The Truth Itself

by James Rayburn

  “Are they okay?” he asked.

  Kate inspected the weapons and could find no fault. “What about money?”

  “It’s taken care of.”

  “No, JP.”

  He shrugged. “Somebody owed me a favor.”

  He set about making breakfast and she went and packed up their belongings.

  JP appeared in the doorway, watching. “Where are you going?”

  “To a hotel.”

  “Why?”

  She jerked her head toward the kitchen and he followed her.

  “I told you before, JP, this isn’t your fight.”

  “So you just go?”

  “For now.”

  “Okay,” he said and he walked back to the bedroom and he heard him speaking to Suzie and she had to dam up an emotion that threatened to soften her.

  He didn’t return to the kitchen and she heard his scooter clatter away.

  She’d called Hook who’d come in his friend’s tuk-tuk and brought them to this rundown resort far from the beach and the tourist spots. It was built on the slope of a hill, with good sightlines.

  Hook had hovered a while before leaving to go and dangle his lure. Or throw shark bait in the waters.

  Kate rose from the bed and rotated her shoulder blades, loosening little pockets of tension. The TV flickered silently: a Seventies Bronson movie with Thai subtitles, old scrotum face as a vigilante, wasting the trash who’d killed his wife and raped his daughter. Kate remembered watching it years ago with Yusuf, the two of them busting a gut at the flared jeans and bandito mustaches.

  She felt a pang of loss that was counterproductive and clicked off the TV.

  Kate walked over to where Suzie slept on a sofa by the window and touched her hair, listening to her breathe.

  The burner phone Hook had given to her earlier rang and she walked into the bathroom to answer it. “Yes?”

  “He’s here,” Hook said and told her about the dead Israeli. “Do you want me to come over there?”

  “No,” she said and ended the call before he could argue.

  Kate returned to the bed, reassembling the weapons, feeling serene now that things were underway. Back on familiar ground.

  Locked and loaded and ready to kill.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Rising with the sun Hook took a tepid shower, his entry into the bathroom sending a flock of small khaki geckoes scuttling for the safety of the roof where they would bask in the heat all day, their tails dangling like commas through cracks in the ceiling board.

  Hook patted his body dry with a mildewed towel and, running his hands over a scrape of graying beard, decided he needed a shave.

  He lathered up and snapped a disposable BIC razor from a pack of three. Confronting the stained bathroom mirror he swore to himself that he would make this about hygiene not self-flagellation, but, after starting promisingly, the double blades of the BIC scraping a path through the white foam revealing his wrinkled, sun-browned skin, Hook’s gaze was drawn to his eyes and he was done for.

  He couldn’t look into his eyes without taking his own measure, without seeing a lifetime of deception (of others, sure, but mostly of himself) and self-obsession. Without seeing a man who had worn a threadbare cloak of patriotism to excuse and enable his essential narcissism, to feed his ego and his intemperate urges. A man who’d been nothing but a cheap huckster, seducing the gullible with his oratory and his showmanship, while others—more stolid, more adult, braver—had done the hard yards, and when his time had come, when there had been no grown-ups to turn to, when it had been left to him to make the call, he’d cost twenty-two people their lives.

  And now he was gambling with the lives of his daughter and his grandchild.

  Hook dropped the razor and shut his eyes, gripping the porcelain sink, riding the sudden rush of panic that threatened to unman him.

  His cell phone warbled in the bedroom and he hurried through to where it lay blinking on the rumpled sheet. When he lifted it he saw it wasn’t Kate, it was Betty Carnahan.

  Feeling sick he set the phone down and waited until it stopped ringing, still staring at the device as it bonged and a red light flashed. He lifted it and played the message.

  “Harry, this is Betty. I was wondering if you’d seen Bob? He’s gone off the reservation. Maybe you could call me when you get this?” She was trying for levity, but Hook could hear the anxiety in her voice.

  He set the phone down, wiping a dollop of foam from its face and returned to the bathroom.

