Death Trance (23 page)

'Coffee would do fine, thanks,’ said Dr Ambara.

I.M. Wartawa lifted his hand to the dapper little man and said,
'Tolong, berikan saya tiga kopi."

'Silakan duduk,’
he invited them. 'Please sit down.’

They sat around the table. I.M. Wartawa crushed out his cigarette, swallowed a large mouthful of whisky and said, 'I telephoned many of my friends yesterday afternoon. Some did not answer. Maybe they are gone away, or dead. I renewed some old acquaintances. But after some time, I managed to find the kind of person I believe you have been looking for.’

'In Djakarta?’ asked Dr Ambara.

'He was here briefly, and also in Jogjakarta for a while. But now he lives on Bali, in Denpasar, the capital. He is not an easy man to locate and it may be difficult to persuade him to help you, but he is supposed to be one of the most skilful of death-trance adepts, even greater than Ida Bagus Darwiko, who died two years ago in Kintamani.’

'Do you have his name?’ Randolph asked.

'Yes, sir, I have his name. When you pay me, I shall give it to you. You must understand that I am not being unhelpful. I simply wish to protect my interests.’

'You shall have your money by tomorrow,’ Randolph said. 'But first of all - even if you don't want to give me f his name now - tell me something about this man. I have to know whether he's genuine or not.’

I.M. Wartawa slowly shook his head. There is no question about his being genuine, sir. I have heard of him before, but he is very secretive and it is hard to say whether all the stories about him are true.’

'What stories?’ Randolph wanted to know.

'Well, sir, they say that he became adept at entering the death trance because he was seeking revenge against the Goddess Rangda. Apparently the very first time he was taught to enter the death trance, his religious tutor was killed by the Witch Widow and ever since that day, he has sought to destroy her. Few adepts enter the death trance unless they really have to, or unless they are seeking somebody special. But this man is said to have entered the death trance again and again, night after night, for the sole purpose of hunting down leyaks and killing them, and with the ultimate goal of meeting Rangda face-to-face and slaying her.’

'That sounds like a dangerous obsession,’ Randolph commented.

'Passing beyond the veil is always dangerous,’ I.M. Wartawa remarked. He sat back in his seat while a pretty Javanese girl set out their cups of coffee.
'Tolong, berikan saya satu
Johnny Walker?’ he asked her.

'Tentu,’
she said and took his glass.

'What other stories do they tell about this celebrated adept?’ Randolph asked. He was about to part with twenty-five thousand dollars in cash; he felt entitled at the very least to a little background on what he was going to get for his money.

I.M. Wartawa sniffed. They say he is the first and only adept who has ever managed to hunt leyaks and kill them. Of course there is no proof of this because you cannot kill a leyak in the land of the dead and then drag his body back to the real world to show what you have done. Leyaks are invisible in the real world. It is only when you go beyond the veil that you can see them.’

'How does one actually go about hunting and killing a leyak?’ asked Wanda.

'You will have to ask him that yourself,’ replied I.M. Wartawa. 'I can only suppose that it is done by magic of a kind.’

'Is there anything else you can tell us about this man?’ Randolph asked. 'Where he comes from? How old he is?’

'He is very young,’ said I.M. Wartawa. 'In fact, he is barely a man at all. He may be nineteen or twenty, no more than that. The other interesting thing about him is that he is part American.’

'That's interesting,’ said Wanda.

'Well, of course there are thousands just the same all over Southeast Asia. The legacy that the United States left after the Vietnamese war was not just cultural. This man, however, has sought to train himself in the ways of his mother while at the same time using the superior physical strength and the Western sense of logic he inherited from his father. From everything I have been told about him, he sounds formidable.’

Randolph sipped his coffee. It was Java coffee, hot and thick. 'How would you like me to pay you?’ he asked I. M. Wartawa quietly.

I. M. Wartawa produced a well-worn business card. 'Have the money delivered here in a plain parcel, addressed to me. As soon as I receive it, I will telephone you at the Hilton and give you the name of the adept and where you might start looking for him.’

Randolph said, 'You realize what will happen if the money is delivered and you
don't
phone?’

