Restless Soul

by Alex Archer

  “Did some work in Chaing Rai also, which is where Thailand kisses Laos and Myanmar, and in Mai Sai, Nan—which is surrounded by mountains, such a pretty place Nan is. Spent a month or so in Pai, then in Phitsanulok, which is between Bangkok and Chiang Mai, a gate to the Sukhothai Park it’s called, which you should see while you’re here. I even hung out my shingle in Mae Hong Son for a brief time, though it is a spit of a place. Tiny, but with a beautiful vista. It’s where the tourists go who intend to do some trekking to the various hill tribes. Did some trekking myself, and that’s how I decided to settle out here in the middle of nowhere. The Thins helped me build a house about a year back. Have two rooms, that’s quite the thing, don’t you know, two rooms.”

  He checked her arms next. The right one had a strip of gauze wrapped just above her elbow; it had taken the brunt of the bamboo splinters when one of the men had shot the building.

  “You’re lucky they found me at home, Annja. I still travel…to Chiang Dao, Chiang Khong, Thaton for the boat rides, Mae Salong and the national parks. As I said, the climate here agrees with me and I can still get around pretty well. Might as well hike, eh? At least while my legs can still carry me. No TV reception out here. Northern Thailand is considerably cooler than the rest of the country, and I like that it is a virtual melting pot of cultures—folks from Myanmar and Yunnan… China.”

  Annja enjoyed listening to him, liking the sound of his accent, which was still thickly British despite the years he’d obviously spent away from the country.

  “You know, for quite a long time most of Northern Thailand was considered off-limits to anyone but the natives. There were lots of Communist insurgencies that made it not so safe. Couple that with drug issues from Myanmar—Burma—and all the little civil wars that spilled over the borders. There still are some tiffs from Myanmar that vex these hill tribes and the backpackers, but it’s not near the problem it used to be. Drug trafficking has been seriously cut. Still, one has to be a little cautious when traveling near the border, especially if you’re in Tak or Mae Hong Son.” He rocked back on his heels and looked to the doorway. “But I do babble, don’t you know. Wonder what’s keeping Som? Shouldn’t take her that long to find something suitable for—”

  As if his words had been a gentle summons, the broad-shouldered woman entered, holding some folded garments in front of her. She smiled warmly and handed them to Doc, bowed, said something Annja couldn’t decipher and left with a few backward glances over her shoulder.

  He held the clothes out to Annja.

  “I’ve been talking up a storm,” he said. “I shouldn’t let my tongue wag so. It’s not polite. How about you do a little talking for a change? How about you answer some of the Thins’ questions…like what you did to get those men so angry, and what brought you three out here to the middle of nowhere in the first place.”

  “It would only be polite,” Annja said. She let out a deep breath, the air whistling between her teeth. “All right. Sure. I am an archaeologist, Lu, too.” She proceeded to tell him about their trip to Tham Lod and then hiring Zakkarat to take them on a little more adventurous caving expedition, and about her plans to do a special for Chasing History’s Monsters on the teak coffins and the remains. She left out the part about the voice in her head and finding the skull bowl and the dog tags, but she did mention the treasure and the need to tell the authorities about it and the gunmen.

  “I think they were Vietnamese, all the men with the guns, though they might have been Laotian, I suppose.” She didn’t tell him about the ones she’d killed on the mountainside, or that there might be more of them with the treasure.

  “And so the men were shooting at you because they didn’t want witnesses to report their ill-gotten gold,” Doc finished. “Or who might come back and steal it. Not such a lovely vacation for the two of you, eh? Relic traffickers you ran into, no doubt, come from Myanmar or Laos, going to Myanmar or Laos or China and using the cave as a stopping point while arranging for buyers. It sounds like the same operation some folks used to follow for drug trafficking. And poor, beautiful Thailand is once again caught in the middle. And the unfortunate Thins were the victims yesterday.” He folded his arms. “Two villagers were killed during the ruckus. Two young men shot dead, leaving their families to grieve.”

