Turk looked at the dolphins swimming next to the Zodiac and for a moment he was jealous. They didn’t have to deal with marriage and commitment; they weren’t monogamous creatures, and didn’t pretend to be. They swam around all day without a care in the world, without jobs or bills to pay or cell phones to answer, and spent their lives eating sashimi and fucking. It occurred to Turk that maybe dolphins were the more highly evolved species.
The thought that human beings were not naturally monogamous was not a new one for Turk. In rehab the sexual addiction counselor had told him that the compulsion to mate with multiple partners was something biological, part of the survival-of-the-species instinct encoded in the DNA of every human. The counselor had told Turk that despite his quite normal biological urge to get it on with every woman he encountered, society had different rules, and it was those rules he needed to learn to play by. He was urged to become monogamous, if only to preserve his mental health and the public peace.
Turk had been true to Sheila—not counting the happy finish—but he wondered if it was as good for his state of mind as the counselor had suggested it would be. He wasn’t happy. He couldn’t necessarily lay the blame for his misery on his marriage; he knew that a lot of it stemmed from the breakup of the band, the fact that he wasn’t playing music, wasn’t doing what he loved to do most. But the fact remained, he wasn’t happy. He was distinctly unhappy, and until recently he hadn’t even been aware of how unhappy he was. He’d been slowly sliding into a beer-blurred monogamous monotony that was turning to borderline clinical depression. Sheila’s abduction, and his subsequent time by himself, had forced him to realize this. This marriage thing just wasn’t working out the way he’d hoped.
Turk watched the dolphins. They seemed pretty happy. He’d never heard of a dolphin dropping dead from stress. What if being promiscuous was just part of the natural world? What if having multiple partners was how things were supposed to be? What if society’s demand for marriage was actually unnatural? What if sexual addiction was just some kind of made-up “illness” to keep people from straying?
It slowly dawned on Turk that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a sex addict at all. Maybe he was just kind of slutty. Like a dolphin.
…
Ben followed the slow-moving Zodiac from as far away as he could. He realized he could quickly close the gap between them if he needed to; the Sea-Doo was much more powerful than the poky little engine clamped to the back of the Zodiac. That’s what he wanted to do. Overtake the Zodiac and plug a couple of holes into Turk. But he couldn’t do it right this second. Not right now. There was a surprising amount of boat traffic out on the water. There were small fishing boats, sightseeing boats, kayaking tourists, and boats filled with scuba divers either on their way to a dive site or returning from one. Ben didn’t want to take the chance that someone might see him kill Turk and take the suitcase. He realized he’d have to wait until Turk got closer to shore. Surely the terrorists had planned for the exchange to be in some secluded location. It would be too risky on the open sea.
…
Marybeth stood on the beach and looked at the ocean. Turk had been gone for at least an hour, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. She didn’t know what to do or where to go. She was worried about Turk. She was scared shitless she might never see him again. Her stomach bunched up in a tight, nervous ball and warm, salty tears welled up in her eyes.
Turk is the bravest man I’ve ever met.
It was inspirational. Really. Turk risking life and limb to rescue his wife. That takes some stones, some cojones, some real courage. Marybeth knew that she’d need that same kind of courage. She was about to embark on her own risky journey. She didn’t know where her relationship with Wendy would go—what it might lead to or if it would last. She would need some of Turk’s guts and audacity to come out to her friends and family. She would have to be brave. What else could she do? She was in love.
“Ms. Monahan?”
Marybeth turned and saw Carole, the hotel manager, standing with a pair of Thai policemen. She gulped.
“Yeah?”
“These officers would like to talk to you.”
Marybeth’s body went rigid as she mutely nodded. There were so many things to worry about that she wasn’t sure which one to choose. Was it Turk? Was it the money? Was it Wendy? Was it news about Sheila?
