Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3)

by Lance Charnes

  Huh? “Um… yeah.”

  “I tried to find her as soon as Mother got her deported. I finally did a year later, at her university. The coup was over and Thailand had a civilian government again. All was forgiven. I started sending Lawan money from my allowance so she could afford books and things to finish her degrees. We’ve been in touch ever since.”

  Must’ve been some allowance. “I’m glad you found her, but how’s this important now?”

  “Thais change their given names a lot. Sometimes they do it because they’ve had bad luck and they want to escape it. That’s why Lawan changed her name when she got back to Thailand. It’s also why it took so long for me to find her.”

  I rummage through my brain to find the things she’d told me at the Tonga Room. “Did she happen to change her name to ‘Pensri’?”

  She smiles. “You remembered. She was an archaeology student.”

  “That’s how you got the early copies of her papers.”

  “Right again. And that Nom Ton ewer I gave Jim.”

  Of course. It makes perfect sense now. It also explains Pensri’s reaction when I mentioned Savannah’s name. “Another thing you didn’t tell me.”

  “You didn’t need to know until now.”

  Another flash of anger. I count to eighteen before I come up with something civil to say. “I decide that, not you.”

  “You’re wrong. I decided.” She tries a smile that doesn’t quite work. “We should go to the village now, before any of the farmers see us here. Help me carry in the presents, okay?”

  “What happens when we get there?”

  Savannah pats my chest and starts out for the truck. “You’ll see. Trust me?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Chapter 51

  It’s mid-morning by the time we trudge across the scrublands where the Nam Ton culture made its pottery. I’m lugging two cases of cloth diapers. Savannah has her duffels slung over her shoulder; our clothes and survival gear’s in them, along with several bottles of good booze and the surviving unopened cartons of Marlboros.

  My favorite Shan guard stops us at the foot of the rise leading to the village. Savannah greets him with a big smile and a flood of friendly-sounding Thai (or at least, what I think is Thai). I guess pretty-woman magic works worldwide: he wanders off with a smile on his face, leaving us to loiter around the house where I’d spent part of this morning.

  Pensri appears much faster this time. The two women crash together, hugging and kissing cheeks and swooning in mixed Thai and English. Savannah finally turns Pensri toward me. “You’ve already met my boyfriend, Rick.”

  Pensri’s smile dims a few watts. “Mr. Hoskins. Welcome.”

  “Am I?”

  She considers me for a moment. “You’re with Savannah. Of course you are.” Meaning, don’t get too far from her.

  A couple villagers haul the gifts behind us while Pensri leads us up the rise. Savannah tells her a simplified version of yesterday’s events. Pensri tsks and shakes her head. “I taught you better than that,” she says at one point.

  “I know. Sorry. Can we stay here a little while until it’s safe to go back south?”

  Stay? Four days until the project dies and she wants to stay?

  “Of course. We have two empty houses at the end of the village. You can stay in the less-ruined one.” Pensri shoots a glance at me. “I’ll have to ask you to stay there, though. I’ll have someone trustworthy bring you food. Please don’t mix with the villagers—it’s hard to predict what they might tell outsiders.”

  I guess that’s why we’re being paraded down the village’s main street. It sounds like a form of house arrest to me. Then again, there won’t be any freedom on the road today, either.

  The Shan house tilts slightly on its eight-foot pilings. Two rooms. Lots of cobwebs and mold. We left our sandals on the open porch before we went inside.

  The room I’m pacing in takes up half the structure. The missing wall on the side nearest the porch and the windows on the two exterior walls let in the only light this place is going to get. Not much furniture: a couple stools, a handmade table holding a metal water basin, a battered wooden cabinet that might be the pantry. A rough wood post shoots up from the middle of the floor to the ridge beam. A framed drawing of the Buddha fills much of a rough wooden box set into the east wall. The sleeping room is on the other side of an open doorway with a foot-tall threshold.