  Hook finished shaving briskly. Too briskly, and had to stick a square of toilet paper onto his upper lip where he had nicked himself.

  He dressed in a knock-off Lacoste golf shirt and a pair of blue shorts. When he opened the drawer beside his bed to retrieve his wristwatch he saw the grip of Bob Carnahan’s pistol protruding from beneath the tattered paperback of Henderson the Rain King.

  Hook pondered whether to take the weapon or not and then he grabbed it, checked the safety was on, and shoved it in the waistband of his shorts, covering it with his shirt.

  He slammed the door to the house and thundered down the stairs, the wooden structure shaking under his weight.

  He kicked his Yamaha to life, bumped his way down to the main road and, watching his mirrors, rode slowly through the light morning scooter traffic—a few uniformed hotel workers on their way to the early shift and a mosquito swarm of mini-skirted bargirls, smeared and tousled and still drunk and drugged as they made their unsteady way home, as afraid as vampires of the pulverizing sun that winched its way up over the cliffs.

  Hook stopped at a bakery and bought a half-dozen croissant, a container of chocolate brownies and two coffees to go. Back on the bike he took a few turns, doubling back on himself (typical idle farang behavior), but seeing nobody in pursuit he headed for the resort, riding up a track carved through the thick green foliage, past a toppled wooden fence and rattled over the grass to Kate’s bungalow, sounding the horn of the Yamaha.

  The door opened and Kate emerged, Suzie in the doorway behind her.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  As he walked inside carrying the bag from the bakery Hook ruffled Suzie’s hair and she hugged his waist.

  He set the food and drinks down beside the TV. Kate tore a strand of croissant and ate it slowly, washing it down with coffee. Suzie went straight into the chocolate brownies.

  Hook couldn’t stomach food and sipped at his espresso.

  His phone rang. Betty Carnahan. He almost sent the call to voicemail but an impulse had him standing and hitting the green button.

  “Hey, Betty,” he said as he wandered out onto the porch, staring out over the trees at the amber cliffs.

  “Hi, Harry.”

  “I just got your message, I was about to get back to you.”

  “I’m sorry to call so early.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “You haven’t seen Bob have you?”

  “No, not since I was at your house.”

  “He took himself off to Phuket a few days ago. I spoke to him when he got there but now his phone goes straight to voice mail. I’m starting to get worried.”

  “Why is he in Phuket?”

  “Oh, some boat show. You know Bob, always talking about buying a boat.” She paused. “Look, Bob’s done this before. Disappeared. Tomcatting, you know?” She laughed but he heard the pain of old betrayals. “But three days? I don’t know whether to call the police.”

  Hook looked back into the room and saw that Kate was watching him.

  “Harry, you couldn’t come across and see me could you? I’m a little stressed?”

  Hook said, “Betty, a guy is here delivering water and I have to pay him. I’ll call you back in a minute.”

  He ended the call and Kate came out onto the balcony.

  “Is that Bob’s wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wanting to know if you’ve seen him?”

  “Yeah. She’s deb
ating whether to involve the cops. Wants me to get a boat across and talk to her.”

  “Go,” Kate said.

  “What about you and Suzie?”

  “Take Suzie with you.” She leaned in closer. “Go there and try to persuade this woman to keep away from the cops for a day or two, Harry. The last thing we need right now is the Thai police coming to question you.”

  “And Morse?”

  “I can handle Morse.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Harry, it’s better this way. You take Suzie away from here and I’ll go into town and make myself visible and draw him in. It’ll be easier for me if I know she’s safe.”

  “You can’t handle Morse alone.”

  “I’m not some damsel in distress. It’s what I do.”

  “You haven’t done it in a while.”

  “It’s like riding a bike.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Kate sighed and moved a strand of hair away from her face. “Harry, to be blunt, you’d just get in the way.” She saw his face. “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re right.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He nodded. “You’ll call me?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Okay.”

  Kate turned and went into the room and said, “Come on Suze, you’re going on a boat ride with Harry.”

