The Price of Blood

by Chuck Logan

  Bevode dragged Lola’s corpse into the surf by the hair, swearing loudly when he lost his grip because part of the skull wobbled loose. Still swearing, he heaved the dead weight over the rubber gunwale of a dinghy so the legs dangled, feet in the water.

  Then he pawed around inside the boat and came up with a long, plastic-hafted diver’s knife. Swiftly he slashed the muscular clay of hamstrings and calves.

  “Draw the fishies,” he said, fastidiously stooping and washing his hands in the surf. He nodded to the green-faced Cajun at the tiller, who was striving to keep his breakfast down. “Take it a couple miles out and dump it.”

  The Cajun reversed the powerful motor and backed the boat into the gentle swells. The torn white trousers swayed over the gunwale and leaked twisted crimson stripes like a wet, dirty American flag.

  Casually, Bevode nodded at the bloody drag trail at his feet and said to one of the mercs, “Rake up this sand. Cyrus don’t need to see this shit.”

  Then he walked up the beach and towered over Broker. Save the Whales had come ashore in the second boat. He knelt a few feet away, with Nina, opening a first-aid kit.

  Nina pitched on her back, supported on her elbows, trembling the full length of her body. And that was shock.

  Save the Whales shook his head and eased down Nina’s jeans. “Between you and Virgil you sure put some miles on this girl,” he said laconically.

  Bevode winked at Broker. “Don’t worry, she’s all right. I just nicked her. So what’d you do with my little brother?” he asked.

  “He’s gone into rice farming,” said Broker, fighting to get the words from his dry mouth. “Organic farming. You know, where you dump human shit in the fields.”

  “Well, he always had a problem, you understand. Drugs. I told him he should clean up his act. Wouldn’t listen. So we found a way for him to be useful.”

  Bevode was totally relaxed, standing there, enjoying watching Broker appreciate the situation. He reached in his pocket and brought out a plastic flask of sun lotion. SPF 30. He dabbed it assiduously on his face.

  Broker braced himself, he was starting to shake. Bevode just smiled and walked away. He was in control. And Bevode knew that was harder for Broker than dying, knowing that Bevode was in control.

  Slowly, pensively, Cyrus LaPorte walked back up the beach.

  Trin was separated from the other Vietnamese and sat alone in the shade of a willow. Hands in his lap, he was lightly guarded, if at all. Bevode squatted and patted him on the head, got up, and walked back to where Nina sat sullenly trying to beat the shaking—bleeding, handled, filthy jeans pulled to her knees.

  Save the Whales ordered Nina to remove her underpants. She refused so he did and she began to shiver while he inspected the laceration. He splashed on some iodine. She seemed to embrace the reality of the sting. Bevode ordered her to stand up. She pulled up her panties and stood. Then he told her to walk. She took a few steps. Blood and iodine trickled down her thigh and around her knee like veins in marble.

  “See,” he said, “she’s just fine.” In a gesture of crude possession Bevode laid the whip handle between her legs. With venom eyes, she drove her will into the sand and refused to shake. Bevode waited patiently, toying. She tried to spit, but she was too dry. He smiled. Despite all her conviction, she trembled uncontrollably.

  Broker got to a crouch. One of the mercs put him down with a rifle butt.

  Save the Whales stepped forward and peeled down her pants again and slapped a tape compress along the ragged red pencil that ran below her hip up into her left buttocks. Nina modestly pulled up her underpants and went to reach for her pants and Bevode, playfully, snagged them with the front sight of his rifle and held them from her.

  “Uh-uh, I kinda like to watch you walk with blood on your ass.”

  Broker’s sight was fractured. More brilliant than normal but cracked. Trin still wouldn’t meet his eyes. Fucking Trin. Make a deal with the maggots eating your corpse.

  Bevode was saying, “Now I got me a whole work crew of people who mostly walk funny.”

  Save the Whales tied Broker’s hands behind his back. Then Nina’s. Trin sat in the shade, his face a fixed mask, averted, unreadable. They didn’t tie him up.

  LaPorte came up the beach dragging his feet through the surf like General MacArthur, his hands still clasped behind his back. “Everything all right?” he asked Bevode crisply.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take one of the boats. Run the gimps back to the house and clean it up. Take Louis along for the translating. I’ll keep Trin here with me.”

