Love In a Distant Land: Rachel Marie Series Book One

by David B. Smith

  “Shut up! You come in car right now and ride. Come along for good sex party. Or we kill you.”

  The boy’s growled threat had the bracing effect of clearing her mind. Suddenly determined to stand her ground, Rachel Marie gave a mighty push against her main antagonist. “No way! If you kill me, then you kill me, but I’m not getting in any car with you!”

  He staggered back a step, startled by her strength, but as she turned to run the other two teens seized her by both arms and pinned her against Khemkaeng’s Nissan. “You come in car,” one hissed, slapping his hand across her mouth. “Now quiet!” The other aimed a pulverizing kick at her rib cage, the sharp toes of his leather shoes breaking the skin.

  Twisting her head away, Rachel Marie screamed, an involuntary shriek that shattered the evening calm. “Help! Help! Khemkaeng!”

  “You shut mouth!” The ringleader’s grip on his beer tightened, and he swung it against the hood of the Nissan. The bottom of the bottle sheared off into jagged pieces, the yellow liquid spraying the surreal scene, and he waved the makeshift weapon menacingly.

  “Now,” he snarled. “You American lady . . .” He was breathing heavily, his bloodshot eyes flashing irrational anger. “Now I cut you and see bleeding.”

  “No!” Rachel Marie screamed again, hysterical and terrified. Her vision swam in blurry, lurching currents, and she could feel her knees buckling. Behind her a door slammed and she heard footsteps.

  “Bhai!” One of the other youths hissed, but the long-haired boy took a single ferocious swipe at her. Rachel Marie could feel a white-hot knife of intense pain shoot down her right arm, followed by a warm, sticky flood of excruciating hurt. “Help,” she moaned, now unable to muster any volume. “Please . . . somebody.”

  Suddenly there was a shout, a rolling thunderclap of male rage. Khemkaeng hurtled toward the three youths brandishing a long kitchen knife. He was screaming in Thai, his face a fierce mask of holy anger. A torrent of Asian imprecations came out as though gushing from a fire hydrant, and he flashed the blade with authority.

  The boys, drunk as they were, reacted in slow motion, and backpedaled awkwardly, one of them tripping over the small ridge separating the two lots. Picking themselves up, they dashed to their own car and tugged the doors open. The engine roared to life and the trio spun out, narrowly missing a pair of bicyclists before screeching into the darkness on the other side of the restaurant. An Australian man popped his head out the front door of a nearby apartment. “Everything all right out here?”

  “No!” Tears of rage streaming down his face, Khemkaeng halted in his tracks. “Call . . . police! No . . . no, it’s too late.” White with despair, he flung the knife into the nearby grass and scooped up his bleeding girlfriend. “Rachel! Rachel! Oh God . . .”

  Her blouse was awash in crimson, and his knees buckled. “No! No!”

  The Australian man sprinted over. “What can I do?”

  Plucking the keys out of Rachel Marie’s nerveless hand, Khemkaeng and the other man picked her up. Together they put her in the passenger seat. “Do you know where to go, mate?”

  “Yes, yes. I can take her.” Tearing off his shirt, Khemkaeng tied one sleeve around her shoulder in a crude tourniquet. He pressed the rest of the fabric into the open wound, as fresh sobs burst from his chest.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded, numb with grief, and gunned the engine. Throwing the car into reverse, he squealed into the street, narrowly avoiding a tuk tuk.

  “Rachel . . . I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Her response was a choked whisper, and she felt everything swimming around her in a whirlpool of agony.

  Khemkaeng drove furiously, the car engine whining in protest as he cut in and out of traffic. There was a momentary lull between two lights and he floored the accelerator, pressing his shirt against her wound at the same time, trying to steer and pound on the horn just with his right hand. “Please, Rachel . . . hold on. I love you . . .” A distant light signal blinked to orange, then red, and their car tore through the intersection, barely missing a trio of pedestrians who lurched out of the way.

  Letting go of her wound for just a moment, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and thumbed 191. In the dim fog of her remaining consciousness, she could hear his pleading voice, in Thai now, describing their desperate flight to a hospital.