  “Where are you taking me, Grandpa?” the kid asked, walking out onto the porch.

  “To visit a nice lady.”

  “Is she your girlfriend?”

  “No, she’s married.”

  “Does that even matter?”

  Hook laughed. “You watch too much TV.”

  She took his hand and they crossed to the bike, Hook lifting her up onto the saddle. As he straddled the Yamaha he looked back at the bungalow and saw Kate standing in the doorway. She waved and closed the door and he started the bike, taking off toward the road, the child wrapping her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  Holding Suzie’s hand Hook walked along the pathway to the Carnahan’s house, leading the girl past a koi pond strewn with purple water lilies and around the hibiscus shrub that hid the doorway from view. Hearing the soft jangle of wind chimes as a hot breeze ruffled his hair Hook was able, for a moment, to imagine that this was his house and that beautiful, gracious Betty was his wife, and that he was bringing his granddaughter home.

  The fantasy stalled when Betty appeared in the doorway, moving aside a diaphanous silk curtain. She had aged ten years, her face hollow and drawn, her eyes dark holes in her skull.

  “Harry,” she said and stopped when she saw the child. “Who is this?”

  “This is Suzie. Suzie, say hi to Mrs. Carnahan.”

  Betty, rather than step backward to invite them into the house, seemed deliberately to block the doorway, her eyes on the child, her suddenly elderly mouth moving soundlessly, like one of the fish in the pond. Then she looked up at Harry, her eyes widening in terror and she started to shake her head.

  Suddenly she flew backward from the doorway and landed in a heap on the wooden floor with a sick thud. Hook gaped and it took him far too long to fumble for the pistol in his belt.

  By then Dudley Morse had appeared from behind the curtain and seized Hook’s throat and flung him into the room, landing a kick to his solar plexus that had him curling like an inchworm, the pistol spinning across the polished floor.

  Suzie screamed and tried to run, but Morse pivoted and reached out one of his impossibly long arms and grabbed the child by the hair, dragging her into the room and smothering her to him, her legs pedaling and arms flailing as she fought him.

  He shut down her scream by gripping her throat, throttling her.

  Hook, gasping and retching, tried to get himself to his knees, flailing at the pale man. Morse kicked him in the face and Hook felt teeth break and hot blood flow from his nose and mouth and he went down again, viewing the world through a distorted lens that was irising slowly closed as he saw Morse remove a small bottle from his pocket and pour the contents onto a cloth that he pressed to the child’s face.

  Then Hook fell back, unconscious before his head hit the floor like a mallet striking a xylophone.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  Lucien Benway was drunk. Not shitfaced, as he father would’ve said, the term he’d used to describe his own increasingly frequent condition, the elder Benway—like his son short in stature but as wide as a brick outhouse—staggering around their trailer, weeping into the silk nightgown Lucien’s mother had left behind in her haste to flee to Biloxi with a Collier’s Encyclopedia salesman.

  No, Benway was in what he’d call a state of controlled inebriation, akin to the controlled burn that culled undesirable forest vegetation. It was his contention that alcohol, imbibed with scientific care, cauterized the fear, anger and resentment he carried like a poisoned well deep in his gut, leaving him primed for action.

  Sitting behind his desk, dressed in a winter weight Herringbone tweed suit, white shirt, port-wine colored tie (the Full Windsor knotted to perfection) and a pair of oxblood brogues buffed to such a high sheen that the face of Congressman Antoine Mosley appeared in each stippled toecap.

  Mosley was everywhere. As Benway surfed from channel to channel he was confronted with the Congressman’s dark scowl and ghetto locutions. Benway landed on Fox News where Mosley, pointing a finger as beringed as a rapper’s, said, “This time Lucien Benway, and this administration, will be held accountable. Benway’s chances of dodging prison are slim to none and slim just up and left town.”