  It was absolutely quiet on the beach. Just the lulling swish of the waves. LaPorte’s men unloaded the remaining dinghy. They set up a camp table, chairs, and an umbrella and brought several large coolers ashore. One of them unfolded the tripod of a surveyor’s sextant.

  The normal-sounding cadence of profanity carried from the water line. Men working in hot, humid conditions and bitching. The sound pecked at walls of shock.

  LaPorte walked over to Broker. “Pardon our little act. We are scouting hotel sites on the coast. You’ll rest as long as it’s light and be fed. Tonight, after we’re reasonably sure no one is going to wander through, we’ll get down to business.”

  He started to walk away, paused, and turned.

  “I would have given her a divorce, you know. But she was…well, greedy,” said LaPorte, slowly shaking his head. “And there was something else. She lied to me. Don’t lie to me, Phil, and render service. You and the girl just might come out of this.”

  The vets were loaded into the boat and Bevode and one of the mercs motored them off up the coast. LaPorte sat with Blue Shirt and Trin at the camp table. They talked and drank from glistening green bottles they took from one of the coolers. LaPorte talked on a radio, presumably to someone on the Lola.

  Nina’s voice muttered, striving for control, “He’s going…to have to change…the name…of his fucking boat.”

  Broker looked away. Every muscle fiber in her body struggled to contain the uncontrollable shivering. Patches of her skin shuddered. Sick dog jerky. Broker discovered that he couldn’t look her in the eye.

  Not physical. Pain she could take. No. He glanced at the pit site. The loose sand had settled into a slight concave depression. He’d brought her to within fifty yards of where her father lay…

  He looked out to sea. His father had said that death approached with a slow deliberate tread. Gradually you got to see its features, know its habits.

  Death wiggled on Bevode’s leash, smack in his face, so close that he had to wait for it to back up a few feet to get a good look at it. Broker was ashamed that, in these first moments, he thought only of himself.

  73

  BROKER CONFRONTED THE PARADOX OF HOPE during the benign interval of planning that followed in the aftermath of Lola’s murder. Hope played hide and seek in the hot sun. Hope was fickle enough to root on the gallows steps.

  Why were they allowed to live?

  He and Nina were handled efficiently, like important merchandise. They were frisked and Broker was allowed to keep the glass vial. Then they were positioned apart so they couldn’t communicate. But they were hand-fed water and energy bars by Save the Whales.

  Snatches of conversation carried to him. They would lay low for the day and see if there was a local reaction to Bevode’s shooting. LaPorte sounded better informed now about the deserted nature of the place.

  Trin.

  Broker was blindfolded and was marched off the beach. His hands brushed the baking masonry of one of the old graves, where he was stored in the shade so he wouldn’t spoil.

  He lost track of time. The day broke down into simple experiences. When he sat, his tired body ached. When he lay down, it didn’t hurt as much. He found himself creeping after the shade along the round walls, staying ahead of the sun. He was fed and watered and allowed to relieve himself. His bound hands were checked and loosened slightly. They needed him for his hands and his back.
/>   To dig it up? They had more men, in better condition.

  One of the European mercenaries gave him a cigarette. Communication was practical, without animosity, conducted on the level of skilled animal handlers. He waited, kenneled in his blindfold.

  For Bevode, who would come out at dark.

  Later, afternoon maybe, Broker heard LaPorte’s voice getting louder, casually discussing his manpower problem. His tone had changed. Less anxious. In practical matters he consulted the one he called Marc, Blue Shirt: How close could they hazard bringing the vessel in to shore? How long would it take to ferry loads? How many men to hoist them with the winch into the cargo hold? The weather was always a worry.

  Then Broker learned why he was being kept alive. LaPorte was concerned that, given Jimmy Tuna’s fascination with demolition and practical jokes, the gold pit could be booby trapped.

  Footsteps in the sand. Broker was so sensitive to the blister of the sun that he could feel a man’s shadow. He smelled fresh, hot coffee, not the soupy Vietnamese stuff. American.

  “I thought you might like some coffee, Phil.” The relaxed, deep voice had a slight drawl, not enough to be regional, just enough to be interesting. LaPorte. Talking with macabre nonchalance while he tracked blood. Did he learn that from Bevode? Or did Bevode learn it from him?

