In English the big man says, “Shut up,” and wobbles the needle back and forth a few times out of sheer spite, yanks it, and turns away. Buddy hears him return to the door. “Sleep tight,” the man says, and the door closes.
He didn’t use the IV. Why wouldn’t he . . .
Because, Buddy realizes with a jolt that seems to send ice water coursing through his veins, the IV is slow. It’s a drip, and the anesthetic is diluted by the saline solution that carries it.
They’re in a hurry.
Injected directly into a vein, he remembers from the bad old days, a drug reaches the brain in less than a minute.
He forces himself to remain still, almost hearing the clock of his consciousness tick, until the heavy footsteps make the turn on the stairs and continue descending, and then he sits up, flips the blanket down so he can rip off that final piece of plaster, the one that will let him bend his knee, that will . . . that will . . . let him . . . So, not
not
diluted, but straight. Not
(a wave)
dripped but
all at once.
How fast will it
will he have enough time to
The thoughts are gone as though they’ve popped like soap bubbles, as though they’ve slipped down a mental mail chute, and all he’s left with is the pressure of his fingers on the plaster cast, the resistance as he tries to tear the linen holding that one last piece, and then the dope picks him up sideways, twirls him in the air like a lariat, and slams him into a solid wall of hard gleaming black shine.
36
The Perfect Dive
The canal is wider than Rafferty imagined it would be, five or six meters across with a two-foot wall on either side, and it’s black and sluggish, and it stinks.
“A breath of old Bangkok,” Arthit says. “Miles of sewage.” He’s standing at the foot of the three steps leading up to the bridge, his iPhone in his hand. He’s had it to his ear, obviously waiting for something, and he lowers it as they approach.
Standing behind Arthit and peering at the latecomers are two cops Rafferty doesn’t know, two battered long-haulers rather than—judging from the disappointed twist of her mouth—the broad-shouldered, flat-bellied warriors of Clemente’s mental stereotype. They both have the dragged-behind-a-car look of lifers who’ve lost a few rounds. Softly, Rafferty says, “Be still my beating heart,” and is rewarded by a snicker from Anand, who is behind Clemente.
Looking at Rafferty, Arthit says, “What’s the phone for?”
“Right, well, this is someone whose name I can’t tell you and who would prefer it if you don’t see his face.”
From the phone’s speaker come the words, “I’d disguise my fucking voice if I could.”
“This is the cop in charge,” Rafferty says to the phone. “He’s a friend of mine.” He holds up the phone to show Arthit a man with a brown paper shopping bag over his head. The bag has eyeholes cut into it, and a pair of glasses rest on a papery nose bump, the glasses’ wings pressing the bag against the sides of the man’s head. “Meet the one who got away,” Rafferty says. “He’s going to tell us whether we’re in the right spot and give us the benefit of whatever else comes to mind if we are.”
“Have you got earbuds?” Arthit says. “The phone is too loud. And can you turn down your screen brightness? No point in actually illuminating a target for them.”
“I knew you’d be pleased,” Rafferty says. “No, I don’t have any goddamn earbuds.”
“I do.” Anand thumbs back over his shoulder in the direction from which they’ve come. “In the car.”
“Hurry,” Arthit says. To Rafferty he says, “Hold on.” He puts his own phone to his ear and says, “You there?”
Rafferty’s phone says, “She brought me in via the road. From what I can see, I got no idea where you are now.”
Clemente says, “Tell your friend he doesn’t have to look so silly. He can just put something over the camera on his phone.”
“I’m okay the way I am,” Larry Finch says.
Obviously getting no response on his own phone, Arthit takes Rafferty’s, puts it to his free ear, and says, in a low voice, “Thanks for your help. We’re going in on a bridge over the canal from the far side because we think they’ll hear us if we come up the road. Hang on a minute, and I’m going to turn the camera toward the building that’s the first thing on the road. We’re in back of it, and it’s pretty dark, but—”
“What’s it called?
“Trinity House.”
