Dead Girl Beach

by Mike Sullivan

  He’d rolled onto his side. No, he’d told her, he didn’t mind.

  She’d kissed him hard on the mouth and held the kiss a long time, like she would never let go. “I love you, love you, love you, Seabury,” she’d said excitedly as she got up and slipped into a red, silk robe.

  “I love you too, babe,” he’d said and watched her go into the bathroom and start the shower.

  A few minutes later, winking slyly, she’d cracked the door open. “Come here. I’m still not done with you.”

  A cloud moved over the water. The changing light caught his attention and forced him back to the present.

  “Well,” he muttered, “at least we had our moments.” He drank a little more beer, felt the pain that knifed through his heart ease up a little, and breathed out a sigh.

  Hearing a noise, he turned and saw them coming. Out of the crimson glow of the setting sun, the figures tramped down the beach toward him. Guns, nightsticks, and cuffs jiggled in their bulky belts. The squat brown cop’s small, black boots struggled in the sand. His partner, built like a bamboo sapling, led the way. He was tall for a Thai and fleet of foot. He waved back at his partner to keep up, but his partner looked gassed, chest heaving, not physically fit, and gasping hard for air, as they got closer.

  Seabury swung his head back around. His beer was warm and flat, and it tasted stale. He leaned over, set the half-full bottle down in the sand next to him, and waited. His eyes fixed curiously on the figures coming out of the sun at him. The party advanced a few yards closer as he straightened up in the chair. The two Thai cops wore dark brown uniforms and black caps with black visors. A shiny, chrome insignia attached to the top of their caps with a thin, red band looped around the bottom. They looked serious and official.

  Fifty yards down the beach, the tall cop waved a small group of tourists over. They wore straw hats, sunglasses, and brightly colored beachwear. Most of them were in their early twenties. One of the girls pointed up the beach in Seabury’s direction. Then, the group separated and let the cops through. Moments later, they entered the narrow space between the stalls where Seabury sat.

  “Are you Sam Seabury?” the tall cop asked in English.

  Seabury nodded his head but said nothing.

  Before he realized it, the tall cop had pulled his gun and leveled it on him. The squat one imitated his partner. Seabury knew that policemen in the Royal Thai Police Force had no standard weapon issued to them. They had to buy what was available and what they could afford. Seabury noticed these two had QSZ-92’s, 7.48 inch, 19 millimeter Lugers, made in China.

  The second cop, noticing how big Seabury was, radioed for backup. A few minutes later, two other cops scurried up the beach, drawing their pistols as they burst into the narrow opening between the stalls. A small crowd of young tourists—mostly Brits, Germans, and Aussies—gathered around to watch Seabury’s arrest. Unruffled, the big Hawaiian got up slowly—taking his time, as if he had all day. As he leaned his wide, thick body over to fasten the strings of his baggy beach shorts, levers ratcheted back, and the hard, metallic click of bullets injected into magazines filled the air.

  “Whoa!” Seabury raised his hands.” Hold on a minute. No need to panic.”

  A guy and his girlfriend smiled at each other in the crowd behind Seabury.

  “Okay. We go station, now,” the tall cop said.

  The cops escorted Seabury across the beach to a police cruiser, and they drove a mile west across town to the police station in Had Rin, a seacoast village on Koh Phangan Island, Thailand. Seabury had no idea why they were arresting him.

  Chapter Four

  At six o’clock that night, at the end of the bar, Suma Songsiri’s head jolted back as the Black Duck’s palm flew up inches from her face. In the dim, smoggy light, what there was to know about her antagonist appeared in the dark, secret lines of his palm. The girl saw a curvy lifeline, a fractured fate-line, and thick, coarse skin—all indications of a strange, wild, and unpredictable nature.

  The hand was small. On the opposite side were manicured nails, hard and bony knuckles, and tiny, blue veins that coursed beneath the bar manager’s brown, hairless skin. There was nothing to indicate that the hand was a deadly weapon. Except for early turf wars, muggings, and extortionist shakedowns in Southtown—Hong Kong’s notorious gangster stronghold—no one locally would ever have known; however, the Black Duck’s fierce Shotokan karate hand, with its blinding speed and the ability to inflict blunt force trauma, was indeed a lethal weapon.