  14

  Annja’s eyes grew wide. She hadn’t seen any villagers get shot, but after a moment she realized what had happened. “In the school. The bullets went through the wall.”

  Doc nodded. “Two boys…well, two young men. Boon-mee and Tau were their names. I know most of the villagers here, and I’d gone fishing with Boon-mee on more than one occasion. Friendly chaps. I’d put them in their late teens. They don’t really keep track of age around here, so I can’t say exactly. Too young to die in any event. They will be buried later today. Good boys, they were.” He leaned forward, fingers gripping the edge of her pallet. “And the saddest thing is, Annja, the Thins couldn’t give a whit for treasure. They couldn’t care less. They live simply, want for little and wouldn’t pay the proverbial rat’s ass for whatever those men were smuggling. They’re not interested in Lu’s wealth or your celebrity.”

  He turned his back to her. “I’ll leave you to dress, and then I’ll meet you across the way. If you’re going to the authorities, you’ll want to talk to the man with the maimed hand to get some information. He speaks a little English…was mumbling it while I worked on him. I’ve got something left that’ll bring him around.”

  Annja watched him leave, looked at Luartaro, who was still sleeping soundly, and then rose and got dressed. The clothes she’d been given had belonged to a boy, she guessed from the cut of them. She wondered if they were from one of the two who had died. The gray pants fit snugly and hit her just above the ankles, and the shirt, made of coarse green broadcloth, rubbed a little uncomfortably against her skin. There were no pockets she could put her hands in. She couldn’t complain, though. These people had showed her compassion in spite of what she’d brought into their village, and she doubted they had a lot of clothes to spare.

  She blamed herself for the two boys’ deaths and for Luartaro being injured. Had she done things differently, she could have confronted the gunmen in the jungle.

  “Maybe I could have,” she said. “Hindsight is always perfect.”

  She wondered about Zakkarat. She’d check on him, too, and ask Doc if his ankle was sprained or broken. But first she’d see to the remaining gunman. Doc was right; she wanted some information from him. She’d also want to borrow that old motorcycle she’d been offered yesterday, and retrieve the map someone had been drawing. She slipped on a pair of sandals that fit her surprisingly well. They were made of woven reeds with a strip of ox hide for a sole.

  Taking a last look at Luartaro, she left the hut, nodding to Som on her way out. The broad-shouldered woman hovered nearby, talking to another woman and cocking her head back to no doubt indicate Annja and Luartaro. Annja headed to the building she’d been brought to the previous night. Several villagers were out, all of them pausing to watch her before they went about various tasks. Children were seated on the benches, none of them playing this morning. One pointed at Annja and talked animatedly to her companions.

  Annja smelled something cooking. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it smelled wonderful and her stomach rumbled again to remind her she was famished. Thirsty, too. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt a little swollen.

  “Doc?” Annja peered inside the doorway, seeing the Brit hovering over the remaining gunman. He was on the same table she’d been put on yesterday, and she saw that the top of it was stained from the blood. The windows were open, letting in the scents of jungle flowers, whatever was cooking and the almost overpowering odor of the moist loam. Light streamed in from all directions, giving the large room a much different appearance from her previous visit. At the end opposite from Doc and his patient was a slate board across part of the wall. Artfully rendered letters about six inches high stretched across i
t. She thought their alphabet much more beautiful than English or some of the other languages she was familiar with. It looked more like art than words.

  There was a globe on a stand next to the teacher’s table, and there were other accoutrements any classroom would have: rulers, mugs filled with pencils and paintbrushes, a skeleton hanging from a pole—plastic from the look of it—and jars filled with grass and insects. The details had been obscured yesterday by the storm and all the people gathered inside. In addition to the student tables and benches, there were a few plastic chairs like someone might find in a department store’s garden department. There were also a collection of toys in the far corner—a dump truck, a Raggedy Ann doll, a few brightly colored pails and shovels, a faded basketball and three Barbie dolls with badly shorn hair.

  “Doc?” she repeated.

