I’d wanted to be one of the rich kids in high school. Maybe I dodged a bullet. “You know, the biggest political issue I had in high school was who to take to the dance.”
“That sounds so nice.” Wistful. Savannah shakes her head. “You know, I’d learned all this, but I missed the big thing. Mother and Father didn’t really love each other, and they didn’t love me. I was a project. Mother would’ve stopped after the first miscarriage, but Father insisted they have at least one child because that’s what people did. You know how I know that?” I shake my head; it’s my job as an audience. “Mother told me right before I went to Stanford. I was pretty proud of getting in there. She put me in my place. She always put me in my place.”
“Jesus.” A thought comes to me: with that kind of upbringing and that kind of emotional abuse, is she a psychopath now? Is this when she cuts my throat?
“Nice, huh? But it’s okay. I badgered them into letting me live in a sorority. I learned. So. Much. I learned that it’s okay to go to dinner in your bathrobe. I learned that food doesn’t have to be prepared by a chef to taste good. I learned that I could have fun with food, and booze, and sex, and drugs, and music, and it was okay. I learned that places like the Tonga Room are fun—it’s just a bonus that Mother and Father thought they’re common and stupid. And I learned who my parents really were.” She leans in, takes my hand in both of hers. “They were evil. They were hypocrites. They were racists. They were cheats. They were thieves. So many people thought my parents were some ‘golden couple.’ They weren’t. I was raised by con artists.” She aims an adoring look at me. Her voice goes sticky-sweet. “That’s how I can recognize one now.”
Aw, hell. She knows.
She strokes my cheek, wearing a saccharine smile. “So you’re right. I don’t act like other heiresses. You know why?” The smile dissolves as she sits up. Her voice turns hard. “I woke up. I joined the real world. But I am what I am. You?” An eyebrow arches. “I’m not so sure.”
My first reaction: she seems so happy and well-adjusted. How did that part of her survive this mess? How is she not broken?
My second reaction: good for her. Other women I’ve met who grew up like this threw their lives away on nose candy or cosmetic surgery or multiple bad marriages. Savannah washed her hands of it and made something of herself.
I so wanted to trust her once I got to know her. Apparently, I was thinking with the wrong brain. “If you’re so sure I’m a fraud, why did you come with me?”
She polishes off her beer and falls back into her bench. “I said I don’t think you’re who you say you are; I didn’t say you’re not worth knowing.” She’s back to being casual Savannah. “You’ve clearly got resources, though I’m not sure if they’re yours or someone else’s. You must’ve spent a fortune setting up that house. And, last-minute business-class tickets to Bangkok? That’s got style. Did I mention you’re cute? And you’re fun to play with?” She grins. “I’ll stick around for a while longer, see what you turn into.” She holds her hand out into the drizzle, then splashes a palmful of water on her face to sluice off the sweat. “You don’t think I forgot my question, do you? Let’s try this again: who are you?”
I have to be careful here. The less I admit, the more of Hoskins that survives, but the less she believes. My gut tells me she hasn’t yet told me everything she knows or suspects; maybe she’s trying to catch me in an obvious lie. I let her watch me for a good long time. “Did you like the house?”
“I loved the house.”
“The inside was all me. I designed it. I made it happen.”
“You did a good job, then. That painting you said your mother did? Was that real?”
“Yes, she really painted it. You looked her up?” Savannah nods. “Did you like the car?”
“The little red one? I loved it.”
“I picked it. I’ve always wanted one. Any gripes about my wardrobe?”
“No, none. You look handsome in a nice Italian suit.”
“Thanks. Those are my clothes, not costumes.” I hold my hand out across the table, palm up. After some thought, she sets her hand on it. “All these things you loved were real. They were really me, and I really loved sharing them with you. So maybe I’m not as different from what I told you as you think.”
“Was that your house?”
“Does it really matter?”
She traces the lines on my palm with her thumb. “Well, I’d like to go back there, so, yes.”
