Dead Girl Beach (7 page)

Later that afternoon, Seabury walked into the town of Had Rin. The streets bustled with tourists wearing bright beachwear. Shades, straw hats, and the sound of clip-clopping sandals drifted past him on the sidewalk. He'd decided on a beer and a burrito at the No Name Restaurant. He could also listen to live music if he stayed a while longer and ordered a few more beers. The pretty, Thai waitress took his order and brought over a beer. He had the bottle up to his lips when his cell phone rang.

“I need you over here right away.” It was Montri calling from the police station.

“What's going on?”

“I'll tell you when you get here.”

Seabury apologized and cancelled the order. He paid extra for the owner's inconvenience and walked over to the police station.

* * * *

Montri sat behind the walnut desk in his office, grinning. White, feral cat teeth pressed against his thin lips as his secretary led Seabury into the office. Seabury noticed the same dour expression on the woman's face she'd worn last night when she'd come for him in the holding cell. Seabury sat down and heard her heels clicking on the hardwood floor as she slipped back into the shadows, closing the door behind her.

The office wasn't very big, Seabury noticed. It was maybe twice the size of the interrogation room they interviewed him in the day before. Montri sat with his back to the window that looked out over the brightly lit parking lot. A vase containing orchids sat on his desk, and pictures of Thai antiquity hung from the stark white walls. In a nearby corner, a Thai flag stood furled on a pole attached to a metal base.

Montri's grin faded. “She'll be here, soon.” His eyes skittered from side-to-side.

Seabury stared across the desk at him. “Will I be hanged at sunset or injected with chemicals.” A rare trace of sarcasm entered his voice.

“Neither,” Montri said as his cell phone rang. He picked it up and pressed his ear to the receiver.

“She's here, now…in the parking lot. Okay. Send her in.”

“What's going on?” Seabury asked.

“One moment.” Montri held up a finger. He went to stand up but changed his mind and sat back down. His notebook lay open on the top of his desk. He looked at it methodically, glanced back up at Seabury, and then flipped his cell phone shut.

“I called the shipping company in Bangkok, today—Universal Cargo. The manager—courtesy of the IBU office in Seattle—provided quite a remarkable dossier on you.” He read from the notebook. “Scholarship recipient, Bachelor of Arts in Political Science
magna cum laude
from UC Berkeley, turned down jobs at the United States Government foreign offices several times, chose instead a life at sea as a merchant marine and promoted to Chief Boatswain's Mate. Passed the Navigation test with a perfect score, which is unheard of in the annals of maritime history. Tell me, Mister Seabury, don't you think you're underemployed?”

 “It's Sam…and no, I don't.”

Montri slumped back in his cushioned chair and shook his head. Seabury guessed that the cop was probably mulling over what he'd learned about him and weighing it all up on a mental scale. A life at sea on one side, a job in a United States foreign office on the other—maybe wondering if he wasn't utilizing his full potential.

“Am I using my full potential?” asked Seabury, “Yes, I think I am, but I'm sure you didn't call me over here to talk about my background.”

To a man like Montri, social status meant everything, but there was no time to dote on Seabury's accomplishments. Suddenly, the door to his office banged open, and Lawan Songsiri burst into the room.

Dressed in a blue jumpsuit, she collapsed in a chair next to Seabury, unable to conceal the worried look in her eyes. She crossed her legs, and her right foot kicked out nervously at an imaginary target in front of her.

“What's going on?” Seabury said.

Lawan paused briefly and caught her breath. Her eyes grew large with fear. She looked from Seabury to Montri and back, again.

“Sam, I need your help. Suma's gone missing.”

The fire crackled around her. The night was calm, dusted by a full moon. Less than five yards from the flames, Suma sat on a beach mat, watching Greta and Parry talking near the domed wall of a slate-gray pup tent. They huddled together, heads nodding, their voices low like gossipers bent over a backyard fence. It looked like they were trying to make a decision but having a difficult time making one.

It was all a big mistake. She had no idea who they were or why they treated her like a prisoner of war.
They've got the wrong person!

Less than ten minutes ago, Greta had told her, “Don't play dumb. I hired you at my office in Bangkok—Langer Enterprises. You came to work, quit on me, and took off.”

 “You've got it all wrong,” Suma said. “My name…it's not Lawan. It's Suma.” She didn't volunteer a last name. “I'm sorry, but there's been a terrible mistake. I'm not who you think I am.”

She stared up at Greta. Her captor's long and narrow horse-face bristled above a strong, square jaw. A harsh, blue light glinted in Greta's wide-spaced eyes then faded quickly. Her hands hung by her side.

Greta said, “You can thank your lucky stars you're not dead right now. It could still happen.” She snapped her fingers. “Quick as that. All I'd have to do is say the word.”

Greta stood in front of her. “What'd you say?”

Suma's head snapped back. She saw Greta's fists double, her chin jutting out like the tip of a sail.

