He thought he saw her stir, slightly, almost as if an insect had buzzed too close to her ear. On her bare feet, he thought he detected a dark marking of some sort, a smudge or a bruise.
“Look at me, Celeste.”
She raised one arm and laid it across her face, as if unconsciously attempting to block out some intrusion. Perhaps he was reaching her after all; perhaps Mandy was successfully relaying his message.
“Look at me, Celeste.”
That posture, the arm laid across the face, seemed so familiar somehow. It took him back across so many years.
“Look at me, Celeste.”
It was the same posture he had seen, so many mornings, back in their cramped apartment in Phnom Penh. It was the way his sister had tried to sleep on in the morning, after Lucien had gotten up and turned on his transistor radio. He did it partly because he enjoyed the music, but partly, and he had to admit it to himself even then, because he knew it annoyed her. It was just one of those things that he and his twin sister routinely did to tease each other.
“Look at me . . .”
And now the nun appeared to be genuinely disturbed, rolling her head under her arm, drawing her legs up toward her chest. His sister used to do that too—curl up into a little ball, her arm covering her ear, while mumbling, “I'm asleep, Lucien,” as if he might not have known it. And then, before turning the radio off, he would turn it way up for a second—just to show her what kind of havoc he could wreak if he wanted to.
“Look at me,” he thought, with an even greater urgency. “Look at me now.” She squirmed on the mat.
“Look at me . . .” and for the first time, he whispered the name so dear to his heart, the name he had feared he would never speak again, the name he had almost lost all hope of reclaiming . . . “Lisette . . . look at me.”
The figure in his mind stopped moving, as suddenly as if she had been struck, then pulled her arm away from her face and bolted upright on the mat.
Lucien was looking straight into her face—and for one split second he thought he was looking into his own. Her eyes were wide open, her lips were parted in surprise; she brushed some dark hair away from her forehead and looked, frantically, around the room. She had heard him! She had heard her own name!
“Lisette,” he said again, “it's me—Lucien! Lisette—it's me!”
She was searching the room, with uncertainty, and even terror, in her eyes. Her lips moved—he knew what she must be asking—but he couldn't hear a sound. How he wanted to tell her that it was true, it was her own lost brother, Lucien, speaking to her! How he wanted to tell her not to despair any longer, to wait there, he was coming, they would be reunited at last! How he wanted her to see his own face, as he was seeing hers, and how he wished he could reach out and embrace her even now!
From the pool, he heard a low moan, and without thinking he opened his eyes. Mandy was still clutching the edge, but her head was thrown back now, her back arched so that her naked breasts rose up out of the water. Her face was contorted with pain.
“Mandy . . . I've seen her,” Lucien said. “It's my sister. You can let go now.”
But Mandy held on, shaking her head.
“It's enough,” Lucien said. “I know enough.”
But Mandy only moaned, and thrashed in the water. What was she seeing? Lucien wondered. What was she doing?
He closed his own eyes, and tried to reestablish the connection.
But what he saw now was a blur, a fast and flickering stream of images, badly illumined, impossible to follow—black-robed figures, sailing ships, elephants and monkeys, snakes and flowers, long bridges, crumbling steps, a lake as black as obsidian, skeletons marching with torches in hand, jungle palms, broken flagstones, silver crosses . . . His mind reeled, he felt dizzy and sick at heart. He opened his eyes, and put his palms flat on the floor. He felt as if he'd been dragged over the tracks, behind a runaway train.
Mandy was still bent backwards in the pool, her face a mask of anguish and fear.
“It's enough,” Lucien gasped. “Stop—it's enough!”
And Mandy suddenly screamed, a sound so unearthly it sent a chill coursing down his spine; the parakeets screeched in alarm and shot off in circles around the room. The letter from Father Brendan slipped from between his legs, and wafted into the water.
Mandy's hands fell away from the side of the pool; she floated backwards in the pale green water. Her eyes were open but blank, staring at the ceiling.
