Restless Soul

by Alex Archer

  Since she knew it would be several minutes before anyone arrived, she dashed to her cabin and into the shower, thankful they’d spent the extra baht for accommodations with a private bath. She let the warm water sluice over her as she peeled off the loaned Thins garments. When had Luartaro returned? How had he got here? Had he found a ride somewhere? A motorcycle to borrow? Was he all right? He must be all right, she realized, if he’d gone back out again.

  She turned the knob as far as it would go so the water pounded wonderfully against her, and she stood there longer than she had intended. Finally—and reluctantly—she ended it when the water started to get cold. She wrapped a towel around her, and didn’t bother to dry her hair. The other towel was only faintly damp… Luartaro had been there a while ago.

  Annja padded around the room, seeing Luartaro’s borrowed Thins garments folded next to a chair, his suitcase opened and the clothes in it rumpled, as if he’d searched through it looking for something clean to wear.

  She turned to her own suitcase. There was a note on top of it from Luartaro. He was taking the bus to Mae Hong Son to find the authorities and report everything. Annja wondered if he’d already met any of the people she’d repeated her story to on the phone. Couldn’t the police have told her someone had already reported this and saved her the time? She decided it didn’t matter; she’d had to call, anyway, just to be sure…and she had the truck and its contents to hand over, along with her prisoner.

  Luartaro had written that he intended to “stuff his face” while he was in town and would see about buying a puppy to replace the dog that the gunmen had killed in the Thins village. She smiled at that line.

  Annja was still upset that Luartaro had taken some of the treasure from the cave—and intended to tell him to turn it over—but he partially redeemed himself with the line about the puppy.

  “See you soon,” he wrote. “Love, Lu.”

  She swallowed hard.

  Love, Lu.

  Did she love him? Could she love him after finding his pockets filled with pilfered jewelry? Was it true that some women were just attracted to “bad boys”?

  She didn’t want to love him. Her life didn’t have room for such frivolities at the moment.

  To get her mind off him, she looked through the business cards she’d found in the smugglers’ pockets. They were all for antiques dealers—in Chiang Mai in Thailand, Luang Prabang and Vientiane in Laos, and Hue, Dien Bien Phu and Hanoi in Vietnam. There were phone numbers scrawled on the backs, and initials and numbers that had no meaning to her. But the phone numbers might prove useful.

  Annja dressed quickly in comfortable jeans, a maroon polo shirt she’d worn only once before and running shoes that made her feel as if her sore feet were in heaven. She brushed out her hair, which dripped down her back, then she strapped her fanny pack around her waist, made sure her wallet and passport were in it and that there would be enough room for her ruined camera. She thrust the antiques-dealer cards in her back pocket, and then she headed outside to wait for the police.

  Two cars were already there waiting for her. Both had their emergency lights flashing, and one officer had a gun pointed straight at her.

  Annja felt for her sword hovering in the otherwhere.

  20

  “That was my fault, really, that Sergeant Ratsami held a gun on you.” The police officer looked as if he’d just graduated from high school, as he sat in the passenger seat of the rusty truck. He let Annja drive, saying that way he’d have his hands free to take notes.

  One of the police cars was in front, emergency lights turned off, leading the way to Chiang Mai. The other was behind her.

  “I’ve lived here half my life,” he continued. He’d introduced himself as Andrew Steven Johnson, born to American diplomats and now a permanent Thai resident by choice, his parents retired back on a ranch in Fort Worth, Texas. “And I know Thai and quite a few of the tribal dialects, but I mispronounce a few things from time to time, and Wiset and Ratsami thought you were some kind of smuggler—not the one who captured a smuggler. Sorry about that.”

  Annja smiled good-naturedly. “No harm done,” she said. Then she frowned. “The smuggler in the back admitted to killing our guide, Zakkarat Tak-sin, after torturing him.”

  “It’ll make things easy if he also admits it to us,” Johnson said.

