Takako kicked off her Prada shoes and settled in for a long, boring flight. It’d take her eight hours to get to Phuket. She hoped she’d make it in time to be there to art-direct the exclusive photographs.
…
Heidegger stood in line in the Bradley Terminal at LAX. He was waiting in the Royal Orchid first-class queue and was a little annoyed that it wasn’t moving more quickly. I mean, what’s the point of coughing up the money to be a Royal Orchid if you aren’t given every possible shortcut? He could see what the problem was: a young couple going on their honeymoon, holding hands and smooching at the Thai Airlines ticket counter like no one else in the world existed. Young love fresh out of the can and on display for everyone to see. They were a real “you complete me” pair. A perfect union of perfect-for-each-other people untainted by the ill winds of life and commerce and ego and aging. How could you get mad at them for being in love? Heidegger was no psychic, but he was a cynic, and he could see the future for this wonderful couple. The first few years of happiness, then the difficulties, the monogamy fatigue, followed by betrayals, disappointments, the accusations and reprisals all culminating in the inexorable, inevitable divorce. That’s why he didn’t say anything. He didn’t clear his throat or look at his watch or give off any sign of impatience, letting them enjoy the moment. It might be all they got.
Going to Thailand was the last thing Heidegger wanted to do. He was up to his ass in alligators, so to speak, with several deals to close, the planning of Rocketside’s big summer tour to promote its new CD, photo shoots to supervise, demos to listen to. Flying halfway around the world was low on his list of priorities. But Takako had told him he needed to be there. He would be the person she’d steer the press to for quotes; neither one of them was willing to trust Turk to actually sound coherent or intelligent on the subject of international terrorism, kidnappings, and the rescue of his beloved wife. So Heidegger had thrown a swimsuit and a casual outfit—khakis and a vintage Hawaiian shirt—along with some underwear and sandals into a small carry-on and here he was at the airport, standing in line for his Royal Orchid seat.
…
The boat was waiting, just like the note said. It was small, just one seat, and made out of some kind of inflatable plastic. It looked, basically, like a life raft with a small motor. The word ZODIAC was painted on the front. A small plastic bag containing instructions and a battery-powered GPS was duct-taped to the seat. There was a plastic paddle, a life jacket, and an outboard motor. Turk and Marybeth stood there, looking at it like it was some kind of alien spacecraft.
“Have you ever driven a boat?”
“When I was fourteen.”
“Maybe I should go with you.”
“I’m supposed to go alone. Besides, do you know how to drive a boat?”
Marybeth shook her head. “No. But how hard can it be?”
Turk flicked on the GPS and it beeped to life, the coordinates preprogrammed in. “I guess I just drive to that dot.”
Turk looked at the tiny device in his hand. Drive a boat to some dot? He was baffled, lost, in over his head. Why couldn’t the kidnappers just show up and take the cash? What was their problem? “I wish Clive were here.”
Marybeth gave him a pat on the back. “C’mon, Turkey, you’ve played live at Budokan, you’ve headlined Madison Square Garden—you can drive a stupid boat.”
Turk wasn’t so sure if the experiences were comparable, but he nodded in agreement. “The show must go on.”
…
Ben had thought he was prepared. But as he watched Turk and Marybeth standing next to an inflatable boat he realized that he hadn’t planned for an exchange at sea. Ben sauntered over to the resort’s lifeguard station, where several hard plastic canoes and kayaks sat on the sand next to a pile of Styrofoam boogie boards and a couple of Sea-Doo Jet Skis. Flashing his badge didn’t impress the lifeguard, but five thousand baht did the trick, and Ben quickly put the Jet Ski into the water, started it up, and roared off toward open ocean with a little salty geyser of seawater spewing up behind him.