  Dropping the phone on the floor of the car, he reapplied pressure to the jagged slice which was still oozing blood with every beat of her fading pulse. “Please, Rachel . . .”

  A knot of cars ahead was blocking all three lanes, and Khemkaeng cut sharply right and into the lane of onrushing traffic, honking his horn and narrowly missing two cars. An opening miraculously emerged, and he slid back over to the left side of the broad thoroughfare, cutting across two lanes in order to stay away from the one clogged with several slow-moving buses.

  “Almost there,” he murmured, his voice choked with grief. “Almost . . .” Ahead, he could see the familiar gray wall of the Christian hospital, just on the other side of a small incline with railroad tracks running perpendicularly across all lanes.

  “No!” Still a good 150 meters away, a red warning light began to flash, and a dinging bell announced the lumbering approach of one of the city’s local freight trains. In a split second of decision, Khemkaeng pushed the gas pedal to the floor again, shifting down in order to punch the RPMs to their max. The car screamed in protest as the heavy red-and-white guard rail began to slowly descend.

  “Oh God, please . . .” The car shot underneath the crossbar, missing it by less than three feet. Just to the left, the freight train bore down on them, its harsh whistle echoing through the intersection. Rachel Marie, barely conscious, felt a horrific bump as the Nissan blasted over the crossing, the tires thumping furiously over the twin sets of tracks. The broad street forked into two smaller roads, and Phitsanulok Road was blessedly open.

  “Yes! We are here!” Still sobbing, Khemkaeng sped down the left-hand side of the road, hugging the curb. A bare two hundred meters later, he swerved sharply into Mission Hospital’s arrival area, furiously honking his horn. He pulled up at the emergency room entrance, where two orderlies and a gurney with its white-sheeted pad were already in position, prepared and waiting.

  “Hurry! Please!” Leaping from the driver’s seat, wild-eyed and incoherent, he pointed to the passenger seat. “She is so badly injured . . .”

  Rachel Marie felt a strong pair of arms cradle her. A young man, speaking in Thai, gave directions as his partner lifted her from the blood-drenched bucket seat. Another ugly shard of pain washed over her as the orderly was forced to support her wounded arm.

  “Be careful! Please!” His voice bereft of hope, Khemkaeng came over, shirtless, and took her hand. His fingertips felt oddly moist and cool, a tender last link to anything good, as the dizzying, broken world of Bangkok slowly faded to black.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The snow was thick and very wet; it was hard pushing her tired body against the harsh incline of the hill. But far behind her, an indistinct dot against the white horizon, Rachel Marie could see her antagonist. Was it three, or just the one distant adversary steadily advancing, gliding relentlessly toward her? She sucked in a lungful of arctic air, the cold burning her throat, and slogged ahead, trying to rebuild a lead.

  The unstated fear stalking her provided a burst of renewed energy, yet it was somehow hard to keep going. Her legs were sluggish stilts, clumsy in the mounting snow banks, and she nearly slipped. Pausing, she peered through the snowflakes to see where her enemies were. No, it was just the one again, faceless but determined, and he seemed much closer now. She tried to call for help, but her voice was a squeak, carried away by the blizzard.

  The snow pushed itself off to the side, and it was easier now to make good time. The high school corridor was nearly empty; she tried to find a teacher or custodian, anyone who could intervene, but there was no one. Only him. He leered at her, his face dark and hostile in
the shadows, softly crooning that nursery rhyme from the blue Honda. The gym and the safety of numbers–of people, coaches, cheerleaders, high school boys in their damp basketball uniforms–was her goal, but somehow the journey stretched out into something slow and impossible. It seemed better to walk, to look casual. Running would be an admission of her terror . . . and it didn’t matter, because her lethargy was still pinning her almost where she stood.

  It took forever to pass the long row of gray lockers. Even in her slow-motion anxiety, Rachel Marie noticed a faded blue poster, a tutor’s offer to assist with AP calculus; there was a long string of tabs attached, email info dangling like legs on a centipede. The hallway was an endless flight of stairs, each step an impossibly high mountain, and she grunted to hoist herself from one to the next.

