Lost Goddess : A Novel (9781101554340)

by Knox, Tom

  “Soi Sick! No Soi Eight? You sure? Sure-sure?”

  The cabdriver’s smiling Thai face was a wry question.

  She repeated her answer: “Yes, Soi Six.”

  The taxi swerved right, down Soi Nana, the commercial sex district. Middle-aged Western and Japanese men sat with unfeasibly teenage girls outside bars pounding the Rolling Stones and AC/ DC into the twilit street. Female flesh exhibited itself everywhere, languid, brown, sheened and exposed. Painted toenails. Vivid lipstick. Girls from Isaan ate fried cockroaches and fried beetles and sweetened coconut rice with chunks of fresh mango.

  It was dark now, and the streets were bright. Julia saw Coyote Bars. Man4man Massage. Lolita Sauna. Bangcockney Pub.

  Pachara Suites. Right in the middle of the red-light district.

  “Here,” said Julia, the tension accelerating with her pulse. She alighted and tipped the taxi driver.

  Pachara Suites was a gleaming, thirty-story condominium, with elegant slate fountains and a wall-eyed man begging outside using a Yum Yum noodle jar as a cup. The man’s blind eye looked like a mung bean.

  Julia found the glossy lobby deserted—she heard, too audibly, the squelching of her sneaker soles as she walked to the faraway elevator. Eighteen floors above, and down another long, bright, empty hallway, she located the door. She knocked.

  Silence. An eyehole opened for a second, then occluded. Was someone behind the door? Checking her out? Or was this someone else? Was this the most absurd chase of a very wild goose?

  Julia knocked again.

  The eyehole shut. A latch was turned.

  Finally the door opened, just an inch: the door was secured with three chains. An oldish, intelligent face peered out. Julia recognized an aged version of the young smile in the Phnom Penh photo.

  It was Marcel Barnier.

  His wild liverish eyes looked at Julia. He was holding a long knife in his hand. But as he absorbed what he was seeing, he seemed to relax. The faint trace of a pout glistened on his wet lips. A gourmet’s air kiss. Desirous.

  “Fuck. Ah. You are Julia Kerrigan! The glamorous archaeologist? I Googled you. Saw your … photo. Yes. Yes, yes. I got your e-mails. Forgive me for not replying, but … Why the hell did the doorman let you through?”

  “Uh.”

  “Why? I told him not to. Was he not there?”

  “No.”

  “Fuck.” The face concealed behind the door swore twice, and sighed. “Fucking noodle head, Supashok. They shoulda kept the last doorman. Ai. Maybe he went for a pipi. OK…”

  Dropping the knife on a table to his side, he unlatched one chain, then the second, then the third. He opened the door and gazed at her creased jeans and jet-lagged face.

  “You understand that I am being very fucking careful. Come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Nervous, hopeful, quite terrified, she stepped inside.

  The apartment was in chaos. Cardboard boxes sat on the floor, full of books and paintings. Furniture was partly dismantled and stacked against the wall. Half-empty bottles of Johnnie Walker and completely empty bottles of Jacobs Creek Grenache Shiraz stood on tables and in corners next to copiously overfilled ashtrays.

  “I am moving. Yes. And yes, I am an alcoholic. For reasons I am sure you understand. To escape, to save my life. I used to escape through fucking liquor, now I have to escape for real.”

  He looked in Julia’s eyes.

  She nodded and said, “I think I know why.”

  “That’s good. That’s good-good. Save a lot of horseshit talking.”

  His French accent had been entirely erased and replaced by a kind of coarse, slangy, slightly bizarre Anglo-American-Oriental English; his breath smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and garlic. Presumably, decades of living out here, speaking the only Western language anyone understood, English, had beaten the Frenchness out of him.

  “You look stressed. Very charming, but stressed. Ah ah. We can have a fucking drink, no? The fridge will be the last thing I empty.” He laughed, angrily. “But so what—I like a drink, it keeps me cheerful. What is it they say about the French, a Frenchman is an Italian in a bad mood? Hah. Ein bier, meine freunde? I will have wine!”

  Julia said yes. Barnier laughed again and slipped into his kitchen and returned with a beer and a glass. He looked at her inquisitively as she sipped the Tiger beer.