“I get it. You only want me for my swimming pool.” I get back a sour look. “We’re here now, together. There’s a couple little things I need to do, then we can do whatever you want. Within reason.”
“I know one of those ‘little things’ is finding where Nam Ton comes from, which isn’t little at all. What’s the other one?”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s here, I’ll take care of it.”
She wraps her hand around my middle, ring and little fingers and squeezes. Hard. Ouch. “Don’t do that.” Her voice is low and hard. “Don’t you dare. If we’re here together, then we’re here together. You don’t get to keep secrets from me anymore. You—”
“That cuts both ways.”
“Fine. It so happens there are a couple of things I need to do, and I need you to help me. This mystery thing you have to do here? Let’s do it together. We can bond as a couple through shared experiences.” She’s got her determined face on.
I can’t slip out in the dead of night to do this without her knowing, especially since neither of us can sleep. I have maybe ten seconds to decide whether I drag Savannah into this… or I piss her off enough that she strands me out here in the sticks.
How do I explain this without blowing Hoskins’ character?
Maybe the truth… or something like it.
“You know the drug gang ICE busted in Oakland? They have an office or warehouse here. I need to take a look inside it.”
Both of Savannah’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “Are you a cop?”
“I’m so not a cop.”
“But you work for them.”
“Not voluntarily.”
Her eyes narrow. “What’s that mean?”
I hesitate for effect. “The DEA didn’t just let me off. Thanks to you, I’m a ‘known associate’ of your friends, the ones who’re in bed with heroin traffickers. That house you love so much? The feds showed me the written motion to seize it if I don’t play ball. I’m useful to them. They want me to go places they can’t and report what I see. If I do, DEA puts my file through a shredder. If I don’t…” I turn up my free hand.
Savannah stares into my eyes, maybe trying to find the lie. After a few seconds-like-hours, she leans forward, not breaking lock on my eyes. It’s almost as intense as Allyson’s death stare. “Where’s this supposed place?”
“We probably passed it on the way in. It’s off that main road from Chiang Dao, about two miles south of downtown, wherever that is.”
More staring. “You’d better not be lying to me. I’ll make you regret it.”
“Same here.”
She ties her robe closed. “Let’s get dressed and go find it.”
Chapter 44
Arunothai is asleep as we trundle down its main road. No windows are lit; all the roll-down steel shop doors are firmly shut. A very occasional streetlight washes the ground pale orange. It’s a big difference from twelve hours ago, when the place was full of shoppers and people walking or biking home from work. The only living creature I see other than Savannah, who’s driving, is a gray tiger-stripe cat on the hunt for an early-morning snack.
Then we’re past the sky-blue, Chinese-style arch across the road and into more-or-less open countryside. The only scenery is an occasional tree or plant or road sign clipped by the headlights’ aura as we pass. “Are the cops out this early?”
The dashboard lights throw a faint blue glow on Savannah’s face. Her eyes shuttle from the windshield to the rear-view mirror to
me. “Not usually. They might run into criminals, and that would mean work. Is there any landmark for this place?”
“The highway cuts through a dirt road right at two miles from that intersection back there.”
She nods. She’s wearing a loose olive button-up blouse with the sleeves rolled up, a mid-calf tan cotton skirt, and hiking sandals. When she dresses down, she goes for it.
“I’ve noticed lots of olives and browns in your outfits here. I’ve never seen those colors on you before.”
“I’m usually in the countryside when I come here. Every place I go is dirty. I cover up so I won’t be the clueless farang girl flashing lots of skin at the farmers.”
It’s an echo of what Carson told me about her wardrobe, which is mostly jeans and long-sleeved tees or polos: “I go to the kind of places where rape’s a sport.” If nothing else, I’ve learned a lot in this job about appropriate female dress for Third World travel.
The truck slows after a few minutes. “Two miles is up there.”
We stop next to some bamboo frameworks that look like skeletal roadside stands. The headlights pool on a patch of paved road interrupting red-dirt tracks on either side.