  Benway clicked off the TV and sat staring at its mute gray screen, listening to the low, insect-like murmur of the hacks camped out on his doorstep, increasing in number as Mosley’s witch-hunt increased in venom.

  Benway’s cell phone (a new number, his last was clogged with the hectoring demands of the media) burped once and he clicked open the text message. His cab awaited him downstairs, which meant running the gauntlet.

  He emptied the last finger of Cutty Sark from his glass, brushed nonexistent lint from his jacket and walked to the door. Locking his office after him, Benway made his way down the stairs. Nadja sat at the kitchen table watching Mosley on the small TV, her beautiful legs crossed at the knee, the ankle monitor gleaming darkly in the fluorescent light.

  “Darling,” she said, in the sit-commy delivery she’d adopted these last few days, “do you have a dinner engagement? Perhaps you can bring me a doggy bag?”

  All that was missing was the canned laughter.

  He ignored her and walked to the front door, determined not to do what he had done yesterday evening and try to sneak out through his garage like a furtive adulterer.

  Benway took a deep breath and opened the door onto a constellation of flashbulbs, the voices of his interrogators like the baying of rabid dogs.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  The flies woke Harry Hook. Their mad buzzing and their feelers tickling his eyelids and lips. He blinked and looked into the dead face of Betty Carnahan, her eyes, nostrils and mouth thick with a seething black mass of meat flies. The wooden handle of a carving knife protruded from her chest, and the floor was tacky with her blood and voided waste.

  Hook sat up, his head spinning, the taste of vomit in his mouth. Vomit and something chemical, like ammonia. He remembered Morse smothering Suzie with a cloth soaked in some anesthetic and understood that the pale man had used it on him, too.

  Suzie.

  Hook scanned the room and saw the curtain billowing in the open doorway, the wind chimes jangling atonally.

  He looked at his watch, battling to focus on the dial. He had lost nearly five hours.

  Jesus.

  Standing, suddenly aboard a tilt-a-whirl, he reached out a hand to the wall to steady himself, dislodging a framed photograph of Bob and Betty taken in happier days.

  Rushing toward the door, Hook reached for his cell phone, speed-dialing as he emerged into the burst-fruit
glare of late sunset.

  - - -

  Kate, sitting on the beach near the boats as the last of the light faded from the sky, looked like a tourist in her shorts and T-shirt, a pack slung from her shoulder.

  But the pack didn’t contain sunscreen and swimwear, it held the sawed-off Remington—old school, but still the most effective and destructive close quarters weapon she’d ever used. The Glock was under her T-shirt and the snubnose tucked into the fanny pack that she had clipped around her waist.

  The serenity she’d felt when Hook and Suzie had left her that morning had slowly ebbed, replaced by a nagging sense of foreboding, and she’d become increasingly edgy as she’d wandered the tourist town, sweating in the molten heat, the colors of the ocean, the sky, the foliage, the kitsch-laden stalls and profusion of sidewalk food suddenly too intense, too visceral for her northern palate, and she’d longed for the monochrome calm of a snowscape.

  Of Morse there had been no sign.

  When Hook hadn’t answered her calls her agitation had edged toward alarm, despite Kate telling herself that he was doing the smart thing, lying low, keeping Suzie safe. And who knew, with the cliffs and atmospheric conditions, how reliable cell phone signals were?

  And then her phone had rung, and Hook, his voice thick with panic, had told her that Morse had taken Suzie.

  Rather than causing her to mirror his panic, Hook’s call had calmed Kate.

  Now that her greatest fear—that Lucien Benway or his creature would take her child—had been made manifest, she felt a sense of predestination, as if her whole life had been lived in preparation for this moment, that each day, each minute, each second had ticked by in order for her to be here, facing this.

  She knew it was essential that she forget the times she had put others into this very position and what the outcomes had been, and manage her imagination.

  So, anchored in the moment, Kate sat on the beach, the sand beneath her slowly cooling, listening to the shouts of the boatmen, the roars of their engines and the fizz of the ocean and emptied her mind of all thoughts.