by Lee Stone
Lockhart groaned, partly because of the transparency of her contrition, and partly because the simpering style in which she wrote got under his skin.
‘Why didn’t you step up, if you were so concerned?’ he asked, sucking on the plastic lid of his coffee cup. He read on.
He baked the body. I watched in horror as this broken child, this baby who had experienced death before experiencing life itself, was taken from a macabre oven. Its skin had blackened and withered, the way fruit withers once it has fallen from the vine. My lover’s charms and incantations evaporated into the pale night sky, his eyes were black in the moonlight. In the dirt, the process almost complete, he covered the tiny body in golden leaf to somehow beautify the wretchedness, and wrapped the corpse in a black cotton shroud.
Lockhart slammed the laptop shut and gathered it up, grabbing his coffee and heading for the lifts. He found Marie at her desk, scrolling through smartphone footage of a woman climbing onto the roof of her car as the water began to bow over the submerging hood. She was frantic and panicked, threatening to slip into the water at any moment. The whole scene was illuminated by the shaking floodlight of a police helicopter.
‘Does she fall?’ Lockhart asked.
‘We’ll never know,’ Marie said, hitting her keyboard a little harder than was necessary to close the file. ‘Why in God’s name would anyone drive along the docks in a storm like this, anyway?’
She shook her head without taking her eyes from the screen, and then sighed and said, ‘I guess we should be grateful though; idiots make great web content. It’s all about the hits these days. Remember when it used to be all about the story?’
‘You’ve changed,’ Lockhart teased, his voice low in mock solemnity. ‘We need to talk about your values.’
‘It’s called compromise,’ she shot back with a smile. ‘It’s what the rest of us did while you were off seeing the world. Anyway, I’m guessing you’ve found a story in that suitcase of yours after all?’
Lockhart nodded.
‘I know what’s in the box,’ he said. ‘And I know why Matilda’s so worried about her baby.’
He set the laptop down in front of her and opened Google at the page he’d been reading.
‘You might not like this,’ he said, ‘especially considering your condition. I was going to congratulate you earlier, but I didn’t want to say anything in front of your colleagues. Is it public knowledge yet?’
Marie looked up at him. Stopped breathing. Saw in his eyes that he really knew.
‘It’s not public knowledge,’ she said, her voice far away. ‘How did you…?’
‘No one thing,’ Lockhart said. ‘Just the way you moved, and the number of times your hand has gone to your stomach while we’ve been talking. It’s not rocket science. And I’m really pleased for you. You’ll make a great parent.’
Marie blushed despite herself.
‘Shut up, Lockhart,’ she said, but she smiled. ‘Did you ever meet my brother in London?’
Lockhart hadn’t.
‘Well, he’s older than me and he’s bigger than you. And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll ask him to break your legs, okay?’
‘Sure. But none of that changes the fact…’
‘I’m a New York editor,’ she said. ‘As David Guetta put it, I am titanium. Just show me what you’ve got.’
Lockhart shrugged and pulled open the laptop on the desk in front of her.
‘Matilda was right about there being crack in the case,’ he told her. ‘Only thing is, what she heard them talking about was Kun Krak, Smoke Children.’
‘Smoke what?’
‘Read on,’ he said. ‘It’s grim.’
‘Okay,’ Marie said as she scanned through Audrey Dufour’s blog. ‘So we’re back in Cambodia?’
Lockhart nodded without looking up from the computer.
‘Yeah. She’s a French romantic who spent a couple of years on the banks of the Mekong with a Cambodian Monk who enjoyed summoning ghosts and monsters.’
Marie scrolled through the blog.
‘So you’re saying what was in the suitcase had to do with sorcery?’
‘I’m saying whatever is missing from the suitcase had to do with sorcery. I’m saying there was a smoke child, a dead baby, inside the case at some point… but someone took it.’
‘Can you prove it?’
Lockhart took the suitcase that had been resting against the wall and placed it on the table between them. From it he took the ornate carved box, which he opened and handed to Marie. Tentatively, she reached inside and pulled out the black shroud Lockhart had found earlier. Gold leaf still dusted one side of it.
