Cale Dixon and the Moguk Murders

by David Dagley

  It was from Paula Henderson. Cale laughed at his own paranoia. The letter simply gave her room number, which coincidently was on the roof balcony. Cale smiled, knowing he would find a purchase of compassion in Paula with all he had seen in such a short period of time. She knew so much more than he did. He knew that nothing he said or described to her would shock her. She would have answers with depth, somehow mixing reality inside Burma’s borders with the perception of reality from the outside world. Cale presumptuously packed his bag and beers and slipped up the side stairs.

  Her door was open. Paula was sitting at a small desk in a lime-green string top and a purple and blue Thai sarong she had bought at an evening market in Surat Thani, Thailand. She was writing in her journal when Cale knocked on the door jam.

  She smiled and got up when she saw him at her door, “Hey. I was hoping you’d come up and see me when you got in.” She walked over and hugged Cale affectionately.

  Cale reciprocated. A faint smell of coconut and jasmine filled the air between them as they parted. Through the doorway, the sunlight filled the depths of Paula’s green eyes with cascading reflections.

  Paula continued to smile as she spoke, “I’m glad you’re here.” She scratched Cale’s chest with her short, manicured fingernails. She turned to close her journal and asked, “How was it?”

  “I didn’t make it to Lashio. By the time I had gotten to Hsipaw I had seen and heard enough from other travelers to persuade me to change my plans.” Cale offered, “Would you like a beer?”

  “I already have one open, but thanks. Let me take yours and put them on ice with mine.” Cale saw a few beers and a small bottle of Mekong whiskey in the sink icing down alongside four bottles of Red Bull. She grabbed her sunglasses and suggested, “Let’s sit out on the verandah for awhile.”

  Paula took Cale by the hand and led him out on to the rooftop deck to a glass-top table with four chairs. The sun baked the red tile deck to a scalding temperature during the day. Cale got to the table, cracked open a beer, and asked, “Where did you end up going?”

  Paula placed her beer on the table with two glasses and explained, “I came here to Mandalay and took off down river on a boat to Pagan. I took a local bus back. I rented a bicycle in Pagan and wandered around the pagodas for a couple of days. It was beautiful at sunset with all the pagodas turning a soft reddish-orange against a deep blue sky. And the trip on the local bus was highly entertaining. Many people on the bus tried to get me to go on another bus, a tourist bus. The bus driver said I couldn’t ride his bus because it only took locals, as in, no Westerners. It was a wild ride and a lot more fun than listening to a bunch of Westerners gripe about the heat. We had lots of unexpected stops for people with their pigs or chickens, that kind of thing. While I was in Pagan I did see lots of tourist buses. The tour companies herd their guests around like cattle. On a plane, on a bus, you have a guided tour to a pagoda or a town, stop for lunch at a designated overpriced place, get back on the bus, go to a government-run museum or something, then it’s off to an overpriced hotel. Then do it all over again the next day. Did you know it costs ten bucks for a tourist to get into Pagan? It’s ridiculous. I’m so glad I can see this place my way instead of the way the government wants me to see it. The tourists on the bus see none of the horrors we do traveling independently. It’s really a bunch of smoke and mirrors the way they do it. The S.L.O.R.C., as it used to be called, just military peons, is really out to get your money, period.”

  “State, Law, and Order something…?”

  “Restoration Council, the acronym is more fitting,

  S.L.O.R.C. Sounds like a vicious beast out of the depths of hell or something.”

  Cale laughed as he filled Paula’s glass again and responded, “It seems like we came all this way to see a piece of original history that the government has turned into a fake.”

