Return to Tomorrow (12 page)

“He told me he had a 3.9 GPA this semester,” Billy announced as proudly as any father. “We'll get this place a five-star rating before you know it.” Ponchoo was studying hotel and restaurant management part-time at Thammasat University. He spoke English with an American accent and ran the dining-room staff with an iron hand.

“How's the newest member of the team working out?” Brett asked.

“Not too bad,” Billy replied. “The little Chinese girl is a real worker.” Over the years they'd helped other street kids work their way into the mainstream of Thai life. Their newest employee was an ethnic Chinese girl Lonnie had dragged home from a massage parlor where she was being trained to replace her mother, who, at twenty-seven, was considered over the hill.

“Well, well, here comes Ambassador Singleton. You two had any heart-to-heart talks lately?”

“No. But we're going to have to get together very soon.” Brett watched as the ambassador and his party were seated at one of the prime tables near the windows overlooking the Chao Phraya River and the city beyond.

“I take it it's time to call in the big boys?” Billy asked with no more curiosity than if he were inquiring about tomorrow's weather report.

“We're going all the way to the top.” If Alf Singleton couldn't talk his Thai counterpart in the palace into delivering the rest of the money he needed, Brett would
probably have to mortgage the restaurant to come up with it. He wasn't about to let Khen Sa and one hundred million dollars' worth of heroin slip away, if he could help it.

“We better come out of this lookin' like the heroes we are.”

Brett merely grunted.

“The police found Lonnie's car,” Billy said a few moments later.

“Where?” Brett swung away from the scene beyond the beaded curtain. Billy's hair and shirt were wet from an early-evening thunderstorm. Behind them, the increasing noise of conversation in half a dozen languages masked their words.

“On a side street near Hualamphong Station.”

“They took the train north?”

“Looks like it. There was no sign of foul play. The old bug was locked with the keys inside.”

Brett ran his hand through his hair, stirring the heavy gold waves with agitated fingers. At least she had left the city safely. “They should have been back at the camp two days ago. Where the hell are they?” He could read most men and their intentions like a book, but Rachel's actions were a complete mystery to him.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” He felt Billy watching him, and for the first time in twenty years, he deliberately avoided confiding in his friend. That's what falling for a woman could do to a man, twist him all up inside until he didn't know whether he was coming or going.

He'd known Rachel was frightened and confused by the feelings he'd aroused in her the night she'd spent in
his arms. Yet, surely there was more to her disappearance than a reluctance to enter into a physical relationship with him? It was out of character for her to keep running away. In most other circumstances she'd faced her challenges, even rushed headlong to meet them, regardless of the consequences. Except with him. There had to be something more, something about her he didn't know.

“My guess,” Billy said, breaking the silence that stretched out between them, “is that they're headed for some other up-country destination besides Father Dolph's camp. As far as I can figure it, the only logical place that could be is Ahnle's village, across the border in Laos.”

“What the hell would they do that for?” Brett growled. He'd been angry, scared, frustrated, most of the time all three at once, since he'd walked out of his shower three days ago and found that Rachel and Ahnle had cleared out of his house. They'd vanished between one minute and the next, taking Lonnie's wreck of a VW and most of his pocket money, leaving nothing but an IOU, signed with Rachel's initials. He didn't know what he'd want to do first when he found her again, kiss her or wring her neck for not trusting him enough to ask for his help.

“Who knows with women? But you can bet it's somethin' important. I remember her face that first night Lonnie and me came across her and that embassy flunky, Bartley, stuck in the mud up there in the hills. Rachel's scared to death of that jungle. She wouldn't go back there unless it was for a damned good reason.”

“You're right.” Brett made his decision. “See if you can get a call through to Father Dolph. I'll tell him what
we know about the car. And this time he damned well better not beat around the bush telling us what he knows, or I'll have his hide, priest or no priest.”