I.M. Wartawa gave a small, tight, U-shaped smile. 'You will have to trust me, I regret to say. It is against the law to procure death-trance adepts in Indonesia, but it is also against the law to seek to hire one. If I were to disappear with my twenty-five thousand dollars, you would have no recourse. But then, I am known as an honourable man, and I can promise you that I will keep my word. It would F be foolish of me, after all, to escape with only half the money.’

Randolph looked at Dr Ambara for a sign of reassurance. Dr Ambara said, 'I. Made Wartawa was given the very best of references, Randolph. That is all I can say.’

'Very well,’ said Randolph. He stood up and offered I.M. Wartawa his hand. I.M. Wartawa transferred his cigarette from his right hand to his left and solemnly shook on the deal. 'It is a delight to do business with you, sir,’ he said.

The small, dapper man came up then and asked, 'Will you eat some breakfast before you go? You should try our steamed tomatoes with butter and garlic, or the Gado-Gado salad.’

'My brother-in-law,’ I.M. Wartawa explained with a laconic wave of his hand.

'Thanks all the same, but I think we'd better be getting back to the Hilton,’ said Randolph. 'I have to arrange for your money to be wired over.’

'A breakfast will delay you only half an hour,’ said Wartawa's brother-in-law.

'Don't delay them, Verra,’ I.M. Wartawa admonished him. 'Not even for one minute. They can think about breakfast after they've dealt with their business affairs.’

He smiled with exaggerated slyness and raised his glass. 'Once one has decided to be trusting, one should go ahead full speed,’ he remarked. 'Be quick! Trust, like drunkenness, always wears out in the end.’

'Very philosophical,’ Randolph complimented him.

They stepped out into the sunlight. Most of the overcast had torn itself away now, and apart from a few cloud shadows moving across the ground, the morning was clear. Their taxi driver was still waiting for them, reading a Mickey Mouse comic book in Basaha Indonesian. He started up the engine as they appeared and tucked his comic into the elastic band around the sun visor.

'Tolong hantarkan say a ke
Hilton-Hotel,’ Dr Ambara told him.

They were turning around in the middle of the street when a bright flash caught Randolph's attention. It was nothing more than sunlight glancing off the windshield of another car, but it was the fact that the car had started moving at exactly the same time as their taxi that attracted Randolph's interest. He twisted around in his seat and frowned at it through his sunglasses.

'What's the matter?’ Wanda asked.

'I don't know. That car started moving off as soon as we did, that's all, and now it has turned around to follow us.’

Dr Ambara turned around too. 'Volkswagen,’ he remarked. 'Looks like a rental.’

'Four men in it,’ Randolph observed.

'Do you think it's them?’ Wanda asked.

'It could be.’

'But how did they find us? They weren't at the airport, were they, when we arrived?’

Randolph said, 'If they knew which flight we were taking, they probably knew what hotel we were staying at. And if you're an American, you can't get much less imaginative than the Djakarta Hilton, can you? That would be the first place I would have started looking if I were them.’

'What do we do?’ Wanda asked. 'Call the police?’

Randolph said, 'No. Not yet anyway. Remember that what we're trying to arrange here is strictly illegal. And apart from that, they haven't actually done anything except to follow us, and that's supposing it's really them.’

'It's difficult to see,’ said Dr Ambara, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun.

They turned to the centre of Djakarta and to the Hilton Hotel. While Wanda ordered drinks, Randolph telephoned George Twyford, his accountant, who was not particularly pleased about being called at six-thirty in the evening, Memphis time, when he was just about to leave the office after a hard day. But he agreed to wire twenty-five thousand dollars to the Bank of Indonesia by the time Randolph woke up in the morning.

Twenty-five thousand is going to buy you an awful lot of noodle suppers.’

'I'm buying some Javanese sculpture.’

'Are you sure Javanese sculpture is a good investment?’

'I'm doing the right thing, George, believe me.’

The accountant sniffed. He sounded tinny and far away. 'It's your money,’ he conceded.

Randolph put down the phone and settled back in his armchair. Dr Ambara said, 'It's all settled?’ as if he could hardly believe it.

The money will be wired here during the night.’

