Good Friends

by Leeanne Moriarty

  Ogled boys.

  When he came back to the plan the next day it looked even more exquisite.

  Calculating the time difference, he waited until it was late afternoon in Thailand, around lunch time in Switzerland, and called Liz.

  “What would you say to a reunion?” he asked.

  “Us?”

  “Yep. A one-off gig. With a whopping great payday.”

  Liz smoked and pondered and then she said, “I know I’ll live to regret this, but tell me.”

  So he told her.

  77

  Liz Keller just flat-out fucking froze.

  She could not get out of the cab at Patong Beach.

  The driver, and unsightly man with the hair of a mangy cat, cleared his throat and looked at her in the rearview.

  “Madame?”

  She wanted to order him to take her to the airport, where she’d use Caroline Tate’s passport to book a ticket on the first plane to anywhere and get the hell gone.

  That would confuse the shit out of all concerned.

  But where would it leave her?

  Broke in Jakarta, or Denpasar or—God forbid—Perth.

  Nope.

  Liz closed her eyes, breathed, focused.

  Triggered her second chakra, twixt her navel and her pubes.

  The seat of her strength.

  She dug deep.

  Opened her eyes, slung Caroline’s bag over her shoulder, and stepped out of the chill taxi into the sticky night heat.

  A river of motorcycles flowed past her, and the sidewalks were packed with nocturnal revelers, the smell of gasoline mixing with flame-seared seafood, cheap perfume, alcoholic sweat, and the briny tang of the nearby ocean.

  She waited for a gap in the traffic and set off across the road toward the beach. As she neared the center line she realized she had forgotten to limp.

  Christ.

  She dragged her right leg a little, mindful not to overdo it. She was channeling Caroline Tate not Tiny fucking Tim.

  She made it to the other side and walked on, feeling sea sand scraping under the scuffing sandal.

  She left the crowded street behind, moving toward the beach.

  Liz emerged on the sand, near to the camera she had spotted during her last reconnaissance, but not so close that it would reveal any flaws in her impersonation of Caroline.

  She had feared she’d find beach revelers—drunken Germans and their by-the-hour girls or fire eating Thai jugglers with giggling Scandinavian groupies in tow.

  But the sand was deserted.

  Liz crossed to the water’s edge. The moon hung yellow and ripe over the flat ocean.

  She sat and went through her pantomime with the Oxy and the water bottle. The vial was empty, the pills flushed away back at her hotel.

  Liz stood and stripped and walked into the water, remembering the slight limp.

  As she waded in she set off shimmering fairy dust streaks of phosphorescence. She let the warm water contain her like amniotic fluid, submerging herself completely. Then she swam slowly away in a measured crawl until she was sure she was out of range of the cameras.

  She bore to her right and powered her way through the low waves for a half a mile. Rounding a rocky headland she came to the small, hidden beach where she had stashed the backpack with her clothes.

  78

  The pain in her leg woke Caroline.

  A deep cramp in her right quad.

  She had fallen asleep sitting against the wall, head resting on her knees.

  Stretching out her legs she bit back a scream as the spasm worsened.

  Kneading her leg with her thumb, she slowly loosened the knot.

  As the pain ebbed a feeling of terror rushed in.

  The events of last night slammed the breath from her.

  The video of Michael and Liz.

  Charlie Hepworth kidnapping her.

  She flew at the scuffed wooden door, trying to force it open.

  Banging on it with her fists.

  Kicking with her bare feet.

  Yelling.

  She forced herself to calm down.

  Breathed slowly.

  She lifted the water bottle from the floor, uncapped it and drank. It was warm but she emptied half of it.

  When she was done she stood by the door and listened.

  She could hear Charlie moving around in the next room.

  The clink of crockery.

  The gurgle of running water and the banging of old plumbing.

  His nagging smoker’s hack.

  Even though the room was windowless there was enough light for her to see it clearly for the first time. There was no ceiling, just a grid of bamboo rafters tied together with baling wire, covered by sheet metal. Hard sunlight seeped in through the gap between the walls and the steel, bouncing off the silver roofing.

  The space was minute. If she extended her arms her fingertips would brush the dirty yellow walls. The plaster was cracked and flaking, revealing the gray breeze block beneath. There were a few blobs of hard poster putty on the walls where pictures must once have hung.

  The ticking of the reeking mattress was stained and torn, spilling a beard of synthetic white stuffing onto the uneven concrete floor. A pile of what could only be dry animal droppings lay in one corner.

  The thought that this desolate room would be where she would die paralysed Caroline.

  She sat against the wall away from the animal scat and closed her eyes and wished she had something to pray to.

  Time passed and she realized that she badly needed to pee and reached for the red plastic bucket with a white handle. That, at least, was new, still bearing the Tesco price tag.

  When she was done she put the bucket in the corner away from the door, and waited for whatever would come next.

  As the room grew lighter, so the heat increased, and she felt sweat on her forehead and running down her ribs.

  After maybe an hour Charlie tapped at the door and said, “Are you decent?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Stand against the far wall. If you try anything clever I’ll taser you. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She did as he said.