  He nodded and said something to himself. He rubbed a cotton swab under the man’s nose, and the eyelids fluttered. Annja came close and heard the floor creak behind her; Som and the woman she’d been talking to hovered curiously just inside.

  “His name is Ba An Dung, according to the papers in his pocket.” Doc pointed to a wallet next to the prone man. “So definitely Vietnamese. From South Vietnam, maybe, if he is the second child.”

  “I don’t understand,” Annja said. She stood opposite Doc, looking down at the man, who had yet to regain consciousness.

  “In the southern part of the country, the second-born son is given the name Ba, which means ‘third’…the third member of the family. But in the north, Ba is given to the third child. Ca goes to the oldest, Hai the second. Just a bit of trivia for you. An Dung means ‘peaceful hero,’ but I wager this fellow is neither peaceful nor a hero.” He scratched at his nose. “I spent a year in Vietnam, right after my wife died. She was Vietnamese. We’d always talked about going to visit her sisters. Just never got around to it while she was alive.”

  “You’re an interesting man, Doc,” Annja said.

  “Not near so interesting as you, Annja. An archaeologist you said. And a TV personality? A treasure finder and the target of a Vietnamese army.”

  “I’d hardly consider them an army,” Annja said.

  “They had the firepower of one, eh? Ah, here he comes. He definitely could benefit from a hospital, and your friend Lu should be checked out there, as well, I suppose, or at least a clinic. I dare say you’re mending well enough on your own that you won’t need one.” He wagged a finger at her. “I want none of you suing me now because I’m not a real medical doctor. I did the best I could.” He took several steps back from the table to not interfere with whatever she planned for the man.

  “You did great, Doc. Really great.”

  Annja leaned over the man. He stared up at her, a snarl forming on his lips. Still, he made no move to menace her or to get up.

  “Ba An Dung,” she began. “Tell me all about the treasure in the mountain.” Annja asked him plenty of other questions. How many men were involved in the smuggling operation, what he thought the remainder might be doing now, would any more be coming after her and her companions, where did the gold come from and where was it ultimately headed?

  He gave her nothing, just a string of curses and threats that were clearly intended to frighten her. The fingers of his good hand clenched and unclenched, and veins stood out along his neck and temples.

  “What about the skull bowl?” she asked, her eyes daggers aimed at him. “And the American dog tags?”

  This interested Doc, who took a step closer.

  She saw no spark of recognition on the man’s face, and so she described the bowl, thinking perhaps he did not know it was made from a human skull. He didn’t react but he showed recognition when she mentioned the golden Buddhas, however. Annja growled from deep in her throat and pushed away from the table.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “I’m not surprised,” Doc said. “Violent men are not terribly cooperative. I’ve no sodium thiopental or sodium pentothal—truth serum as it’s called. Ethanol, scopolamine, a handful of barbiturates, temazepam—some of those might work. They’re all sedatives and block cognitive function and interfere with judgment. Don’t have any of those, either. As I said, I used up just about everything on the lot of you.” He tapped a finger on the edge of the table. “Japanese torture squads used to have something called cisatracurium, and some agencies in England thought cannabis because of its THC component would work as a truth drug…. I’m well-read, don’t you know.”

  “Apparently.”

  “You could just beat it out of him, I suppose.”

  Annja made a face.

  “‘Going all Jack Bauer’ is the expression I heard when I was living where there were TVs and DVDs.”

  “Or I could let the authorities deal with him,” she said, the resignation thick in her voice. Annja had considered calling her sword and holding the blade to the man’s neck to force some information out of him. But not with Doc and Som and the other woman watching…along with the villagers who were peering in the windows. And she’d had enough violence for a while. She was more interested in finding out about the skull bowl. “Definitely let the authorities deal with him.”

  She stuck her hands under her armpits and felt the skin pull on her right arm. Annja healed fast, but she wasn’t a hundred percent yet.