  “You want to know everything I know. Yeah?”

  “Well. As I also said, um, I have some ideas of my own. I wanted to see if I was…” The beer was refreshingly cold. She drank. “See if I was right.”

  “The great mystery? Maybe we can inform each other, ma bichette. Trouble is, I do not know everything. You may know more than me.” Wariness and mischief and anxiety mixed in his gaze. “But maybe not. Maybe I know quite enough already. And someone ought to hear my story, before I escape.” He gestured at the boxes. He took a glass of red wine from somewhere and swallowed a huge gulp. He lit a cigarette and said, “So, ask me your questions.”

  “But. It needs time. And you seem, sorry, I mean—you must be very on edge. When are you going to go?”

  Barnier paused, and exhaled smoke, before he answered. He slurped once more at the wine and ogled Julia’s blond hair. His own hair was thin and brownish gray; his clothes were relaxed and youthful, though not in the embarrassing way of Ghislaine: just jeans and a gray T-shirt, stained with drops of red wine. Loafers. No socks. A suntan. A man keeping himself reasonably in shape apart from the alcohol. But the face was frightened and the lips were stained red with tannin.

  Then he said: “I’m going. Somewhere, very soon, where that witch of a killer, that krasue, won’t find me. I have read all the newspaper reports. I have read the shitty police e-mails, but not replied. I do not trust anyone. Fuck. ’Course I am on edge. She’s coming for me—here.”

  Julia said, “Do you know who she is? The killer?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  “Do you know why she is killing all these people?”

  “Revenge!” Barnier tapped ash, and stared at her with a sudden expression of deep and existential fear. He was scared. He was really and visibly scared. But then the bravado returned. “Yes, it is revenge—it is surely revenge—for the poor Khmer millions we helped to destroy. And I cannot blame them, you know? That is the poignancy. I cannot blame them. The fucking things we did, the Marxists, us, me, Danny the Red and the rest of us, all the reds now in socialist governments across Europe, we gave the Khmer Rouge succor, we told the world their lies, we were their useful idiots, maybe we fucking deserve to die. But if I am gonna die then I am gonna die happy. Do not go gentle into that good night, but rage, rage, and order some hookers and blow.” His eyes flicked around the room. “Come. You are right. If we want to talk, let us do it in a good place, somewhere safe, somewhere there are pretty girls. More pretty girls. And these are naked. We can have lady drink short time. You know you are not the first person to come and see me today. I am suddenly an attraction, a destination, a tourist honeypot.”

  “How?”

  “A girl from Cambodia. Chemda Tek. And her boyfriend, Jake … Jake something. A photographer. A Brit.” He belched smoke. Profanely. “They found me this morning. They, too, are frightened. They are also pursuing these mysteries. I told them to go away for a while ’cause I must pack, and I told ’em I would meet them in a bar this evening, a nice busy bar with lots of witnesses. It’s at Soi Cowboy.” He dropped his cigarette butt in his glass of wine. The cigarette whispered and died. “I have a feeling no woman would ever just walk into this bar alone, so we should be safe. C’mon, ’s go. Because staying here feels like sitting, waiting to die, a target.”

  “Who are they? These people, what do they want?”

  “I am not totally fucking sure. I was drunk when they told me. Hey, it was eleven a. m. Let them explain, non? Come, if we are to talk we might as well all do it together. Somewhere safe. This way, moumoune.”

  They took the long elevator ride to the grou
nd floor, then a short walk around the corner, then ten minutes down thrumming Sukhumvit Boulevard, with Barnier gazing down each junction as if he expected to be run over—or attacked—at every junction; and then they crossed the Asok walkways, whereupon they were immersed in another sex-district strip of the most garish neon, with go go bars and massage parlors and love hotels and small baby elephants carrying drunken Western boys on a stag weekend who threw hopeful leers at the harlots enticing them into Sheba’s and Suzie Wong.

  The bar they apparently wanted was called Baccara. It was luridly advertised in scarlet light, and inside it was dark and noisy and big and full of Japanese men staring at a central stage where maybe thirty or forty nubile girls were dancing in gauzy bras and equally transparent miniskirts.