  The snow was higher than her knees now, with a heavy crust, and the teenaged thugs behind her waved a jagged piece of glass, hissing her name–a chilling cry that reduced her to sobs. Any hope of getting away from them was melting into a circular wall of white silence that surrounded her, closing in. Someone passing the other direction, wearing a white parka and fur hat, said something unintelligible in a foreign tongue, and she turned, wiping frozen tears from her cheeks. Huh? But then she saw an adult, the assistant basketball coach, and she trembled with relief. He turned to face her, his black hair much shorter now, and the Panthers jersey replaced with a navy suit and yellow polo shirt. So her heart skipped an excited beat when she saw it was her beautiful Khemkaeng.

  “Where were you?” She wanted to ask him that, but somehow her voice was just a whisper. “Sorry. I . . . it’s just been really hard to get . . . here.” Why can’t I say it? My voice is sore, but I don’t know why . . .

  The train was bearing down on them now, like the terrifying Dolby scene in The Fugitive, and she wanted to screech out a warning. Jump! Move, sweetheart! Floor it! But again, her voice was a stripped and inaudible whisper. “Please . . . babe . . .”

  “Shhhh.” He pulled his chair closer and she felt his fingers gently encircle her hand. “I am right here, Rachel Marie. Just rest.”

  The jarring visual cacophony of snowstorms and runaway trains melted meekly into the wallpaper, and she blinked, trying to understand where she was. The room was a faint pink with just one hospital bed. Right outside the door she could see two Thai nurses wearing regulation white slacks and colorful blouses, their short black hair pulled into tight ponytails.

  “Can you hear me?” Khemkaeng was seated next to her, relief written on his face. “You’ve been sleeping for a long time.”

  She could barely manage a whisper. “Wh . . . where am I?”

  “Mission Hospital.” He carefully bent down and kissed her good hand. “After the accident, I was able to bring you here in time. You are safe now.”

  “But . . .” Her feathery voice gave out. Glancing over, she could see an IV needle inserted into the vein just above her right wrist, heavy tape holding it in place. She was afraid to look, but had an oppressive sense of thick bandages encasing her entire right arm. A muted twinge of pain nudged at her brain with each breath, and she remembered now a kick to the ribs as she cowered in the grass.

  “It is all right. Just try and rest some more.” Rachel Marie could tell her awakening had stirred a fresh reminder of his own ache. His voice quivered. “I love you.”

  “I . . . me too.” She wet her lips, feeling the dry cracking and a raw cut where one of her assailants’ blows had landed. “Could I have a drink?”

  “Of course.” Khemkaeng released her hand and went over to a small table with a massive bouquet of flowers. There was a pitcher of water, and he poured a small amount into a cup. He brought it back and carefully brought the straw to her lips.

  “Better?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “All right. Sleep a bit more, then. I will be right here.”

  Her mind felt torn between the longing to sleep, to be enveloped in a warm blanket of unconscious rest . . . and the slowly reemerging images of her nightmare. The boys’ faces came back into focus now in a filmy but insistent vision. The gang leader’s petulant rage. His John Lennon haircut with long straight locks down below his ears where an American teen’s sideburns would be. That large, reddish mole just above his left cheekbone. She remembered the one unmended tooth which had come in high above the others, giving his leer an odd ferocity.

  I have to tell Khemkaeng. It was hard to bring herself back into the present, to tackle this Everest of reality. But even in her sedated state, she became aware that this suddenly lucid memory needed to be documented. “Sweetheart . . .”

  His hand was immediately there, holding hers again. “Yes! What do you need?”

  An involuntarily sob shook her body, and he leaned over the bed, kissing her forehead. “Everything is fine. The doctor says you will recover. Please do not worry.”

  “No,” she said, a bit stronger. “I need to tell you . . . about this boy who hurt me. So you can tell the authorities.”

  Khemkaeng’s face darkened at the mention of her enemies. “Rachel, are you sure?”

  “Please. While I’m thinking of it.”

