carefully loaded Pim Wat’s body onto a sturdy garden lattice Malee had hastily removed from the house and covered with towels.
Her former mistress was still alive, but barely. Pim Wat looked small and broken lying there on the makeshift stretcher, her face an unrecognizable mess of blood and long black hair. Armita watched Sophie cover her mother gently with a comforter from the house as a large older white man directed the agents in loading the makeshift stretcher onto the helicopter, parked in a vacant lot on the other side of Malee’s house.
Had Pim Wat jumped? Had Sophie pushed her? Or had she merely tripped, as was so dangerous with one’s hands behind her back?
No one would know the real answer to that but Sophie and her mother.
Malee approached, her face swollen from crying, her cheeks shiny with tears. “Give me the baby. I don’t want her frightened by the noise from the helicopter.”
Armita let the child go reluctantly. Malee hurried into the house clutching the baby tightly, and closed its bright, painted door.
All three of them drew comfort from Momi through these difficult times. Caring for the infant felt like caring for their own hurt inner children.
What a strange insight to have while watching her once-beloved mistress be taken away, quite possibly dying. Armita felt nothing but relief—perhaps she would die, and then Pim Wat’s venomous presence would be gone from the world.
Armita shut her eyes and wished death on Pim Wat.
Sophie was speaking to the man she called McDonald. The blustery agent gestured with his hands. He pointed to the stretcher and tossed his hands skyward, clearly frustrated that his captive spy had almost fallen to her death. Sophie shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and turned and walked back to Armita.
Her former ward’s face was expressionless, unlike her aunt Malee’s had been.
Life had not been kind to Sophie. She had learned inscrutability to protect herself, but the suppression of her emotions cost her dearly.
The two women stood side by side, shoulders almost touching, as the stretcher was secured in the helicopter with the doors open for it to fit. Once they’d stowed Pim Wat securely, McDonald clambered on board.
The chopper’s rotors began their heavy whop whop whop. The sound increased, the helicopter’s roar eliminating everything else. Sophie and Armita withdrew, heading into Sophie’s former home.
They ascended the steep exterior wooden stairs that had so recently claimed a victim. When they reached the living area, Armita turned to Sophie. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know. I still can’t tell if she tripped, or if she jumped. In any case, I did not mean for that to happen.” Sophie’s impassive mask slipped. Her lips trembled. Her eyes were haunted. “Maybe I did push her. I just don’t know.”
Armita had half of her answer. “Will she live?”
“I don’t know that either. She was still alive, but barely—that head injury seemed severe, and she was barely breathing. One of the agents had some medical training and he looked her over but didn’t have much of an idea what was going on. Her cheekbone and jaw were broken, judging by the way they were looking. I don’t know if moving her will make her worse, or save her. But since the CIA was on their way, and emergency services being what they are out here—having them take her to the closest US treatment facility seemed best. McDonald will do all he can to keep her alive.” Sophie rubbed her own damaged cheekbone, a habitual gesture. “I don’t know whether I hope she lives or dies.”
“You did the right thing.” Armita squeezed Sophie’s shoulder.
“I did the only thing.” Sophie walked into the kitchen and poured them each a glass of water. “It’s important to stay hydrated in times of stress, and I’m breastfeeding now.” Sophie sipped, staring out the window over the overgrown yard.
Armita drained her glass too, feeling numb and heavy.
She was liberated at last from the control of a fickle, cruel mistress. So why was she so sad and conflicted? Because Pim Wat wasn’t always horrible. Her beautiful mistress could be high-spirited and generous. Pim Wat had no one in her life but Armita and the Master—and in her twisted way, she loved them both.
Sophie set down her empty glass and turned back to Armita. “I want you here while I call the Master. I want you to help me figure out what to say to him. I do not want to give away any unnecessary information. He must have no idea what has happened to Pim Wat; if he finds out I had anything to do with her injury and capture by the CIA . . . I don’t know what he would do to Connor.” Sophie’s face was pale with stress. “I need to stay very focused and calm for this call.”
Armita’s heart rate picked up as Sophie’s apprehension spread, but she had to stay strong for all of their sakes. Sophie really had no idea the extent of the power the Master wielded—he had massive influence with a number of world governments because he kept the sons of officials from all over the world at the compound, studying his arcana—as willing hostages.
While the Master did not seem the vengeful type, the man was absolutely cold when it came to achieving his objectives. Right now, that objective was obtaining Sophie’s bone marrow. But how would he react to news of Pim Wat’s injury and capture? Armita didn’t want to find out.
“Get a pen and paper. Let’s make some notes, develop a script for you. The Master is uncanny in his persuasiveness. You will find yourself telling him things you never would have intended to.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Sophie said, and got out her tablet. “I’ll make notes on this.”
“How did you get this number, Sophie Smithson?” The Master’s rich voice, on speakerphone, filled the small bathroom the two women had crowded into to contain the sound, and so that Armita could monitor the conversation.
“You are not untraceable, sir. I am calling because you have something I want.” Sophie’s voice was steady, but tension bracketing her eyes
revealed her stress. Armita patted her arm encouragingly.
“The man I released must have told you by now about the prince and his condition.”
“He has.”
“My offer is this: provide what the prince needs, and I will return your man to you. Provided, of course, that Connor wants to go.”
Sophie frowned. “Why would he want to stay at the compound?”
“Connor has a taste for the deeper things. He has a wonderful mind and a great curiosity,” the Master said.
Armita felt the appeal of the man’s words, as Sophie must. “Don’t hurt him,” Sophie whispered.
Facing Sophie, Armita shook her head vigorously and made a throat-cutting gesture. But it was too late. The Master’s voice was already casting its spell over Sophie—Armita could see it happening and could do nothing to stop it.
“Why would I do that? I enjoy a life of the mind, the spirit, and the body, and Connor does too. I think you have the wrong impression of me, based upon your mother and her behavior.”
Sophie met Armita’s eyes and cleared her throat. “Are you telling me that you had nothing to do with the ambush that took my men’s lives?”
“That was most unfortunate. I left communications with you about the prince’s bone marrow up to your mother. I should have known that she could not, or would not, exercise finesse. Much as I care for her, Pim Wat has a limited perspective.”
Sophie nodded in agreement, clearly forgetting the Master could not see her gesture. “My mother is a psychopath.”
“Be that as it may,” the Master said imperturbably. “In this instance, she allowed her dark appetites an upper hand. I should not have given her free rein, and for that I apologize.”
Armita’s eyes widened involuntarily—this was the first time she’d ever heard the Master apologize.
She had to get them off the subject of Pim Wat! She had to keep Sophie focused before she let something slip. She picked up the tablet on which they’d made notes, picked up the stylus and underlined the sentence, get specifics on the exchange. She held the tablet up for Sophie to see.