She followed them up the steps of the hotel, past the pool, into the lobby, and out to the big circular driveway, where a police car was waiting. One of the officers opened the back door of the car and gestured for her to get in. Marybeth turned to Carole.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m afraid something has happened to your friend.”
Marybeth felt her knees start to go. She was confused. How could anything have happened to Turk? It was too soon. Carole helped her into the back of the car.
“It’ll be okay.”
She closed the door. Marybeth wasn’t sure she’d be okay. She’d lost feeling in her body and her brain refused to generate a single thought. It was like being in suspended animation; like something out of a science fiction story.
The police didn’t seem to notice that their passenger was freaking out. They sat in front and listened to some kind of talk radio show. Maybe it was the police radio, but it seemed more like one of those call-in shows like they had in Los Angeles. Dumb-asses spouting their moronic, ill-informed opinions to bigger dumb-asses who phoned in and expanded on the moronic, ill-informed opinions with even bigger, stupider, and more ill-informed—if that was even possible—generalizations and bogus calls to action, except this was in Thai and Marybeth had no idea what they were really saying.
They took her to the same hospital, the same bright corridor, the same double doors, the same pathologist with the incredibly long and unpronounceable name. Marybeth shuffled along, dazed and confused, numbly following the police officers into the morgue.
Because she didn’t speak Thai and the officers’ English was extremely limited, there was a lot of pointing and nodding going on. The doctor opened one of the steel refrigerators and pulled a body out. He unzipped the white PVC body bag and revealed the deceased.
Marybeth’s first reaction was one of relief. She gasped, not at seeing Clive’s strangely purple face, but at not seeing Turk in the bag. She’d never been so happy to see a dead man.
The police and the doctor had a rapid exchange in Thai and then the doctor turned to her.
“You know him?”
“Yes. That’s Clive. Clive Muggleton.”
The police asked a question, the doctor translated. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“On Patpong Beach. He went into a bar and said he’d see me later.”
The doctor translated that to the police. There was another question. “Is he your husband? Your boyfriend?”
Marybeth shook her head. “I’m gay.”
That was how she came out. With two simple words, telling some uncomprehending strangers and a dead Australian that she preferred to have sex with women.
…
It wasn’t until they were almost back at the hotel that the reality of Clive’s death sunk in. The doctor had told her that Clive had been murdered, his neck broken by someone. The police had no leads. All they had was the testimony of the bar girl, who said she didn’t see anything because her eyes were closed. The police and the doctor were sure of one thing: the bar girl wasn’t strong enough to snap Clive’s neck. So someone must’ve entered the room and killed him while he was having sex. They asked her a number of other questions—afterward, Marybeth couldn’t really remember what they were—and she answered them as best she could without telling them anything about Turk, the money, or the ransom drop that was in progress. But Marybeth’s mind was spinning. Was this related to Sheila’s kidnapping? Was it random? Was Turk okay? Marybeth didn’t know what to think. Although she was pretty sure that if Clive had to die, he’d probably have wanted to go while boning a bar girl.
&nbs
p; …
The setting sun cast a golden glow across the sky, turning the clouds orange and the water deep green. Flocks of birds rose up from the jungle as the little boat motored along.
Turk thought about Sheila. It’d been almost two weeks since she’d been kidnapped. He wondered what he’d say to her when they finally met. But what if they didn’t? For the first time it occurred to him that maybe something bad had happened to her. What if she was dead? What if she’d been beaten? What if she’d been raped? Up until this point Turk had been operating on the assumption that the kidnappers were, somehow, honorable businessmen. They wanted money in exchange for Sheila. A tit for a tat. But he had to remember that they were criminals. Why wouldn’t they just take the money, kill everyone, and go on their merry way? It was like what they always told you about wild animals: they might look cute, but they’ll bite you if you get too close.