  Now, Suma Songsiri studied the hand. Although unusually small for a man’s hand, it looked very strong and didn’t move. It suspended in space, poised there, palm up, and in front of her nose. She wanted to bat it away but realized that a move like that wouldn’t be wise.

  The hand was motionless now, like the air in the bar. A startled group of patrons, caught off guard by the sudden quarrel, watched and waited. Eyes narrowed. Words heated quickly between them.

  “Can’t you see?”

  “See what?”

  “It’s a private party.”

  “I can’t join?”

  “No way.”

  Suma winced. “That’s not fair.”

  One by one, the Black Duck’s fingers curled into a fist, and his right index finger shot out angrily at her. Scorn and outrage bloated the sides of his thin, pretty-boy, Chinese face. It flushed a beet red color and looked about ready to burst.

  “Go. Now! I mean it.” The Black Duck’s muffled voice strained through clenched teeth.

  Suma turned away with a slight smirk but stayed where she was. She wasn’t so much hurt or frightened as she was angry and insulted. Upset, she felt something harsh and electrical jolt her stomach. She bent over. When she straightened up, she discovered that the hand had vanished. In a rustle of thin, moist air, it had moved back from her face and dropped down to the Black Duck’s side.

  The bar manager pressed his lips together. He wanted no part of her. She was a hopeless case—some crazy person he wanted to get away from. Now, as the face-off ended, the group of partygoers gathered around the Black Duck. They patted his back, rubbed his shoulders, and offered him a drink. Faces soured and heads shook, annoyingly. Some in the group stared at Suma with looks of disgust. Others turned back to their drinks, no longer interested in her.

  She didn’t care what they thought. It didn’t matter, because she had already turned around and stormed off downstairs. Below in the basement of the disco, she crashed through the door to the ladies room. A girl reached the door just as Suma came crashing through. The edge of the door slammed against the girl’s chest and knocked her down. Suma reached down, apologizing, and went to pick the girl up.

  The girl looked up at her. She twisted her narrow shoulders and refused to budge. Her face shriveled up in a prissy, pouty look of disdain. Suma brought her hand back. Her hostility ratcheted up another notch as she straightened back up. She looked at the girl. Hi-so, Asian bitch, she thought, and left the girl sitting on the floor.

  Grim-faced and defiant, Suma marched across the room and found a metal paper towel dispenser on the floor near one of the stalls. Her cheeks flushed on her small, round face. The breeze from a wall fan whirled around her. Wild tufts of short, black hair styled in the shape of a tiny porcelain bowl lifted up off the back of her head.

  In sudden outrage, she yanked off the lid to the dispenser and dumped the contents onto the floor. She hurled the dispenser across the room and through a mirror above one of the porcelain sinks. Glass shattered everywhere.

  Others stood back, stunned and frightened by her outrage. They were unable to stop her and fearful of the outcome if they tried. Slowly, they saw her anger cool.

  “There. That’ll teach that faggot.” Suma spoke in frantic gulps of air. “That’ll teach that moron not to disrespect me. Who does he think he is, anyway?”

  Nobody answered.

  A moment later, catching her breath, Suma stormed out into the hall just as a group of young, Asian party
girls banged in through the door. They entered in a wave of black, clicking heels and short, frilly cocktail dresses. Inside a row of stalls across the room, they unzipped their stylish red and gold sequined purses. Yah bah, an addictive methamphetamine called “Nazi Speed” by local druggies, lay buried inside the pockets. They popped the tablets into their red, lipstick-painted mouths and waited. Soon, their eyes glowed in a brilliant, nasty light.