Driving the Sea-Doo turned out to be a lot of fun. Ben thought it would be cool to buy a pair. He’d get a little trailer to pull them behind the new Cadillac Escalade he was planning to purchase. He’d take them to the beach, maybe meet some cool chick who’d want to go ride around on the waves with him. That was the great thing about Sea-Doos—girls wore bikinis when they rode on them. Maybe he’d even pack a picnic lunch. They could find a deserted beach somewhere, park their Sea-Doos, eat some shrimp cocktails, and drink some champagne. Then, well, who knows what could happen.
Ben was jolted out of his daydream when he hit his first real wave. Outside the protection of the cove, driving became a little trickier. He almost crashed, and worse, his tactical kit disguised as a beach bag almost fell overboard. Ben slowed down and regained control of the Sea-Doo. He couldn’t help himself. He smiled.
These things are fun!
When he was far enough out that he didn’t think anyone could see him, Ben quickly changed clothes. He put on his tactical camouflage and holstered the handgun. He let the binoculars dangle from his neck and stuffed the other equipment into a small backpack that he strapped on tightly. As a last touch he clipped the grenade to the backpack strap.
He let the Sea-Doo idle as he bobbed in the waves. He focused the binoculars and scanned the shore. Sure enough, he saw Marybeth wheeling the psychedelic daisy suitcase toward Turk. Ben was impressed. The suitcase wasn’t small; in fact, it looked a little bigger than the other one. Maybe the ransom went up. Maybe there’s more than a million dollars in it.
Ben smiled to himself. Now all he had to do was wait and hope that no one noticed a lone gunman wearing jungle camouflage sitting on a bright yellow Sea-Doo in the middle of the ocean.
…
Sheila wasn’t used to rejection. Not from men, anyway. But despite her advances, the Captain had rejected her—and really, had anyone ever said no to that move where she bit her lower lip and spread her legs slightly? Now Somporn was off doing something, preparing for the exchange, the ambush, the getaway, whatever task it was that kidnappers did. He was too busy to spend time with her and had lunch delivered by one of his men. Sheila had thought about seducing that guy just to show Somporn what he was missing, but it was the guy who’d stolen her Chanel sunglasses and there was no way she was gonna fuck him.
So she ate her rice with dried shrimp, chilis, and some kind of green leafy vegetable and thought about Turk. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing him. For one thing, after paying her ransom he’d have her on the hook; he’d want sexual favors for the rest of her life. Favors she didn’t feel like providing anymore. For Sheila, the thrill was gone.
Their marriage had been forged in rehab; they’d bonded in recovery, a two-person support network. But she wasn’t addicted anymore, was she? She didn’t need grams of coke or to be Mrs. Rock Star. She was over that. Now she wanted to take care of herself. She sure as hell didn’t want to take care of Turk. Turk was a baby. A forty-five-year-old baby wrapped in black leather and tattoos, driven by infantile needs and childish desires. When he wanted sex he was like a toddler begging for a piece of candy. He wouldn’t stop whining or trying to make her feel guilty until she let him get on her and get it over with. She shuddered, thinking of the gratitude he’d demand for rescuing her. She wasn’t grateful. She hadn’t been mistreated or abused. If anything, she’d learned more about herself in the last few days then she had in twelve years of therapy.
She considered escaping. Let Somporn send his men out searching frantically through the jungle. That would get his attention. He would lose his hostage and the chance to collect what she assumed was a healthy ransom. Would he be so cavalier then? Would he regret snubbing her? But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that it wasn’t going to work. How could she escape? She didn’t have a plan. She didn’t know where she was or which way to go. And after all the pampering and coconut oil treatments her skin was loo
king really lovely. Why go slogging through a hot swamp and ruin her complexion? Not to mention all the bug bites she’d get.
Sheila suddenly realized the she wouldn’t be escaping for the purpose of getting free; she’d be escaping for the pleasure of being caught. Discovered and chased, tackled and hog-tied. Maybe he’d even spank her for trying to get away. Sheila felt a jolt of adrenaline, a little shiver of erotic delight, run through her body and then—she couldn’t help herself—she smiled.