Wanda was standing by the window, looking down nine stories to the street below. That Volkswagen is still there,’ she reported. They've parked it across the road.’

Randolph joined her. 'It certainly looks like the same one.’

They waited and watched the Volkswagen for two or three minutes. Suddenly the passenger door opened and a tall man eased himself out. Randolph recognized him immediately, even at this distance.

That's the one called Ecker. No doubt about it. And I'd bet you money that his real name is Reece.’

'If he really is Reece, he's the man who killed Marmie and the children.’

Randolph whispered, 'Yes.’

Wanda stared at him. 'He might just as easily kill us too.’

'No. The difference is that now we're ready for him.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ball

The Fokker Fellowship of Garuda Airlines whistled smartly to a halt at the end of the runway and then taxied without hesitation towards the terminal. 'Lady and gentleman, welcome to Bali International Airport Ngurah Rai. For your safeness, stay in your seat until we have completely arrested ourselves.’

Randolph peered out of the plane's window at the white-painted buildings, at the dark clumps of palms alongside the perimeter fence, and at the ground-traffic controller in the sunglasses and the splashy orange and green shirt who was directing the jet up to the gate. The engines died away and they unbuckled their seat belts.

'I always wanted to visit Bali,’ Wanda said as she collected her bag from the overhead rack. 'Not under these circumstances though.’

They had arranged for a rented car to meet them outside the terminal. There was no further sign of Ecker and his companions but as a precaution, they had requested that their driver hold up a sign for 'Mr Berry' instead of for 'Mr Clare.’ When Wanda had asked Randolph why he had chosen the name Berry, he had shrugged and said, 'You remember the song. "Long-distance Information, Get Me Memphis, Tennessee." That was Chuck Berry.’

'Before my time,’ Wanda had reminded him.

A dusty black Volvo was waiting for them by the curb, driven by a young Balinese in a chauffeur's cap, an immaculately pressed black jacket that he wore without a T-shirt underneath, tennis shorts and black knee-length socks.

'Your flight was good?’ he asked as they drove away. 'Sometimes that flight from Djakarta can be bumpy.’ He switched on a small electric fan attached to the top of the dashboard and searched up and down the radio dial for two or three minutes, past blurts of singing, Balinese music, Morse code and news in Basaha Indonesian, before he finally located the station he wanted: country-and-western.

'I am a personal fan of Tammy Wynette's,’ he announced as if that should make them feel at home.

It took them a half-hour to drive the twelve kilometers north to the Balinese capital of Denpasar. As they drove into the city centre on Jalan Hasanudin, their car was brought to a crawl through the narrow streets by bicycles, Bemo buses, shoals of buzzing and crackling mopeds and the traditional
dokar,
horse-drawn buggies. The sidewalks teemed with brightly dressed shoppers and every storefront was crowded with brilliant batik, gaudy souvenirs, masks, brassware and heaps of lurid plastic sandals. The noise and chattering were tremendous, like the noise of a never-ending fairground; in the early afternoon humidity, the smoke from
warong
cooking stands hung heavy with the smell of charcoal-grilled pork and
chop-chai.

They had decided not to stay at the Hotel Bali, an elegant old building dating from Dutch times and the best hotel in Denpasar. Instead, they had found a cheaper
losmen
on Jalan Diponegoro, a shabby twelve-bedroomed building next door to the Very Delicious Restaurant and the offices of I.B. Padura Spice Export. The hotel lobby was decorated in a style that Randolph described as Oriental Bombastic, with gold-foil wallpaper, Balinese headdresses, soiled crimson carpets and a little palm-leaf thatch over the reception desk.

A shriveled old man with one gleaming gold tooth and a pretty, plump young girl showed them to their rooms. The driver brought up their suitcases and assured them that he would be available twenty-four hours a day. 'Stand by your man,’ he smiled and left, touching his cap. He did not expect a tip; in Bali, tipping was still a rarity.

'Not exactly the Waldorf Astoria,’ Randolph remarked, parting the bamboo blind over a window and looking down at a cluttered courtyard where chickens pecked among rusted mopeds and empty oil drums. His room was dominated by a king-sized bed with a white vinyl headboard, and a carved armoire that smelled of tropical mustiness and mothballs. There was no air conditioning but each of their rooms had a small and noisy refrigerator that had been well stocked with Coca-Cola, Anker Bier and a fruit drink called Air Jeruk.

