“Let’s proceed.”
Turk, Marybeth, and Clive followed Ben and the doctor down the shiny hallway, through a door, and into the Phuket International Hospital morgue.
…
The morgue was cold and gray, lit by dim fluorescent lights. It looked just like a morgue on TV. Silver metal trays full of silver metal scalpels and saws, clamps, and forceps were placed on silver metal rolling carts. There were some pots and large spoons that looked like they had been stolen from a cafeteria. A digital scale sat nearby. There were several large drains cut into the tile floor. Turk was surprised to see a set of screwdrivers and a hammer.
They followed the doctor over to a wall fitted with a dozen small doors. The doctor opened one and, with some effort, slid a sheet-draped body out. Ben looked at Turk. He hoped that the sight of the corpse would scare the crap out of Turk and get him off the case.
“You ready for this?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Ben nodded to the doctor, and the doctor pulled back the sheet to reveal the bloated, rotting, insect-gobbled corpse of the woman from Seattle. Turk gasped.
“Fucking hell.”
It was the single most disgusting thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. The skin had blackened gangrenous and foul in some places and yet was pale white in others. Festering holes pocked much of the body and the woman’s face had been chewed off by something, bits of skull and jawbone poking through where the skin was gone. It was much worse than a dead drummer in a bathtub.
Just when Turk’s brain had adjusted to seeing a shredded body, the smell hit him: a potent mix of deep jungle rot and antiseptics—nauseating and at the same time reassuringly medicinal, like roadkill sprayed with Bactine. It made him want to vomit. His body convulsed a little as he fought to keep from puking. Ben noticed this and smiled blandly.
“Take your time.”
Turk swallowed and tried not to breathe. A bile-flavored burp rose in his throat. “What happened to her face?”
The doctor pointed to several gaps in the flesh. “Turtle. Maybe eel.”
Marybeth, who’d been watching goggle-eyed, finally emitted a sound. “Ewww. A turtle?”
The doctor nodded again. “Maybe eel.”
Marybeth thought about all the times she’d eaten eel at sushi bars; in fact, the broiled anago was one of her favorites. She suddenly felt very queasy. Turk looked at Ben.
“It’s not Sheila.”
Ben knew it wasn’t Sheila, but the longer he kept Turk looking at the disgusting corpse, the bigger the psychological effect.
“Can you be certain?”
“Sheila wasn’t fat.”
“The body’s been in the water for a long time. Bloating can give the appearance of weight.”
“Maybe. But Sheila had a Brazilian wax. She would never let her pubic hair grow all over the place like that.”
Turk turned to go.
“Are you absolutely positive?”
Turk turned and looked Ben right in the eye.
“I’m positive. This isn’t Sheila.”
Ben gave the doctor a nod, and the doctor covered up the body with the sheet. As Turk turned to leave he realized that he’d been holding hands with Marybeth the entire time.
…
Ben caught up with Turk in the hallway of the hospital. “Can we talk? Privately?”
Turk shook his head. He was growing to really dislike Ben. “We can talk right here.”
Ben looked at Clive and Marybeth. “Okay. But you might not like what I’m going to say.”
Turk interrupted him. “Have you heard anything from the kidnappers?”
“You know we don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“That’s not what I asked. Have you heard from them?”
Ben shook his head and grimaced. As if Turk was forcing him to reveal bad news in front of everyone.
“And I don’t expect to, Mr. Henry. I hate to say this, but your wife’s body is probably floating out in some swamp right now. We were lucky to have recovered this one.”
Clive finally spoke. “How did you recover this one?”
Ben turned his attention to Clive. “Thai police got a tip.”
“An anonymous tip?”
“You’d have to ask them.”
“You didn’t?”
Ben sighed. “Look, Mr. Muggleton, my job is to protect American interests and American citizens. The first thing I wanted was to get Mr. Henry down here to help identify the body. I’m going to go interview the police next.”
“Mind if we come with you?”
Ben scowled. “Yes. I do. This is government business.”