Turk’s blood pressure went up; he felt a lump of fear harden in his throat. What if the ICE agent was right? What if they took Turk’s money and took flying lessons or built a dirty bomb? Turk gripped the throttle of the little outboard motor tightly, his knuckles turning white. He tried to reassure himself. These guys didn’t seem like terrorists. They weren’t speaking Arabic or releasing wobbly home videos of their hostages reading some kind of prepared statements while the kidnapper-terrorists stood behind them with shopping bags on their heads. That was what Turk didn’t get about terrorists. Clearly they weren’t using their money for A/V equipment or film school.
Turk realized that the nervousness he felt now was the same nervousness he felt before going on stage. He didn’t have stage fright, he just got nervous, but the other members of the band used to tease him about it. Of course Steve, that megalomaniac, didn’t get nervous. Steve loved the spotlight, the roar of the crowd. It fed the insatiable appetite of his outsize ego. Bruno never got nervous, but then he was always drunk.
Turk gritted his teeth. He’d just have to suck it up, see this thing through. Even if he now had second thoughts about his marriage, it didn’t mean he was going to leave Sheila in the clutches of criminals. That just wasn’t the way he was raised.
…
Sheila slipped out of her clothes, carefully folding them on the bed, and stood under the shower hose. Even though Captain Somporn wasn’t there, Sheila felt like she was performing. Not for an audience exactly; it was more like she was performing a ritual for herself. Careful not to waste the water, she washed herself—she didn’t have time to wash her hair—lathering up with soap and feeling her body becoming slick and clean as she rinsed. She dried herself thoroughly with one of the nice towels Somporn had provided.
Sheila sat on the bed and began to spread coconut oil on her body. She tried to imitate the soft touch of the Captain, meticulously coating every fold and curve with the moisturizing emollient.
Even though Somporn wasn’t there to watch her and spread the oil on her skin, Sheila felt herself getting aroused. She slid her oily hand over her breasts and, slowly, down along her belly until she reached between her legs and allowed herself to do something she hadn’t done since she was kidnapped: Sheila lay back on the little cot and masturbated.
…
Ben’s left eye had turned a bright scarlet and was swollen shut. He tried to open it with his fingers but it was too difficult on the bouncing Sea-Doo, and too painful besides. It wasn’t getting better. In fact, it was getting worse. It might, he realized, require a trip to the hospital when he was done murdering Turk and stealing the money. He immediately caught himself. He wasn’t necessarily murdering Turk. Sure, he was going to kill him, make no doubt about that. But he was killing him to keep him from giving money to a terrorist organization. That he was keeping the money, well, maybe that wasn’t the most ethical choice, but it was a whole hell of a lot better than giving it to al-Qaeda. Ben Harding wasn’t a murderer. He was a hero. And heroes did whatever needed to be done.
Ben’s eye began to throb and ooze some kind of toxic pus. He decided he needed to act now, before it got any worse. He hit the throttle and shortened the distance between himself and Turk. When he got to about a hundred yards—the length of a football field—from Turk’s Zodiac he stopped the Sea-Doo, unholstered his gun, and took aim. Out in the open water, Turk was a sitting duck. There was no cover, nothing to get in the way of the bullet, and nowhere for Turk to run.
Ben looked around. A fishing boat was off to the left, maybe a quarter mile away; the shore of the island looked deserted, an uninhabited tangle of mangroves. Ben held the gun in a modified Weber grip—his hands overlapping for stability—took aim, and squeezed off two shots.
…
Turk had played for years standing behind Steve and Bruno, stuck in the back next to Chaps as the muscle-bound drummer had pounded his kit and hammered his cymbals like a beat-happy gorilla on crystal meth. The proximity to Chap’s crash cymbal had had the unfortunate side effect of damaging Turk’s hearing. The ear specialist he’d visited figured he’d lost a good portion of the high-frequency sensitivity in his left ear; that had been the side that faced the cymbals. So Turk didn’t hear the shots. He didn’t notice the strange whining whistle that cut through the air as the first bullet flew past his head, missing by an inch or two. He didn’t notice the second bullet either. It punctured the side of the Zodiac, flew across at an angle, and blew a second hole on the other side as it exited. But Turk did notice that the nifty little boat was no longer handling so well. In fact, it was melting in on itself like a Salvador Dali clock.