'If Ecker and his friends are still following us, they will have great difficulty in locating us here,’ said Dr Ambara.

Randolph sat down on the end of the bed and opened the folded note I. M. Wartawa had given him as soon as the $50,000 fee had been paid. He only hoped that the information it contained was worth the huge expense. It said simply, 'Michael Hunter, sometimes known as Michael Arjuna. Last verified address, Jalan Pudak 12a, Denpasar.’

'Do you want to start looking for him right away?’ asked Dr Ambara.

'I want a shower first.’

Randolph soaped and washed himself under a rattling shower fixture and then dressed in clean white slacks and a blue short-sleeved shirt. While he was combing his wet hair in front of the mirror on the back of the closet door, Wanda came in wearing a low-waisted cotton minidress in yellow and a bright bead necklace.

'How's your room?’ he asked.

'Oh, it's fine,’ she said, not altogether enthusiastically. 'I can see the roof of some kind of temple.’

This is quite a place, isn't it?’

Wanda went to the window. 'Do you really think you will find this man?’

‘I’m going to want my money back if I don't,’ Randolph smiled.

'I don't know,’ Wanda mused. 'Now that we're here, it seems so farfetched, this death-trance business.’

Randolph finished combing his hair and closed the closet door. 'How about pouring us both a beer? Then maybe we can go find this character and see how real or unreal the death trance actually is.’

They took a taxi through the centre of Denpasar, past the statue of Guru, the demon giant, which stands at the intersection of the city's two main streets, Jalan Gajah-mada and Jalan Udayana; then past Puputan Square, where the state temple of Pura Jagatnatha lifts its decorative roof to the afternoon sun. And everywhere around them there was music, and talking, and the ripping noise of mopeds.

The house where Michael Hunter was supposed to have lived was a smelly, derelict bungalow with a cramped garden overgrown with wild orchids. Half of its roof was sagging and the windows were covered with galvanized iron.

'So much for that pricey piece of information,’ Randolph said, his hands on his hips.

Their taxi driver remained parked by the curb, watching them with unabashed curiosity. 'You look for somebody, Tuan?’ he asked.

'An American, a young American. We were told that he lives here.’

The driver climbed out of the ancient Volvo and walked on slap-slapping sandals across to the house next door where an old woman was sitting on the steps sorting through baskets of fresh-picked nutmegs. He had a lengthy conversation with her, nodding and pointing and occasionally smacking his hands together. Then he came back over to Randolph and announced proudly, 'This American you look for, he was here for one year. Then he left, one or two months ago. The old woman doesn't know where he lives now. But she says he used to go to the Two Sisters restaurant because sometimes he brought her back Chinese food.’

Dr Ambara said, 'It seems that we have no choice but to look for him there. Will you take us, please?’

'Bogus,’
agreed the driver. 'Fine.’

The Two Sisters restaurant was halfway along Jalan Tabalan in a run-down area northeast of the night market, populated by Chinese, Arabs and Indians. It was quieter here, more reclusive. None of the storefronts spilled out into the street in the way they did around Jalan Gajahmada and Jalan Veteran. Apart from small, hand-painted signs on the facades, usually in Chinese or Arabic characters, it was often impossible to tell whether one would find a general store behind them, or a restaurant, or a gambling parlour. A pack of mangy dogs yapped and tussled in the road.

The front of the Two Sisters was covered by a pierced iron grille and a sign reading, 'Rumah Makan 2 Sisters.’ Randolph paid off the taxi driver and they pushed their way through a clattering beaded curtain to the restaurant itself. Inside, it was gloomy and smoky and hot. Running the length of the right-hand wall, there was a bar behind which a small Chinese woman was mixing cocktails in a shaker. There were a dozen tables covered with green oilcloth; almost all of them were taken, mostly by elderly Chinese patrons. A young Balinese girl was carrying around trays of crab soup, frogs' legs and fried noodles. On the far wall there was a yellowed painting of mountains in China with cranes flying over them.