Ben turned to Turk; he attempted a sympathetic expression.
“I know this is hard. But the longer she stays missing the less chance there is of getting her back. It’s been almost a week. I think you’ve got to accept the fact that you may never see your wife again.”
Turk glared at Ben.
“That doesn’t mean she’s dead.”
…
Ben watched them walk out of the hospital. What a motley crew. The pudgy rock star waddling away in his black linen pants and oversized sunglasses; the strangely attractive woman who dressed like she was going to a punk rock show in a short skirt with leather Doc Martens, a motorcycle belt, and a ripped-up T-shirt that revealed her hot pink bra straps; and the overtanned Australian commando who smelled vaguely of gin. Ben was disappointed but not discouraged. He’d been hoping for something a little more dramatic. Like Turk’s eyes rolling up in his head as he fainted and cracked his skull on the morgue floor. Or maybe Marybeth screaming and crying, hysterical at the sight of the moldy old carcass. They should’ve reacted—it was disgusting. It made Ben want to faint and puke and look away, and he was ex-military.
But he’d been pleased to see that Turk had gagged. Maybe that’s all you could get out of a rock star. Who knew? The important thing was that Turk had seen what the terrorists were capable of. The seed was planted. It wouldn’t be long before Turk began to imagine his wife and her Brazilian wax floating in a swamp, being slowly devoured by turtles and bugs and seagulls and whatever else felt like grabbing a free slice of dead meat floating in the bay. Turk would imagine this, it would haunt him, and then he’d give up. He’d quit the chase, pack his bags, and go home. And Ben would be rich.
…
Carole Duchamp was not happy to see Turk and his entourage, but she was the general manager of the resort and had a responsibility to her guests, so she turned on her Gallic charm, managing to be gracious, and greeted Turk at the front desk with an exaggerated smile and promises to help him in any way she could. The resort had managed to rebound from the tsunami, but that was Mother Nature, just one of those things. Kidnappers and terrorists were different. The mere mention of the words struck fear into the hearts of Westerners, especially Americans.
Although the British couple’s story got only minor play in the media, Carole rightly assumed that it was just a matter of time before some journalist figured out that something was amiss with the famous rock star and his wife. Adding celebrity to terrorism fears was like throwing fresh meat into a pool of piranhas, guaranteed to create a feeding frenzy of snapping paparazzi and sound-biting reporters, who would descend on the resort and strip it down to the bones in a day. It was not good for business. Carole hoped Turk would only stay for a day or two; then this whole unpleasant incident would blow over.
She handed Turk his room keys. “I hope you are able to resolve your situation as quickly as possible.”
Turk thanked her and turned to Clive and Marybeth. “I need a drink. I’ll be down by the beach.”
Turk walked off, leaving Clive and Marybeth to finish checking in. Clive was immediately struck by the hotel managers’ hazel eyes and flashed her his trademark smile.
…
Marybeth found Turk sitting on the end of a chaise longue digging his bare feet into the sand. He held a Singha in his hand and was sipping it distractedl
y as he stared out at the ocean. Marybeth had picked up a Singapore Sling at the pool-side bar before heading out to find Turk. She sat down on the sand.
“It’s pretty here.”
Turk nodded.
“Quiet, too. I can see why you’d want to come.”
Turk belched silently. “It wasn’t my idea. I never wanted to come to Thailand.”
“Why not?”
Turk shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I thought it was too tropical.”
Marybeth laughed. “Too tropical?”
Turk smiled back. “What did I know?”
Marybeth looked out at the ocean and sipped her drink. It was sweet and sour, the gin providing the engine that cranked the cocktail to life, the cherry brandy and Cointreau combining with the lime and pineapple to create a kind of fantasy flavor. Like a tropical Popsicle.
Marybeth noticed all the topless women lounging around. “Is this a nude beach?”
“Nobody wears clothes here.”