“What'd you say? I'm asking you.”

No reply. Then, almost instantly, huge hands yanked Suma onto her feet. A heavy palm slammed into the middle of her chest. It shoved her backward, harder and harder, not letting up. The heels of her blue canvas shoes bit into the ground, dug holes, then furrows, the further she leaned back, shoved off balance by Greta's big paw.

Finally, the shoving stopped, and Suma straightened back up, thinking the assault had ended when Greta's hand flew out at her, again. Ruby-red talons —opening like switchblades—raked down her arm and tore open her skin. Suma screamed in pain and horror.

There's nowhere I can go. I can't run. I can't hide. She'll find me. Kill me
.

Staring through the liquid blur of her own tears, she heard the voice, grave and pitiless, telling her, “See? See what you made me do?” You had it coming.”

Had what coming? What?

The wind was blowing. Suma sniffed the air. Moss and seaweed smells rushed up at her—the musky smell of dead, decomposing starfish. All of it mingled with the sour taste of bile lodged at the back of her throat. The fire hissed and crackled. Sparks flew up. They scattered like fireflies in all directions. She looked at Greta. Greta went into the back pocket of her denim cutoffs. She came out with a red handkerchief and tossed it over.

 “Wipe the blood off on that.” Her voice was calm, less demanding. Then, turning on her heel, she crossed back over to the fire. “Don't even think about it,” she called over her shoulder, warning Suma. “Try to run away, and I'll catch you. After that, it'll turn real ugly.”

 “It would, it could, it should,” Parry echoed, ending in a wild burst of laughter.

Now, at a short distance away from the campfire, Suma slumped back down and stared at her arm. The wound looked awful. Purple, wide, and deep, it was full of raw, bloody tissue. Part of it crusted over as the blood began to dry. The deeper part of the puncture wound was still bleeding. Her arm was swelling badly. It was going to scar badly without stitches…
lots
of stitches.

Suma lowered her eyes. Maybe Seabury would find her. Maybe he would take her away from this horrible, wicked woman. The harsh sound of Greta's voice interrupted her thoughts, and Suma jumped as if a door had slammed shut.

“Don't be a big baby.” A few quick strides and Greta crossed over. “Your arm's fine.”

Greta tossed Suma a plastic water bottle and sat down next to her on the mat. Denim cutoffs worn skin-tight around a bare midriff, hugged her trim waist .Her long legs were shapely for a woman her age. The spandex halter stretched over her wide, muscular shoulders like plastic wrap.

Suma uncapped the bottle and chugged down the water. She didn't realize how thirsty she was until she put the bottle down. It was half-empty.

“I don't want to upset you.” Suma shook her head slightly. “But my arm…I need a stish, I think.”

“Stish.” Greta laughed. “Do you mean s-t-i-t-c-h?” She spelled the word out. “It's
stitch
, not
stish
. Your accent…half the time, I don't understand a thing you say.” Greta lit a cigarette now and blew a stream of smoke out her nose. “Parry and I were thinking…” She suddenly switched topics, “…we were thinking that maybe we've been too good to you. That you don't appreciate anything we've done for you.”

Suma shrugged, not understanding. “I'm not sure what you mean. I don't know…” She stopped suddenly, carefully measuring her words. This couple—what exactly had they done for Lawan? She had no idea…not a single clue.

She remembered her Mom, an elementary school teacher—bless her heart—getting things mixed up. Dear, sweet, round, plump, adorable Mom.
That boy. What's his name? Well, it doesn't matter, because you shouldn't be dating. You're much too young for that. That boy was a doctor's son, Bert
Wattana, whom she'd met when she was nineteen and entering her second term at Bangkok University. They dated for half a year, and then it was over one day. The romance just fizzled, blown asunder by Mom's paranoia and hard, watchful eye.

Mom was dead now, and she had a father she never saw. She didn't blame her Mom; after all, she was fiercely loyal when it came to defending her. Though, in that private place, that secret garden where her mind often wandered, she wondered how her Mom had turned a once-promising romance into a block of melting ice.

“Please,” Suma jolted at the sound of her own voice, shattering her thoughts, “let me go.” She swallowed hard. “I have a very short memory. Trust me.”

Greta moved closer. “Nice try.”

Suma's hands trembled, and her voice cracked. “What I don't know…” she tried to remain calm…“is who you are and why you've abducted me. My name is Sumalee, and I need to see a doctor.” She held up her arm. “See, it's swelling badly. I think it's infected. I need to get it cleaned out and closed with thread.” She didn't dare risk using the word stitch again, for fear of ridicule.

Greta ignored her, as if she wasn't there, and went on. “I know where we found you…turning tricks on that street in Bangkok. We took you in, fed you, put new clothes on your back, and gave you a job. Then, you go running off on us.”

“Honestly, I didn't. You have mixed me up with someone else.”