The birds did another loop, then fluttered back to their perches.
Lucien was leaning on his side now, out of breath, feeling strangely cold and numb all over. The circular scar, in the center of his chest, felt as if it had been etched with ice.
Mandy was floating, her arms by her sides, her legs stretched out.
“Axe you all right?” Lucien asked, in a ragged voice.
After a few seconds, she said, “Yes . . . I'm all right.”
“What happened?”
At first she didn't answer.
“What did you see?”
“The future,” she finally replied.
“Is that why you screamed?”
“Yes.”
“Then I saw it too—though none of it was clear. The last thing I remember was a silver cross, dangling above me . . .”
“It belongs to your sister.”
“But you saw more than that? You saw things after?”
“Yes . . . but that's to be expected.”
“Why? Why didn't I see them too?”
She righted herself in the water, and looked at him with a combination of resignation and despair. “Because no one can watch his own death,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I just watched yours.”
CHAPTER
21
“Isn't this a bit sudden?” Epstein asked, with some perplexity.
“Yes,” Lucien replied, “but I'm afraid there's been no way to avoid it.”
“And you can't tell me anything more about this secret mission than where you're going—Thailand?”
“No.”
“How long do you expect to be gone?”
“I don't know that either.” Lucien looked away, tapping one finger on the top of a large, sealed envelope. “It should be a matter of days. But in the event that something happens to me, or that I should somehow disappear—”
“Disappear?”
“—if no word is heard from me in seven days, I want you to open this and act on its instructions.” He handed the bulging gray envelope across the desk, and Epstein took it without taking his eyes away from Lucien.
“What's in here?”
“Everything you'll need to know to dispose of my personal effects, and an operational plan to take the company public, with yourself as chairman.”
Epstein looked stunned. “A plan to go public? Who made it up? When?”
“Don't be insulted. I had it done weeks ago, by an outside consulting firm, so you'd have something to run with. It's all subject to your own evaluation. Various circumstances may have changed by the time it comes into effect.”
“Like you won't be around.”
‘That's why it's being done.”
Epstein didn't know what to say. When Lucien had called him into his office, he'd assumed it was some fairly routine matter he wanted to discuss. Something to do with A.C.S., Limited. Or the routing changes in the tanker fleet. Or the cost projections on the bauxite plant. Anything—but not this. Not this farewell to the troops. This signed and sealed doomsday scenario.
“Who else knows about all this?” Epstein asked.
“No one except Simone. She has a duplicate envelope, which she's keeping in the office vault. But she doesn't know what it contains. She's been told to open it only in the event that you ask her to—or if, for some reason, you too should become . . . unavailable.”
“Me?”
“It's just a precaution,” Lucien assured him. “I don't expect you to be in any danger.”
“Though you are?�
��
“After all these instructions, I suppose it would be useless to deny it.”
“Then why the hell are you doing this, whatever it is?” Epstein exploded. “I don't care what it's about—the Garuda, that wounded sailor, the missing link to Lady Birch Farms. No matter what it is, there's a way to solve it without you somehow putting your life on the line. That's crazy. This is just business—money, spread sheets, cash flows, bank loans. It's just money. Hell, it's just paper. Tell me what's going on, and I guarantee, I guarantee, we can find a way to deal with it right here, from the forty-fifth floor. Trust me, Lucien—you always have. We can come up with something. I'll stay all night if I have to. Trust me, Lucien. Just one more time.”
Epstein was leaning forward in his chair now, the gray envelope almost slipping off his knees. Lucien, who had never known him to raise his voice, was deeply moved by his concern. But there was no way to explain to Epstein, the cool, dispassionate man of business, never far from his calculator, his computer, his columns of figures, that this was more than business, that there was more at stake than market share or quarterly profits. If Lucien had so much as tried, if he had so much as hinted at the reason for his fears, or the dangers that his mission might involve—dangers that entailed another world, and creatures that most people thought existed only in bad dreams—he knew that Epstein would think he had simply become unhinged, and call the company lawyers to get a court order to keep him from doing anything rash, such as this flying off to Thailand, until he'd been restored to his senses. And Lucien could brook no further arguments, or delay.