 

“M
C
K
ENDRICK HERE
.” Micah waited for the caller on the other end of the line to identify himself. Outside, an early November snowstorm wrapped the cabin in white isolation. Inside, it was warm and cozy and behind him, Carrie was playing with their son in front of the fireplace. The static on the line sounded as if the connection stretched halfway around the world. A shiver ran up his spine that had nothing to do with the north wind howling around the cabin.

“Micah? Can you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Micah said tersely, his suspicions confirmed even before he heard the caller's name.

“It's Tiger Jackson.”

“What's wrong?” There was no reason for his old friend to call, except with bad news.

“Rachel's disappeared. She's been gone almost a week.”

“How did it happen?” Micah felt like shouting into the telephone. Had there been a border raid? Had she been kidnapped by bandits?

“The last I saw of her was at my place in Bangkok. She stole my friend's car and most of my pocket money and took off north on the train with a young Hlông girl she'd befriended at the camp.”

“Damn.” He punched the top of the desk with his fist. Behind him, Carrie stopped playing with the baby and scooped him up onto her lap. He turned slowly, knowing the anguish he was feeling would show plainly on his
face. “What the hell was she doing in Bangkok? What the hell was she doing with you?”

“It's a long story.”

The connection wasn't getting any better. Micah tried to figure out the time differential. He glanced at his watch. Four o'clock on a lousy early November afternoon. That meant it must be about four in the morning—tomorrow—in Bangkok.

“Father Dolph, at the camp, thinks she's probably headed into Laos, back to the girl's village to help her retrieve her baby son.” Surprisingly, something like anger laced Brett's words. “I'm sorry, buddy. I didn't know about the girl's baby. Father Dolph seemed to think it was none of my business at first. I would have stopped them if I'd had any idea what they were up to.”

“You couldn't know, man. And I doubt if you could have stopped my sister if you'd tried. She's got this thing about kids.” He glanced lovingly at his wife and son, the baby Rachel had delivered, here, at the cabin. He thought of the way she'd risked her life to save Annie's daughter, Leah, when her Vietnamese mother had attempted to abduct her. Of the baby Rachel had lost so long ago. “I'd only be surprised if she didn't try to help the girl.”

“Khen Sa is on the move in those hills.” Brett's words were hard-edged, matter-of-fact. Micah didn't expect to hear anything else. Emotions got you killed in Tiger's line of work.

Carrie had come forward, holding their son to be comforted and to give Micah comfort, as well. He held her close in the circle of his arm.

“Micah, you still there? This is a damned lousy con
nection.” Once again, an uncharacteristic lacing of anger underscored Brett's words.

“Yes, I'm here. The trouble's probably on this end. It's snowing to beat the band up here. Always plays hell with the phone lines.”

“I just wanted you to know I'll do everything I can to get her back to Father Dolph safe and sound, you know that, man.” Micah didn't for a moment doubt that he would. “I'll call again as soon as I have some news.”

“Tiger, wait.”

The line went dead.

“Damn.” Micah stared at the phone, then cupped the receiver in his hand as he began flipping through the phone book.

“Who are you calling now?” Carrie asked. His son watched him also, as she held him in her arms. His eyes were warm and bright with lively intelligence. Micah loved him, loved Carrie more each day.

“The airline,” he said, blessing her for not asking for details just yet, for letting him act first and talk over the decision later. “Think you can manage here alone for a few days until Reuben can get back up here from Ann Arbor?”

“Of course.” She dismissed his question with the disdain it deserved. “Micah, where are you going?” she asked more quietly, her voice once again filled with concern.

“Bangkok,” he said, still holding her close against him, “by way of Chicago. This is one time having a brother with Simon's contacts is going to come in handy.”

R
ACHEL STOOD ON THE
dusty main street of Chiang Khong and watched the evil-smelling diesel bus they'd been riding in for so many long hours drive off. It was a hot, muggy morning, the third since they'd run away from Brett's house. She wondered briefly if he'd found Lonnie Smalley's VW, but she was really too tired to think about it much. She'd tried very hard to park the car where it would be safe and not too difficult to find before they boarded the train north. At the time, it had seemed the best thing to do.

