What the . . . ?
He looked again. Jammed in a hole by the door were sticks of what looked like dynamite. Michael swallowed.
Where the fuck am I?
He tried to reconstruct his last conscious hours. He had been at the clinic. Harvey had given him an injection of SR1. Reece and Sara had visited him. He recalled dozing a bit while they were still in the room and finally falling asleep. And then . . . nothing.
The heat in the room was well past tropical, the air thick and still. His body was coated with sweat. He tried to wipe his cheek on his shoulder, but his wet shirt just added more perspiration to the area. He glanced about the room again. His eyes stopped when he saw a piece of paper on the floor:Hello, Michael.
Welcome to the land of consciousness. I hope you had a pleasant nap and an equally pleasant journey. Try to make yourself comfortable. Please do not try to escape. If by some miracle you were gone when I returned, I would hunt down your beautiful bride, fuck her, and then kill her.
Best wishes,
George
P.S. I have people downstairs, so don’t try shouting out the window.
I’m having a nightmare, Michael said to himself. That’s what it is. A nightmare. Either that or I am losing my mind.
He struggled and scraped his way toward the window. The chain just reached. He lifted his head, pushed his face under the shade with his nose and looked out. If he had been only confused before, he was completely lost now. There were tons of people on the streets. Neon lights splashed across the dark sky, “LIVE Sex Shows!” and “LIVE Nudes!” over and over again, as though some patrons would be confused and think that they performed sex shows with dead bodies. Dark, Asian men stood outside bars, opening the door every once in a while to reveal naked dancing girls on tables, hoping the view would entice customers into their establishment. A man stood in the middle of the street with three girls, each dressed in a red cape, blue boots, and yellow bodysuits with a giant S emblazoned upon the chest. The man kept yelling out, “Supergirl! Supergirl! Spend an evening with Supergirl! She fly you to the moon and back!”
Michael spotted a young Asian boy approaching an American couple in their sixties who looked liked they belonged on a farm in the Midwest. “You want go to sex show?” he asked in broken English, handing the couple a card. “Lookie at all these positions.” He began to point to different parts of the card. “Woman on top. Two women with one man. Doggie. You name it. Lookie, big breasts. Use banana too. You like. Anything you want. Come with me. Live show.”
Mr. and Mrs. Old MacDonald studied the card as if it were the fine print of a real estate contract, nodded eagerly, and then followed the Asian boy.
The street was packed, waves of people heading in both directions. There were other neon signs too. Some in English, some written in characters Michael did not understand. They were not, he knew, Chinese or Japanese. Not Hebrew or Arabic either. No cars were on the road, but he could hear them close by. On his right, he saw tables set up with watches, shirts, pants, sweaters, cassettes, everything. “Three dollars for LaCoste shirt,” one vendor cried. Another shouted, “One dollar for favorite cassette. Six for five dollars. All favorites of you. George Michael. U2. Barbra Streisand. You name, we have.”
What is this place?
The door behind him opened. “Well, well, we’re awake.”
Michael slid back to the floor. The man in the doorway was large and stocky. He appeared to be very muscular, though not as disproportionate as most weight lifters. His hair was slicked back like Pat Riley’s, the former Lakers coach, and his suit looked like something off the cover of GQ.
“Welcome, Michael,” the man began. “My name is George. Did you read my note?”
Michael nodded.
“It was for your own good,” George continued. “Escape would be very dangerous. You see, I have already killed a lot of people. Killing your wife would just be one more.”
Michael struggled, but the chains held him in place.
“Now, just relax a second, Michael.” George knew a lot about the art of intimidation. Threatening a man’s wife was one of his favorite tactics. It was connected to the whole possession thing, he guessed, and nothing demoralized a man more than the thought that his wife was balling another guy—by force or otherwise.
George grabbed the chair from the corner, sat down, and leaned toward his captive. “You look confused, Michael, so let me explain to you what’s going on.” His voice was relaxed, casual. A casual voice, George knew, was often more unnerving than the loudest of screams. “We are in Bangkok. That’s right, we are in the Far East, just you and me, pal. In fact, this building is on Patpong Street, the red-light district. Twelve-year-old whores suck off guys in this very room all the time, Michael, isn’t that sick? Twelve years old and already they’re hustling. A real shame.”
George shook his head solemnly. “I tell you, the world is falling apart before our very eyes and nobody cares. Fact is, we’re standing over a topless bar right now—bottomless too if you pay the right price.”
George laughed maniacally at his joke. Michael stared back in horror.
“Don’t get so upset, Mike. Can I call you Mike? Good. Maybe later we’ll have time to see the sights. The Reclining Buddha is a must-see in my opinion. Same with the Grand Palace. Maybe we’ll even take a little boat trip through the floating market. Would you like that?”
Michael just continued to stare.
“But first, let’s talk business. If you do what I say, no one will be hurt and you will be free very soon. We might even have some fun. If, however, you do not cooperate, my reaction will be swift and painful.” George smiled again. “Let me give you an example.”