  The lip of a cup touched Broker’s cracked lips. Even hot, the coffee was wonderful and tasted like home. He felt a cigarette tuck in the corner of his mouth. Heard the flare of a lighter. After one drag the cigarette was removed, Broker wondering what he had to do to get it back. The cup returned and then the smoke.

  His throat and senses lubricated, he asked, “How did you get to Trin?”

  Sounds. The sand stirring. LaPorte was sitting down, getting comfortable. His voice was practical.

  “Don’t underestimate Bevode. He wasn’t in Wisconsin because he tarried in Lansing, Michigan. Lucky for him…I guess.”

  “Kevin Eichleay.” Broker winced. He got a picture of yellow police tape strung at a charity relief office.

  LaPorte chuckled. Broker was allowed another sip of coffee. This time the cigarette was left in his mouth. “Oh, Kevin still has all his fingers and toes,” said LaPorte. “Fingers are probably in a cast by now, though. Bevode motivated him to give us Jimmy’s Vietnam connection. I guess he was pretty tough. All Bevode got was Trin’s name and a phone number. I damn near shit when I heard that.”

  LaPorte’s voice took on an absent quality, ruminating. “You know, Bevode grew up in one of those Christian cults, way back in the swamp. Snake handlers. He used to suffer in this moral quandary. He drank a lot when he was a cop. I guess the problem of evil really bothered him. He’s been sober since I revealed to him that he really was just a sadistic sociopath.”

  Broker had another sip of coffee. LaPorte continued. “Bevode has been here with me before. One of the things he does is run security checks with the police on potential employees. So he ran Trin with the cops in Hue. To set up his gimp day care he needed permits. Our Communist brethren are sticklers for paperwork. It left a trail. From People’s Committees, the district, the province on up to the state. He followed the trail out here.”

  “Still doesn’t tell me how you turned him,” said Broker.

  LaPorte’s baritone shook with laughter. “Turned him? From what? Hell, he was using you and he meant to use me. Your buddy has been picked up for vagrancy, drunkenness, petty theft, and pimping in the new hotels. He’s suspected of smuggling and running scams on tourists. I just gave him his head.”

  Broker grimaced. LaPorte continued. “Oh, we made him an offer, manager of the hotel I’m building, threw in a new car…” LaPorte laughed. “These people are nuts about new cars. Do you know the Koreans have the inside track on widening Highway One into a four-lane freeway? The way these guys drive, I’m thinking of investing in a national ambulance service.”

  “Why’d you string up that poor dude on the flagpole?”

  “I didn’t. Bevode got a little carried away. But to answer the question: Trin was thinking bigger than hotel manager. The Hue cops suspect that he’s been bribing the local militia post for years. Uses this stretch of beach for smuggling.”

  Broker winced. The cigarette had burned down and the paper was stuck to his lip. LaPorte plucked it away.

  “So,” said LaPorte, “figuring Trin might be up to his old tricks, I sent Bevode and all the boys in early to have a visit with the militia. Caught them at dinner. Dumb shits had their guns locked up. With a little persuasion, they talked. Trin planned his trap for tomorrow morning. We would have come ashore into twenty AKs and a machine gun. He even tried to delay me and tipped the customs police. They showed up at our hotel and combed through our luggage. Looking for art objects. Fortunately, bribery is a way of life in the Orient.”

  “What did you do with the militia?” Broker asked grimly.

  “Paid them off. Got two men watching them way back in the dunes. Don’t worry, we won’t hurt them,” LaPorte added. “In fact, they wanted to be tied up for appearance’s sake. They’re ignorant kids out to make a buck.”

  “He was after the boat, and the whole thing,” Broker said grudgingly.

  “There you go. Why would he break cover and come into Hue after he had the jackpot? Certainly not just for the girl. But she was an excuse to deal with me. He needed a method of moving the stuff. He was going to ambush us with his rag-tag militia, rip me off, and sail off with a vessel full of gold.”

  Broker exhaled carefully. “I thought the militia was coming to arrest you. Next time I’ll learn the language.”

