by Anne Heltzel
It’s perfect. Aubrey will think, He’s dead, I’m safe. Your mom will think, I don’t want to accept it but I have to now. Lena will think, Trust Charlie to fake a big, brilliant suicide this way. You don’t use the boning knife from your mother’s kitchen. You buy another one especially for the project, with cash. You blow a fortune on one with a mother-of-pearl handle. It feels better that way, ceremonial. You hate yourself for having to inject Lidocaine first; but then you do and it’s over much more quickly and easily than you expected. You sterilize with peroxide, add three thick layers of gauze, and top it off with bandages. Still, your thigh throbs when you’re finished.
Now you disappear, high in the sky, jumping out of a plane no one knows you knew how to fly, using a parachute no one knows you knew how to use. You have so many secrets. It wouldn’t have worked otherwise.
You watch the plane explode just as it should, right on time. The bomb was the easy part; any fool could have made it. You’re no fool.
Later, you plant the blazer you’ve bloodied and charred.
The note is just in case the bloody jacket isn’t enough. Everyone needs to give up on you. Everyone but Lena. Aubrey will come for what’s hers whether she thinks you’re dead or alive.
24
Aubrey
We don’t stay.
We’ve been through too much to sit around, docile as sheep. This time I’m the one who speaks up. Because Lena, she’s immobilized. Something peculiar passed over her face when Dana was talking, and she’s been silent ever since. Dana’s just left us with strict instructions not to move, not to go anywhere. Her words were chilling. So Charlie is alive, after all. He’s alive and wanted to disappear—and it means he crashed a plane and spilled his own blood in order to do so.
I’m afraid of what this means for me.
In the last weeks, when we talked, Charlie seemed scattered. He got dates and other factual things wrong. But it was all trivial. He thought I liked brussels sprouts, he remembered a pink dress I never owned. After I met Lena, I assumed he was just getting the two of us confused. But if he faked his death, he’s not just a liar, he’s unhinged. With a bunch of evidence that could ruin me. Just like that, all the old fear I felt when he was blackmailing me before his disappearance is back. I almost sob from the weight of it.
“What are you thinking?” I ask Lena. She’s biting on her thumbnail, a habit that seems to have developed in full force just after Kerala, which is about when she started becoming visibly anxious. She shakes her head and remains silent. It’s unlike her to say nothing. Something’s seriously off. All around us, the ladyboys in the room are pulling on slinky dresses, spritzing on perfume, decorating their faces, bedazzling their long nails. Generally, they are paying no attention to us at all as they ready themselves for work. Dana’s pretty much the only one who’s already left, our passports in hand.
“We shouldn’t have given them to her,” I tell Lena, pulling myself to my feet. Suddenly I’m terrified and starving, and I nearly pass out from nerves and low blood sugar.
“What?” Lena asks distractedly, her brow furrowed.
“The passports. That was stupid. After what happened in Kerala . . .”
“She’s not Anand,” Lena points out, getting to her feet. “And she needs them for our flights.”
“Flights she’s getting a ‘special deal’ on,” I say. “We need to get them back, Lena. We barely know her.”
“She’s Charlie’s brother,” Lena says, then snorts when she catches herself. “Sister. Was Charlie’s brother? God, that sounded weird.” I’m barely listening to her. I’m already moving toward the door, every nerve end in my body firing away. “Aubrey, we’re probably better off here,” Lena insists. “What if we can’t get back in, or miss her somehow?”
“That’s why we’re going back to the bar,” I explain. She’s being oddly dense for someone who’s usually so streetwise. “We’re going to sit there and watch her and make sure she doesn’t leave our sight until we get those passports back, along with our plane tickets.”
“What about finding a hostel?” Lena asks. I’m halfway out the door but for some reason the question sends a searing pain through my temples and into my skull. I whirl around.
“Why are you being weird?” I demand. “Dana was being weird. You’re being weird. Who cares about a hostel? I’m pretty sure we’re both past placing that high on our list of concerns for the evening. What’s your deal?” Lena avoids my eyes. Tugging at her black T-shirt, she follows me.