Without warning, George’s hand shot out. It moved so fast it was barely a blur. His knuckles landed on Michael’s nose. Michael heard a crunching, squelching noise and he knew that his nose had been broken. Blood trickled out of his nostrils.
“You see what I’m saying?”
The pain engulfed Michael’s entire face. Since his mouth was still covered with the tape, he had no choice but to breathe through his broken nose. What do you want? Michael tried to scream, but the tape muffled his voice.
“Now let me tell you something else,” George continued. “I have things to do, so I can’t sit here and watch you all day. Besides, it’s too hot in here. Bangkok is always so humid, Michael, but you get used to it after a day or two. The thing is, my employer told me to make you as comfortable as possible. So I would like to loosen some of those chains and take the tape off your mouth. But I need your promise you won’t try anything. Do you promise, Mike?”
Michael nodded.
“Good. If you leave this room or do something cute, my men will spot you, and Sara will suffer. I am good at making people suffer. And Sara is such a delicate little flower, Michael. You wouldn’t want me to attach electric cables to her clit, would you? Juice her up good and then let my boys take turns with her?”
Michael quickly shook his head.
“I’m also pretty handy with explosives. If the police did by some miracle find you and decide to try a rescue”—he paused, smiled, and nodded toward the sticks of dynamite by the door—“ka-boom! Michael all gone. Blood, limbs, screams—very messy stuff. Follow me?”
Another nod.
“I’m going to take the tape off your mouth now. If you scream, I’ll break your jaw. No one will pay attention anyway. People are always screaming on this street.” George reached out and ripped off the tape.
Michael caught his breath. With some effort he worked his vocal cords. “What do you want?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll pay you anything you want.”
“Forget it, Michael.”
Michael managed to sit upright. “Can you take off the handcuffs?” he asked. “They’re killing my shoulders.”
“Sure, but the ankle chain stays on.” George used a small key to unlock the handcuffs. They opened with a click. “Bette
r?”
Michael nodded. He rubbed his wrists, eyeing George in the process. His head still swam; his vision still blurred. George sat no more than a yard away.
Now or never, Mikey boy.
Later, Michael would claim that pure fear clouded his brain and distorted his rational thinking. It was the only explanation for what he did next.
With something approaching horror, Michael realized that his fingers were forming a fist. His eyes watched helplessly while he cocked the fist and launched it toward George’s face.
The punch moved at a pitifully slow pace. The drugs George had pumped into Michael’s body continued to extract a heavy toll on his physical prowess. George’s right forearm knocked the blow to the side with a casual wave.
“You are a brave man, Michael Silverman,” George said. “You are also very foolish.”
George’s hand reached out and took hold of Michael’s broken nose between his thumb and index finger. Michael screamed.
Then George twisted.
Tiny fragmented bones began to grate against one another, making a horrid grinding noise like someone was tap-dancing on a thousand beetles. George increased the pressure. Tendons and tissue ripped. Blood sprayed in different directions. Michael’s eyes widened and then closed, his body falling slack.
“Try something like that again,” George said, “and it will be Sara who pays the price. Understand?”
Michael could barely nod before he passed out.
CASSANDRA looked at her sister. Sara’s bright green eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into her skull. Dark circles surrounded them. The beaming look of life had been replaced by a bleak look of incomprehension and shock. Three days had passed since she had been knocked unconscious in Michael’s room—three days of depression, sadness, fear, and confusion. But now it was as though those emotions had hardened into something more concrete. During the last three days Sara’s hurt had transformed itself into something more powerful, something more . . . useful.
Anger. No, rage.
“Hiya, baby sis.”
Cassandra’s smile was broad, too broad. It looked fake and Sara knew it.
“What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?”
“Just come out and say it.”
The smile fled Cassandra’s face, leaving behind no traces it had ever been there. Her expression was hard, serious. She sat down on the bed next to Sara and took her hand.
Sara looked down at their hands and then up into her sister’s eyes. “What is it?” she asked gently.
“I know I haven’t been the best sister in the world,” Cassandra said.
“Neither have I.”
“But I love you.”
Sara tightened her grip on Cassandra’s cold hand. “I love you too,” she said.
Tears began to slide down Cassandra’s cheek. “I think Dad is mixed up in this whole Gay Slasher thing.”
Sara felt her body stiffen. “What?”
Cassandra nodded. “I think he’s involved in some kind of plot to destroy the clinic.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I overheard him arguing with Reverend Sanders in his study the morning after the charity ball.”
“But Dad said he didn’t know him.”
“I know. Harvey told me that. So I became suspicious. I went through his desk when he wasn’t around. There were letters saying that the funds Dad wanted for the new wing at the Cancer Center were going to Sidney Pavilion instead. One was from a guy named Markey—”
“Dr. Raymond Markey?”
“That’s him. Assistant Secretary of something.”
“Health and Human Services.”
“Right.”
Sara tried to swallow, but her mouth had suddenly dried up. “But that doesn’t mean he’s involved with Sanders.”
“That’s what I thought . . . until the morning Michael was kidnapped. When Dad kept trying to make sure I would be out of the house that morning, I became suspicious. So I hid in his closet. Reverend Sanders came by again.”