  “Hungry, Annja?” Doc pointed to the doorway. A young Thins man came in with a tray and two bowls and a jar of water on it. “I’ve already eaten. Fixed myself a double serving of instant oatmeal a little while ago. I have a nice stock of it. Cinnamon-raisin.” He paused. “And it’s one of the few things I don’t share.” He gestured to the tray. The young man carried it to a desk and put it down, bowed and stood against a wall.

  “Yes,” Annja said. “I’m very hungry.”

  “Thai food, even from these hill tribes, is a tad spicy for my palate,” Doc said. He rose on his toes so he could see into the bowls. “That’s johk, in the bowls. It’s a rice soup, on the thick side, sort of like porridge, sometimes with pork in it if they catch a wild pig…but it doesn’t look like it this morning. Seems they put an egg in it for you. That would cost you an extra five baht or so if you bought johk in a marketplace. It’s a bit like khao tom, if you’ve had that before. But it’s spicier. See? They put shredded ginger in it just for you. Grown locally, and quite a treat, the ginger.” He wrinkled his nose. “You can have my bowl, too, if you’d like.”

  Annja sat and tipped the first bowl to her mouth. There were no spoons. The mixture was warm and not as spicy as she’d expected, and it was as thick as porridge. She found it pleasant and filling and hoped Luartaro would be served some when he woke up. The second bowl quickly followed the first, and she drank the water in one long pull. She could have eaten at least one more bowl, but she stopped herself from asking for more.

  “Thank you,” she said to the young man.

  Doc translated for her.

  The young man smiled, bowed again and retreated outside with the tray and empty bowls.

  Annja stared at the doorway. She remembered taking off her pack yesterday and setting it just inside. It wasn’t there now. “Doc, my bag. I put it there—right there—yesterday.”

  His gaze followed her finger. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I was paying all my attention to you and Lu…and him.” He pointed to the Vietnamese man, who was trying unsuccessfully to get up. “His muscles won’t be cooperating for a little while. The stuff I gave him is made to subdue an ox, don’t you know.”

  “My bag.” Annja felt her throat tighten. It had the skull bowl in it, the only real treasure she was interested in, and it had all the dog tags, as well. “Maybe one of the villagers moved it, to clean it. You said they were washing my clothes. And my boots. Where are my boots?”

  Doc spoke to Som and the other woman, making a clacking sound with his tongue against his teeth. After a moment, he translated the reply. “Som’s sister has washed what is left of your clothes, and they are drying on a tree. Your
boots are there as well, soaking to get the mud out. As for your pack, they did not touch it. Som thinks your other fellow—”

  “Zakkarat.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember him telling me his name last night. Zakkarat Tak-sin. Som thinks Zakkarat took your pack. A nice enough chap. I put a tight bandage on his ankle and told him he should have it x-rayed. Might be broken, don’t you know. Had a helluva time trying to put on his boots, couldn’t get the one over the swelling, and so he traded them to Anuman for a good pair of sandals.”

  Annja turned. “Where is Zakkarat?”

  Doc shrugged. “He left last night, the rain still coming down hard. Borrowed Erawan’s motorcycle and took off. Good thing the headlight was working. Don’t know how far he managed to get, though, all the rain and the mud. The trails are basically streams. I hope he brings Erawan’s motorcycle back. It’s the only one in the village.”

  Annja felt herself go pale. “My skull bowl.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Something very important to me was in that bag. Did she see which way Zakkarat went?”

  There was another exchange in the Thins language.

  “Som said he went west, back into the jungle the way the three of you had come.”

  Annja spun and dashed past the two women, sandaled feet slapping over the still-muddy ground. “Lu!” she hollered. “Trouble!”

  15

  She raced to the small building, nearly bowling over a hunchbacked man who was trundling by with a bundle of soggy reeds.

  “Lu!”

  He was snoring gently, still propped up against the wall, a thin line of drool spilling over his lower lip and ending in a half-dollar-size wet spot on his borrowed shirt.

  “Lu.” She knelt by him, gently jostling him. “Lu, wake up. Enough tranquilizer to take out an ox, huh? Wonderful.”