I point to my left. “Google Earth shows two buildings about a hundred yards that way. I’d say that road’s big enough for a truck, judging from the ruts.”
Savannah’s mouth bunches. “If we’re trying to be sneaky, we shouldn’t drive there.”
Good point. We park on some gravel and hike down the track, staying on the grassy verge as much as possible. Leaving the truck’s air-conditioned cab was like stepping into a hot, wet blanket. My Mini Maglite doesn’t light much, but it’s stronger than the moonlight the clouds are still blocking. Branches appear from nowhere to smack us in the face. It smells like a compost heap. “Are there poisonous snakes in Thailand?”
“Pit vipers, kraits, monocled cobras. One of those spit at me about five years ago. It didn’t hit me, but it was scary.”
I had to ask.
I switch off my flashlight when we get near the edge of the scrubby woods. We fumble through the last few yards until we reach a wide, plowed space. The dark shape of a wood-plank monitor barn with gable and shed roofs nestles into a small stand of darker trees about twenty yards away. It looks big enough to hold a forty-foot shipping container with some room to spare. Next door is a gable-roofed shed about the size of a two-car garage. A tractor with a flat tire hunches next to it.
Savannah whispers, “This looks like a farm. You’re sure this is it?”
“No, but it’s the only thing in the right place.”
“What’s so special about it?”
“It’s supposed to belong to WCZ Trading. That’s the company shipping the pots with the heroin in them. If this really is it, then it’s the start of the pipeline.”
The road curves around to the farmhouse. There’s a thin coat of gravel scattered over what acts like a forecourt; we skirt it to avoid stepping on anything crunchy. Two big wood-plank doors face the forecourt, locked with a heavy chain and a padlock that looks sturdy as a safe.
The door on the east side is a different story. It’s a well-weathered solid wood slab that’s about the size of the front door to a suburban American house. The knob is rusty and pitted in my hand, but it turns. The door opens only an inch, though. I run my hand up the jamb and hit a metal chain guard.
Savannah whispers, “What is it?”
I peek through the gap into the building. A single bulb hanging from a wire barely lights the open-bay interior and exposed rafters. The windows have been boarded over from the inside. I can’t see much, but I can see three wooden crates lined up against the far wall.
I ease the door shut and whisper to Savannah, “The door’s unlocked, but it’s chained from the inside. Somebody’s in there.”
Even in the dark, I can see she’s startled. “What? We need to go.”
“We can’t. I saw crates in there. They look a lot like the ones in Jim’s storage cube.”
“But if someone’s in there—”
“It’s three in the morning. They’re probably not as jetlagged as we are. I’ll go in, shoot pictures of the crates, then leave.”
“Alone? You’re crazy.”
“I’ll be fine.” No I won’t, but I need to be brave for her benefit. “Go back to the truck.”
She frowns. “No. I’m staying.”
“Why?”
“To help.”
Okay. It takes a moment to think of something she can do. “First thing? Get us inside. Your hand’s smaller than mine.”
She cracks open the door and slips most of her hand behind it. The chain makes little scratching noises as she fiddles with it. Then it stops. “Somebody’s coming.”
We duck behind the spindly trees on the other side of the path. It’s not much protection, but it’s something. Savannah crouches behind me and slips her hands onto my shoulders. Nighttime in L.A. sounds like crickets and police helicopters; here, it’s just the crickets and an occasional comment from a bird or a frog. I assume the kraits and pit vipers don’t say much.
A minute or so later, a guard pushes out the side door followed by a patch of weak light. At least, the gun stuffed into the back waistband of his cutoff camo shorts makes me assume he’s a guard. He’s stocky and bandy-legged, wearing sliders and a ratty orange tee with some kind of white-and-black shield on the chest. How does a security guard get away with wearing sandals? He plods halfway down the long end of the barn with his nose buried in his phone, then unzips and pees on the wall.
Savannah mutters, “Geez, really?”
“Now we know there’s no outhouse.”