  Annja could help persuade him, if necessary, she thought.

  “We have a few men going up the mountain now,” Johnson told her. He tapped the clipboard on his lap and pulled out a pen. “If they can find the place in the dark. And those men you said you tied up, they’ll get taken into custody.”

  Twilight had taken a firm hold on the resort area, and with no streetlights, it was a world of shadows with charcoal-like slashes of trees looming up on both sides of the truck. The truck’s lights weren’t very bright, perhaps by design. Annja fixed her tired gaze on the taillights of the police car ahead of her. The windows rolled all the way down, she tried to take in the pleasant sounds of the evening, the birdlike chirping of hundreds of frogs, the cry of some night bird and the gentle rustle of the leaves in the breeze.

  Annja had set the backpack with the skull fragments and dog tags in it behind the driver’s seat. To her, it was not considered part of the treasure she was detailing to Officer Johnson. As far as she was concerned, the police didn’t need to know about it…at least, not yet.

  “Mae Hong Son doesn’t have the resources of Chiang Mai,” Johnson explained. He continued to banter, ruining nature’s music, but his chatter helped to keep her awake. How long had it been since she’d rested?

  “That’s why we’re going there, to Chiang Mai. There’s a big department there, called the TNPD…the Thailand National Police Department. I figure I’ll apply someday and work in Chiang Mai or Bangkok. More excitement there. The TNPD is a division of the Ministry of the Interior, and it was set up to handle police duties throughout the whole country. Some folks think it’s even more influential than the Thai army.”

  Annja listened, mildly interested, and mildly amused that he’d told her he wanted to ask her questions.

  “The TNPD does more than just police the streets and pick people up for breaking the laws. They go after insurgents. Those are people who—”

  “I know what insurgents are,” Annja cut in.

  “From Burma—Myanmar—mostly. And from what I understand, if there’s a war, or a really big force moved in from Myanmar or Laos or wherever, the TNPD would come under the control of the Ministry of Defense and in effect become a second army.” He paused and rested his head against the seat and softly tapped his clipboard rhythmically, as if he were listening to a song in his head.

  “How long has it been around, the TNPD?” Annja didn’t really care to know, but she was drifting off and wanted him to keep her awake. She’d briefly toyed with the idea of having him drive so she could nap, but she liked to be in control. “Is this a relatively new police organization?”

  He sat up straight and adjusted his seat belt. “No, Miss Creed. It’s got quite a few decades under its belt. See, from what I studied…I knew I wanted to be in law enforcement ever since I was a kid, so I read a lot about it.”

  And how old are you now? she wanted to ask. He couldn’t be more than twenty.

  “The TNPD was modeled after Japan’s national police force—pre–World War II, of course. It was reorganized a few times as new ideas were introduced and the need for specialized training came up what with international terrorism and such. The United States sent some people over to help with training and equipment. That was back in the fifties. It’s quite the organization. It’s all centered in Bangkok, where the big headquarters building is. From there, technical support is provided for law enforcement throughout the whole country. They help the provincial police, the BPP—that’s Border Patrol Police—small local agencies and the Metropolitan Police.”

  “I wish you luck joining it.”

  He nodded, his head bobbing so vigorously it
reminded her of those little mechanical birds in bars that constantly dip their beaks into glasses of water.

  “Don’t need much luck, Miss Creed. Me being so fluent in English and originally from the States, I’d be welcomed, able to help with tourist matters and such. I just need to make sure I can find a nice, affordable apartment in Bangkok or Chiang Mai, in a good neighborhood with a movie theater nearby. I’ll probably do that come the winter.”

  When he became silent again, Annja tried to turn on the radio, but the knob broke off in her hand, and no amount of fiddling would get it to work. She gave up on it and watched the road as they passed through two small villages and then entered Mae Hong Son.

  Johnson started talking again. “You’re here as a tourist, right? Did you get to see much of Mae Hong Son?”