  He unbolted the door and opened it slowly, peering inside. He was unshaven and his hair looked greasy. When he saw she had been obedient he carried in a plastic chair, a gooseneck desk lamp, and the portable TV she’d glimpsed the night before.

  He set down the chair and placed the TV on top of it, watching her all the while. He plugged the lamp into a wall socket and the light flared in his face, making him blink.

  For the first time she saw blackheads on his nose and the craters of acne scars under his cheekbones.

  He shoved away his bangs and set the lamp down on the floor.

  “We need to make a little video of you for hubby. A proof of life thing.”

  He plugged in the TV, and fiddled with its antenna until he got a picture. It ghosted and drifted, but she could see he had the TV tuned to CNN Asia.

  “Okay, if you would be so kind,” he said, pointing to the floor beside the TV.

  She sat down and he angled the lamp upward so that it illuminated her face. He took his phone from his pocket.

  Charlie turned up the volume of the TV and she heard the self-important intro of the hourly newscast.

  “When I give you a nod you say, ‘Michael, they haven’t hurt me. Please just follow instructions.’ Got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing more, nothing less, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Repeat it to make sure.”

  She said, “Michael, they haven’t hurt me. Please just follow instructions.”

  “You’re a natural, darling.”

  She wished she had a weapon to strike him with.

  “Okay, stand by, please,” he said.

  Charlie framed the shot and started recording her. A female newscaster with a British accent was talking about a bomb that had exploded outside a mosque in Islamabad, killing at leas
t fifteen people.

  Charlie dipped his head and Caroline said what he’d told her to say.

  Reaching over he turned off the TV and the lamp. He checked the video on his phone.

  “Lovely,” he said, pocketing the cell. “Please stand against the wall again.”

  “What happens now?” she said as she complied.

  “Hubby has to give us some money and then you’ll be as free as a little birdie.”

  She doubted that, but said nothing.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He shrugged. “Well, I’ll bring you something in a bit, anyway.” He looked at the red bucket. “Have we used the facilities?”

  “Yes.”

  Charlie wrinkled his nose. “I’ll attend to that shortly.”

  He reversed out, carrying the TV, the lamp and the chair.

  For a second she thought of charging him, but stayed where she was.

  Charlie closed the door and she heard the bolt sliding home and the clank of the lock.

  Caroline stood for a minute, and then she slid down the wall and dangled her hands between her knees, staring at the dust motes floating on the air like tiny parachutes.

  79

  “Hey, Michael! Mike! Wakey fucking wakey!”

  When Liz Keller slapped her palms together in front of his face Michael realized he had sunk into a kind of fugue state. He blinked himself back.

  They were still on the beach in the blowtorch sun. Sweat burnt his eyes and ramped his ribs. His shirt stuck to him.

  He gaped at Liz, her assertion that she’d kidnapped Caroline still ringing in his ears.

  Michael folded his arms. “You’re fucking with my head,” he said. “Caroline drowned off Patong beach last night.”

  Liz produced her phone. “Take a gander at this, Mike.”

  She held out the cell. He took it and turned his back, shielding the face from the sun.

  He was looking at a paused video of Caroline. He hit play and watched as she sat beside some ancient TV set with rotten reception. But good enough to recognize CNN. He heard the anchor talking about a bomb blast in Pakistan and then Caroline said, “Michael they haven’t hurt me. Please just follow instructions.”

  Liz took her phone back. “That was shot twenty minutes ago.” He stared at her. “You heard the news thing about the bomb blast? Islamabad?” He nodded. “That happened less than three hours ago. Do the math, Mike. Wifey’s alive. It’s up to you to keep her that way.”

  He wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. “So you want money?”

  “Fucking A, I want money.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten million dollars. U.S.” She smiled a thin smile and he wondered how he could ever have desired her. “Chickenfeed for a trust fund baby like you.” She squinted. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  He looked at her and said nothing.

  “You’re thinking of going to the cops, aren’t you?” She shook her head. “Good luck with that. They showed you the CCTV footage of Patong didn’t they?”

  “Yes. That was you?”

  She flicked her bob. “Yeah. Too easy. Anyway, they’re looking for Caroline’s body out there,” she waved a hand at the ocean and her bangles jingled and chimed. “They’re going to think that bereavement has pushed you over the edge if you come to them with some nutso kidnap story. And where’s the proof?”

  Before he could think he hit her in the gut and flung her to the sand, ripping the phone from her fingers.

  He swiped at it and searched frantically for the video.

  Liz sprang to her feet and punched him in the mouth and he rocked back. She hit hard.

  She was up in his face and her eyes were dead and cold and her spittle struck him when she said, “Try a stunt like that again and I will get my associates to cut off three of Caroline’s fingers. On camera. For you to see. You hearing me?”

  He swallowed and nodded.

  She wagged the phone at him. “And do you think I’m fucking stupid? That video was on a self-destruct timer. A minute after it was viewed poof it was gone baby gone.” She shook her head. “So what do you have, Michael? Huh? Diddly fucking squat is what you have. So you better start figuring how to get the cash together.”

  “Cash?”

  “Oh yeah. When I see those lovely greenbacks you’ll see your wife again.”