  “That’s true, all accept the people—they are real, and yet they have to bury their true selves way down deep inside. I see through the government atrocities. We’ve both seen a bit of what they can do to the various peoples, and, in some degree, how they bought off some of the Buddhists for awhile; this time though, the flexibility of the Buddhist cultural backbone was necessary for their survival. For instance, the temples that the Buddhists build to honor their Lord Buddha are supposed to disintegrate of their own accord, but they aren’t allowed to do so because the government has stuck its policies in their face. All the important temples and pagodas have been refurbished for the tourists and their money. Unfortunately, instead of using traditional materials, they used gray concrete and mortar. It’s not even the same color. Some have even painted with a cheap whitewash, and all the semiprecious stones have been gouged out and replaced with pieces of glass or bits of mirror. The gold flake has all been carved off and repainted with Dutch Boy exterior gold house paint. Really tacky, but the tourists go for it because, for the most part, they don’t know any better. The government has taken everything of worth from these people.”

  There was a light breeze blowing over the rooftop as the sky grew dark with night. Cale moved the short distance to the balcony railing and half sat on it while he described what he had seen on the train and what occurred in the hotel in Hsipaw with Ian and his girlfriend. When he finished he turned around and stood with his palms on the railing, looking out over the darkening town square and enjoying the night air.

  Paula sat for a moment silently watching Cale before she put her drink down and moved to his side. She gently ran her fingertips down the underside Cale’s forearm and around to the top of his hand.

  Cale absorbed the chill and turned towards her.

  Paula smiled slightly and reached up, tenderly cupping Cale’s face and affectionately brought his to hers. She kissed him ever so softly.

  Cale smelled jasmine and looked into her green eyes as she whispered, “I don’t feel like dwelling on world’s troubles anymore. I was hoping maybe you would stay with me tonight, and we could work out a few of our own together.” She caressed Cale on the neck and began to move very slowly so as not to frighten him away.

  Cale felt the night breeze against his stomach as his shirt fluttered open. Her welcome hands felt warm against his skin.

  Paula led Cale back into her room and shut the door. The louvers dropped, and their clothes fell away with the red dust of the day.

  —

  22

  —

  It was 7:30 a.m. in Dupont Circle, Washington DC, when Rayman stood up from his café booth as his cousin Monica entered the restaurant.

  Monica saw the look on Rayman’s face and stopped in her tracks for a moment knowing something bad had happened. She hesitantly looked around at the other patrons in the restaurant and over her shoulder before she slowly walked up to Rayman with a weak smile. She dropped her purse and her briefcase in Rayman’s booth, gave him a hug, and said, calmly suspicious, “Rayman, what a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?”

  Rayman let her go and they sat down across from each other, “Well, I know you eat here often before you go to work, so I thought I’d stop in, say hello, and give you a heads-up.”

  “A heads-up? I could tell something was wrong the minute I saw your face. What’s going on? Has something happened?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. Let’s order first. I’m starving.” Rayman handed Monica an open menu.

  The waitress came over with coffee, and Rayman and Monica ordered. The waitress turned and walked back towards the kitchen.

  “Monica, my father recently died.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked curiously. “You haven’t seen your father in, what, fifteen years?”

  “I was told where to find him through a contact, and I went there. I didn’t find him, but I found a metal cage where he had been imprisoned all this time.”

  “Oh, Rayman, I’m so sorry.” Monica reached out and held Rayman’s hand across the table. Her eyes welled up. “What was he mixed up in that would make someone take h
im and imprison him for so long,” she shrugged, “until he died?”

  Rayman didn’t even consider answering the question but continued, “I also found a funeral pyre where someone had respectfully burned his body. His watch was hanging on one of the remaining burned posts.” Rayman pulled back his sleeve and displayed his father’s watch.

  Monica couldn’t believe what she was hearing and started thinking about it, putting the pieces together, “What’s that mean? What are you saying?”

  Rayman squeezed her hand and looked into her eyes as if it would be the last time, “Monica, I think your father found the site a day or two before I was told where to look, and I think he took care of my father’s body and left the watch there for me to find. I don’t know for sure, but I think your father has surfaced.”

