Salty (10 page)

…

Sheila sat on the ground eating her porridge. She was surprised how good it tasted; perhaps it helped to be really hungry. She found a spot where the sun filtered through the trees and allowed herself to be warmed by it. She looked over when she
heard Captain Somporn shouting to one of his men. The man jumped up—Sheila noticed that he was wearing her Chanel sunglasses—and hurried over to her with a paper umbrella. He drove the sharp end of the pole into the ground, angling it so that it shaded her.

Sheila looked at Somporn.

“I like the sun.”

Somporn wagged a finger at her.

“Your skin is too dark. I am saving you from skin cancer.”

Sheila heard Mrs. Double-Glazing make a tut-tutting sound. As if this were proof of something.

They watched as the woman from Seattle was carried out of the hut by a couple of Somporn's men. They carried her toward the beach, dragging her shit-smeared ass across the sand and into the water. Sheila could tell that the men weren't happy to be dealing with her. While one held her head and shoulders above water, the other one carefully stripped off her clothes.

They kind of swished her around in the water—moving her body back and forth—then dragged her back and dumped her on the beach. She lay naked on the sand, her heavy white skin exposed to the sun, her breasts hanging low and heaving as she took in deep, terrified breaths. Undressed and rinsed off as she was, the festering insect bites were now clearly visible on her body, making it look like she'd slept on a bed of hot nails. The salt water stung her wounds, and she writhed around, trying to focus, struggling to figure out where she was. Occasionally she let out a groan.

Somporn looked at Sheila and pointed to the woman's naked body.

“Better without a tan.”

…

Turk sat in the back of the police car. The ICE agent sat in front with the Thai police officer. Turk didn't know where they were going, but it had something to do with one of the people who had been abducted with Sheila. They were hoping Turk might be able to identify someone. Turk didn't want to go. But they'd insisted, making him feel like he was under arrest.

They pulled into the parking lot of some kind of big department store. It was all concrete, modern, with brightly colored flags flying from poles. Looking like it'd been dropped out of the sky from the New Jersey suburbs, it could've been a Wal-Mart or a Target. A large orange sign said something in the indecipherable curlicues of the Thai alphabet. Maybe it said “Wal-Mart” in Thai. When had Turk ever been in one of those? He wouldn't know a Wal-Mart if it landed on him.

The car pulled up next to an ambulance and another police car. A small crowd of curious Thais stood around looking at a dead body on the ground. Turk was shocked.

“Shouldn't they put a sheet over him or something?”

The Thai officer shrugged.

“Then there's nothing to see.”

They got out of the car. Turk hesitated. He didn't want to get any closer. He looked at the man—the poor guy looked like he'd been worked over with a baseball bat—and then quickly turned away and tried to climb back into the car.

“Nope. Never seen him before.”

Ben grabbed his arm.

“I know it's not pleasant. But it's important.”

He dragged Turk within a couple of feet of the body.

“Take a good look.”

Turk looked. He didn't know it, but it was the dead cheapskate from Seattle, his head bashed in, his skull deformed, blood caked across his face, the ever-present flies still swarming the wounds.

The first thing Turk thought was that it was a fake. It wasn't a dead guy. It was some kind of prop, a special effect concocted to freak him out. He looked around; there had to be a hidden camera somewhere. But Turk's state of denial didn't last long. One whiff of rotting carcass and he knew it wasn't anything you could fake. His stomach turned. He didn't barf or gag, but somewhere deep inside his guts queased up on him.

“Let's go.”

Ben pulled out his notepad.

“Do you recognize him now?”

Turk nodded.

“Looks like Freddy Krueger.”

Ben wrote that in his notebook.

“Where do you know Mr. Krueger from?”

Turk looked at Ben and shook his head. He didn't want to be an asshole, so he walked back to the car.

On the drive back to the hotel, Ben tried to impress upon Turk the importance of the U.S.'s adopting a no-nonsense policy in dealing with terrorists.

“Now you see what they're capable of.”

Turk lifted his sunglasses and fixed Ben with his petulant—fuck-off—rock star glare.

“And that's supposed to make me what? Not want to get my wife back?”

Ben tried to be reasonable.

“You have to understand. We don't make deals with terrorists. It only encourages them.”

“So how is getting Sheila back encouraging them? They're already totally encouraged; you said it yourself. Are there different levels of encouragement? Like are we on an orange encouragement alert? Or is it a red one?”