  A random collection of mats and rugs covers the wood-plank floor, everything from striped plastic ground pads you might use on a picnic to fraying woven Chinese rugs. I may wear out my feet, but at least I won’t get splinters.

  Savannah says, “Would you please stop? You’re driving me crazy.”

  She’s perched on a stool near the north window, wearing a loose pink crew-neck blouse with three-quarter sleeves over pale-yellow panties, with a trade paperback of The Nightingale in her lap. She doesn’t look almost crazy, but maybe she hides it well.

  The air’s heavy and still. I smear the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve. “We’re supposed to just sit here?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until Pensri tells us it’s safe to go.”

  In the meantime, the clock ticks down. We have three full days left before Talbot’s deadline. “If the Nam Ton wares aren’t coming from that place out front of the village, where else might they be?”

  Savannah sighs. “As I said before, it could be anyplace. Pensri may not know about it.”

  “How likely do you think that is? That she wouldn’t know?”

  “Not very. I just wanted to bring it up.”

  Sure. “Around here?”

  “She thinks the old village is under this one. They could be digging up people’s yards.”

  “I didn’t see anything like that on our death march here.”

  Her eyebrow arches like a Halloween cat. “Death march? Really?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know if she knows how far back the old village goes. The dig could be out there someplace.” She points out the open end of the room and the porch.

  That sounds as likely as anything. “Let’s go look.”

  “No.” Savannah bolts off the stool. “Pensri told us to stay here. That’s for their protection more than ours. I promised her we would. She’s still my best friend—I won’t betray her trust.”

  “You mean, like you betrayed mine?”

  Her throat gargles a disgusted sound. “I won’t apologize for what I did. I had good reasons for it. And we already talked about how you lied to me, so you’re not exactly innocent here.”

  She’s got me there. I pace to the south window and watch not very much happen on the main—and only—street. “Look. I have to tell the DEA where Nam Ton comes from. If they come to check, Pensri’ll tell them she’s fresh out. That could go seriously bad for me. Us.”

  Savannah appears next to me with her arms crossed tight. She doesn’t look happy. “Do what you have to do. I don’t need to be there with you. If you’re going to go someplace, at least do it after dark. It’d be dumb to do it now, and I don’t think you’re dumb.”

  Gullible, maybe. “Okay. I flew eight thousand miles to find this place. I can wait until dark to make sure I’ve found it.”

  Htun brings dinner—a pot of roasted chicken and rice, same as lunch—as sunset turns the gathering clouds coral.

  It’s completely dark before nine. The clouds snuff the moon and stars. Htun brought the stub of a candle on a tin dish along with dinner; it’s now flickering on the table, throwing wavering shadows on the walls.

  Savannah appears from the sleeping room wearing a new addition to her costume: a longyi (sarong) with a salmon lower half and maroon upper half. She ties a yellow headscarf over her hair. “I’m going to talk to Pensri.”

  Other than her height, you could believe she’s one of the lighter-skinned local women if you squint enough. “You just happened to bring
that with you?”

  “I thought it might be useful.”

  She knew she was coming here. I can’t decide if I should be mad or in awe of her planning. “How long will you be gone?”

  She stops halfway to the porch and frowns at me over her shoulder. “How long should I be?” There’s an edge to that. “We have plenty to talk about.”

  I’ll bet. “Stay out as long as you can.”

  The sound of her sandals on the stairs disappears into the night.

  I wait fifteen minutes, then step to ground level and edge out to the side of the road. To the east, the windows in the nearby houses flicker orange with fires, candles, or the occasional lantern. There are the hints of voices in the wind, someone singing in a minor key. To the west: dark.

  I head west.

  The road quickly turns into a path a few feet wide winding through the trees. Apparently enough people use it to hack away the underbrush. That worries me: who am I likely to meet out here? Villagers? Wa soldiers? Meth labs? Poachers? (Pangolins—a kind of mutant jungle armadillo—live here, and the Chinese think they’re funny-looking walking Viagra. You do the math.)