She stopped thinking of what was done and beyond repairing and looked around her. Several people had stopped outside businesses and shops to stare, politely and unobtrusively, but curiously, nonetheless. Their arrival, it seemed, was creating a small stir of interest. There had been only three other passengers to get off the bus, all men. Several others, including two women with live chickens headed for market, had boarded the bus for the return trip to Chiang Rai. The male passengers had already disappeared into one of the hotels, leaving Rachel and Ahnle alone in front of the bus stop.

Once Chiang Khong had been a busy border crossing into Laos, a half mile away across the Mekong River. But the Pathet Lao had closed the border years ago and
there were few boats on the river. Now the entire town appeared as dusty and dejected as its main street.

“We should move out of the street,” Ahnle said, staring at the potholed pavement beneath her feet. It wouldn't do to draw too much attention to themselves.

“Yes,” Rachel agreed. They were both wearing dark cotton slacks and light-colored blouses, bought in the market in Chiang Rai. Flat straw hats covered their hair. Rachel wore sunglasses as well, to hide her eyes. “Do you know where the home of your mother's sister and her son is located?” She spoke carefully in Hlông. Ahnle looked so exhausted, Rachel was afraid she might collapse, the result of two and a half days of hard travel, added to the strain and fear of the week before.

The girl looked around her in confusion. “It is near the river,” she said at last. “My cousin brought us here by boat. It was a fishing boat with a motor.” She furrowed her brow, trying to remember. “He met us at a place along the river. It was very early in the morning and I was very cold. Everyone was afraid. If a border patrol found us, or bandits…” She left the sentence unfinished. “I hid my face. I did not like crossing the river. It is very big and very deep. No one in my family could swim.” She looked up and down the street, undecided.

“If we walk toward the river, do you think you can recognize your cousin's house?”

“I will try.” Ahnle shouldered her
yaam,
filled with supplies and sweaters and blankets they'd bought along with the clothes they wore. She started walking in the direction of the river. “We stayed here for two hands of days. Then men from the government came. They said we must go to the camp, that we could not stay here with
my aunt. We could not say no to them or they would send us back.” She was quiet for a long while, looking at houses and looking into the past, also, Rachel suspected. “What if my cousin will not take us across the river?” she asked.

“Then we'll find another way. I didn't commit grand larceny in a foreign country to give up now,” Rachel said grimly, as she shifted the weight of her woven bag higher on her shoulder. She ached with fatigue, every joint in her body protesting the long, tiring days of travel and almost sleepless nights.

She knew they should stay here in Chiang Khong, at one of the cheap hotels, if not with Ahnle's relatives, and rest. Yet, neither of them was prepared to accept the delay. Ahnle's brother would surely be on their trail by now, and Rachel knew they couldn't take the risk of allowing him to catch up with them.

Not Ahnle's brother—or an equally angry Brett Jackson.

“I do not know how much opium my uncle offered him to cross the river for us. My brother bargained for our passage,” Ahnle said. Rachel had heard the whole story before, of course, on the bus ride north, but she listened patiently. It had come in disjointed bits and pieces that first time, as they pored over a map of the Golden Triangle Rachel had purchased at Chiang Mai, trying to pinpoint as closely as possible the area of Ahnle's village in Laos. Anything she might remember by telling the story again was worth listening to.

“It doesn't matter how much opium your uncle paid for the crossing. We haven't got any.” As always, Rachel tried to empty her mind of anger toward the hill people,
who grew opium poppies as they had for generations only as a medium of exchange, nothing more. It was the dealers, the middlemen and pushers who made life miserable for so many, not subsistence farmers, who only followed age-old patterns of trade and barter.

“Do we have enough money?” Ahnle's voice was barely a whisper. They had heard others talking on the trip north, stories of bandits and of Khen Sa coming down from Burma to deal for the opium crop and the danger there was to villagers and strangers alike, traveling even on government buses, when he was in the area.

