by Meg Gardiner
“You were a paratrooper?”
“Yes. I got this at jump school, Fort Benning.”
I looked at him anew: Not only had he served in the army, he had served in the U.S. Army Airborne.
“You are surprised?” he said.
“No. You used to drop out of the night sky to bring fire on your enemies. Now you cloister yourself behind these walls. Either way, you’re quiet and evasive.”
Below the scar, his mouth bent into a smile. “It isn’t your face. Your walk, perhaps. That long stride, though yours has less swagger.” He surveyed me. “Your eyes, I think. You Delaneys are like heat-seeking missiles. Once you launch, you can’t be called off.”
“Dad’s in trouble,” I said.
He adjusted his robes. “Phil has always been driven as much by desire as by duty. And desire is the cause of all suffering.”
Karma 101. I shoved my hands in my pockets, trying to maintain a semblance of Buddhist patience. Ridding oneself of desire, that’s the trick to reaching nirvana. Tough when the down-ticker was down to the dregs.
“Your father walks his own path, and now you’re walking after him. If you’re going to do that, remember—life is like a narrow bridge. The most important thing is not to be afraid.”
“Is that a Buddhist tenet?”
“Jewish. A saying of Rabbi Nachman. The point is, let go of your fear. Cross the bridge. Your father will be all right.”
“That’s easy for you to say. When you were falling, you had on a parachute.”
Exhaustion and heat and emotion rolled over me like a wave, dropping me into a trough. I rubbed my fingers across my forehead. “This is about Rio Sanger.”
“I had no doubt. She’s a feeder.”
“What do you mean?”
“People come to her seeking pleasure. They want. They long to take, to get, to wallow in desire. But in the end they surrender to her, flesh and spirit. They’re sucked empty.” Something—sadness or disgust—crossed his face. “Outside these walls, you can get almost anything. Rio Sanger knew that, and spent some time doing business here. She excelled in trafficking women and girls to the West for prostitution.”
“Girls?” I said.
“Country girls, Thai, Lao, Burmese . . . some, the ones most pleasing to the western eye, she would send abroad.” He took off his glasses and cleaned them on the hem of his robe. “Exporting them like cheap shoes.”
“She sent these girls to the U.S.?”
“Some. That’s where she now works, I believe.”
Import-export. That involved Immigration and Customs Enforcement. I wondered about Boyd Davies. Did Rio use him to help her slip trafficked girls past the authorities and into the U.S.?
He put his glasses back on. “Of course, Rio has been savvy about peddling the evidence of her perversions to those who can use it to their own ends. Intelligence agencies, organized crime, those seeking revenge. She feeds herself, she feeds her son, on hatred, and she feeds the cycle of suffering.” He glanced at me. “This is about the blood feud.”
I stopped. “What blood feud?”
He turned, eyes remote. “If Rio Sanger has done something to your father, it is because she is engaged in revenge. She seeks to punish your family for something done to hers.”
Tim North had implied the same thing. “The death of Hank Sanger?”
“The blood feud calls on you to kill some of your enemy’s people in revenge for past injuries. It doesn’t matter who. The feud is eternal. What matters is the wheel of vengeance.”
“You’re saying the Sangers won’t stop.”
“No.”
He began strolling again. My head was pounding. Rio and Christian already had Dad. What else did they want? What would be worse?
“Jakarta Rivera,” I said. “Did you work with her and my father?”
“Do you know who she is?” he said.
I frowned. “Yes. She’s the reason I’m here. What I’ve never understood is why she drew me into this . . . nether-world she inhabits.”
“You never know whether she’s endangering or protecting you.”
“Exactly.”
“Miss Rivera is expert at playing both sides in a game. But remember, most motives are not Byzantine. They’re deep and basic, and driven by desire.” We rounded a corner onto a plaza crowded with chedis, shrines, and tourists. He stopped. “If you wait at that temple, you will get what you have come for.”
“Thank you.”
He handed me the medallion. “When I asked if you knew who she was, I did not mean Jakarta Rivera.” He nodded at the image on it. “That woman.”
“The Virgin Mary.”