Marybeth peeled off her T-shirt and unhooked her bra. Her breasts tumbled into the air. Turk looked over at her; he couldn’t help himself. He followed a bead of sweat as it rolled down her sternum between her breasts. Turk had to admit that they were lovely. Not too large, but perfectly shaped, with small pink nipples pierced by little silver studs with balls on each end. Funny, he hadn’t noticed the piercings in the brothel.
“If it bothers you I’ll put my shirt on.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“It feels good to be naked. It’s hot here.”
Turk realized that he’d forgotten how hot it was. He’d grown accustomed to the heat and humidity, the constant trickle of sweat under his arms, the damp collar of his shirts. In fact, he realized, there was something calming about the heat. The spicy food, the muggy air, the scorching sun; it all kind of worked together somehow. Maybe that’s what it meant to be tropical.
Marybeth looked at him. “What if you don’t get her back?”
“I’ll get her back.”
“Yeah, but, I’m just saying, what if you don’t?”
Turk looked at Marybeth. “I’ll get her back.”
Marybeth saw that Turk was not going to discuss any other possibility, so she picked up her cocktail and took a long sip. She noticed a young Thai boy walking toward them, waving to Turk. She wondered if she should cover herself.
“Beer, mister?”
Turk smiled at him. The boy’s presence was reassuring.
He pointed to Turk’s almost empty beer.
“You want beer? Cold beer?”
Turk nodded and handed the boy a wad of baht.
“The coldest you’ve got. Hurry.”
The boy smiled at Turk, then turned and sprinted off down the beach. Marybeth was impressed.
“He brings you beer?”
“He doesn’t mess around.”
Marybeth smiled as she watched the boy run to the end of the beach and hand his parents the money.
“You should take him on tour.”
Turk looked at her. “If I ever go on the road again, maybe I will.”
Marybeth sipped her drink. “You’ll be back on the road in no time. Jon’s got plans for you. Don’t you worry.”
It suddenly occurred to Turk that, even with the new song in his head, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to go on tour or be in a band again. Maybe it would be okay to just sit here on the beach drinking beer for the rest of his life. Why not? Maybe that was enough. No more happy finishes, no more strangely intimate scenes in Bangkok brothels, no more worrying about the band, the fans, his wife, the business. No more stress. No more guilt. Just a beach and beer.
As if to confirm Turk’s newfound belief that he was sitting in the best of all possible worlds, the boy arrived with Turk’s beer, ice cold.
…
Captain Somporn came back to camp and went directly to the little hut where Sheila was kept. He felt bad leaving her handcuffed and alone for so long, but it served a psychological purpose: it gave her a reality check and reminded her that she was not the one in control of the situation. He wanted her to appreciate the special attention she received.
Somporn entered the hut. Sheila glared at him.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
Somporn didn’t react to her anger. It was, after all, entirely natural given the circumstances.
“I apologize. I had some business in town.”
“Collecting ransoms?”
“I have been trying to contact your husband.”
“What’s the problem? Call the hotel.”
“It’s not that simple. I believe the authorities may be monitoring his phone.”
Sheila hung her head in frustration. “Maybe he’s checked out.”
Somporn shrugged. “It would be easier if he had a mobile phone.”
“He doesn’t like them.”
“My men will locate him. It is only a matter of time.”
Sheila looked at Somporn, a bitter expression on her lips. “He’s not hard to find. Just look for a fat ass with long hair and a beer in his hand.”
Somporn looked at Sheila. She really was beautiful. Even with her hair matted by sweat and her skin dirty and damp, even with her bad mood, she was lovely.
“Would you like to take a shower and have something to eat?”
Sheila nodded. “I’d love to.”
Captain Somporn knelt down and tenderly unlocked her handcuffs.
…
Turk sat back in the chaise longue and looked up at the sky. Coconut palms caught the ocean breeze and wiggled overhead in slow motion. Turk wondered what it would be like if Sheila was dead. He’d hardly even had time to get used to being married, and now he was potentially a widower.