“We're doing fine,” Rachel reassured her. Actually, they had a little over a thousand
baht
. About fifty dollars. Not much, but it would have to do. She was hoping in the depressed economy of Chiang Khong, she'd be able to get Ahnle's cousin traded down to a reasonable figure, not from family feeling—he sounded every bit as opportunistic as Ahnle's half brother—but because she was offering something even more valuable than raw opium: cold, hard cash.

They trudged through the muggy heat, Ahnle peering carefully at each rickety house, all on stilts, most leaning at precarious angles along the water's edge. The air was filled with the heavy smells of river mud, garbage and raw sewage, relieved sweetly and unexpectedly by the occasional scent of honeysuckle or jasmine. Small children laughed and ran beneath the houses, ran in and out of the river, naked and carefree, chasing scrawny chickens and being chased by equally scrawny pigs.

A hundred yards farther on the village began to peter out. The houses were farther apart here, even more
dilapidated, the children quieter, as though they didn't have the energy to run and play. Even the pigs and chickens and occasional goat were quiet, dispirited. Rachel shivered despite the heat. This was where the hill people and Lao refugees made their homes, slightly apart from the rest of the village, balanced precariously on the edge of poverty.

“There,” Ahnle said suddenly, her voice filled with relief. “That is the sister of my mother. There, working in her garden.” She hurried forward, stopping outside the rickety fence of bamboo stakes and bowed low, dropping to her knees to show respect to her aunt, who was kneeling among a row of cabbages. “Mother's sister,” she said, steepling her fingers before her in greeting. “It is I, Ahnle. I have come from the missionary's camp.”

“Sister's daughter,” replied the wizened old woman, who Rachel knew was probably only a decade older than she was herself. No trace of surprise showed on her face at Ahnle's sudden, unexpected appearance on her doorstep. “Do the spirits leave you well?”

“I am well, Aunt, no evil spirit troubles my body.”

“Good. But why do you come here, Niece? I have nothing extra to spare for you.”

“I ask nothing of you, Aunt. I seek your son, Bohan.” Ahnle continued to stare at the ground between them, not at her aunt's weather-beaten, almost toothless face.

“He is within.” She gestured with her head at the house behind her. “What do you seek from him?” Her straw hat shadowed her face; her voice held no inflection.

“I…I must return to my village.”

“For the child?” The older woman's expression didn't change. She never even looked in Rachel's direction,
although Rachel, too, had dropped to her knees to show the proper respect to one older and wiser than herself.

“You know of my son?” Ahnle bowed lower, then straightened her shoulders and raised her eyes almost level with her aunt's, showing that she considered herself, in this matter at least, to be her equal.

“We know. Your brother came here when he took the child across the river.”

“Was my son well?”

“A fine boy for one without ancestors.” Ahnle hung her head, then lifted her chin.

“We wish to bargain for passage to the other side of the river.”

“Bohan will not bargain with a girl, one who has disgraced our family.” The old woman returned to her weeding, effectively dismissing Ahnle's gesture of defiance.

“I will bargain with your son, Wise Mother.” Rachel removed her sunglasses and looked at Ahnle's aunt, focusing on a point at eye level, somewhere near her ear. To have made eye contact while arguing would have been interpreted as a sign of contempt. “A
farang
woman who speaks our tongue and who knows our customs.” She paused, considering. “I have heard of one such as you from the traders who sometimes come here with my son. I did not believe you existed. I thought they talked of poppy smoke dreams.”

“I exist, Wise Mother.”

“I will tell Bohan that you wish to see him.” The old woman made a
wai
, returning Rachel's earlier greeting. “Times are hard here. He will take you across the river if you bargain with him.”

“We have sufficient means to bargain, but not to be taken advantage of,” Rachel said firmly, but politely.

Ahnle's aunt nodded. “Good. You will do well with him and I will remind him to show respect to my sister's spirit, even though her daughter has not.” She gave Ahnle another hard glance, then nodded toward her home. “Come inside.”