  “I figured you to be a better judge of character, Phil. Trin’s a drunk, with delusions of grandeur.”

  Broker heard LaPorte stand up. Dust off his pants. After a moment, LaPorte said softly, “Trin makes sense. And I can understand you blundering in here and him taking advantage of you. But the girl still doesn’t fit. We leaned on her hard and she didn’t even peep.”

  Broker sat, head bowed. Silent.

  “It’s ironic,” mused LaPorte. “But my being here has saved you and the Pryce kid.” He paused. “He was going to cut your throat, Phil.”

  Another cigarette was placed between Broker’s lips. And lit. “Give you some advice. Don’t piss Bevode off. He’s got the idea you’re trying to wipe out his family.”

  LaPorte’s footsteps faded in the sand. And Broker puffed on the cigarette and tried not to think of last smokes and firing squads. LaPorte was just toying with him. He and Nina had witnessed Lola’s murder. He wondered why Trin hadn’t tried to cop a plea about Ray Pryce’s incriminating skeleton being in that hole. Maybe he didn’t believe it.

  The sun gradually changed on Broker’s skin. He could hear the shadows stretch longer. Fatigue took priority over waiting. He slept on a sand pillow.

  Then the moment came and the blindfold was ripped off. Broker’s eyes exploded, almost blinded by the indifferent glory of the sunset. He saw…

  Bevode Fret. Powerful, rested, smiling.

  Bevode cracked his whip and the rational energy of Dachau and the homespun industry of the Old South convened on a deserted beach in central Vietnam.

  74

  THEY WERE REUNITED WITH TRIN AT THE PIT. TRIN’S hands were not tied. LaPorte gave them a little pep talk. “Right now I own this beach,” he said. “I can grant absolution. You can still get out of this.” LaPorte walked away.

  Two of the Europeans untied Nina and Broker. The second that Broker’s hands were free they flew like springs to Trin’s throat.

  Blue Shirt and two of his comrades jumped in and pried them apart. Blue Shirt explained patiently. “Work together and you live. Keep this up and we shoot the girl. More work for you two.”

  He threw them three shovels, a net sack full of water in plastic liter bottles, a pack of Gauloises, and a book of matches.

  “Arbeit macht frei,” he said without irony.

  Bevode had not returned Nina’s jeans. Her bare shanks were streaked
with sand, dried blood, and mosquito bites. Bevode came for a visit and slowly dragged his coiled whip up the front of her body, raising her dirty T-shirt, ending with the harsh braid distorting her cheek. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Before the sun comes up you’ll beg me for it.”

  Nina’s face tightened and found a sticking point. She had dispensed with shaking and was now composed. She now had something to measure the rest of her life against.

  “You’ll understand,” said Bevode, “if we stay back aways in case it’s rigged to blow.” He walked away.

  They stood alone in the escaping light, blinking, massaging their wrists, painfully shuffling their feet to get the circulation going. Trin’s hands shook as he tore open the cigarettes. He held the pack to Broker, who craved one. Broker curled his lip. With trembling fingers Trin manipulated the matches and lit a Gauloise. His dark eyes burned with a disturbing fix in the twilight. He stooped, picked up the shovels and handed one to Broker, then to Nina.

  “I told them it might be set with explosives,” he said under his breath.

  “Fuck you,” said Broker.

  “If we dig and load it and last till dawn, we live,” said Trin. “It’s that simple.”

  “Cyrus tell you that.” Broker spat contemptuously.

  “I’m telling you that,” he countered, grandiose to the end. And he smelled of dementia, sweat, exhaustion, garlic and onions, and sour, leftover alcohol. But strangely not of fear. With psychotic energy, he tore into the sand with his shovel.

  “You wanted it for yourself,” Broker accused. “You were going to kill us all—Cyrus, her, me. Then you could take the boat. But Cyrus foxed you.”

  Nina grimaced. Her eyes tightened. Broker wanted to touch her face. He’d never see her again in the light.

  Not much light left.

  “Nobody begs,” she said in a barren implacable voice. She set her mouth. Okay, she had her epitaph to go out on. But it sounded like fatalism. Surrender. Broker wondered what she was thinking right now, standing nine or ten feet over her father’s bones. She drove her shovel into the sand. Maybe she had to see if they were really there.