A pause as Arthit pans the phone over the dark building on the other side of the bridge. Then the man with the bag over his head says, “That’s it. I’m ninety percent sure. Trinity. Unbelievable. A Thai cop who can do the job.”
“It arranges adoptions,” Arthit says. “Did you ever hear children?”
“Oh, Jesus,” Larry Finch says. “Is that what it was? I thought it was probably a school.”
Clemente says, “So there could be kids.”
“I haven’t been able to rule it out,” Arthit says. He holds up his own phone. “Waiting right now to find out for certain.”
Clemente says, “Great.”
Arthit says into Rafferty’s phone, “The entrance you went through when Lala took you inside. Which end of the building was it? The one facing the adoption agency or the one on the other side?”
“Other side, the far side.”
“So if we have guns pointed at that door, we’d be shooting in the direction of the adoption agency.”
“Yeah,” Larry Finch says. “But there could be a door on the other side, too. They took me in where they took me in, and next thing I knew, I was upstairs, and after that I was chained to the bed, but there could be—”
“We’ll certainly take a look,” Arthit says. Anand is suddenly back with them, handing a pair of earbuds to Rafferty. Rafferty puts one earpiece in, leaving the other one dangling.
“This okay?” he says to Arthit. “I’ll jack it into the phone when you’re finished and relay what he says.”
Arthit nods approval and hands him the phone. “Stay back, Poke. Don’t get between us and the buildings. I’ll stick near you now, just in case your source there sees anything that might be helpful as we move into position, but after that you’ll be on your own. You two,” he says with a nod at the other cops, “get going.” To the one on his left, he says, “You knock on Trinity’s door and see whether any staff or kids are inside. If they are, you know the drill—get them to the building’s far side, away from windows.” To the other one, he says, “You take the middle of the road and hold it until you can’t anymore.” He says into his phone again, “Got anything?” and shakes his head and disconnects. He takes a slow look at everyone in the circle. “Is your guy certain, Poke?”
“Like I said, ninety percent,” Larry Finch says. “And tell him to kill them both.”
As he climbs the stairs to the bridge, Rafferty has to hold his nose against the smell, but he can sense it even when he breathes through his mouth. The rain has turned to a fine drizzle, and although the clouds are starting to break up and drift apart, they’re still masking the moon. It’s dark enough so that the two older cops disappear into the gloom as soon as they go down the steps and head for the building that’s occupied by Trinity House.
“Stay close together until we’re there,” Arthit whispers. “Then at least a couple or three arms’ lengths apart. No point in making it any easier for them than it has to be.” He has taken the lead, and Anand, Rafferty, and Clemente follow him across the canal. When they’re on solid ground, Rafferty inhales again, and even over the stench of the canal, he gets the sharp edge of Anand’s perspiration. He wonders briefly whether Clemente, just behind him, can smell his.
“Where are you?” Larry Finch says in his ear. “Can’t see nothing.”
“It�
�s cloudy, and we’re under some trees,” Rafferty whispers. “You’ll see better when we get a little moonlight.”
“Good. Only four of you?”
“Six, counting the two at Trinity House.”
“Not very many.”
“I really can’t chat now, Larry. I’m going to hold the phone in front of me so you can see where we’re going. Call out when you recognize something.”
“To the left,” Arthit whispers. “Follow the canal.” He’s coming back from a short look ahead. “No talking.” He has an automatic in his hand, and Anand unholsters at the sight of it. Behind him Rafferty hears the snap on Clemente’s holster, too.
“Wait for me, Poke,” she whispers. “We’ll walk together until we get closer. You shouldn’t be in front of anyone with a gun.”
He steps aside until she’s beside him, and at that moment the moonlight shoulders its way through a small opening in the clouds and Rafferty sees a curl of heavier drizzle, like the ripple of a shower curtain, angle toward them, and then it cools his face. With the moon’s help, he can see the other building about thirty yards away, just an unadorned shoe box of indeterminate color. There are lights on, in one or two ground-floor rooms at the end nearer to Trinity House, a pair of pale rectangles about ten feet apart, maybe in different rooms, maybe not. Everything else is dark.