“I’m probably just being insane,” she starts, skipping a little to match my stride. I’m the taller of the two of us, and although I usually match her pace, I’m tired of being courteous all the time. I just want to find Dana again, see our passports in her hand, figure out what it is she wasn’t telling us, because all of a sudden it’s feeling pretty important. We’re missing a crucial piece of the puzzle, and Charlie’s nearby. That’s part of it: I half wonder if Charlie will get back in touch with Dana.
“There is no part of this that isn’t insane,” I inform her. “But I think we need to be open with each other.” I hesitate before deciding whether to finish my thought. Then I go for it; Lena and I have only each other in this whole crazy mess. “Just tell me what’s on your mind. We need to have each other’s backs. There’s a chance I’ll even have something useful to add,” I say wryly. I quicken my pace and Lena hurries to catch up, and for a few seconds it feels like role reversal. It’s the first time on this trip that I’ve felt in charge. I’m filled with an unfamiliar surge of confidence as I retrace our path to the bar. I’m not expecting what Lena says next. When she speaks up, it nearly knocks the wind from my lungs.
“I have the letter with me here,” she tells me. “I keep reading it and rereading it.” I stop, disbelieving.
“The letter,” I repeat. “The suicide letter?”
“Yeah,” Lena says. She looks at the fruit stall beside me, the beer vendor to our left, the smog-sodden sky. Anything but my eyes.
“Why didn’t you show me?” I ask. Still, I resume my pace. I won’t show her how this latest betrayal hurts me, but it does. It sends a pain through my heart so sharp that I wonder how, in such a short time, I could have come to rely on someone so much.
“Mostly, I didn’t want you to have to see it,” Lena says. “But I don’t know. I guess part of me wanted to keep it private. I know it’s just as much yours, though. You can see it now if you want.”
“It belongs to his mother,” I point out. “And I don’t want to see it. I don’t need to anymore.” Lena is quiet. “Look, there’s no room in this for us not to be on the same side,” I say. “It’s okay. I get it. I understand why you think Charlie was more yours than mine. I just wish you would have trusted me with it. And I wish you weren’t still wanting to keep any part of him close. Mostly because I can’t understand why you’d still want to.”
“I don’t want to,” Lena says quickly. “I don’t think I do. I did. It’s different now, though. I just . . . I don’t know. But there’s something in the letter that he says. He says ‘When I’m gone’ and ‘death takes a long time to orchestrate.’ But he never actually says he’s going to kill himself. Not verbatim.”
“Right,” I tell her. “It was a setup. He disappeared.”
“But why did he disappear?” Lena presses on. “Why was it important to vanish?” The bar is twenty or thirty yards away now. It’s late Saturday afternoon, and because it’s open air I can see the crowd that’s begun to form within. It looks like a healthy mix of tourists and locals. My heart is in my throat; part of me wonders if Dana will be there at all. Part of me wonders if all this is a trap. Charlie feels so close; Dana’s story was so bizarre.
“You’re still thinking this was a setup?” I ask abruptly.
“I think maybe he never meant to disappear for long,” Lena responds. “I think he meant for us to find him.”
“How is that possible?” I mutter. I push through the entrance to the bar and shoulder through th
e crowd of people. It’s early but the ladyboys are already moving sensually to the rhythms of Lady Gaga and Rihanna. “We tracked down all these people ourselves.” Lena’s jaw clenches, but she doesn’t say anything. We’re both beginning to realize that anything is possible. But the thought that this is all some sort of master plan to . . . what? Confront us both? Make us fight over him to feed his already overstuffed ego? Seems nuts.
“I don’t know,” Lena says quietly. “But remember the music lyrics in the suicide note? What if it’s some sort of message to us? I can’t figure it out. The eight-eighteen has to mean something. Maybe you should take a look too.”
“I don’t want to see the letter,” I repeat. “Keep it. I can’t analyze or wonder anymore. I just want to get our passports back and go home.” It occurs to me that “home” means returning to a life without surprises, save whether I’ll get along with my new college roommate and whether I’ll like my courses. Suddenly I feel very old and as if a chasm has opened up between me and the people who will soon be a part of my life but who haven’t shared this experience with me. It’s as though, in this one week, my identity has shifted, toppled, and rebuilt itself into something that makes me different from everyone I know—everyone who’s not Lena, anyway. I wonder if I can ever go back and be happy the same way I was. The thought of the preprofessional studies program I’m enrolled in—with its safe career trajectory and solid job prospects and predictable curriculum—makes me feel like I’m looking backwards and forward on someone else’s life. Not mine. The life I had, it seems, no longer belongs to me at all.