The guard shambles around the barn’s front corner, unlocks the front doors, then drags them open with much scraping of gravel. He disappears inside. A minute later, bluish fluorescent light blasts out the front and side doors.
Savannah’s breath blows hot on my ear. “In case you care, he’s a Chiangrai United fan.”
“Great. We can bond over soccer.”
“Fuutbaan.” She draws out the last syllable.
“Whatever. He’s open for business. Somebody or something must be coming. You’d better move the truck. We don’t want the guests to see it.”
Sigh. “Okay.” She melts into the darkness.
I wait for an unquantifiable while. I don’t dare turn on my phone to see the time. The clouds thin a bit, leaking moonlight. Leaves drip warm water on me. The bugs have found me now that I’m not moving. Do I taste different than the locals? The crickets occasionally drop out, then start their concert again. I nearly freak out the first time it happens, thinking it means somebody or something is moving around, but it’s a regular thing.
Savannah scares the crap out of me (not literally) when she creeps up behind me some while later. “All parked,” she whispers. “Anything happening?”
“Nothing. I can’t even see Soccer Fan anymore.” That doesn’t mean he’s not there. We didn’t see anything alive at the WCZ warehouse in Oakland until Cujo tried to eat my throat. “I’d love to get a shot at those crates.”
“If you try, I’ll leave you here.”
We shift to our left to get a straighter view into the barn. The dirt floor looks dry and firmly packed. Two ranks of three six-foot strip lights give the place that homey airport-apron look. Other than four oil drums to the right, the crates to the left, and some wooden folding screens in the back, the place is empty.
I settle against a tree trunk. “If somebody’s coming, it must be soon. It wouldn’t make sense to leave that dude here for days. When’s the local border crossing open?”
“Kew Pha Wok? It depends. It may not open at all depending on how things are between the Thais and the Burmese today. If it’s Wa coming here, they may get through even if it’s closed. It’s not hard to cross.”
Excellent. It could be anytime between right now and hours from now. Or maybe not at all, and the owners keep s
omeone in the barn to stop the local kids from having raves here.
Still… three brand-new, empty crates just sitting there. They must have a use for them; they’d make great firewood otherwise.
The air’s still heavy and damp but not as stifling as it was a few hours ago. The bugs are out in force, though, and I wish I’d worn something that covers me better than a black tee and khaki walking shorts. I didn’t expect to be staking out the barn outside.
Savannah rolls down her sleeves, curls her legs underneath her, then slathers bug spray on her exposed parts. I can barely smell it above the general wet-rotting-vegetation stink. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”
“Michelin-star dinners and Broadway tickets are so overdone.”
At least she chuckles. “I swear, once we’re done here, I’m taking you to Koh Mook.”
“What’s that?”
“An island in the Andaman Sea. Some of the most beautiful beaches you’ve ever seen. All the tourists go to Phuket, so it’s quiet and cozy and the water’s amazing.”
“It’s monsoon season.”
“So? You’re living in the water anyway. You can’t get more wet.” She passes me her bug juice. “You’ll need this.”
Time passes. The bugs get as tired of us as we do scratching their bites. Traffic noise whines by on the highway every once in a great while; none of it comes here. Savannah dozes with her back against a tree, her chin almost on her chest, her hands stuffed between her thighs to keep them away from biting things. I’m getting stiff and dopey, too, but the worry and the residual adrenaline from sneaking around keep me awake if not alert. I feel like I’m back in the RV in West Oakland, watching the WCZ warehouse hour after hour, waiting for something to happen. The RV was a pit, but it was way more comfortable than this.
The eastern sky’s shifting from charcoal to violet when a truck rumbles toward us along the drive. It’s an old, white stakebed with lots of miles on it. The engine whines on each downshift. When it backs toward the open barn doors, I see two guys in baseball hats in the cab and a load of what looks like cabbage in the back. The baseball-cap dudes step out, drop the tailgate with a wham, then saunter inside.
Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3) Page 27