“Can you see this, Larry?” Rafferty whispers into the phone, and he holds it up, the camera pointed at the building.
“Looks right to me,” Finch says. “What I saw best was the door, so let’s get around to the far side.”
Arthit has heard the whispering and drops back. Rafferty says in his ear, “He says it looks good so far. Wants to see the entrance.”
“Does he?” Arthit says, clearly thinking about something else. He snaps his fingers, and Clemente and Anand both turn. “Anand,” Arthit whispers, “get up there and check the road. Make sure Kunchai is there.” Anand takes off at a run.
Rafferty touches Arthit on the shoulder, points to the phone and then to the far side of the apartment building. “He wants to see the door,” he whispers.
“Surely we know we’re right by now,” Arthit says.
Clemente says, “I’ll go with him.”
“Do what she says,” Arthit says to Poke. He turns away, moving in the direction Anand has taken.
“I’m in the lead,” Clemente says brusquely. “Keep it like that.”
Rafferty says, “Yes, ma’am.” Into the phone he whispers, “Here we go.”
“If they’ve got somebody in there,” Finch says, “hurry.”
Gun in hand, Clemente precedes him. In his head Rafferty instinctively maps the area from above: to his left the straight black stretch of the canal; to his right the short street with the big building at the intersection and the small one at the dead end; the cop ringing the doorbell at Trinity House; the other one in the street, cutting it off as a means of escape. He envisions Anand going to make sure the cop named Kunchai is in position, Arthit between the buildings, waiting for Anand’s return, and the two of them—he and Clemente—hurrying toward the smaller building, bearing left into the darkness and bending low as they pass the two lit windows. He says to Clemente, “Seems to me we’re kind of spread out.”
“Me, too,” Clemente says, “but it’s not my job to say so.” The moon disappears again, and the night darkens considerably. Into her microphone Clemente says, “We’re almost to the front of the building.” Whatever Arthit says, it’s audible only through the earpiece she’s wearing.
And then they’re there, and Rafferty says into the phone, “What do you think?” and Larry Finch says, “Absolutely. They’re at the far right corner on the ground floor, and the hospital room is right above them, facing the canal. Get in there and blow them to pieces,” and then there are shouts from the area of Trinity House, more shouts closer at hand, and over the confusion of voices, Rafferty hears a shot.
He’s in and out, like the sand on a beach in between waves. There’s a disorienting rush as the drug recedes, in some kind of rhythm that might be tied to the rate of his heartbeat, and there he is, out from under its weight again for a moment or two, alone in the room and focused, sitting up in the bed, tearing frantically at the linen, and then the drug comes on again, rushing over him, holding him under, and it’s all he can do to remain sitting upright as the world whirls and disintegrates, leaving him with nothing except fear and, between his fingers, the texture of linen.
Learn to use the rhythm.
He’s back, feeling the sweat slide down his body, using the cool spots where it evaporates as pushpins in his consciousness, points of location to give him a center in his own wet, slick skin, and the linen is frayed and thin now. If he had any strength at all, he could rend it like the garments people were always rending in the Old Testament, Abraham and Isaac, how could any father . . . and he’s fading again, so he rubs the scalped knuckle over the broken edge of the cast hard and follows the flare of pain back to his task, and there, it’s done. The piece has come free. His knee is bare. He sits there, rocking back and forth and weeping, flexing the knee, until he hears the footsteps on the stairs.
And he knows that this is the final visit.
So he’s up, fighting for balance, grabbing his pants, not so much from modesty as a kind of confused gratitude because they’ve delivered him from the rigidity of the cast. The ankle and foot are still heavy and immobile in their plaster boot, but he can stump along on it, weighty as it is, and as he does, heading for the window and looking frantically for something he can pick up and use to defend himself, the footsteps get louder and closer, and then, like something bursting through a paper wall, there’s shouting from somewhere down the street, men yelling at each other, and from downstairs Lala is yelling, “Kang! Kang!”