‘You think there was a dead child wrapped in this?’
Lockhart considered it.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I do. I think it’s what Ta Penh was hunting for in Cambodia. It’s why he got involved personally. It explains why he was desperate to get it back.’
‘Because?’
‘Because it’s his Smoke Child. He believes it protects him.’
Marie scowled, like she didn’t quite buy the explanation.
‘If he’s so bothered about it, why would they move it across the world? What was it doing it in New York City?’
‘Because he believes in its power,’ Lockhart told her, thinking out loud. ‘He believes that it can protect him and his family. So when his drug empire expanded to New York City, you can bet Ta Penh would have sent the Smoke Child to watch over his interests.’
‘Do you really believe this stuff?’ Marie asked. ‘This is occultism, Lockhart. It’s necromancy.’
‘Doesn’t matter if I believe it,’ Lockhart said, pointing at the screen and Audrey Dufour’s blog. ‘The point is that he does. He really burned those children. The practice exists, and so people will be afraid of it. Are the ghosts and the spirits real? Who knows? It doesn’t really matter. People are afraid of the possibility, and that’s enough.’
‘Okay,’ Marie tested. ‘If you’re right, why were they sending the Smoke Child back to Cambodia?’
Lockhart remembered what Fischer, the lawyer, had told him.
‘Ta Penh was feeling the pressure back home in the Cardamom forests,’ he said. ‘His clearing was growing too big, and there were soldiers and drug enforcement teams cutting through the trees looking for distillers just like him. Maybe he wanted his old protection back. Maybe Kep had become more dangerous than New York.’
Marie weighed it all up.
‘So Ta Penh calls New York and tells them to send the Smoke Child back. They force your girl Matilda to take it through customs with a stack of cash, and she assumed that it’s drugs because she hears them talking about Kun Krak.’
‘Exactly. Except there’s a problem, ‘Lockhart said. ‘The box was empty. Even if Matilda had taken the suitcase on the plane to Phnom Penh, the Smoke Child was already gone.’
She shot him a look. ‘Who says it was already gone?’
Lockhart held her gaze for a moment and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter, holding it up for Marie to see.
‘Ta Penh’s guys here in New York promise to put something into the suitcase,’ he said, pushing the coin into the palm of his right hand, and closing his fist around it. ‘Then they gave the case to Matilda.’
He held his fist out across the table until Marie smiled and clasped her hands around his hand.
‘She keeps hold of it all the way to the airport.,’ Lockhart said, feeling Marie closing her warm fingers over his. ‘Then she stores it safely in a locker at JFK where it stays until she flew back. Nobody could have gotten inside it.’
Lockhart pulled his hand away but Marie smiled and kept her fingers clasped tightly around his fist, her eyes locked on the place she had last seen the coin.
‘So either Matilda took it…’
He turned his fist over and slowly unfurled his fingers to reveal the coin had disappeared.
‘… it was never there at all,’ Marie finished, star
ing at Lockhart’s open palm.
‘Exactly,’ Lockhart said, holding up the quarter in his other hand.
Marie shook her head.
‘You know a few years ago you’d have been burned at the stake for pulling a stunt like that?’
‘Magic coin,’ Lockhart told her. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
He held out the quarter, and she took it. She bit it, making sure it was legit, and then tossed it back to him.
‘So what about Matilda?’ she asked, her eyes still on the coin.
Lockhart sighed as he turned it all over in his head.
‘I don’t so,’ he said. ‘What would she gain from removing it? She’s the delivery girl. Whether the case turns up empty or doesn’t turn up at all, she’s the one who will get it in the neck.’
‘Maybe someone was setting her up?’
Lockhart shrugged. That didn’t chime right.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Lockhart said. ‘If they’ve got her baby, the last thing she’d want to do is piss them off by stealing from them. But coming back ahead of time and heading across town with a gun? That sounds more likely to me.’
Marie let her gaze wander to the window.