“This specific image is known as Maria Auxiliadora. Our Lady of Christian Help.”
“Sounds like I want her on my side.”
“Perhaps not. In Colombia she has another name.” His smile was only a hint, and beyond cynicism or irony. “Our Lady of the Assassins.”
15
At the top of the temple steps I turned and glanced back. The old monk was distant, walking back to his seclusion. I headed for the door, removing my shoes again and setting them on a rack.
“There you are.”
I looked around. Terry was climbing the steps. I raised my hands.
“No offense. But I need some space.”
“None taken.”
“What’s going on here?”
The crowd eddied around us, a mix of wilting tourists and devout locals. I gave the Aussie as cold and inquisitorial a look as I could muster.
She sighed. “Okay. Russell took off. I just thought . . . you’re another girl on her own, maybe we could join forces, seeing that we’re staying at the same place. Strength in numbers, all that?”
I tried to gauge whether she was on the level, and decided it didn’t matter. What was I going to do, make fun of her until she cried and ran away? I shrugged and walked into the temple.
And took a deep breath. Wow. I’d been expecting another big open space. Instead, filling the building—floor to ceiling, wall to wall—was a colossal golden statue.
“The Reclining Buddha,” Terry said.
This Buddha wasn’t like the jolly little guy who sat on my parents’ table. This Buddha lay on its side with one arm propped under his head. It was about a hundred fifty feet long and fifty feet tall. And gold, so gold that it seemed to throb with light.
The crowd was slowly processing around it. I joined in, feeling a hush come over me. This was like nothing I’d ever seen.
Smaller Buddhas were spaced along its length, surrounded by flowers and stippled with gold leaf that had been applied in postage-stamp amounts. Tourists snapped photos and lit incense. Thais stood praying, hands steepled in front of their faces. The schoolkids who’d been at the food stand came jostling in, mouths Day-Glo colors from their snow cones. The scent of incense hung thick in the air.
I strolled along the Buddha’s length, keeping my eyes open. The soles of its feet rose high above my head and were inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Along its spine a row of begging bowls was set out. Some westerners were walking along dropping coins into them. From the chirpy smiles on their faces, they regarded this like tossing pennies into a fountain for good luck: karma collection. I didn’t join them. You don’t treat religious rituals as a game. When you partake, you open yourself to a power beyond yourself.
Near the entrance stood a young man with a package in his hand, eyes on me.
I walked over and showed him the medallion. He handed me the package. It was the size of a brick, wrapped in brown paper, and weighed a couple of ounces.
“Kop khun ka,” I said. Thank you.
He left. I felt breath on my shoulder. Terry was standing behind me.
“I’ll contribute,” she said.
“What?”
“I’ll pay my share.” Dark excitement was in her eyes. “It must be really good stuff. Come on, I’ll pay top dollar.”
Oh, great. She thought it was drugs. “No. You’re way,
way off base.” Shaking my head, I pushed past the snow-cone kids and headed for the door.
The girl separated herself from among them with the speed of a knife slicing the air. She was the only one without food-color lips, about twelve years old with hair to her waist. Reflexively I tucked the package under my arm.
Her eyes lit and her bearing changed. The girlishness ablated to sinewy purpose. She seemed to uncoil like a whip. Silent, she flew at me.
Her hands were out, fingers rigid, reaching for the package. Without even seeming to jump, she was in midair and on me.
She clawed at my hand. “Give it up, bitch.”
Her voice was pure, trashy American. Her teeth were decayed. Though her frame was a child’s, her eyes were stained with age. She clung to me, arm around my neck, fingers grabbing for the package.
From beyond my field of vision a dark object came swinging. Terry smashed her in the side of the head with one of the begging bowls.
Coins flew. The bowl rang against the girl’s skull. Her eyes glazed but she held on. Terry grabbed a cluster of burning incense sticks and shoved them down the back of the girl’s shirt. Faster than a scorched bat, she let go of me and dropped to her knees, flailing at the back of her shirt.
I grabbed Terry’s sleeve. “Come on.”
