Final Answers

by Greg Dinallo

  “No. Come on. Say it. It’s my what?”

  “Your way of keeping your distance.”

  “God, you sound just like this shrink I used to see. Is there a point to all this?”

  “Yes, I think that’s what I was doing before.”

  “Before?”

  “When I lashed out. I—”

  “Forget it. I was frightened. I wanted to be held. Don’t make it into something else.”

  “I’m not. I wanted to be held too.”

  She blinks and tilts her head curiously.

  “I wanted someone next to me. I mean . . .” I pause. There’ll be no denying my feelings once I say it. “What I’m trying to say is, I wanted you next to me.”

  Her eyes soften and find mine.

  “I’m sorry I popped off. It’s only been a couple of months since Nance was killed. I guess . . . I guess, I’ve been feeling kind of guilty.”

  “I’ve been dealing with that for a long time too,” she says softly.

  “Made any progress?”

  “Some.”

  Our eyes meet. No words are necessary. This is a special moment—surprising, illuminating, and fleeting—like a flash of light.

  “So, Cal,” Kate finally says with a little smile, “What do you want to do?”

  “You mean other than packing it in?”

  “I mean about getting into Laos.”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea where to start.”

  “Anything but what you usually do would be fine.”

  “Which is?”

  “Calculate the odds.”

  “I’d be on the next flight to L.A. if I did that. This guy Timothy. You said he was your guide?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He ever take you into Laos?”

  “Sure. Several times.”

  “Maybe he’s got more to sell than firepower.”

  32

  There are no more decisions to make. No more angles to figure. Our plan of action is set: Firepower. Laos. Pepsi-Cola.

  Kate and I waste no time in making preparations. We spend the rest of the day arranging to rent a small boat at a nearby marina and shopping at Mah Boon Krong, one of the city’s immense gallerias. Other than Kate’s quick excursion to the street market the other morning, it’s the first chance we’ve had to replace clothing, personal items, and luggage. When it comes to the latter, we bypass the ubiquitous designer knockoffs in favor of nylon gym bags. We also pick up a copy of the Bangkok Post, the city’s English-language newspaper. It wasn’t the headline about the presidential election that got my attention but a story at the bottom of the front page.

  AJACIER BELIEVED MISSING.

  Businessman Phillipe Ajacier left his Thonburi Studio office several days ago and hasn’t been heard from since. Associates became alarmed when he failed to attend a screening last night. A studio spokesman said Mr. Ajacier had been in Vientiane on business but was expected back in Bangkok. Authorities in both cities have been notified but have no clues as to his whereabouts. The spokesman said Ajacier is a respected and well-liked member of the Bangkok film community without an enemy in the world.

  Tickner was right. Chen Dai’s cleaning house. It sure took the fun out of shopping. We returned to the hotel and crashed. As Kate noted, my access to high-tech toys has been drastically reduced. I’m down to a digital wristwatch. I set the alarm for 6 A.M. We face a forty-mile river journey and I want to get an early start.

  Kate’s in the shower.

  I’m dressing, thoroughly enjoying the feel and smell of fresh cotton as I cross to the window, buttoning a brand-new shirt.

  The sun is edging above the horizon, sending long rays streaking between the buildings. They illuminate a minivan that pulls to a stop about a half block away. Two men, who appear to be Asians, get out. One ambles down an alley next to the hotel. The other crosses to a flower shop across the street. He leans in the doorway, casually smoking a cigarette. A worker waiting for the boss to open up, I assume. I’m about to leave the window when he reaches into his jacket, brings his hand to his mouth, and starts talking. Is he DEA? Bangkok Metro Police? One of Chen Dai’s thugs? After a brief exchange, he puts the walkie-talkie away and glances up at the hotel. His face is bearded and looks familiar. I’m trying to place it when Kate emerges from the bathroom. She’s fully dressed, her wet hair hooked behind her ears, her movements brisk and upbeat.

  “Hope you’re wearing your running shoes,” I prompt.