Sara sat up and stared directly into her sister’s eyes. “Tell me everything they said, Cassandra. Everything.”
BANGKOK at night.
The Thai locals approached every white-faced person who walked down Patpong, whispering promises of sexual fulfillment that would have made a porn star blush. But no one approached George. One or two of the Thais knew him personally; some had met him on occasion; many knew his name; all feared going anywhere near him.
Despite the enormous crush of people, the locals parted when George walked by, letting him pass, fighting to get out of his way. It was past midnight already, but Patpong was just beginning to stretch out its arms and prepare for the evening that lay ahead. George brushed past a group of Japanese businessmen who were negotiating rates and terms with a local pimp as if they were sitting in a Tokyo conference room.
When George reached Rama IV Road, he hailed a tuk-tuk, the native taxi of Thailand. A cross between a car and a scooter, the tuk-tuk had its good points—it was small, quick, used up next to no fuel, and was open-air. It also got crushed in an accident, had no headroom, and was open-air.
The driver gave George the customary Thai greeting. He clasped his hands in a praying position, bent his head forward until his nose touched his fingertips, and said, “Sawasdee, kap.”
George returned the greeting, though not bending nearly as far as the driver. “Sawasdee.”
“Where to?”
“Wats,” George barked.
The driver smiled and nodded. George climbed into the bright blue tuk-tuk. The driver continued to smile. Typical Thai, George mused. Thailand, Land of Smiles. Everybody smiling. They might be griping, whoring, thieving, murdering, but they always smiled. George liked that.
They stopped at a traffic light on Silom Road. A voice shouted, “Hey, mate!”
George glanced to his right.
“Yeah, that’s right, mate,” a red-faced, inebriated Australian shouted, pointing at George, “I’m talking to you.” The Aussie looked to be about fifty years old. There were six prostitutes jammed into a taxi with him—young Thai girls no more than thirteen, fourteen tops, giggling and rubbing the man with fast, vigorous hands.
George’s face registered disgust. “What do you want?”
“Well, mate, it’s like this, right. Seems I bit off a bit more than I can chew here, you see. Wanted to know if you wanted to go halfsies.”
“Halfsies?”
“You take three and I’ll take three—unless we want to do an eight-person thing. Kind of a lick-’em and luv-’em orgy. Might be up for that.”
“Degenerate,” George spat.
“Hey, that’s not a nice thing to say,” the Aussie slurred. “ ’Specially as I don’t know what it means.”
The man laughed hysterically at this. The young women (kids really) joined him. The Aussie laughed harder, spurred on by the realization that the girls found him so amusing. The girls, George knew, did not understand a word of English, with the exception of some sexual terminology.
“Go to hell,” George called back.
The light turned green and the tuk-tuk moved onto Charoen Road. It noisily began its journey along the Chao Phraya River. In Thai, wat meant temple or monastery, and Bangkok had more than four hundred temples of breathtaking beauty. Color was the key word in Thai architecture. Red, yellow, green, blue, and most especially gold—all reflecting the bright sun in an amazing kaleidoscope of nature and man.
There was Wat Po, which housed the Reclining Buddha—a statue so immense it stretched across an area larger than half a football field. Another enormous Buddha image, cast in well over five tons of solid gold, sat upon the altar of Wat Traimit, and Wat Arum, the Temple of Dawn, appeared to be suspended above the Chao Phraya River as though held there by the gods, its towering spires reaching up and scratching the very heavens with pointy claws.
But Bangkok’s most spectacular temple was known to the Thai people simply as Wats, though it wa
s far more than just a temple. Tourists knew it as the Grand Palace, though it was far more than that too. The Grand Royal Complex might be a better name. Everything King Rama I, ruler of the Chakri Dynasty, could have wanted was housed within the walls that enclosed his palace, including one of the most sacred images in all of Buddhism—the Emerald Buddha. In this bastion of awe-inspiring color and beauty, the Emerald Buddha stood out only for its rather startling unimpressiveness. The statue was only a few feet high, was made of jade, and showed no real signs of unusually brilliant handwork. You could buy an exact reproduction for a few baht in any Thai trinket store.
“We’re here, boss.”
“Swing around to the other side.”
“Okay, boss.”
At night, spotlights illuminated the many spires and pagodas of the Grand Palace, creating an impression both bright and haunting. In a word: mysterious. Like the most seductive woman, Bangkok hinted at unparalleled delights while always keeping part of itself covered, hidden from view, a secret.
“Stop here.”
“Yes, boss.”
The tuk-tuk chugged to a halt. George paid the driver and crossed over toward the Chao Phraya River. He walked along the river’s edge, watching the wooden rice barges drift lazily by as though they had no particular destination in mind, the drivers still wearing their enormous straw hats though the blazing sun had settled in the west hours ago. The Chao Phraya was more than a river to Bangkok. It was her lifeblood. The waterway was used for transportation, for floating food markets, for bathing. Families had lived for centuries in huts that were more in the river than on it.
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