  Shocked, Monica cocked her head back and exclaimed with a disbelieving laugh, “That’s ridiculous. I haven’t heard from my father in ten years. You know that. Why would he surface now?”

  “I think he has been looking for my father all this time, and he surfaced because he found him,” explained Rayman.

  Skeptically, Monica shook her head, refusing to believe what Rayman was saying, and stated, “He would have contacted me.” Monica was getting upset and starting to talk louder, “Why hasn’t he contacted me?”

  Rayman dropped his head and said softly, “I don’t think it’s safe for him to contact you; I probably shouldn’t have either. Not many people know you exist; or I should say, not many people know that there’s a connection between you and the rest of the Stell family, mainly your father and me.”

  “Rayman, I’ve always been separated from the rest of the Stell family even when they were all alive. I was cloistered away like a fuckin’ nun to an all girls’ boarding school then escorted to a private college for women. Do you have any idea how alone I’ve been for the last ten years? And all that time—no Thanksgiving, no Christmas with family or friends. I got to spend my holidays wondering why this was happening to me, and I still want an explanation. Can you give me that much? I know you know more than you’re telling me, otherwise you wouldn’t be here right now!”

  “Monica. Don’t shoot the messenger here. I don’t know enough to give you an accurate explanation. I’m still trying to put it all together myself. What I can tell you is that your life would be in a great deal of danger if the wrong people knew to whom you were related, where you were, or that you even existed.”

  Monica abruptly pulled her hand away from Rayman, “Why?” She waited for an answer but didn’t see one coming, so she asked impatiently, louder, “Why?”

  Rayman stared at her and then regretfully replied, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I’m just stirring up a hornets’ nest in your head.” Rayman started to get up to leave.

  Monica reached out desperately, grabbed Rayman by the sleeve of his coat and begged, “No. Wait, Rayman, please.” She wiped away her tears of fury with her free palm and reminded Rayman, “You came here to tell me something. So just tell me what it is, and then tell me what you can. Please sit down. I’m sorry. You’re upsetting me because I’m confused and I’m frustrated about it. Put yourself in my shoes. You show up here and tell me bits of a bigger story and leave me alone in my own little—disconnected—world to put the pieces together. Don’t leave me like this, please. I’ll never sleep again. Please, Ray-man.”

  Rayman looked around at the other customers who were watching out of the corners of their eyes and listening intently. Rayman sat back down and explained in a whisper, “I came here to tell you that I had a visitor the other night. I don’t know who it was, and they didn’t reveal themselves to me. My cat actually saw them, and it bolted out of the living room. All I saw was a vapor trail of somebody’s breath on the outside of the living room window towards the forest. I went out on the deck with the shotgun, but I didn’t see anyone. I went back in and locked down the house, all the windows and doors. Sound familiar? I realized I had just done the same thing my father had done before he disappeared and your father, too, before he vanished. I don’t know if you remember, but that’s how I found the house, all locked up when my dad was reported missing. And the neighbor found the house the same way when your dad went missing. That’s why I’m here, to let you know that I’m being watched; and if I disappear like my father, you can never go to the ranch house again. Ever.”

  Tears streaked down Monica’s face, carrying mascara in their wake, as the waitress came over with their plates. The waitress gave Monica a sympathetic look as she put her plate down, then she scowled at Rayman and almost tossed his plate at him. His plate crashed into his silverware and nudged his water glass, partially spilling it on the table. The waitress didn’t say anything; she just turned and walked away.

  Monica took a deep breath and palmed the edge of the table, saying, “How much do you know about why our family has been living under this huge black cloud for the majority of our lives?”

  “Very little. It really has nothing to do with us. It’s older.”