  But then Julia realized the Japanese men in their sofas and armchairs were not staring at these girls but staring up. She followed the communal gaze. Above them was a glass ceiling, and on top of it about twenty more young girls danced languidly to Chinese pop music, naked apart from tartan schoolgirl skirts, wearing no underclothes at all.

  “Biggest no panty bar in the world!” Barnier’s laughter was like a vulgar heckle. “The Japs love it here, and the girls love them back. You know why? You wanna know what the girls call Japanese men? Mr. Four. They call Jap johns Mr. Four—”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “’Cause they pay four thousand baht for a fuck, they last just four minutes, and they are four centimeters long! Hah. Look, there’s our good friends. Let’s get some Tanquerays and tonic and talk. Corner left, nine o’clock.”

  Julia followed Barnier’s gesture and noticed a particular female figure sitting discreetly in the darkest corner, with her back to them. Her body language was stiff and uncomfortable; she seemed Asian, judging by the petiteness, the dark bare arms, dark long hair. Julia empathized with any discomfort the woman might be feeling: they were virtually the only two women in the bar who weren’t half-naked, or dancing, or serving drinks.

  The woman’s companion was a young white guy, tall, presumably Jake. Julia glanced back at the woman. Her profile, seen obliquely, was familiar in other ways.

  The shock of recognition was liquefying. This was no ordinary Asian woman. This was no coincidence.

  Julia swayed as the cliff edge of fear dropped around her.

  Barnier was gesturing to a smiling bar girl.

  “Nong? Hello? Sawadee? We go talk-talk with friend over there? Gin tonic. Bring three. Kapkap.” He pointed at the table, then turned to Julia. “Let’s go over.”

  “No. Stop.”

  Barnier didn’t hear her. Julia whispered again, urgently: “Stop!”

  She reached out a hand and pulled at the Frenchman. He was bemused.

  “Eh? What is it?”

  A pause. Julia hesitated. Maybe she was wrong? She wasn’t wrong. That long dark hair, the curve of the back, the profile.

  She was right. As she stood, immobile and silent with shock, Barnier shoved on and walked to the table and said, “Chemda, Jake! Look! I have brought yet another exciting new friend. I am such a fucking wanted man.”

  Jake rose and offered a hand and said hello to Julia. But Julia’s focus was still fixed on the face of the woman: Chemda Tek.

  Then Chemda Tek spoke.

  “Hello?”

  This was it. The final proof.

  She even had an American accent.

  Chemda Tek was the killer.

  32

  Jake watched this woman’s reaction with astonishment: the American woman, Julia, was refusing to sit down. She was muttering, half-shouting, she was frightened and gabbling and staring at Chemda.

  Finally she managed to say: “It’s her. It’s her.”

  Barnier turned to Julia.

  “What?”

  Julia pointed directly at Chemda.

  “Her. That’s her. That … thing. It’s her.”

  “That’s who? She’s who? What are you saying?”

  Jake listened, confounded.

  The American stammered: “That is … the same goddamn person I saw in Paris. The woman who killed the archivist. The curator. Who tried to kill me. That’s her, the killer—”

  Jake stood. “You fucking what?”

  Barnier was leaping away from the table, as if the bar stools had just been electrified. Chemda suddenly reached for Jake’s hand, her own hand damp and trembling. Trembling violently. Jake was standing and shouting.

  “How can you say this?”

  The Frenchman turned, shouting at the staff, demanding that they chuck Chemda out of the building and instantly fetch the police. Bar girls were gathering. Staring. And in the middle of the flashing lights and the thumping music Julia stood, still, her face awash; transfixed, appalled, terrified; Chemda gave the appearance, in the melee, of a little girl lost and bewildered.

  Jake gazed, motionless. What the fuck was happening?

  Even the pantyless schoolgirls were agitated, peering inquisitively down through the glass ceiling, trying to work out the reason for the hubbub. Several Japanese men were pointing, alarmed.

  Now Barnier ripped it all up, yelling at everyone.

  “Get that bitch out of here, nong! Papasan! Mamasan? Now! Get her out of here before she fucking knifes someone—”

  Chemda found her voice. It was uncharacteristically weak.

  “But…. but it’s not me! How can it be me? I have been in Cambodia. Jake, tell them!”