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  I nod grimly, and wave her over to the window. “The guy in the doorway—”

  “What about him?”

  “Last time I saw him he was in a speedboat with a machine gun.”

  We hurriedly pack our things in the gym bags and cross to the door. I open it slowly, peering into the corridor. It seems clear except for a maid’s cart and some piles of laundry. We slip from the room, pausing at the elevator where a sign points the way to a fire exit. The door opens onto an exterior staircase. We clamber down four flights to a courtyard crisscrossed with clotheslines and make our way between the buildings in search of the lot where we parked the motor scooter, then turn a corner, stumbling onto it.

  The other guy from the van is leaning against a car reading a newspaper. I grab Kate’s hand and pull her back. It’s too late. He tosses the paper aside and charges in our direction, yapping excitedly into his walkie-talkie.

  Kate and I do an about-face and take off down an alley. The man pursues, exchanging the walkie-talkie for a pistol on the run. Any doubts I’ve had about still being a threat have just been removed. We come onto a street on the other side of the hotel. It’s congested with traffic and hordes of pedestrians who spill from the narrow sidewalks. We plunge into the fast-moving crowd, glancing back anxiously as we go. The gunman pops out of the alley, his head darting left and right like a pigeon’s in search of us. I’m looking frantically for a taxi. Several approach and pass. They’re all occupied.

  “Over there!” Kate suddenly exclaims, as one of them pulls to a stop down the street to discharge a passenger. We’re dashing toward the taxi when the other gunman, the one with the beard, rounds a corner up ahead. He spots us and starts knifing his way through the crowd. Kate yanks open the door and dives into the backseat of the taxi.

  “No bargaining,” I exclaim as I jump in after her and slam the door.

  A rapid exchange in Thai and we’re moving. Really moving. Kate must’ve imparted our sense of urgency, because the driver maneuvers through traffic with obsessive fervor and speed, leaving the frustrated gunman behind. Our progress is short-lived. Despite the overpasses at most of the main intersections that supposedly reduce gridlock, it takes over an hour to get to the waterfront.

  The boat we rented is waiting at the dock as promised. It’s a twenty-foot aluminum runabout with a windshield, folding canvas top, and small inboard.

  Within minutes, we’re settled in the cockpit and shoving off into the river. I take the wheel and ease the throttle forward. The boat picks up speed, gliding through the water effortlessly, the motor giving off a soothing throb rather than the whine I anticipated. A sense of calm washes over me. I’m finally back in control. No longer at the mercy of frenetic cab drivers, tuk-tuk operators, and bus drivers who seem to have declared open season on motor scooters.

  We wind our way north, beneath the Phra Pinklao Bridge, past the riverfront communities of Bang Phat and Sri Yan, and soon leave the city behind for narrow tributaries lined with villages built on stilts high above the river.

  Children bathe and brush their teeth in the gray-brown water, waving to a postman who rows past making his rounds. Straw-hatted vendors in sampans sell sweetcakes, vegetables, fruits, and fish to those who hail them.

  Kate pulls her camera from her handbag and starts taking snap-shots of them. One vendor, equipped with a wok, makes us a breakfast of chopped peppers, pork, and eggs, all scrambled together and served in cardboard cones. Kate dispenses with the pictu
re-taking and starts eating with gusto.

  I hesitate. I eat pizza with a knife and fork, cut my waffles on the grid lines.

  “Come on, it’s delicious,” she says, scooping some up with her fingers and feeding it to me.

  I’ve been here only four days, but I’m light-years away from Los Angeles. It’s almost as if life there never existed. I feel distant and out of touch, and strangely attached to this woman whom I hardly know, who has captured me with her gutsy determination and spunk.

  “Mind if I ask you something, Kate?”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “Sort of, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Is there someone? I mean, special, a person you’re with?”

  “You mean a lover,” she declares.

  I nod.

  “No.”

  “Never? Not in all these years?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But not now.”

  “Not for a long time.”

  “You get hurt?”

  “The other way round. I was the one who screwed it up. Just couldn’t handle it. So I got out. Not very gracefully, I might add. I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved again until I could. Of course by then it’ll be too late.”