We have to go back. But I’ll never go back to the way things were.
“But eight-eighteen—August eighteenth—is tomorrow, Aubrey,” Lena reminds me. “What if that moment he referenced—the shoes at eight-eighteen—means something? In that conversation, he kept saying, ‘The woman dies.’ Why would he have referenced that particular moment if he was talking about his own death?”
What if it means something?
Her words echo in my ears a million times over, but I don’t bother to respond. Part of me wants to chalk this all up to the delusions of a heartbroken girl, but I know by now it’s more than that. If it means something, we’ll know soon enough. Tomorrow is coming for us; and for once, I feel brave enough to meet it head-on.
We return to the dark wooden bar where we spoke to the barback this morning. Now, at nearly four p.m., it’s lined with patrons. It’s hard for us to push close enough to get anyone’s attention. An unmistakable wave of relief overcomes me as I spot Dana’s lithe form in the far recesses of the bar, talking to a pretty Thai girl with long dark hair, high cheekbones, and dramatic eyes. They’re near a door that seems to lead into a kitchen or washroom. Dana glances over, sees us, and moves toward us. The other girl disappears hurriedly through the door to the other room.
“I told you to stay put,” she says, her brow creased. She looks over her shoulder, grabs me by the wrist, and yanks me toward a small table that’s set off from the adjoining bar. Lena trails behind us.
“We came for our passports,” I say. “We’ll handle everything ourselves.”
“I’m getting you on a flight tomorrow,” Dana says. “It’s the earliest I could get—tonight’s booked full. I can’t talk long or I’ll get in trouble.” She turns, craning her neck to look at the bar behind us. “It’s routing through Boston, then on to Chicago. I know a guy who works for the airlines. He’s going to pull his discount.”
“We’ll take care of it,” I repeat while Lena watches us.
“I already handed off your information,” Dana says. “I have your passports here—I just made copies—but I guess I can call to see whether he’s already made the booking.”
“Why are you being so nice to us?” I ask.
“I told you, you seem nice. I’m trying to help. I’d rather not see you get screwed over again by my brother. Besides, you’re giving me that ring. It’s not like I’m giving you a freebie. My act’s about to start. So if you’d like to talk more, we can do it tonight. Here are your passports.” She fishes around in the small sequined clutch she’s carrying and produces them. I grab them and she stands up to go. Lena glances down at the sapphire band she’s promised Dana in exchange for the tickets. She twirls it once, twice around her middle finger, her mouth turned down.
“Cancel the flight,” Lena says suddenly. “I think I’d like to stick around Bangkok for a while.” I stare at her, astonished.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’d like to hang out around here,” she repeats, meeting Dana’s eyes. “There’s no reason to run off just because Charlie’s nearby. Why let him dictate what we’re going to do?” I start to protest but she jabs me hard with her heel under the table.
“No.” Dana shakes her head and sits back down. “No. You have to get on that plane tomorrow.”
“Why?” Lena asks, and now I know what she’s doing: she’s provoking Dana in order to get more information.
“You just do. It’s safer that way.”
“I feel perfectly safe right here,” Lena says breezily. “I’m not afraid of Charlie.”
“You should be.” Dana’s voice is pointed.
“I don’t think so,” Lena remarks. “I’ll just find a hostel—”
“He’s planning to kill you.” The revelation comes with a force too overwhelming to absorb. Even Lena looks shocked. “There. You wanted to know? Charlie was going to murder you. All along, he was planning it. As of ten days ago, he still is.”
“What are you talking about?” Lena’s voice sounds muddy, and there’s a rushing noise in my ears.