We sprinted past horrified tourists and out of the temple. Terry veered off to retrieve her shoes. I snatched mine, but no way was I going to stop and put them back on. I jumped down the steps three at a time.
“Wait,” she called.
Glancing back, I saw her fumbling with her boots. Behind her, materializing from the shadows in the doorway, came the girl. Except it wasn’t a girl but a hobgoblin, something stunted and freakish. I saw an object in her hand, shining and sharp.
Just like back in Los Angeles, when the blonde attacked Tim.
“Run, Terry.”
I kept going. Twenty yards farther on, I looked back. Terry was sprinting, boots clenched in her hands, the goblin hard behind her.
I careened around a pack of Japanese tourists, feeling the heat of the concrete scorching my socks, and sped around a corner. I ran straight into a group of young monks. I stopped short. They adjusted their robes, startled.
I raised my hands. “Sorry.”
And had a better thought. Monks. Sanctuary. “Could you ...”
From down the way came a keening voice. The goblin was running at us, chasing Terry, wailing. She had a hand to her face. It hid her eyes and her age. The monks frowned and glanced at me askance. She yelled again, undoubtedly thief or pervert.
It didn’t take a genius to see how it looked: two scuzzy westerners fleeing from a singed, wailing child, me clutching a package that must be drugs. When I write Top Ten: Thailand, getting my ass kicked by irate holy men will not make the list. I ran.
Hard, dodging tourists, slaloming around chedis, rounding corners, and crossing a courtyard, heading deeper into the temple grounds with no idea where I was, running blind. Behind me I heard the goblin crying, and men sounding angry. I ducked at a corner and found myself in a courtyard with a long gallery of Buddhas and no place to hide. The monk mob would be approaching any moment.
I scanned the area for an escape. And, deep in my backpack, my new cell phone rang.
The hairs on the nape of my neck jumped up. I stopped, jammed my feet into my shoes, unzipped my backpack, and shoved the package inside. The phone continued ringing. I dug it out. Unless I’d just won a fabulous cruise to Bermuda, it could be only one person. I answered breathlessly.
“Ev? Finally. I have to tell—”
“Jesse, oh, my God.” Gripping the phone, I took off again.
“I can barely hear you. Where are you?”
I cut around a corner. “Bangkok.”
The silence on the other end was thicker than mere static. “Doing what?”
I heard feet beating behind me. Looking back past a family strolling along the Buddha gallery, I saw the goblin sprint into view. She knocked into the family’s little girl. The child slammed to the concrete, her bright orange flip-flops flying.
I stopped, turning to check the child, but her father barked and grabbed the goblin’s arm. I took off again.
“I’m in trouble. It’s . . .” Running around a corner, seeing another courtyard. “Dammit, how do I get out of here?”
“Where?”
“This temple. Wat Po.”
The silence this time was longer and angrier. But when he finally spoke, his voice was dead even.
“Are you by the Reclining Buddha?”
“What?”
“Big gold dude, lying on his side.”
“I don’t . . .” Angling around a corner, I came out onto the crowded plaza where I’d started. I had run in a circle. “Yes.”
“Go out the gate.”
I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at it. “What are you talking about?”
“A gate. In the wall, under an arch, there should be a gate out to the street, where the cabs and hawkers are. Phong Chat Road, Chan Chick, something.”
I saw it. “Chetuphon Road?”
“That’s it.”
The crowd was thick. I shot one more glance over my shoulder, seeing neither the freak nor Terry. I passed through the gate onto a busy street where buses belched along in traffic and trees struggled for air. Tuk-tuk drivers beckoned to me. I rushed to the nearest one and jumped in.
“I’m out.”
“Good. Keep going, and stay out of those tuk-tuk things. They’ll get trapped in traffic.”
Exhaling, I jumped out again. “What, then?”
“Run.”
I took off down the sidewalk. Heat radiated up through my feet. The sky was white, the sun beating on my back.
His voice had an edge. “Are you clear?”
“Maybe.” Another glance; still nobody behind me. “Are you online with a Bangkok map?”
Hesitation. “Good idea. Hang on—it’ll take me a minute. Keep running.”
“Which way?” More perplexed by the second, I said, “Jesse?”