  “Why? What’s the problem?”

  “Gravity,” she replies, with a hearty laugh. “Now why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”

  “Which is?”

  “What my friends are always asking me.” She takes on a haughty posture and tone, mimicking a gossiper, and says, “I don’t mean to be nosy, Kate, but whatever do you do for sex?”

  “Well, now that you mention it . . .”

  “Hard work, vigorous exercise, and a vivid imagination.”

  “I’ll have to try it.”

  She’s laughing again when the distant buzz of a high-speed propeller rises swiftly behind us.

  I glance back over my shoulder to see a sharply veed prow cutting through the water, setting smaller boats to bouncing like corks. It conjures up visions of blue-orange tracers, of Surigao lurching as the bullets impacted, of Kate and I being blasted by the machine gunner and left to rot in the jungle.

  The boat is closing fast, very fast.

  I wall the throttle and quickly angle the runabout through a sharp bend up ahead. Once out of sight of the pursuing boat, I veer into the nearest khlong, pulling deep into the jungle overgrowth. I cut the engine and instinctively snap off some branches from surrounding trees, draping them over the windshield and cockpit.

  The harsh buzz of the engine rises again as the boat rounds the bend. It’s at maximum pitch when the scream of a siren drowns it out. I peer through the leafy camouflage to see a small cabin cruiser streaking past. A red cross is painted boldly on its side.

  “Kate? Kate, we’re okay. It’s an ambulance.”

  She emerges from the foliage. “An ambulance?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She smiles, relieved, and grabs on to me to keep from falling as the boat lurches in the ambulance’s wake.

  We resume our journey upriver, fighting the strong current that slows our progress, and finally arrive at a small marina. It’s the local version of the bustling minimalls in the San Fernando Valley, replete with food markets, clothing boutiques, a dockside gas station, and an infinite variety of small vessels tied up in the rows of slips.

  The ambulance is among them.

  On the dock, where a small crowd has gathered, two paramedics are caring for an elderly woman who has evidently been overcome by the heat.

  The marina is a major landmark, and from here the map becomes more detailed, the khlongs numbered, the route through them drawn with numerous arrows and notes. We refuel, then continue upriver, Kate counting the khlongs, marking them with a pen as we go.

  “The next one’s nine. We turn in there.”

  The khlong is twisting and narrow, the banks lined with thickets of banyan trees that march into the water. The jungle gradually closes over us. Soon, only narrow shafts of light find paths through the dense foliage. We follow the map scrupulously, checking and double-checking before making the transition from one khlong to the next, fearful of becoming lost in the maze of canals.

  Darkness falls and the temperature along with it.

  I’m chilled, less from the cold than the memories. I’d forgotten what night in the jungle was like: the absolute blackness, the scent of animals and flowers carried by the wind, the cacophony of buzzing, croaking, and chirping, which, after what seems like an eternity, is finally broken by the slowly rising drone of an electric generator.

  Soon, the glow of incandescent light beckons from within the overgrowth. It steadily intensifies until we emerge into a clearing where a cluster of small pavilions perch on stilts high above us. Like all the other dwellings we’ve seen on the river, it’s made of weathered teak and bamboo with a corrugated metal and thatch roof. This is the place. At least I think it is. It’s more than possible we missed a turn twenty miles back and are on the wrong khlong. We secure the boat and carry the gym bags up a long wooden staircase to a cantilevered deck.

  “Tim? Timothy?” Kate calls out as we cross toward the entrance. An Asian woman comes from the house, hurrying toward us. She’s barefoot, tiny, with long hair and a traditional printed sarong.

  “Akamahn? Miss Akamahn?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m Mrs. Ackerman,” Kate replies expectantly, breaking into Thai.

  The woman’s face lights up. A short exchange follows. Kate turns to me and says, “Her name’s Sakri. She says she’s Timothy’s wife.”

  “Of course. Who else would she be?” I joke, very relieved we aren’t lost.