‘You’ll have to wait until morning before you go after her.’
‘It’ll be too late in the morning,’ Lockhart said.
Lockhart headed for the door just as Ruslen Elm walked through it, clutching a stack of website printouts. He stopped in his tracks, sensing the tension in the atmosphere.
‘Have I interrupted you?’
‘No, you’re fine,’ Lockhart reassured him. He sounded tired and careworn. When he reached the door he turned back to Marie and said, ‘Is there a Cambodian drug syndicate in New York?’
‘Just the one,’ Marie said. ‘It’s run by a guy called Leisler.’
‘So who’s got the file on him?’ Lockhart asked.
Elm held up his stack of papers.
‘Glinka has,’ he said. ‘His internet history is full of him.’
42
Inside the storm drain deep in New York’s subway, the Rat smiled as he watched Lim turn the old Makarov pistol over in his hand. He knew his old compatriot would put a bullet in him as happily as most people would stamp on a cockroach.
‘It is unloaded,’ Veasna said in his reedy voice. ‘I keep the ammunition in a locker in the old station. Locker number 1-9-7-5.’
Lim took the key and thanked him.
‘Nineteen Seventy-Five,’ he said. ‘Year zero?’
The Rat nodded.
‘The year of the revolution.’
Lim admired Veasna’s dedication to the cause. He had given his life to their struggle, and over the years he had been a useful servant to Ta Penh. He had spent more of his life underground than he had spent breathing fresh air; years of gathering information with unwavering loyalty. But the smoke child had gone missing on his watch, and some mistakes cannot go unpunished. Lim thought it was unfortunate that Veasna had not loaded the Makarov. It would have saved them both a lot of time.
‘Ta Penh is unhappy,’ Lim said eventually. ‘He has left the mountains. He is on the move.’
The Rat blinked his watery eyes and shifted uncomfortably.
‘Why?’
‘He’s concerned,’ Lim said. ‘Concerned about a lot of things. Without the Smoke Child, life in Kep has become difficult.’
‘So he wants the Kun Krak returned to Cambodia?’
Lim stared hard at the Rat.
‘Of course he does,’ Lim said. ‘Where is it now?’
‘I don’t…’
‘It’s your job to know,’ Lim said in a voice a few degrees colder that when he had first arrived. Veasna smiled nervously and pulled at the strands of his grey brown beard.
‘I have everything we need for the ritual,’ he said eventually, and his eyes moved slowly to the artefacts on the shelf above his makeshift bed. ‘We could create a new Kun Krak. A new Smoke Child for Ta Penh.’
Lim closed his eyes for a moment, imagining what Ta Penh would say to this proposal. It was not good enough. If Lim went back with a compromise, he would suffer Ta Penh’s wrath. So a compromise was not acceptable. He shook his head slowly.
‘Jimmy even has a child,’ the Rat implored. ‘They could do it tomorrow. The storm is a sign of great change coming. Maybe this is the right way.’
Lim held his hand up, unwilling to listen to the argument.
‘You know better,’ he said. ‘Some things cannot be replaced. The Smoke Child wields old powerful magic. You can’t just start again.’
‘So we must find it,’ Veasna said. ‘Shall we find it and send it back?’
Lim’s face was impassive.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what you should have done.’
Above him, Lim heard the first rush of water. Fear kicked in. The same fear that had kept him safe in the dark of the Cardamom Mountains. Fear was the only reason Lim was still alive. He stood and stretched for the portico above his head, pulling himself lithely through with more grace and agility than would be expected for a man of his advancing years. The Rat reacted too slowly, and when he tried to follow Lim out of the storm drain, his old comrade stamped hard at his face. His nose cracked, and as the first blood began to trickle across his murine features, the wave of water hit him. It was dark water, inked black by the tunnel’s years of rot and neglect. There was no way through the weight of water pouring down on him, and slowly his clawing grip on the side of the hole relinquished and he fell backwards into the drain.