“Give me a second to get the visual clear in my mind. Been a few years since I was in Bangkok.”
“You gotta be shitting me.”
“Left. Should be a market.”
I cut around a corner and pulled up, faced with a wall. “No.”
“Straight, then. West.”
Back on the street I ran toward an intersection. “Traffic lights.”
“Keep going.”
I stopped at the street corner, checked left for traffic, and—wrong. Everything was whizzing away from me on the left side of the road. Check right—buses, tuk-tuks, and four hundred motor scooters were coming like a rockslide. I looked back toward Wat Po. Deep in the distance, I saw Terry running.
And behind her, the goblin. Quick as teeth sinking into a prey animal, she leaped and brought Terry down.
I stood frozen. The goblin smacked Terry across the face, ripped off her backpack, and rifled through it. Terry struggled to get up. The goblin threw down the pack and kicked Terry once, twice, sadistically, driving her to the pavement.
“Oh, my God,” I said.
Pedestrians stopped, and a tuk-tuk driver yelled and started toward her. She dropped the pack, looked up, and saw me.
“Oh, no.”
“What’s wrong?” Jesse said.
She began walking toward me. Behind her Terry lay limp on the concrete. The pedestrians gingerly approached her. The goblin lit into a run, pointing at me.
From the north, I saw a second figure dashing across the street, darting between the buses and scooters.
“There’re two of them,” I said.
My light was still red, but I saw a break in the traffic and dashed out into the road. Taxis honked. A bus loomed, my sphincter tightened, and under a cascade of noise I reached the far side of the road.
“Where to now?” I said.
“West, toward the river.”
River? Fatigue was hitting ha
rd. “How far?”
“You can make it.”
I aimed myself down the street, working to keep up my pace. “Blackburn. What were you doing in Bangkok?”
“Where are you now?”
Fine, don’t tell me. “Heading”—I smelled it—“through a fish market.”
“Yeah,” he said, and with more certainty, “I knew there was a market. Keep going.”
Dried squid lay in crates on the sidewalk. The odor scorched my nose, a powerful sweet-salty mix. The squid were gray and desiccated, shiny, roadkill flat. Old folks stood around eating them on sticks. Jeeminy. Squidsicles.
Beyond the fish market I ran past tiny shops and stalls, sensing a faint whiff of water and a cooler patch of air.
“I think the river’s up ahead.”
With each step I grew more certain, and now between buildings I caught a broad shine from the water beyond, a pewter green glare. I described it to him.
“Chao Phraya River. You’re there.”
“Now what?”
“Get on a boat.”
Out of breath, I rushed out on the riverfront. The river was massive. About two hundred meters across, green as a bottle, shrieking with sunlight. Along its banks ran swank hotels and businesses and thick stands of trees. Traffic on the water was busy. Nearby, a cluster of boats bobbed alongside a wooden dock—hotel shuttles. They looked as ungainly as hippos.
I stared, dismayed. “These things? They’re tugboats. I might as well try to escape on the Jungle Cruise at Disneyland, and, Jesse, if I haven’t made it clear, people are chasing me.”
“No—the longtail boats. Look around; there’ll be a guy ready to dicker to give you a ride up the river.”
Past the hotel shuttles I saw them. A couple of boats edged up against the dock like gondolas at a Venice pier, they were thin, slick, and weirdly fast-looking. Behind me came the sound of feet tattooing the wood. I ran down the dock.
The first boat was loading a tourist group, German by the sound and strudel-fed look of them. I ran to the second boat, where a driver in a Pepsi T-shirt was lounging on the dock, smoking and chatting with a friend.
“Get me out of here,” I called.
He roused himself and said something in Thai. I had no time to find my phrase book. No time to dicker. From my pocket I dug a wad of baht. I shoved it in his hand and ran to the boat. Heard him calling me, saw him sneering at the money and shaking his head. I pulled out another, bigger wad of baht and practically threw it at him. He nodded. I jumped aboard. The boat rocked precipitously, and I grabbed one of the slat seats to steady myself. With my computer zipped in my backpack, falling into this deep water would be disastrous.