When did I become so kinky?
…
Turk hefted the suitcase into the inflatable boat and bent over to roll up his pants legs. He was wearing flip-flops; they were waterproof, but he wanted to keep his pants dry. He was going to be uncomfortable enough driving the little boat. Satisfied that his pants were secure above his knees—his legs a pale pinkish beige, like raw chicken—Turk pushed the boat out into the water.
“Need a hand?”
“I got it.”
Marybeth handed him a paper bag from the hotel.
“Some bottled water and a sandwich.”
Turk took the bag and looked at Marybeth. He didn’t really know what to say to her, but he was genuinely touched by her thoughtfulness. “Thanks.”
It hadn’t even occurred to him that he might need some food or water for the trip. He wondered what else he might’ve forgotten. Marybeth smiled.
“And a beer. You know. For emergencies.”
Turk smiled back. “You think of everything.”
Marybeth nodded. Turk looked at her. He was nervous, hesitant. “Well …”
He turned and looked out at the open ocean, then down to the beeping GPS in his hand. Marybeth couldn’t take it. She ran out into the water and gave Turk a hug.
“You be careful, Turkey.”
She held on to him for a long time.
…
Ben watched from his Sea-Doo. He saw Turk and Marybeth embracing in the water for what seemed like ten minutes. How long was this going to take? Wasn’t this guy supposed to be married? But maybe that was the way rock stars did it: a wife, a mistress, assorted groupies and hookers.
It rankled him, to be honest; having all those women seemed well, unpatriotic. America was built on values, things like family and freedom and justice, things that were important. That’s what the country stood for. If Turk Henry was not a family values kind of guy that meant he wasn’t a red-blooded American. If he wasn’t an American, then perhaps he was an enemy of America. Ben remembered something the president had said.
You’re either for freedom and American values or you’re on the side of the terrorists.
If Turk was a terrorist then Ben was just doing his duty. Killing terrorists was his job.
Ben was getting antsy; it seemed like he’d been bobbing out here for hours and he was now in some pain. He had brought some food with him but when he tried to eat his sandwich it attracted the attention of a flock of seagulls. They were brazen, swooping down on him and snatching half the sandwich out of his hand before he could even get it up to his mouth. The birds hovered around him, cawing and squawking, trying to land on his head, on the Sea-Doo, swooping down to snag his food. Ben worried that the birds were attracting unwanted attention, so he’d maced one of the little marauders with a blast of pepper spray. The bird had fallen into the water, splashing and flailing wildly for a few minutes until it drowned and sank like a rock. Unfortunately, some of the pepper spray had blown back into Ben’s face, his eyes stinging like a motherfucker, and the flailing of the bird had, apparently, attracted some kind of large shark that was now circling the Sea-Doo.
…
Turk gave the cord a firm yank—just like starting a lawn mower—and the engine roared to life. He gave a wave to Marybeth—she blew him a kiss—and twisted the throttle. The little Zodiac jerked forward, moving across the bay toward the ocean and a little blinking dot on the GPS screen.
…
Ben looked through his binoculars with his one good eye—the one not swollen shut from the pepper spray—and watched as Turk left the cove. He would follow, staying as far behind as possible, until he was sure no one was around. Then he would make his move. Ben wiped the stream of tears from his good eye with the sleeve of his camouflage T-shirt and goosed the throttle. Even though the air stung his tender eyes, it was good to be moving. Ben wanted to get away from the shark.
…
Captain Somporn’s cell phone rang. Somewhat perversely, he’d downloaded a Metal Assassin ringtone, and a digital approximation of “Drop in the Bucket” began chirping from his pocket. He checked the number and answered. The news he got was good. Turk had left in the boat, alone, and with a suitcase. Somporn ended the phone call and checked the time. He figured it would take Turk two hours to get to the GPS drop.