  But Jake was staring at Julia’s face, the pale, soft face of the young archaeologist, and it spoke a kind of truth. The woman really believed what she was saying; she really believed this outrageous accusation.

  Jake swallowed his next words. Momentarily, he was dumbfounded. Chemda flung his hand away.

  “You believe them, Jake?”

  “No, of course not!”

  “But you do. You do! I see it in your face!”

  “I don’t. Sorry. A moment. Only … Chemda—”

  But it was true, she was right, even though a few seconds’ consideration told him that the accusation was absurd, he had let the shadow of a doubt pass across his face: thinking of her odder behavior; inviting him to the Sovirom compound—

  His Khmer girlfriend was staring his way, with tears jeweling on her eyelashes. She was finally breaking, after all of this—she was falling, losing, unhinging.

  “Don’t ever speak to me—ever again—”

  Chemda pushed aside his protesting arms; she stepped down from the table and strode through the parting crowds, through the g-stringed dancers and the Taiwanese tourists and the trio of fat and chortling white businessmen just coming through the doorway curtains.

  The curtains rustled and closed. Chemda was gone. The bar returned to life. Lady drinks were fetched. Someone ordered short time. Once again, the clientele stared up at the glass ceiling, where the girls in plaid miniskirts and no underwear resumed their bored and languid shuffle.

  Jake was momentarily paralyzed by anger and guilt. Run after Chemda? Phone her? Give her space? Why had he let the doubt even enter his mind? The idea that she was the killer was beyond absurd, it was physically impossible—how could Chemda have been flying to and from Europe to kill people? Just surreally ridiculous. And then there was the moral impossibility: Chemda. Of all people. No. Not Chemda.

  But then why did Julia appear so genuinely shocked and convinced?

  The American woman was tentatively approaching. She put a hand on Jake’s shoulder.

  He shrugged it off. Snapped in her face.

  “You are wrong. She’s been with me in Asia for the last few weeks. Every minute of every day. What you said was grotesque.”

  Her answering expression was pained.

  “Mr. Thurby. Jake … I’m sorry, but I thought it was true—”

  Barnier was behind her.

  “So you think, Julia, it might not be true? Then why did you fucking say it?”

  “Because it was the same woman, only with darker skin! I’m not joking. I would
n’t joke. Not about this! Chemda is the same, only with much darker skin. But the same age, same eyes, same face, same stance, same everything else.” Julia frowned. “Jake, does she have any siblings? Close in age?”

  Jake shook his head. “No.”

  “Then I don’t … understand. An identical killer? Maybe they are cousins … or what?”

  “Who cares. Let me through.”

  He shoved between Barnier and Julia, pushing himself into the sordid bustle of Soi Cowboy.

  The street life of Soi Cowboy was blithely ignorant of the turmoil in Baccara. Freelance whores were eating sausages on sticks outside Rawhide, fake monks were begging sorrowfully at the corner by the Dollhouse.

  Where was Chemda?

  Jake tried the phone three times. Nothing. Voice mail. He went back, walking up to the doorman of Baccara.

  “Did you see a girl? A Khmer girl, running out of here?”

  “Nnn?”

  “A dark girl? Please, which way did she go?”

  The doorman grunted, and shrugged—and pointed at another bar.

  Jake demanded: “Lucky Star? She went in there?”

  A shrug—then another curt but directed nod.

  “Girl.”

  Pushing urgently through the Cowboy crowds, Jake entered the indicated bar.

  Lucky Star. It was dark. He squinted, saw two naked girls on a stage, one wearing a pelvic harness and a strap on dildo, penetrating the other, time and again. The girls writhed and moaned, robotically. The music was Debussy: “Claire de Lune.” Men in the shadows were silently throwing fifty-baht notes onto the stage.

  Jake ran right out. Despairing, depressed, desperate. Evidently the doorman had thought Jake had just wanted girls. Girls on girls.

  It was all disgusting. Soi Cowboy disgusted him. Meeting here had been some kind of joke by Barnier, a repulsive joke by a sick and frightened man.

  He was never going to find her. Maybe they would kill her. Whoever they were. His anxiety surged. Raged. A monster from the swamp. At the corner of Soi Cowboy by the Dutch pub, he anxiously phoned his hotel on the off chance, as a last chance—but the receptionist had not seen her either, and that was that.