  The red gel in my Mini Maglite casts a dim glow on the ground, hardly enough for me to avoid the tree roots and occasional rocks. I stumble over invisible things.

  Then the gunfire starts. First single pops, like firecrackers, then short bursts, then the jackhammer sound of something heavy. It’s northwest of me, though I can’t tell how far. My rational mind tells me I don’t have to worry about it. I’m not in touch with my rational mind right now.

  It’s easy to lose track of time in the forest. The scenery doesn’t change in the dark: black tree trunks, black bushes, a few square feet of trail. Little forest noises compete with the gunfire: bird squawks, frog belches, bat squeaks, the plumf sounds of things falling from the canopy, the rustle of things pushing past leaves.

  Something like thunder rumbles in the distance. It’s not thunder, though—it’s short, flat thumps with echoes, not that prolonged rocks-rolling-downhill sound. I’ve heard it in war movies: distant artillery. Welcome to the neighborhood.

  Up ahead, I see what I think are flickering yellow lights moving around randomly. They grow as I approach. Then I hear murmurs of words I don’t understand. Other sounds I can’t figure out.

  I almost stumble into a clearing. I catch myself before I take those extra couple steps, push myself into the trees, then thump down hard on my butt.

  The clearing’s ends fade into the dark in both directions. The lights—torches—show it’s maybe ten or fifteen yards wide. I remember this from the satellite shots; it looked like a dry riverbed. Maybe it was once upon a time. But that’s not what interests me.

  A dozen or more men are digging a neat, square-edged hole across the clearing’s far width, maybe twenty feet long, two feet wide. Ground level comes to just above the knees on the men digging inside the hole. Not enough for a grave. That’s not what interests me either.

  What does interest me? Pensri’s directing the work. She barks at the men, shining a flashlight on places where she wants the hole cleaned up or extended. Other than her outfit, she’s the very picture of an archaeologist running a dig.

  The other interesting thing is on a tarp a couple feet from the hole’s long edge. The torchlight flickers gold on a dozen or so white-bodied wares. The green parts puzzle me until I realize it’s yellow light on blue.

  Nam Ton wares.

  It’s hard to tell from over here, but they look awfully clean for having just been dug up. Were they left out in the rain?

  Is this where the Nam Ton wares are coming from? Is this whole clearing an archaeological site? There’s room for hundreds of pots under the dirt. Thousands. Bandineau could keep selling Nam Ton until he retires. Does he know?

  A soft noise behind me. I twist to look. A guy’s there, staring at me. That’s all I see before he clocks me with his rifle butt and I dive into my own personal night.

  Chapter 52

  3 DAYS LEFT

  I wake in this afternoon’s Shan house. The candle’s still burning on the table, though it’s significantly shorter.

  I’m sitting on the floor with my wrists tied with woven cotton clothesline on the other side of the post. They’re nearly dead. My ankles are also tied, so I can’t stand, which I’m desperate to do. Despite the pads and rugs on the floor, my butt’s officially lead. Every part of me either hurts—starting with my head—or is stiff from not moving much for however long. The only good news would be bad news under any other circumstances: they took all my clothes except for my boxers. At least I’m not simmering in the heat and humidity. Much.

  Who jumped me? He wasn’t in uniform, which means he probably wasn’t the Wa State Army. Villager? Maybe. He seemed to know what he was doing with that rifle, though that may not be unusual given the area’s history.

  If he wanted me dead, he’d’ve shot me in the forest and left my body for whatever eats dead meat around here. Somebody’s got a plan for me. I can’t think well enough yet to figure out who.

  A thought I don’t need creeps into my head: did they decide to nab Savannah too? I don’t know how well Pensri can protect her. A pretty western blonde’s gotta be worth something to somebody around here. Is she in the village, or is she in the back of a truck on its way to some warlord’s hideout? I’ve read about what happens to trafficked women, and it’s not pretty.

  Voices outside.