  Annja shook her head and worked a kink out of her neck. She was thankful he was going to start babbling again.

  “We’re a little less than a thousand kilometers from Bangkok here, in Mae Hong Son. This is a big city, and it should have a bigger police force, I think. Someday it will. There’s seven districts, and the Muang district, where I live, has a little less than fifty thousand people. We’ve got all the mountain ranges surrounding us, plenty of forests and the mists. You’ve probably heard that they call it the City of Three Mists.” He waited for her to nod.

  “It’s big on tourism. Wasn’t really that way when I was a kid, though. More a recent thing. Lots of ecotourism. It’s an interesting place, lots of ethnic groups, including a few American families in my district who work for some tourism company. There are some Shan.”

  Like Zakkarat, she thought sadly.

  “And some hill tribe villages are close enough to hit with a tossed stone—the Karen, Lahu, Lisu, Hmong, Lawa. The tourists love them, and the villagers coax the tourists out to see their crafts and watch the dances.”

  She followed the lead police car as it turned off onto a wider road.

  “If we were going to Chiang Mai as tourists, we would be taking Route 1095 by way of Pai. It’s less than three hundred kilometers. We’re taking 108 by way of Mae Sariang. They’re doing that for your benefit, Miss Creed. It’s not near as scenic, but it’s an easier drive.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “To get to Chiang Mai? About five or six hours. Split the difference and call it five and a half.” He tapped the clipboard again. “Now, about those questions I wanted to ask.” He reached up and turned on the dome light and tilted it so it lit up his paper. “Let’s start with how one woman was able to overpower three smugglers?”

  “I think there were five. No, six, counting the one in the back.” And that wasn’t counting the men she’d dealt with the day before.

  “Would’ve put him all comfortable in the back of one of the police cars if he wasn’t so filthy and bloody,” Johnson murmured. “And if you hadn’t managed to truss him up so well. Now…six men, you said. That’s quite remarkable for one female television archaeologist.” He paused. “We get your program in my district, but it’s dubbed. Your voice is a lot prettier than the woman who speaks in your place here. I saw the episodes you did on ancient Egyptian mummies being found in Australia and that goat-sucker creature in Mexico.”

  Annja gripped the steering wheel tighter. She’d already handed over the pistol she’d taken from one of the men. She hadn’t shot any of them with it, and ballistics would show that. Still, she didn’t want to have to give too many details about what had happened over the past two days.

  “So, six men, with just one pistol, and no shots fired from it that we could see. Tell me how you did that.” The skepticism was thick in his voice.

  He was finally asking her pertinent questions. Annja took a deep breath and started to recount pretty much everything, including finding Zakkarat’s body. She left out the sword, of course, and she didn’t mention that she’d killed one of the smugglers. That would come out later, and she’d deal with it then. No doubt the fact that she’d killed other thugs in the Thins village would also surface. She’d dealt with such issues in the past, always scrutinized and never formally charged. But the grisly little details about the deaths yesterday and today didn’t need to go into Johnson’s notes right now.

  His questions ended an hour later, leaving her four-and-a-half hours to herself. Annja chewed on the inside of her cheek, the slight pain keeping her awake. She ran the events and discoveries over and over in her mind, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle into place and meeting with little success.

  21

  They came into Chiang Mai from the south in the middle of the night, and that’s where Annja stopped following the police car and took her own route.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Johnson was surprised and flustered.

  “Taking a precaution,” she answered as she stepped on the gas. “Covering my bases. Just in case.” Just in case the questioning turned ugly when they discovered the slain smugglers. She wasn’t guilty of any wrongdoing…but this wasn’t her country and from experience she knew it was better to play it safe.