  * * * *

  Upstairs in the bar at 7:00 p.m., Lawan Songsiri sat down in a booth at the front of the bar with Suma. Light from a neon sign over the front door blinked on and off in the reflection on the window. The loud, thumping beat of techno-rock music rocked the night. Frustrated, Suma’s hands closed in tiny fists and pounded lightly on the table in front of her. Customers nearby glanced across at her then turned away.

  “He hates me.”

  “I know.”

  “Why?”

  “My God, Suma.” Lawan stared at her in amazement. “Are you really that blind? Can’t you see?”

  “See what? What’s there to see? He hates me.”

  “It’s not just the mirror you broke downstairs in the bathroom. It’s more than that. I had to talk to Bennie—beg him not to fire you.”

  “Who told you about the mirror…his pets?”

  Lawan smiled a faint, incredulous smile. She was twenty-nine years old. A petite, affable Thai woman with eyes the color of black coffee. Her hair was dark and worn in a business bob, and her face was small and round. Her lips were full and painted red. Not a wrinkle showed on her pretty face with its light brown, unblemished skin. Now, she had that look. Suma recognized it. She had seen it many times before—that hopelessly confused, totally incomprehensible expression used by a parent having to deal with a recalcitrant child.

  “There you go, again…going off like that. Can’t you just learn to relax for once? You’re lucky to have a job after your little temper tantrum.”

  Suma stared at her older sister with a look of anguish. “You said it before. Why he hates me. You said, ‘It’s more than that.’ What did you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. Some people are like that. They get it in for someone. You can’t explain why. It’s just there. So please, Suma. Stay away from him. Just ignore him. Don’t go near him.”

  Lawan stood up. “He wants you out of here, tonight. Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

  Before Suma had time to respond, Lawan had the door opened, and they walked outside. It was a mid-December evening. The temperature was 32 degrees Celsius—89.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Still hot and humid. They got into Lawan’s car, a beat up 1990 Toyota Corolla, and drove on the road above the beach and then exited onto a highway going south through the Had Rin foothills. Half a mile down the road, Lawan glanced across at Suma. Like her sister, Lawan spoke perfect English.

  “Don’t forget what you promised. Remember, I’m counting on you to do the right thing.”

  “I’m tired.” Suma’s voice had reached the edge of irritability. “I don’t want to talk about it, now.”

  Lawan sighed in exasperation and drove in silence over to a cabin compound a mile away on the outskirts of Had Rin. The town was crowded this time of year with thousands of tourists here for the high season festivals and Thailand’s infamous Full Moon Party on Sunrise Beach.

  Lawan swung the car to the curb and stopped. She left the engine running. Noise from a defective muffler growled up beneath the floorboards. In the headlights, a stand of banyan trees stood out in full bloom along the sidewalk. The cabins were behind them. Suma got out of the car and shut the door. The window on the passenger’s side was open. Suma poked her head back inside.

  “I—I’m going…” She paused and didn’t finish.

  Puzzled, Lawan chuckled slightly. “What…silly?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’m all right,” Suma said, still irritable. She straightened up and inched back onto the sidewalk, still looking troubled.

  Lawan held her breath and remained quiet. She didn’t want to press the issue. “Okay, I’ve got to get back,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep. Please, Suma. Just relax. Things will work out. You’ll see.”

  Lawan reached down, cranked the car into gear, and drove off. Suma walked down a dimly lit stone path back toward the cabins. Hers was on the far left, down at the end of a wooden deck. She got a skeleton key out of her purse and turned it in the lock. Click. The door swung open, and she entered the room and closed the door behind her.

  “What if I can’t?” Suma collapsed against the door. “What if I just can’t do it?”

  Chapter Five

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard.”

  “You’re in very serious trouble.”

  Seabury looked at the cop and shrugged. They were two doors down from the main lobby in a small, cramped interrogation room. There was a GI desk and three wooden chairs inside and two O-rings attached to the floor. Seabury had been pushed in through the front doors of a square, two-story, cinder block building painted a stark white color. It took five cops to get him down the hall and into the room in back.

  “You were at Kontee Beach last night?

  “No, further up.”