  Taking small sips to ease the scraped dryness of her throat, she whispered halting phrases of a physical description, trying even to recall what her assailant had been wearing. “And a kind of small tattoo on his left arm,” she added.

  “What kind of car?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Maybe red. Sorry. It was dark. And I had my back to it most of the time.”

  He found a scrap of paper in a desk drawer and jotted down the details. “What did they say? Why were they angry? Do you have any idea?”

  Rachel Marie gave a bare nod, her bruised face pale against the hospital pillow. “It was something about that Phuket beauty pageant.”

  He stopped writing, mystified. “What about it?”

  It took her a moment to get her breath; every word was an extra labor. “He was . . . angry . . . offended. Because we talked about the conflict . . . in the country.”

  Khemkaeng nodded, understanding. “Sure.” He set the paper aside and stroked her good arm. “That is enough for now. You sleep some more.”

  The nursing supervisor came in, murmuring apologies, and left quickly after noting her pulse and jotting a figure down on her chart. Rachel Marie allowed herself to drift away again.

  The dreams seeped back into the ICU ward, less vivid now, but still with the surreal juxtapositioning of her mature 24-year-old self into absurd high school settings. Always they ended with the kind Thai man wearing a look of concern and the navy suit.

  Hours later, still feeling groggy, she motioned him closer. “How long have I been here?”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and held it there for a long time, not answering. His kiss felt cool to the touch, and his eyes kind but bloodshot through the rimless glasses. “Almost two days.”

  “Oh, no.” It was a feeble moan. “What about school? My kids?”

  “It’s all right,” he soothed. “We have people who can substitute.”

  “But it’s the last week.”

  “Never mind.” He pointed to the huge flower arrangement. “That is from all of your students. They took a money collection and then John brought it.”

  “What about you?” Despite her own fragile state, a wave of pity washed over her. “Poor sweetie. How long have you been here?”

  Khemkaeng hesitated. “All the time.”

  “What? You haven’t been home?”

  He shook his head, weary but relieved. “No. Until you woke up, I knew I should be here.”

  “Where’d you get that shirt?” It was one of the standard yellow short-sleeve shirts Thai citizens often wore in a cheerful show of adoration for their revered monarch.

  He looked down at the bright fabric, clashing vividly with his muted suit coat. “Downstairs. In the gift shop.”

  “Because your shirt was . . .” She didn’t finish the thought.

  “I
t is all right.” He pulled his chair over until he was right by her head. “The important thing is that you will recover.”

  A searing memory came back of the gaping gash in her arm, the makeshift tourniquet, and how he pressed his expensive white shirt against the cut in a frantic attempt to stanch the flow of blood. “Sweetie . . . you saved my life. Thank you.”

  His eyes moistened. “I could never live without you.”

  With some effort, she raised her good left arm and traced her fingers across his cheek. “I love you very much. Now go home for a bit. It’s okay.”

  Khemkaeng shook his head. “No. I cannot.”

  “It’s all right. Let me sleep for a little while. You go home and take a shower and rest for a few hours. Come back before bedtime . . . and maybe there’ll be a goodnight kiss in it for you.” She managed a wan smile.

  He pretended to brighten. “At least that is a good idea.”

  “See? Go ahead. I’m okay.”

  He waited until her breathing became even and slow, then kissed her on the forehead and slipped away.

  Rachel Marie drifted in and out of consciousness, grateful for the gentle healing that hospital meds provided through the IV tube. In the opaque fog of her evening, she heard quiet hospital announcements, always in Thai, out at the nursing station. Twice, nurses slipped into the room to see if she needed a drink or help to go to the bathroom.

  Despite the reserve and the professional deportment of the hospital staff, a sad, even sinister cloud of resentment began to steal into her soul. How had this happened? Why had this alien kingdom reared back and tried to take her life? She remembered the boy’s snarled warning about wanting to kidnap and abuse her, to watch her bleed. Was it fair for an American woman to be brutally stabbed this way, simply for reading a cue card with the mildest suggestion, just a hint, that a country might do better at policing its own moral state?