  Monica picked up her fork and scoffed, “Obviously it’s older, and it has to do with our fathers. Your father is dead after missing for fifteen years. I’m sorry to hear that, and from what you’re saying, mine has been some kind of spook for the last ten years and doesn’t have the balls to contact his only daughter.” Monica looked deep into her plate and began moving her scrambled eggs around with her fork. She shook her head and laughed at the edge of hysteria, “It almost cleared up, ya know.” She dropped her fork in her plate and tried to compose herself, “These last few years have been pretty good. I’ve got a good job, nice flat; I’m meeting people—men. I get the congressional break off this time around. Last–” a wave of emotion consumed her, and she almost broke down crying. She sighed, taking deep slow breaths, and started again with tears welling up, her lips and chin quivering, “Last break, I had to work all the way through.” Her voice began to squeak and rasp, holding back tears, “But not this year… I was that close, Rayman,” she began to gain angry momentum and held up her pointer finger and her thumb half an inch apart, “that close to feeling normal. Then you show up, dragging your black cloud around with you. Now you’re telling me this cloud has become a storm. Well, you’re not leaving your pet storm with me. You can say good-bye, but take your storm with you. Come visit me when the coast is clear and you’re ready to tell me everything. Until then, I hope the best for you and good-bye.”

  “Monica, don’t be like this,” Rayman pleaded.

  “There’s a storm coming, and I’m in the dark, Rayman. How do you expect me to be?”

  “I just wanted to warn you. I’m sorry I upset you.”

  “Oh, you upset me all right, and I’m pissed off!” She paused and looked at Rayman, hoping he would break his silence, but he just sat there looking back at her. “Good-bye, Rayman. Be careful,” she said flatly.

  Rayman stood up, pulled twenty bucks out of his pocket, and dropped it on his plate.

  Monica looked down at the table, anywhere but at Rayman, and said as a last effort, “Rayman, I have a lot of questions. You know where to find me if you want to tell me everything.”

  As Rayman walked past Monica, he cupped his hand over her shoulder and stood very still for a moment then walked out of the restaurant.

  The waitress came by, “Take all the time you need, honey. He’s gone and I’ll take the rest of him off your table.” The waitress grabbed Rayman’s plate with the twenty-dollar bill stuck to the potatoes and cheese.

  Monica waved away and said hopelessly, “Take everything.” She then reached out and grabbed her cup, “Except the coffee.”

  —

  23

  —

  Cale kissed Paula and left her bed early in the morning. Behind the hotel was a bike rental shop, where Cale rented a bike for the day to ride around Mandalay. It was still too early to visit the jeweler. He saw a pagoda on the top of a hill that sparkled brightly in the morning sun. The pagoda could be seen from every corn
er of Mandalay. Cale biked up the sloping path as far as his legs could take him before he got off and walked the bike up the rest of the way. Like what Paula had seen in Pagan, the pagoda had recently been repainted in a cheap whitewash and covered in sparkling diamond-shaped mirror inlays. The view was impressive. The Irrawaddy River came from out of sight to the north and flowed out of sight to the south. The roads were getting hot and dusty. At the base of the mountain pagoda, Cale saw the walls and guard towers of the Mandalay prison. Cale knew the history of this prison; many people had died inside the prison over the years. The high brown walls, barbed wire, and sentries in all the watch towers gave the area a dreary and forlorn aura. Cale headed back into town towards the palace and again noticed the sign above one of the palace entrances, “Anyone against the Burmese Government and the Tatmandaw Will Be Crushed.”

  Cale saw the turnoff for the jeweler’s shop and coasted down the road to the front door under the elephant. The jeweler’s wife appeared in the window as Cale got off his bike. She waved, and pointed towards an alleyway at the edge of the building, then pointed to Cale’s bike. She circled her hand around, and Cale walked his bike into the backyard and found the four men relaxing in the shade of the bougainvillea-covered latticework, smoking cheroots and having tea. There was no fire in the melting pit, no molds being broken, no filing or grinding. No tools out. No children. Nothing.

  The jeweler looked up from his conversation with his brothers and asked, “Well, what you think of our country?”

  “It’s a beautiful mess.”

  The four brothers laughed lightly, understanding what Cale meant.