In the darkness, Veasna could feel the Smoke Child with him and he wondered in his last moments whether this whole storm had been conjured just for him. As the water rose around him in the blackness, he could imagine the Kun Krak’s embryonic face twisted in hateful revenge. In the tunnel above, Lim kicked the hatch lid closed as the water rushed, foaming around his planted feet. From below he could hear the Rat’s echoing pleas. Lim stayed two minutes longer, listening while the drain filled completely, until the Rat’s voice became gargled and strangulated and eventually turned into silence.
Afterwards, Lim followed the water upstream in search of the old subway station, which would lead him back out onto 18th Street. He smiled because he was piecing the mystery together. Even if Ta Penh was angry about what was happening in New York City, he would reward Lim for uncovering the truth.
Jimmy even has a child. The Rat had told him. Which meant Jimmy knew the Kun Krak was missing. This was a point in his favor. It was unlikely that Jimmy had stolen the Smoke Child if he was now preparing to make another. But he had not told Ta Penh about the theft, and he had also considered creating a new smoke child without Ta Penh’s permission. Both facts would count against him.
Lim forced himself towards the surface, planning out his next move. He would deal with the courier in due course. But she was not his main concern. She was a Westerner who would not appreciate the value of the Smoke Child. The Smoke Child was Ta Penh’s priority, and that made it Lim’s priority too.
The light was growing. The heavy iron door was close.
There was only one other link in the chain. Only one other person who was likely to have taken the Kun Krak. The man who had approached him to talk about cutting Jimmy out of the loop. An ambitious man, Lim had learned. A ruthless man. A man who was greedy enough to see value in things that could only bring him harm, and reckless enough to upset the natural order of things if he thought he could profit from the chaos.
Lim nodded to himself in the darkness as he arrived at the iron threshold between the subterranean world and the world above. He found the lockers inside the disused subway station, rusting against a damp wall. The lock was stuck, but he forced the thin metal door to get inside 1975. The ammunition was there, just as the Rat had described. For a moment Lim thought about Veasna, drowned in the blackness beneath him. The water had rushed, it seemed to Lim, with a certain gusto and malevolence towards the Rat’s hole. What if this whole, unnatural storm tearin
g at the edges of New York City was a sign of the Kun Krak’s anger? What would that mean? Lim scooped the bullets from the locker and shoved them deep into his pockets. He moved towards the 18th Street exit with determined strides, inches of water sloshing around across the abandoned ticket hall as he went.
43
Behind the soaring glass of Renzo Piano’s tower, dawn broke over another grim morning. The swollen churn of the Hudson had nibbled at the edges of Manhattan, and oily streams of water dissected Eighth Avenue, splitting and merging in their haste to reach their destination. Charlie Lockhart took a moment to find his feet before standing and stretching. He felt guilty for every second he had slept, but there had been no choice, except for a bleary-eyed stumble across town in the middle of the night that would have done nobody any good.
Instead, he had taken Marie’s laptop and retired to a quiet corner of the newsroom where he had spent a long hour pulling apart Glinka’s notes about Siberia, and its drug culture, and the mysterious stranger who had been cleaning the place up. Lockhart had made his own notes, drawing names and connections on a piece of paper, trying to work Jimmy Penh and Matilda Braganza into the picture. Trying to work out where she had gone. Eventually, when the page had resembled an intricate spider’s web, he had folded it away from prying eyes, leant his back against a set of drawers, and succumbed to the blackness of sleep.
Glinka’s notes mentioned that the drug gangs had strangled the streets of Siberia. As he headed up into the slate gray sky and the coffee machine on the Fourteenth Floor, Lockhart figured he could use all the information to his advantage. Matilda was after Jimmy Penh. He felt sure of that. The quickest way to find her would be through Siberia.
The coffee shook him awake, and he headed back down to the newsroom where it took five minutes for him to explain his plan to Marie Saunders. She had contacted the police to report Glinka missing, but he was at the end of a long list, so when Lockhart offered to head into Siberia she agreed, against her better judgment. He transferred the carved box, and the bundled cash from the suitcase into a sports bag he found in the men’s locker room and then he headed out into the rain.