Greta took a fresh cigarette and lit it with the butt of the old one. She filled her lungs and then blew smoke back over her shoulder. “Well, you did. It was six months ago, before we vacationed here on Koh Phangan Island. It was a week before you met that…that loser. I see him around the island, poking his nose into everyone's business. I read the article in the Gazette, but I know this asshole's every move. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he's isn't out looking for you, now.” She glanced aside and the name came out of her mouth. “Seabury. Yeah, that's the scumbag.”

“I'm sorry,” Suma was weak and tired, “but I'm afraid you've made a terrible mistake. I'm not who you think I am…really.”

Suma turned around and glanced up as Parry came over. He had a gun. He pushed the barrel up to her right ear. She felt her body stiffen.

“Let me do her, now,” Parry begged his wife.” No use fuckin' around with this little bitch. I know she's got the money. I left it where I always do—in the safe. She must've found out the combo.” He laid his eyes back on her. “Y'all stole that $200,000.00, didn't you?

Greta whipped around on him. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” Anger swept across her face like fire. “Put that gun away…now!”

Parry's shoulders hunched, and he scooted across to the tent. Her lumpy handbag appeared inside the opening. The bag was a Louis Vuitton rip-off. Bending over his paunch, he stashed the gun down inside the bag's big, cavernous mouth.

Parry crossed over, and Greta said, “You go muscling in now, you'll spoil everything. I've got it all figured out.” She tapped a finger to her temple. “The show's not going down until I say it goes down. Not a minute sooner. So, back off, and don't ever let me catch you screwin' with my gun, again. Who do you think you are, anyway? Pistol fucking Pete?” This time she didn't hold back but let the F-bomb fly. “I don't need no fucking jailbird muscling in right now, trying to take over.”

She stared across at the flap on the tent. Inside the opening, she saw the handle of the gun denting the fabric of her giant handbag. She turned back to Parry, glancing at the large, black pocket down the right side of his baggy beach shorts.

“You're lucky you're not packing that piece around.” She snickered then laughed out loud. “You might've had an accident and shot that little rucksack you got between your legs clean off.”

She pointed down his middle. “If you ended up bleeding like a stuck pig, I wouldn't lift a finger to help you, not after what you did to me. Remember the last time you tried that shit on me…with the gun? You were laid up in that hospital in Dallas for over a month. They used a lot of stitches to close that knife wound close to your heart and in that pot gut.” She motioned back to a cooler at the edge of the tent. “Why don't you be useful and go get me a beer until I decide the right time to straighten out this little liar.”

She brushed Parry aside, as if he was a speck of dirt on her clothing, and turned back to Suma. She pointed a finger at her. “You don't fool me with that prissy little act you're putting on—not for one second. ‘Oh, it must be a mistake. I don't remember a thing…', and whimpering like a scared child, so you think I'm gonna feel sorry for you and let you go. Well, it ain't gonna happen. I know you stole that money, and I'm gonna find out where you stashed it. If it takes me a week torturing you here on this beach, I'm gonna find out.”

Parry brought her beer over, and Greta snapped the lid open and took a long pull from the can.

“Aah, tastes good.” She smacked her lips, then belched, and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. Then, with a caustic tongue, she went on offense again, directing her verbal attack onto her whipping-boy husband. “Hey, guy! Did you forget something?”

A wrinkle furrowed Parry's brow.

“Don't play dumb. The goggles, the goggles, remember them?”

Parry slapped a hand off his forehead. “Oh, cripes. I forgot.”

 “Like you forget
everything
.” She scowled. “You need to go back to the car and get the goggles. Yes, now, and don't give me that sorry look, either. How am I supposed to do the job if I don't have them? You tell me?”

Parry was tired and weary. “It's a long way back there, Greta.”

“I know. So, start moving.” She flashed another disgusted look at him.

Parry shook his head. A sad, mournful expression crossed his face and then vanished as her dagger eyes froze him in his tracks. “I know. I'll buy a pair down on Sunrise Beach. I'll take the boat. I don't wanna go all the way back to the car.”

Inside the tent, Parry wrestled the flashlight out of her handbag, paying careful attention not to disturb the 9 millimeter Beretta tucked inside. “I'm on mah way,” he said, crossing over and still sulking.

“Good.” Greta snapped a salute with two straight fingers. “Don't let them goblins bite that ass out there, you hear?” She chuckled and watched him go, mumbling something under her breath.

Parry bounced the flashlight beam off the ground, crossed over to the boat, and powered out of the lagoon. Greta turned back to Suma, huddled on the mat. Suma kept a watchful eye, observing everything and not saying a word.

“That guy, honestly.” Greta sighed. “He'd walk off a cliff if I told him to. He forgot the goggles. Imagine that—the freakin' goggles.” She looked at Suma. A heinous light glinted in her eyes. “I need them to use on you.”