 

R
ACHEL AND
A
HNLE
paused on the ridge above the tiny village of thatch-roofed huts. Smoke curled in thin, lazy spirals from holes in their roofs and from larger fires scattered around the settlement. The scent of wood smoke was heavy in the thin, humid air. Outside the dozen or so huts, women and children went about the chores of daily life. Two water buffalo were penned in a bamboo corral in the middle of the village, protected from prowling animals and marauding Pathet Lao irregulars. A few straggle-tailed chickens and tiny, Vietnamese pigs scratched and rooted under the oxen's feet. One woman was milking goats. Four or five young boys were practicing with bows and arrows, a favorite Hlông weapon. Smaller boys and girls raced along behind one lucky youngster who was hurtling down the muddy street on what appeared to be a board with wheels attached. Their screams of laughter and delight echoed off the hills and floated upward to Rachel and Ahnle.

“Is this your village, Ahnle?” Rachel asked softly. There were no men to be seen; most likely they were off hunting in the hills around them. She was surprised they hadn't been seen and stopped already by one of the keen-eyed hunters. A small field of poppies filled the only level space around the village, while the huts
clung precariously to the hillside. It was too early for the poppies to be in bloom at this altitude. The field was deserted.

“Yes,” Ahnle replied. “This is my village. We have found it. We will go down, and I will speak to my uncle, the
dzoema
. He makes all the decisions in the village. He will say if I can take my son away, or not.”

“Yes.” Rachel's heart was pounding in her chest from excitement and anticipation. It didn't seem possible to her that the nightmare journey she'd set out on with so much dread was almost at an end. Everything had gone well. She'd bargained Ahnle's cousin down to eight hundred
baht
; three hundred when they reached Laos, the rest when they safely returned.

Crossing the river had been easy. Bohan had merely taken his boat downstream on the Thai side of the river, then angled across to the Lao side at a place where the great river narrowed and curved between marsh-lined banks. There he had replaced the Thai flag above the motor with the Pathet Lao flag, cut the engine to something like trolling speed and drifted on downstream. They met only one other boat, as rickety and unprepossessing as Bohan's, on the Lao side of the river. The fishermen in it, occupied with their lines, barely gave them a second glance.

Several kilometers below Chiang Khong, Bohan nosed the boat into a tributary stream almost completely hidden by the drooping branches of a willow-like tree, then continued upstream, fishing lines trailing astern. An hour later, somewhere near midmorning, they stopped. The stream had narrowed considerably. Along the shore the ruins of several small huts and two or three derelict
rowboats were all that remained of a fishing village. Bohan guided the boat ashore.

“I go no farther,” he announced, spitting dark red betel-nut juice into the water. “Pay me now.”

Rachel reached into her
yaam
and produced the money, a bundle of ten-
baht
notes. If Ahnle's cousin intended to rob them and strand them on this inhospitable shore, she had no idea what she would do to stop him. She could only rely on the Hlông superstition that to harm a defenseless woman would bring the evil
phi
spirits down on you with a vengeance.

Bohan took the money without touching her and waved them out of the boat. “To find the village, follow the stream to the waterfall. Above that there is a trail, very faint. It is two days' walk for women. I will come back in five days at sunrise. Only once. If you are not here when I return you will have only the spirits to guide you back.” He'd smiled then, an ugly, gap-toothed smile out of a mouth stained red from betel juice.

“And you will be five hundred
baht
poorer than you are today.” Rachel refused to be cowed.

“Five sunrises.” He backed away from the shore, waiting until the stream widened sufficiently to turn the boat around. The current was swift. He was soon lost to sight.

“We must go,” Ahnle said.

“Yes.” Rachel took a moment to look around her. She was back in Laos, a country that held only memories of hardship and terror and loss for her. Yet the scene before her was peaceful and serene. The huts were derelict, long abandoned, housing only rodents, or more horribly still, cobras. The boats were equally derelict except for
one which, while just as weather-beaten as the rest, appeared to be well-patched, with a pair of oars laid beside it where it was overturned in the reeds at the stream's edge.