Turk didn’t hesitate; he turned the boat toward the shore and hit the gas. Even though he had a pool at his Hollywood Hills home and used to swim laps every day to stay in some kind of shape between tours, he wasn’t a great swimmer. He wanted to be as close to shore as possible when the boat finally went down.
As the boat began to fill with water, Turk quickly fastened the life jacket around the psychedelic-daisy suitcase. He then secured the GPS in his pants pocket. He was determined to get the money to the little blinking dot, even if he had to walk through the fucking jungle to do it.
As it continued to deflate, the boat began to lose its shape; it appeared to be dissolving, slowly being sucked under. It looked as if Turk was straddling a giant used condom.
Turk grabbed the suitcase and hit the water. His weight pulled him under for a moment, but then he pulled himself up on the suitcase, the money growing quickly wet and heavy, and began to kick toward the shore.
…
Ben held the binoculars up to his good eye and watched as Turk floundered with the suitcase through the waves. It was another stroke of luck. It was much better if the rock star’s body washed up and the cause of death was accidental drowning. With no bullet holes to explain, there wouldn’t be an investigation; it’d just be a news item. Turk’s fans would lay flowers and candles in front of the Rainbow Room on the Sunset Strip—where Metal Assassin played its first show—and Turk would get a special tribute in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.
Ben scanned the shoreline, trying to determine where the suitcase might wash up. He could see a dense thicket of mangroves lining the shore. His swollen eye was beginning to throb with pain. Ben realized that the salt water spraying up when he drove the Sea-Doo wasn’t helping.
He squinted through the binoculars—he had trouble scanning the waves with only one eye—trying to monitor Turk’s progress. He saw the suitcase—wrapped in a bright orange life vest, it was easy to spot—bobbing in the waves. But no sign of the pudgy rocker.
Ben gripped the throttle; he was about to race over and grab the suitcase when he saw Turk’s arm raise up and go down, followed by his other arm. Turk was doing the backstroke. Ben considered running him over with the Sea-Doo, but then decided he’d take the long way around, cut through the mangroves, and be waiting for Turk when he finally washed ashore.
…
Captain Somporn lit another cigarette. He’d already smoked half a pack. It wasn’t like him—normally
he was the coolest of customers—but for some reason he was nervous. He never should have gotten entangled with Sheila. It was obvious. Rule number one for kidnappers and fugitive pirates: don’t get emotionally attached to your victims. There were a number of reasons for this, all of them good, but it really boiled down to the simple fact that if you had to pull the trigger, you couldn’t hesitate.
Maybe that’s why he was so nervous. He knew he couldn’t kill her. If everything went haywire and the CIA or the Thai police or, worse, the Thahan Prahan showed up, Somporn wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger; he would lose face in front of his men and—perhaps a more honorable option—he would be killed himself.
His cell phone rang, “Drop in the Bucket” chirping out in digital glory. He answered it, and grimaced. The news was not good. Even though Turk had left in the Zodiac and headed off in the right direction, for some reason he hadn’t made it to the drop point. Somporn cursed. He’d thought about having one of his men shadow Turk’s boat, just to make sure nothing went wrong, but had decided that it was too risky out on the water; it would be easy for the police to spot. Besides, Somporn didn’t want any of his men to be there when the money was exchanged. He had plans of his own.
…
Heidegger was groggy when he woke up. It took him a couple of minutes to figure out where he was. It was dark, the gloom lit by the glow of distant doorways and the beams of overhead reading lights. The No Smoking sign was lit, with its icon of a burning cigarette and the red circle and slash. The dull roar of jet engines also confirmed to him that he was in an airplane.
Salty: A Novel Page 20