The night before, he'd had to struggle just to get through his dinner with Hallie; his thoughts had been entirely consumed by the discovery of his sister, and Mandy's dire premonition; Hallie had even asked him, facetiously, if there'd been a death in the family, and when Lucien didn't immediately answer, she'd put her hand over her mouth and said, “Oh my God, was there?” He'd assured her there wasn't, but at the same time he'd had to explain he would have to cut their evening short and return to his office. She hadn't looked so much hurt, as doubtful.
“Back in Bangkok,” she said, “when we'd just barely escaped with our lives, you told me you loved me. You can tell me now, honestly, Lucien—was that just one of those things said in the heat of battle, and regretted the next day? Are you trying to cool things without hurting my feelings? Because I'm a big girl, and I'd really rather know what's up.”
He reached across the table, placed his hand on top of hers, and said, “I meant it then; I mean it now. I may have to leave on a business trip tomorrow afternoon—”
“You just got back.”
“—I know. But that's the nature of the business. And I didn't want to leave without telling you, again, that I do love you, Hallie Patton . . . and whatever happens, you shouldn't forget that.”
“What's going to happen?”
He wished he'd phrased things differently. “Only good things, I hope,” he said, with a deliberate smile. “Only good things . . . as soon as I return.”
In the event that he didn't, he'd included in the gray envelope given to Epstein a letter to Hallie, along with a codicil to his will leaving her an immense bequest. In a way, the dispersal of his personal fortune had always posed the greatest, and most disheartening, problem for him—it had always served as a stark reminder of his essentially solitary life on this planet. No parents, no wife, no children, no known relatives; in several sessions with his lawyer, he had simply divided up the bulk of his money among various charities, causes, and institutions. Now he had Hallie . . . and if visions could be trusted, if the image he'd seen was true, he had his sister, Lisette, too.
Of course, if visions could be trusted entirely—and if their import were unalterable—he had only days left to live.
His journey to the East would decide a great deal.
On what might prove to be his last night in New York, he worked feverishly to tie up loose ends, compile necessary documents, set his affairs in order. By morning, he was exhausted, but content that he'd done all he could. With Hun at his side, at twelve in the afternoon, he boarded his private jet and strapped the safety belt across his seat. Hun, across the narrow aisle, did the same.
Lucien had warned him of the dangers they might face, and of what he planned to do, but Hun had greeted it all in his usual stoic manner. When Lucien had said he was going to a forbidden temple to find his long-lost sister, Hun had nodded wisely. When Lucien had said the temple was very close to the Cambodian border, Hun had nodded again. When Lucien had said, casting down his eyes, that a fortune-teller—a very good and reliable fortune-teller—had predicted he would die trying, Hun had stopped nodding and said, “We go soon.”
“You still want to come?”
“Yes. Then we come back and kill the fortune-teller.” His broad face had cracked into a smile, and Lucien had had to admit he was glad Hun would be along.
Almost a full day later, after a refueling stop in Hilo, the Gulfstream IV touched down at Don Muang Airport in Bangkok. On the flight over, Lucien had had many hours to meditate on what was to come, many hours to consider how events might unfold, but there were too many variables, there was too much unknown, to construct any serious plan of action. The first thing he'd need to do would be to see, and talk to, this Father Brendan. And he didn't even know for sure where he'd be. Was he still at the clinic, with Kevin Molloy, or had he already made the journey with him to the convent up-country? At the airport, where it was still night, a car and a driver were waiting. But this time it wasn't a white Cadillac, with a uniformed driver, from the Oriental Hotel; this time, it was an olive-drab, four-wheel-drive Land Rover, with a little man, who introduced himself as Chula, waiting on the tarmac. Chula had on rumpled yellow trousers, a short-sleeved shirt, and a huge, gold Rolex watch—no doubt fake—that he consulted frequently and with great pride.