“I thought he was crazy. I thought he was just talking up a fantasy, you know, the way he always did—saying stuff he didn’t believe in. He kept saying he was going to lead you two here, ‘like lambs to the slaughter.’ And that he was going to kill one and make the other suffer. He said one of you is branded. He didn’t want to pull the trigger himself. He was planning to hire someone. So you needed to be branded. Like I said, I didn’t believe him, thought it was all some elaborate game. Then you two show up, lured here by Charlie like he said you’d be. And then this.” She grabs Lena’s wrist, turning it over so we can all see the crudely etched lamb tattoo. “You’re branded. ‘Like lambs to the slaughter.’ He wasn’t making any of it up. If you stay here, you’ll die.” Lena’s face is bright red, as if she’s angry; but I can see that she’s trembling from fear. “Charlie said,” Dana continues, standing up and poised to leave, “that he had too many selves. That he had to kill one off, to simplify things. And that killing one off meant killing it entirely. Don’t you get it?” Her voice is animated, tense. “He couldn’t handle it anymore. In order to simplify his life, he has to kill one of you. Maybe then he’ll reappear. He kept quoting something to me, something from a book he read. The Lazarus Project. And showing me this crazy music video.” Lena pales at this. “You know what I think?” Dana asks. “I think he plans to rise again like Lazarus. With a clean new life. Once you’re dead.” She stares at Lena as she says it, and Lena blinks.
“The music video,” Lena says. “Can I see it?”
Dana shrugs, then pulls out her phone and accesses a video on YouTube. Lena stares at the screen, transfixed.
“Here’s the part he kept showing me,” Dana says, scrolling through the video. “Around eight-eighteen. Here.” I look over Lena’s shoulder now. An image of shoes—empty but for rose petals fluttering from above—fills the screen. “He said for him, it’s about death. The death of a woman who’s been walking straight into it all along.” Then Dana pockets her phone and delivers the final punch. “I’m only trying to help you. I have no idea where Charlie is right now. He could be in this bar, he could be down the street. But one thing I do know: If you don’t leave Bangkok as soon as possible, Lena is going to die.”
25
Charlie
You need to take extra measures to ensure the plan goes smoothly. You need to dot ev
ery i, cover every base. For a while, you aren’t sure it will work. You hold your breath, watching them from afar. That part’s easy; you have access to their email accounts, their smart phones. What’s hard is that you’re losing patience. And you’re running out of money. There’s the money you owe Anand, and there’s money you owe Dana. You owe so much money. The thought of it makes your palms sweat. It makes your heart pound, because there’s no way out. Or maybe there is, but it’s narrow and risky.
You’ve got to pay Lena’s killer, too. You put a deposit upfront and the rest is due on execution. On execution, ha ha. It’s a private joke between you and Dana’s guy. Dana’s role, it’s just to get them where they belong. Dana will do it; she thinks you’ve got dirt on her. As long as she keeps thinking that, she’ll follow through. Dana will get them to the final destination on the transatlantic adventure you created for them. Everything they’ve done they think was their idea. But it was all you, lining up the dominoes. Sure, there were wildcards. You weren’t sure Anand could be trusted. There was the chance Lena wouldn’t find the letter. But that’s been part of the fun. Part of the game. Dana was the most reliable player. She’s good. The best con artist you ever met. She told you she could act, and she can. She’s the one who spun the story about your parents, to get Lena’s and Aubrey’s sympathy. It’s been fun watching it work. It was a brilliant touch, how Dana turned them away at first. It was her idea, telling them outright that you plan to kill one of them. And it’s worked. Every step of the way. The way Dana laughed when she told you about all of it from a noisy pay phone at her bar in Nana Plaza . . . it was like the best cacophony. Cacophony. Phony. Like Dana. A lipstick-slathered phony, everything about her.
Now they’re at the final stage, and you get to watch it unfold. The money you’ll deal with later. Sure you’re feeling heat, but they all know you’re good for it. They know you were stocking up to disappear, but they don’t think you’ll run with it. You’ve always paid your debts. You just need a little more time. You need to send out the ransom note to your parents: from Charlie—though they won’t know it—about Charlie. They’ll fork it over, a huge sum, anything to get you back. You’ll take the money and pay off your debts and kill your girlfriend, not necessarily in that order.