  “How am I going to get that amount of dollars in Thailand?”

  She turned and walked away, speaking over her shoulder. “You’re a smart, resourceful guy, Mike. Figure it out.”

  80

  Liz went into her house and stood a long time under a cold shower. Or what passed as cold here in the tropics. She had been shaking when she returned from the beach, hammered by a cocktail of adrenalin, fear and rage. She’d hidden it from Michael Tate, but when she got out of his range the tremors had hit her and she’d been tempted to break out the Ambien and the vodka.

  No. Not even a joint.

  She would lean into the anxiety and keep herself focused on what needed to be done.

  Christ knew, the man who now went by Charlie Hepworth was enough of a wild card, and she had to make sure that he didn’t fuck things up.

  When she’d last seen Charlie in Europe, back before she’d hitched herself to Jürgen Keller’s star, he’d been scary sharp and very tough.

  But the years hadn’t been kind to him. His smile was just a little too wide, his hands unsteady before he inhaled his morning beer, and he wore the indefinable aura of failure like a threadbare poncho.

  When he’d clued her in on his scheme her better judgment had told her to pull the plug on the whole thing and get as far away from Charlie as she could.

  Even though his plan was fucking genius.

  Crazy.

  Risky.

  But brilliant.

  And when she’d seen Caroline Tate in the flesh she’d been astonished at their resemblance.

  But the clincher had been Michael.

  He’d been so ripe for the plucking, how could she walk away?

  Liz stepped out of the shower and dried herself. Time to get the fuck out of this glass mausoleum.

  Her one bag was packed, standing by the front door. She had no use for the crap in the house. Let the bank dispose of it. The BMW, too.

  She would check into a hotel under another name and rent an anonymous car until this thing was done.

  Liz took a peek in the mirror. The bob had to go. It could tie her to the CCTV footage.

  She got busy with the scissors and cropped her hair into a slightly shaggy pixie cut that revealed her ears. A Halle Berry kinda thing.

  When it was done she stared at her reflection and her eyes fixed on a small crescent-shaped scar on her left cheekbone. She raised a finger and touched it. Felt the slight indentation in her flesh, felt all the dark old shit welling up in her like a gusher about to blow.

  No, Liz, don’t.

  Too fucking late.

  She was no longer there, in the heat of Thailand, and her name wasn’t Liz. She was twelve years old, sprawled on the floor of a cramped, grim kitchen lit by a piss-yellow light. Beside her a Formica table lay on its side, amidst broken crockery.

  Dazed, Della tried to get up, the room swaying and swimming.

  A man hot with rage and booze came into her vision. He held a baseball bat high above his head and swung it at her. As it started its downward swoop a sobbing woman, bleeding from a cut on her head, tugged at his arm, unbalancing him, and the bat didn’t splinter the girl’s skull as he’d intended—it merely fractured her cheekbone and broke her jaw.

  The man panted and shouted something glottal and incoherent at the woman who ran out into a dim corridor with scuffed green walls. The man followed, wheezing and lurching.

  Fighting pain and terror Della struggled to her knees. She heard a door slam and the sound of a bolt being thrown. Heard the man laugh and then the sound of the bat on wood.

  Her hand found
a steak knife, her fingers curling around the bone handle. Using the toppled table she pushed herself to her feet and went into the corridor.

  The splintered bedroom door stood open, and as she walked unsteadily forward she heard grunts of effort, followed by a sound like a wet towel being slapped against a wall.

  Della stood in the doorway and watched as he swung the bat again and again and again at the broken thing on the floor and a thin cry escaped her bloody lips.

  He stopped his whaling and turned to her, sweat-stained hair hanging over his eyes, mouth agape on crooked teeth.

  He came at her, raising the bat and she could feel his heat and smell the sour booze.

  Della waited until he was close, waited almost too long, the barrel of the bat hurtling toward her head, then she jumped forward as if she were about to embrace him, the Louisville Slugger flying harmlessly past her, and she stabbed him in the heart.

  He grunted, dropped the bat and sank to his knees. The movement withdrew the blade, the handle still clenched in her hand, his blood hot on her.

  She reached down and stabbed him in the throat.

  Carried on stabbing him.

  Face.

  Chest.

  Back.

  Stabbing until a sheriff’s deputy, summoned by a neighbor, pulled her off her father.

  81

  When Tin sat down at the bar he carried with him a pungent whiff of incense. As he reached for the Scotch Michael had waiting for him his sleeve rode up revealing a white cotton bracelet tied around his right wrist.

  “I’ve just come from the temple,” Tin said, when he noticed Michael’s glance.

  “Yeah?”

  Tin shrugged. “I’m Thai, mate. What can I say?” He sipped his Scotch. “It’s not a regular deal with me, but I went for Caroline. And for you.”

  Michael was lost for words. He hid his face in his drink.

  When he’d left Liz Keller on the beach he’d gone into his house and walked straight to the bathroom near the kitchen and puked. Afterward he went to the fridge and took out a bottle of iced water and drank long and hard.

  At the kitchen sink he splashed his face with the bottled water. It made him gasp and blink. He sat at the counter and tried to calm himself.