“You are right on time,” he announced, after bowing to Lucien and Hun.
“How did you know when to expect us?” Lucien asked.
“I did not. I have been here since yesterday. I am the best driver in Bangkok. Most dependent.”
Lucien assumed he meant dependable.
“That is why the clinic choose me.”
Lucien had wired the clinic to arrange for ground transport. Chula, apparently, was it.
“We go there now,” Chula said, clearly eager to get underway.
“Yes,” Lucien agreed, “but do you know if Father Brendan is there or not?” He was very anxious to find out one way or the other.
“Father Brendan is boss of clinic,” Chula assured him, and grabbing a couple of the bags that had been deposited on the runway, he started loading the car. Lucien decided he'd get the answer soon enough.
Though it turned out to be not the answer he wanted. Father Brendan had left the clinic two days before, and word had just gotten back that there'd been some sort of accident on the way. Brendan had continued on, and was now recovering at the convent. In his absence, the acting head of the clinic was an American nurse named Bartlett. Lucien asked her how long it would take to get there.
“The roads are lousy,” she said, “but if you don't completely break down, you ought to be able to make it in seven or eight hours.”
Chula conspicuously consulted his watch.
“Can you give us directions?” Lucien asked.
“Sure. But Chula here knows Thailand like the back of his hand. He knows how to get there.”
The driver beamed.
“Then we will be leaving right now,” Lucien said. “Thank you for your help.”
“Thank you,” she replied, “for all the help you've given us here. There's nothing we could do to repay you for that.”
Lucien raised his hands before his face and bowed. In his will, he had also made provisions for the clinic.
Lucien and Hun sat together in the back seat of the Land Rover, while Chula drove and navigated. It was early morning now, and the only traffic they encountered on th
e road was farm vehicles, going to and from the city markets. The interior of the car was immaculately clean, the windows washed, the air-conditioning fully operational; it was plain that Chula lavished great care and attention on the car. Lucien guessed that the car probably represented the sum total of his fortune; his livelihood, and the welfare of whatever family he had, depended entirely on its smooth running and maintenance. In that way, he thought, the Land Rover had simply become the modern-day equivalent of a team of prize oxen, a family's most valuable possession.
And Chula drove it with equal care, hunched forward in the seat, with both hands on the wheel at all times. Once or twice, Lucien reminded him that they were in a great hurry to reach the convent, but each time Chula simply nodded vigorously in assent, and continued on at his own steady pace. The two-lane roadway, which ran for miles and miles in a straight, unvarying course, past paddy fields, flat marshes, clumps of coconut palms, eventually lulled Lucien into a drowsy half-sleep. With his head supported by the vinyl headrest, the floor vibrating under his shoes, the air-conditioning making a low whooshing sound, Lucien watched, through barely opened eyes, as the green and gray landscape endlessly unraveled. Hun was completely asleep.
At midday, they stopped in a little hamlet to refuel—from a cylindrical tank that was kept on a trestle outside the town's main store—and to buy some food from the dozen vendors that leapt out of the shade and immediately surrounded the car. Chula rinsed his face at an open tap, then lovingly washed the dust and grime from the Land Rover's windshield; when one of the children selling mangoes tried to rest his basket on the hood of the car, Chula chased him back across the road with a flurry of imprecations. In less than half an hour, they were again on their way.
But if anything, their progress now was even slower. The farther from Bangkok they got, the worse the road became. Parts were flooded, parts were reduced to rubble and ruts, many times they had to circumvent deep potholes; in one of them, filled with brackish water, Lucien actually saw tiny, colorful fish swimming. Twice more, they had to pull over to the side of the road, to relieve themselves and to allow the engine to cool. And late in the day, just after they passed another ramshackle village, Chula slowed down to navigate past a dusty old ambulance parked in a turnoff near some trees. For a moment, Lucien looked it over with no great interest; then he sat up straight in the seat and looked back at it with mounting curiosity.
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