He hadn’t known that many people who’d died. Sure, he was a friend of Bon Scott’s, the AC/DC singer who drowned in his own vomit in a parked car—the one time seat belts didn’t save lives—and of course there were Klaus Van Persie and a few others who’d died of drug overdoses. But he’d never lost a girlfriend or a sibling or a parent.
If Sheila was dead, what did that mean? Did he have to have a funeral? A wake? Should he call a florist?
Turk wondered if Sheila’s death would change him. Would he be different? Older and wiser? Would her death be meaningless? Would he just go on partying and carrying on, using the tragedy to propel more willing young women into his water bed? Or would it be cathartic and give him insight into the deeper meaning of life? He didn’t know the answer. He figured that, if she was dead, he’d find out. But he didn’t think it would change him that much. He already wore black.
…
As Sheila undressed, Captain Somporn handed her a bottle of hair conditioner. “I got this for you.”
Sheila smiled and pulled her shirt off. By way of thanking him, she unhooked her bra with a flourish. She turned and silently teased him, like a stripper, before taking the conditioner from him, tugging her panties to the floor—despite repeated wearings, the lace was holding up surprisingly well—and with her left foot, flicking them across the room.
Somporn smiled and walked over to the bed. He sat cross-legged on the floor and carefully poured himself a glass of whiskey before lighting a cigarette. He looked up at her expectantly, waiting for the show to begin.
Sheila was suddenly hit by a pang of guilt. Why was she enjoying herself? Here she was, a prisoner, forced to strip and shower in front of some kind of perverted Thai pirate, and yet she found it exhilarating. She liked it. She was getting aroused by her own performance. Maybe it was having such an appreciative audience. He was so focused and sincere in his admiration of her body. He was sweet and caring and respectful, and that made her feel good about herself. And feeling good about herself turned her on. She discovered she liked having an audience; she needed to be adored. Maybe that’s why she’d become a model in the first place.
That’s the great thing about traveling. You can learn a lot about yourself.
…
&
nbsp; Somporn sat back and let the whiskey work its magic on his tired muscles. He felt his shoulders relax more and more with each sip. He watched as Sheila unhooked the clamp on the hose and water began to fall gently on her body. He watched her breasts, so white that he could easily see the bluish veins under her skin, the nipples a vibrant pink—like the snapper he used to catch. He waited for her to turn, to see the translucent white skin of her ass. As Sheila turned in the shower—taking her time, teasing—a shock went through his body; he felt a primal energy rise inside him. It was pure, unadulterated desire.
…
Sheila took her time. She soaped up her body, letting the bubbles build into a thick lather, rubbing herself all over. She was hamming it up. Not that the soap and water didn’t feel good, but she was touching herself, exaggerating, putting on a show for the Captain. It almost made her laugh out loud; here she was like some actress in a soft-porn movie. Emmanuelle 15: Thai Prisoner. It was kind of campy, but it was fun, and she knew the Captain would appreciate it. She looked over at him to see what his reaction was and saw the unmistakable outline of a raging hard-on in his shorts.
Sheila smiled and looked at Somporn. She turned to face him, in all her full frontal nudity.
“Enjoying yourself?”
She pointed at his crotch and smiled. Somporn instantly knew what she meant. He looked down and saw how aroused he was. He’d been so caught up in watching her that he hadn’t even noticed his erection. Now that it was the center of attention it was difficult to ignore.
Somporn stood up, with some difficulty, and handed her a towel.
“Dry yourself, please.”
He turned and left the hut as quickly as he could.
Once outside he slipped on his flip-flops and moved toward the jungle with quick, agitated steps. It had gotten dark, night falling with a velvet thud, and the moonless sky was bright with stars. Somporn walked about ten feet into the dense foliage, the trees a deep black against the already black sky, and stopped. He listened for a moment, to insects buzzing and chattering, frogs croaking, birds screeching, bats swooping through the air with sonar peeps, the cacophony punctuated by an occasional howl from monkeys mating. Sure that he was alone, swallowed by the black forest, he pulled down his shorts and quickly jerked off into the night.
Salty: A Novel Page 15