  Sakri leads the way inside to a guest room. There’s a dim light in a paper shade overhead, a double mattress on the floor, a sofa, and little else.

  “So where’s Timothy?” Kate asks.

  “Timozy?” Sakri echoes in her thick accent.

  “Yes, is he here?”

  “Here. Oh, yes.”

  Kate smiles with relief. “Good. I can’t wait to see him.”

  Sakri shakes no. Another exchange in Thai follows. Sakri appears adamant, Kate exasperated and confused. “She says he’s here but he can’t see us now.”

  “Why not?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Is he asleep?” I ask, putting my hands against the side of my head.

  Sakri nods unconvincingly, then backs her way out the door and closes it.

  “This is weird,” Kate says uneasily.

  “Yes, I don’t get.”

  Kate’s exhausted. So am I. We decide to make the best of it and see what the morning brings. We’re settling in when we hear the strains of classical music. Vivaldi? Debussy? One of those guys. Nancy would know. Our curiosity gets the best of us. We slip from the room, following the music through the house to an open corridor that leads to a staircase. I pick up a scent. Sweet, and vaguely familiar. It’s been twenty-four years since I last came across it. It intensifies along with the music as we climb the steps to an enclosed pavilion. The door is partially open. I’m pretty sure I know what we’ll find as we push through it into a hexagon-shaped room.

  The ceiling beams soar gazebo-like to a central peak. The walls are lined with books, the floor covered with them. A smoky haze hangs in the air. And sitting cross-legged in a wicker peacock chair is, I assume, Timothy Roark.

  Kate nods, confirming it.

  Timothy’s arms rest limply at his side, head lolling against the back of the chair that frames it like a huge halo, eyelids at half-mast. He is small, rail-thin, and quite bald, with wire-frame eye-glasses, faded jeans, and a Bart Simpson T-shirt that proclaims Yo, Dude!

  After Vann Nath’s lecture about valor, I expected a long-haired, muscled wild man girdled with bandoliers. At the least, an expatriate Green Beret in jungle fatigues hunkered down amid his arsenal. Instead I’m in a library with Mr. Peepers, who’s armed with an insipid smile and an opium pipe.

&n
bsp; There’s not a single weapon in sight.

  33

  It’s morning.

  Uncomfortably hot and humid like it always is in the jungle.

  I’m awake, staring at the ceiling. The scent of opium still lingers in my nostrils. Last night, we left Timothy nodding in his chair and went to bed. I gave Kate the mattress and curled up on the sofa. Now, I’m getting angry again and wondering what I’m doing here when I hear the whisk of bare feet on the mats in the corridor, then a gentle knock on the door before it opens.

  Sakri appears, and says something to me in Thai.

  The only word I recognize is Timozy. I gesture she hang in there, then cross the room and shake Kate. “Kate? Kate! Come on, wake up.”

  Her eyes flutter open. “Hi,” she says sleepily, squinting at the brilliance, then she senses the tension and pushes up onto an elbow. “What? What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. Sakri’s trying to tell me something.”

  Kate twists around and questions her in Thai. “She says Timothy is waiting for us.”

  “Waiting for us? Where? Why?”

  Kate shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. She wants us to go with her.”

  We slept in our clothes, so it doesn’t take long to put ourselves together and follow Sakri from the house. She leads the way down the staircase and along a well-worn path through the jungle. Minutes later, we’re climbing a hill that rises above the overgrowth. A miniature gazebo perches atop the crest. As we get closer we realize there are dozens of carved wooden phalluses leaning against it. Red ones, white ones—pocket-sized to four feet long.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “A fertility shrine,” Kate explains. “They’re very common in Thailand.”

  “It looks like your buddy Timothy fried more than his brain.”

  We’re not sure what’s going on until Sakri ushers us around to the back of the shrine and down into a concrete bunker below. The air is thick with the pungent smell of gun oil and steel that makes the fillings in my teeth crackle. The space is about fifteen feet in diameter with a low ceiling and wooden floor. Daylight streams through encircling gun slits.