  “What do you mean?” The cop looked puzzled.

  Seabury leaned back in the chair, and the metal sagged under his big, agile, Herculean body. Arrested before, he knew what to do. He knew to stay composed, not sound aggressive or hostile and anger the cop, but also not to allow the cop to intimidate him.

  “I rented an outboard and motored past Kontee Beach last night. I ended up inside that small lagoon just north of there.”

  “You know about the signs posted up there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why the place got that name?”

  “Dead Girl Beach?”

  Montri nodded.

  “It’s not illegal to go there.”

  “It should be,” the cop said. “Anyway, why did you go up there?”

  “Dao Suttikul. She was my fiancé. Your predecessor showed me pictures of her. The way she died. I went to pieces when I saw them. Later, I decided to build a grave up there, to remind me of her.”

  “A grave?”

  “I put a little stone marker up there showing where she died.”

  “You must have had a lantern with you last night.”

  Seabury nodded.

  “Aha, then.” The cop flashed a sly little grin. “You know that shining light on the water up there is illegal, don’t you?” He let the words hang in the air and looked for a reaction from Seabury.

  Seabury kept quiet.

  The cop leaned over the desk. Small, flat hands came to rest on top of an ink blotter. There were flowers in a vase nearby and a picture of a young woman holding a child, in a gold picture frame at the side of the desk. Seabury stared at him. He could see a trap coming, and the cop was trying to spring it on him.

  Montri looked suspicious. “Then, you must have shone a light out on the water?”

  “No. There was a full moon. I didn’t need a light. I motored in and out of the lagoon, but I kept the lantern in my rucksack.”

  The cop’s eyes continued to narrow on Seabury. His name was Aaron Montri. He was a small, trim, Thai police lieutenant with dark, oily hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He kept staring over the top of them at Seabury. His English was flawless. A graduate in Criminology at UCLA, he could have lectured at any university in the Western World. His voice and diction were nearly perfect. Now, a wrinkle of confusion stitched Montri’s forehead.

  “You had the lantern turned off?”

  “Yes.”

  Seabury saw Montri scribble something down in his notebook. Although the interview was being tape-recorded, Montri was a copious note taker. Seabury smiled a little just as the door behind him swung open. A woman entered the room and, without
anyone offering her a seat, she sat down next to Seabury.

  “You’re in serious trouble, do you know that?” Montri said.

  His voice raised an octave higher as if to dramatize Seabury’s situation for the benefit of the woman. Seabury smiled and shook his head. He looked at Montri and then at the blonde woman sitting next to him. She had blue eyes, raw and sun-damaged skin, and was maybe in her late thirties. Raw-boned and muscular, over six feet tall…a big and strong-looking woman, Seabury thought.

  “This is Greta Langer.” Montri stared over his glasses at Seabury. “Greta, this is Sam Seabury,” he said to her and finished introductions. “She’s here to make a—”

  “Let me say what I came to say, Lieutenant.” She cut him off, rudely. “This man was out on the lagoon last night with a lantern, shining it on the water, and breaking the law. Signs posted everywhere warned people not to go up there where all those women died. He had someone with him, too,” she added, fidgeting in the chair.

  Montri’s hand gesture spurred a response from Seabury.

  “No offense, ma’am,” he said. “I know how dangerous it is to shine a light on the water where needlefish are feeding. They’re like a ticking time bomb. If they see a light, they’ll go after it. They tear across the water at high speeds and leap over small boats, not to mention their steel-tipped beaks, which are lethal weapons.” He shook his head. “You must be mistaken. I had a lantern in the boat, but it was turned off.”

  “I saw a light,” she argued.

  Seabury said nothing and glanced back at Montri.

  “Maybe, you better tell Greta why you were up there,” Montri said.

  Seabury figured he owed the woman no explanation but instead went along with Montri. He told her what he had told Montri earlier about the gravesite. He finished with, “We put up a stone marker. It’s back off the beach up near the timberline. We went there last night to pay our respects to my dead fiancé, Dao Suttikul.”