  I turn up the gain on my ears. The first voice I hear is a woman’s speaking rapid-fire something. Then a man’s voice, lower and slower. They go back-and-forth for a while. Because the tones are completely different from any languages I’m used to, I can’t tell what’s going on, which makes me even more nervous. Is this the cavalry… or the firing squad?

  Finally, I hear heavy steps stomp down the stairs. I twist as much as I can to catch a glimpse of the porch in the corner of my left eye.

  Savannah walks in. She’s barefoot, wearing her Burmese costume minus the headscarf.

  Thank god. She’s safe.

  Now that I’m done being relieved she’s not some mobster’s sex doll, I wonder, did she have anything to do with this? What did she tell Pensri?

  “There you are.” Her smile’s bright enough to reflect the candlelight. “Stay there, I’ll untie you.”

  “Like I’m going anywhere.” That comes out hoarse; my throat’s dry and I haven’t said a word to anybody for hours.

  She kneels behind me. I can just about feel her hand on my wrist. “Promise you won’t try to run away.”

  Promise what? “You kidding? We’re outta here once you cut me loose. We can’t stay here. We’ll—”

  “Promise.”

  Something in her voice tells me I’d better obey if I want to feel my hands again. “Okay, whatever. I won’t get far dressed like this. Neither will you.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” She jostles my hands and arms around, making my shoulders whimper. “There. I’ll get your ankles.”

  For a few moments I can’t feel any difference with the rope off. Then it’s like my hands have been dipped in a vat of fire ants. I drag my arms out in front of me and almost scream at the pain in my shoulders. The fire ants discover my feet next. I look their way to see Savannah massaging my now-untied ankles.

  It takes a few minutes before I can move my arms and legs without nausea-inducing pain and I can actually work my fingers again. Savannah opens a bottle of water and holds it to my lips. “Drink. You need the water.”

  I finally rasp, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. How’s your head?”

  “Hurts like a sonovabitch. Who did this?”

  She stands, holds out her hand. “Let’s get you on your feet.”

  Standing keeps me busy for the better part of a minute, but not enough so I forget she ducked my question. Once I can shuffle around without help, I say, “Let’s try this again. Who hit me? Why?” />
  “Villagers. You saw things you shouldn’t have.”

  “Like… the secret stash of Nam Ton wares?”

  “That’s what we need to talk about.” She joins me as I slowly hobble around the room, trying not to trip on things I can’t see. She wraps her hand around my bicep after a few laps. “Can we stop walking for a minute? Maybe over by that window?”

  The window faces the forest. The sky looks like tapioca made from coal dust, and there’s not a whisper of wind in the trees. The air weighs a ton; it wants to rain real bad.

  Savannah settles a haunch on the windowsill and gazes out into the dark. “Pensri came here for her thesis project. She spent two whole dry seasons here. Long story short: she fell in love with the place and the people… and with a local man, Htun. He happens to be the headman’s son. They eventually got married and they have a little boy.”

  “She gave up her Ph.D. and a university position to live here?”

  “Don’t judge. I’m glad she’s happy. This place has a lot of problems, and she’s doing what she can to help work them out.”

  If my head didn’t already hurt, it would’ve started by now. “That thing I wasn’t supposed to see… that was Pensri looting her own dig, wasn’t it.”

  She suddenly finds the forest fascinating. “Well… it’s complicated.”

  “‘Yes’ or ‘no’ isn’t complicated.”

  “Well… yes.”

  Of course. I drag a red plastic stool to the window and sit facing Savannah. All my body parts have circulation again, I’m tired of pacing, and I’m just generally tired, physically and mentally. “Why would she do that?”

  Savannah sighs, shakes her head. “Like I said, it’s complicated. These poor people—” she waves out the window “—are in the middle of all kinds of trouble. They’re Shan in an area the government tried to turn into a Wa enclave in the ‘90s. The Tatmadaw burned villages, they killed thousands of people, raped hundreds of women… all the things they do so well. These people hung on, God knows how.”

  “Pensri told me it’s because they were too poor to bother with.”