Five or six people were sitting at the bar, three of whom were Westerners: a handsome-looking girl of twenty-four or twenty-five in a turquoise-blue sarong and head scarf; a fat man of about fifty who looked rather like a down-and-out Orson Welles; and a boy of nineteen or twenty with short-cropped black hair who was wearing a faded T-shirt with an Ever-Ready Battery motif on the front, and washed-out jeans.

Everybody in the restaurant turned around and staredas Randolph, Wanda and Dr Ambara walked in. There was one thing that Randolph could say for the Far East: nobody was embarrassed about showing how interested he was in anything that was going on around him.

Randolph walked to the bar.
'Selamat siang,’
he said to the Chinese woman. Dr Ambara had taught him how to say 'Good afternoon' in Basaha Indonesian.

The Chinese woman finished shaking the cocktails and poured them into large glasses. She did not exactly ignore Randolph but neither did she exactly acknowledge him. There was only a slight, subtle half-closing of the eyes.

Randolph said, 'I'm looking for an American. I was told that he used to come here to eat.’

The Chinese woman said, 'No American here.’

Randolph looked along the bar at the young man with the black hair and the Ever-Ready T-shirt. 'How about you?’ he asked him. 'Did you ever see any Americans in here? A young American boy I'm looking for, round about your age. Name of Michael Hunter, or Michael Arjuna.’

The girl in the sarong stared at him. 'Who wants to know?’ she asked in a strong New England accent.

Randolph nodded towards the young man. 'Is that him?’

This isn't anybody. This is just a friend of mine.’

Randolph walked around behind the other customers at the bar and approached the young man. The girl jumped down from her stool and stood protectively in front of him.

Randolph looked the boy straight in the face and asked, 'Are you Michael Hunter?’

The boy returned his gaze with eyes that were dark and lifeless. His face was emaciated and yellowed by malaria and there were sores at the sides of his mouth and in his hairline. Close up, Randolph could see that his hair was actually blond and that he had dyed it. The ash-coloured roots were beginning to show through.

The girl said defensively, 'He just wants to be left alone, okay?’

Randolph did not take his eyes from the boy. 'I've travelled all the way from Memphis, Tennessee, to talk to Michael Hunter.’

'Well, Michael Hunter isn't talking,’ the girl retorted, 'so you can just travel all the way back to Memphis, Tennessee.’

Randolph stood still for a moment or two and then reached into his shirt pocket to take out his billfold. He noticed the way in which both the boy and the girl stared at his money and his credit cards with the unabashed hunger of the really poor.

'Maybe I can buy you folks a drink,’ he suggested. 'Maybe something to eat. I've been looking for you all over. That's thirsty work. Hungry work too.’

The girl said, 'Mister, whoever you are, Michael is just not interested.’

Randolph made a face. 'Well, I'm sorry about that. I thought that maybe we could simply sit down and have a meal together, that maybe you could advise me on what I ought to be eating and then I could put my proposition to you and see whether you're interested or not. There doesn't have to be any pressure involved. You don't even have to talk if you don't want to. All I'm asking you to do is to listen.’

The girl said, 'Forget it,’ but the boy reached out and held her arm, keeping his eyes fixed on Randolph.

'You want to eat?’ Randolph asked.

The boy nodded and then in a slightly hoarse voice, said, 'Don't expect me to say yes to anything, that's all. I know why you've come here. I know what you want. You've got to understand that I don't do that kind of stuff anymore.’

Randolph gave him a tight smile. 'And what kind of stuff is that, the stuff you don't do any more?’

'You know what I mean,’ the boy replied coldly.

Randolph said, Tor sure, I know what you mean.’

The girl said with ill-disguised fury, 'If you try to get him involved in any of that trance business, so help me, I'll scream out rape.’

'Rape?’ Randolph inquired, trying hard not to sound amused.

'That's what you're trying to do, isn't it?’ the girl asked defiantly. 'Rape Michael's mind, the same as all the others did. Now he's caught between the devils in one world and the devils in the other, and believe me, there isn't much to choose between them.’

'Do I look like a devil?’ Randolph asked.

'Don't you know?’ the girl demanded. 'Devils always have smooth tongues. Devils are always tempting.’