And then he hears a shot.
He pulls the blinds aside to see a world that, like him, is sliding in and out of light as ragged clouds admit and block the moon. Below, between him and the canal, men are running, men in police uniforms, and he has a sudden vision of opening his eyes once to see two policemen peering down at him, and one of them was a fat-faced piggish man with wide nostrils, and as the moon gleams down again, pouring cold silver on the scene below, the cop in the lead looks straight up at the window—he knows which window—directly at Buddy; and that’s who it is, the pig-nosed man. Their eyes meet, and then the cop is literally baring his teeth, glaring up, his teeth white in his dark face. Two other cops rush toward the pig-nosed man’s group as though to join or, possibly, intercept it, and Buddy knows that he can’t use that window—even if he doesn’t break his neck, he’ll drop into the arms of the cops. He turns and lurches toward the door of his room.
The shot comes from somewhere between the two buildings. It baffles and disorients Rafferty; he wastes a useless moment trying to convince himself it came from inside the house, but then there’s another shot, also from between the buildings. More shouting, from the same direction.
One at a time, the lit windows in the house go dark.
Clemente says, “They’re in there. But who the hell—”
Then there’s a confusion of running men coming out of the darkness ten or fifteen yards away. One of them is Arthit, shouting orders that no one seems to be heeding, and then there’s another shot, from the general direction of Trinity House, and Clemente grabs Rafferty and yanks him around the corner of the building to put its walls between him and the shooter.
“I’m okay,” he says, but Clemente stiff-arms him, holding him in place against the wall until they both hear screaming from inside, and Clemente says, “A woman.”
“Gotta be Lala,” Rafferty says, taking advantage of her lapse in attention to sidestep her grip. But he doesn’t go anywhere, just listens to Larry Finch shrieking in his earpiece, “That’s her, the bitch! Get her, get her get—” Poke pulls the earplug out.
Ano
ther shot is fired, closer than the earlier ones, and then three policemen, their faces unfamiliar, round the corner, guns in hand, coming from the direction of the road, and head for the front door, which is unexpectedly yanked open from inside by one of the biggest men Rafferty has ever seen. The giant’s single eye widens at the sight of the cops, and then the door bangs closed and there’s the grating sound of some kind of bar being thrown across it, followed by the metallic snap of a latch.
The next shot nearly punctures Rafferty’s left eardrum; it comes from a gun fired only three or four feet behind him, held by the cop he recognizes, with a shock, as the one at the end of Patpong—Teera-something, Teerapat, that was it—and he fires four times at the closed door, but the only results are little flares of wooden splinters exploding into the air. The cop furrows his brow as he glances at Rafferty and Clemente, but then his eyes widen and he brings the gun around to point it, two-handed, directly at them, but here comes Anand, at a sprint, and Teerapat backs away and literally screams in frustration, firing a couple of times into the air, perhaps a signal, then pops his clip and rams in another. The other three cops stare at him, confused and openmouthed, and Teerapat shouts at them to split up: two through this door and the other to go around and meet the men at the door on the other side, to take out the doors and go in, shoot anyone who resists, then meet in the middle and radio him when the building is clear. He whirls, gives Rafferty and Clemente one more furious glare, and runs in the general direction of the canal. Two of the cops charge the door with their shoulders, bounce off, and begin trying to kick it in.
Two more cops come into view. This time it’s Arthit, with one of the veterans, Kunchai, in pursuit. He stops at the sight of them and says, “You all all right?”
“Sure,” Clemente says. “The lead cop here followed me all over Bangkok tonight, but I thought we’d lost him.”
“You probably did,” Arthit says to her, “but your visits to get the boxes this morning tipped him off. He’s probably here to erase the evidence.” There’s a shrill metallic protest from the bar the giant threw inside the door, and the two cops raise their legs and kick it once more, together, and it flies open and one of them screams, a mixture of surprise and terror, and they both fire indiscriminately into the corridor.
Fools' River Page 32