Somporn entered the hut and found Sheila sulking on the bed, a glass of whiskey in her hand. She glanced over at him and gave him a sneer.
“Well, well, well. Look who’s returned to the scene of the crime.”
Somporn went over and picked the bottle of whiskey off the floor. He noted that it was more than a quarter gone.
“What are you doing?”
Sheila stuck out her lower lip in a pout she’d made famous in a Moschino campaign in the late ’80s. She spoke slowly, punctuating her words with a hurt expression.
“I was bored.”
“I am sorry. I had many things to attend to.”
“Like making me go back.”
Somporn nodded. “You can’t be my hostage forever.”
Sheila looked at him. “Why not? Why can’t you just keep me?”
Somporn sat down on the cot next to her and picked up her hand. He stroked it tenderly and looked into her eyes. “I would love to keep you. But … my men, myself—we need money.”
“I could give you money.”
Sheila’s bottom lip had begun to quiver uncontrollably. Somporn shook his head and stood up. “Your husband is on his way.”
Somporn walked across the room and picked up a fresh pack of cigarettes. He turned to see Sheila sobbing quietly.
“Don’t cry. This is all for the best.”
Sheila wiped a string of mucus from her nose. “Can I see you? After?”
“What do you mean?”
“After you let me go. You know? We can meet somewhere. In Bangkok or someplace.”
Captain Somporn thought about it, but the thought of trying to rendezvous with a former hostage set off alarm bells in his criminal mind. It would be too easy for her to go to the police and organize a trap. He’d never be able to trust her. He exhaled a plume of smoke into the air, chasing some mosquitoes out of the room.
“Perhaps.”
Sheila jumped up and into Somporn’s arms. Somporn reeled backward, surprised by her ardor.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
She clung to him fiercely, and for the first time Somporn felt the full strength and suppleness of her Pilates- and yoga-enhanced supermodel body. He pulled her hands free and looked her in the eye.
“But right now, you must get ready to leave.”
Sheila grinned. “When can we meet? Where?”
“I’ll contact you when it’s safe.”
Sheila couldn’t help herself—she kissed him. Full on. For his part, Captain Somporn was not about to deny this once-in-a-lifetime chance to French-kiss a supermodel. He returned her kiss with a passion that took him by surprise. In fact, the feelings that were suddenly and undeniably welling up from deep inside him did even more than take him by surprise. They freaked him out.
Sheila broke from the kiss and held Somporn’s face in her hands. She leaned in close, her voice husky and hoarse with desire, and whispered, “Promise?”
Somporn looked in her eyes and nodded.
“Promise me you’ll stay out of the sun.”
…
Salty ocean spray blew up and hit Turk in the face as the Zodiac bounced through the surf. Turk was impressed with the little boat; it handled the waves
with ease. All he had to do was keep the front part pointed in the right direction. The tiny flashing dot on the GPS screen moved left or right depending on which way Turk steered, telling him when he was getting off course, keeping him honest. It wasn’t nearly as difficult as he had thought it would be.
As he left the protection of the cove and started out into open water, Turk relaxed. Despite his current circumstances, he felt pretty good. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and, though he’d grown used to the tropical heat, a cool breeze was blowing along the water. It was peaceful. The churning of the small engine had turned into a muffled purr, the boat slapping against the waves in a kind of steady, syncopated rhythm.
As he motored along, the GPS signal having him running north and parallel to the coast, Turk’s boat was joined by a small pod of dolphins. They surfed in the wake of the Zodiac, jumping and gliding all around the boat. Turk remembered something Sheila had told him about dolphins when she was working with that Heal the Bay group in Malibu. Apparently they were just as intelligent as humans, with their own language and a kind of organized society, and they were the only species besides humans that had sex for pleasure. Sheila had gone on to describe the mating habits of dolphins—they tended toward wanton group sex with multiple partners—and how the pod becomes like an extended family. They lived, essentially, like a rock band on tour.
Salty: A Novel Page 19