  She took a left onto Charoen Prathet Road and sped up. On her right was the Mae Nam Ping, a wide dark strip of river that sparkled with the reflection of streetlights. She turned on Tha Phae Road and wove around a double-parked truck that was unloading boxes at a nightclub. She leaned forward and looked at the street signs, finding Tud-mai Road and swerving onto it, and ignoring the protests of Johnson, who tried to grab the wheel.

  She slapped at his hand and squealed onto a side street, heading east now. The police car that had been following her turned on its lights and siren.

  “Please let me have gotten these directions right. Please, please, please,” she mumbled.

  “Where are we—”

  “Going?” She picked up speed as she turned onto Wichayanond Road. “To number 387,” she said, spotting the series of buildings she was looking for and honking madly, driving through as the gates were opened. The trailing police car stopped on the street and turned off its siren.

  The second phone call Annja had made in the lodge office was to the U.S. Consulate General in Chiang Mai. They’d provided a little advice—come to them as soon as possible—and they gave good directions. They said glowing things about Thai police, but cautioned that coming to the consulate first would be the best tactic.

  She knew that this was the only United States consular presence outside of Bangkok. It had originally been a traditional consulate, but was upgraded to a consulate general more than two decades ago.

  “Just in case,” she repeated, turning off the engine, reaching for her bag and sliding out.

  Johnson smiled and gave her a tip of his hat. “Well played, Miss Creed.”

  The consulate was the base for Department of State employees, some members of the U.S. Air Force, DEA officers and Peace Corps officials.

  Pete Schwartz, aid to the consular chief, met her at the front door. Annja gestured that Johnson was welcome to join her.

  They turned her captive over to the police officer on the street and promised to also give them the crates later.

  The entry smelled wonderful, of oiled, polished wood and flowers that filled a massive crystal vase.

  Consulate officials—and, with her permission, Johnson—occupied her for an hour, scanning the map from the truck glove box and the marks Annja had made on it. She sat in a padded straight-backed chair, declining the more comfortable-looking couch on which she suspected she would quickly nod off. Schwartz and the others rattled off one question after the next and took copious notes as she once more related everything that had happened in the past few days and described some of the treasures. Three men from the consulate hovered during the interview, one recording the proceedings.

  “We have pictures—mug shots, in the American vernacular—and we’d really like you to come into the department and go through them,” Johnson said.

  She got him to back off on that count until sometime later—when she could have a representative f
rom the consulate with her.

  “Hopefully, we’ll have those men in custody by then,” Johnson said. “The ones you said you tied up in the mountains.”

  “You’ve sent someone up there, right?” Annja had been concerned about the ones she’d left in the cavern. “You told me on the ride over here that—”

  “They are on their way…were on their way around the time we left your lodge, following the directions you provided. Slower going in the mountains at night, but I’m sure they made it some time ago if the directions are true.”

  Finished with their questions—at least for the moment—Annja requested some time alone. She had a lot of things to do. They let her use a secretary’s desk in a small reception area on the first floor. The desk was polished oak, pitted in places and with rounded corners from being bumped through the years. The chair was much newer, an ergonomic chrome-and-leather design that Annja settled comfortably into.

  I could sleep in this chair, she thought. And she would fall asleep if she didn’t concentrate on the task at hand. How long had it been since she’d gotten a little rest? She resisted the urge to look at a clock. Her broken wristwatch was in a trash can back at the lodge. She waited for a promised laptop and focused on the items on the desk. A coffee mug was stuffed with mechanical pencils, pens and fine-line markers. A black plastic-framed photograph showed a young man and a woman sitting on a bench—the secretary and her significant other, perhaps. A flat-panel monitor wasn’t hooked to anything—Pete had mentioned the computer being out for repair. A resin figurine of a pug dog with a shiny black nose gazed happily at her. Annja leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.

  Just for a minute, she told herself. I’ll just close them for a minute and maybe this headache will go away. Her temples throbbed, and her legs ached, but the pain wasn’t so bad that it prevented her from drifting off. She was roused by the harsh click of shoes against the tile floor.