Ben could see that Turk was angry, but he didn't know what else to say.

“It's possible that when they realize we won't be paying them, they'll release her.”

Turk glared at him.

“How is that possible?”

“It could happen.”

“Has that ever, in the history of hostages, happened before?”

Ben nodded. Turk knew a line of bullshit when he heard it, and grew increasingly irate.

“If they are terrorists like you suggest, then it's also possible they'll chop her fucking head off and show it on TV. Isn't that a possibility?”

“I can't make any guarantees.”

“Seems to me that paying a million bucks to keep my wife from getting her head chopped off is a bargain.”

Ben could see that Turk just wasn't going to be reasonable about this, so he decided to take a hard line, an approach he hoped his supervisor might later commend him for.

“I'm sorry. But if you try to contact them or give them money in any way, you'll be arrested and prosecuted under provisions of the Patriot Act.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“Like it or not, Mr. Henry, the United States is at war. We take the war against terrorism very, very seriously.”

Turk looked at Ben for a long beat, and then used an extended middle finger to push his sunglasses back up his nose so they covered his eyes.

…

When they got back to the hotel Turk stormed off to his room without saying a word to the ICE asshole, the Thai policeman, or the hotel manager. As far as he was concerned they could all go fuck themselves, or each other, or their mothers. He didn't care.

Turk entered his cabin and went right to the minibar. He cracked open a Singha and took a nice long drink. The cold beer burbled down his throat like the clear mountain brook they always showed in those stupid ads. Sure, it was refreshing, clear, and cooling, but those ads annoyed Turk. You couldn't drink water from some mountain stream. It'd have raccoon shit in it, or acid rain, or toxic runoff. Mountain streams were teeming with parasites, mercury, DDT, all kinds of stuff that would kill you. But beer refreshed and relaxed. Beer was better than stream water any day. Turk burped. Then he picked up the phone and called his manager.

Heidegger's assistant, Marybeth, picked up the phone and immediately bombarded Turk with questions. Was he okay? How was he doing? Did he think Sheila would be all right? Was there anything she could do for him? Anything? Her voice was warm and honey-coated, filled with empathy
and concern. Turk tried to remember if he'd ever fucked her. It seemed to him he had. He must've. Right?

But he didn't have time to chat, and told her to connect him to Jon right away. Turk heard a beep, a blast of new wave rock, and then Heidegger's voice came on the line.

“How's it going? Did you talk to the authorities?”

“They're fucking useless.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some asshole from the government told me they'd arrest me if I tried to pay.”

“What?”

“He said she's been abducted by terrorists. It's against the law to pay ransoms to terrorists.”

“Terrorists?”

“That's what he said.”

“That's unbelievable. Can they really do that?”

“What the fuck do I know about it? He seemed to think they could. But then he told me to sit tight and he'd try and deal with it on the QT.”

The line was silent for a moment. Finally Heidegger spoke.

“What does that mean?”

“I don't know.”

“Listen, Turk. I don't like this. You tell that government anus that if they arrest you for trying to save your beloved wife they'll have every media outlet in the known fucking universe doing a story on how they're a bunch of soulless bureaucrat cocksuckers. Keeping things on the QT is the last fucking thing we're gonna do. You get your money and save your wife. The embassy twat can go fuck himself.”

Turk loved when his manager got angry. That was the great thing about having “people” and “handlers.” It was Heidegger's job to be a raging asshole, whiny baby, righteous advocate, avenging angel, and whatever else his clients needed him to be. He could say the things Turk wanted to say without actually having to say them and come off sounding like a big fat jerk.

“Did you get the money?”

“Yeah. Everything's cool. Let me give you the address so you can pick it up.”

Turk looked around the cabin.

“Wait. I need a pen.”

“No you don't. It's the Bank of Phuket on Phuket Road in Phuket Town. Just keep sayin' Phuket and you'll find it.”

“Thanks, Jon.”

“After you get her back we need to talk. I think I got you a record deal.”

Turk brightened.

“Really?”

“Save the day. Then we'll talk.”

“Okay. I'll call you later.”

“Oh, and Turk. Listen. Take a big suitcase. It's a lotta fuckin' money.”

…

The transcript of Turk's conversation with Jon Heidegger appeared as an e-mail on Ben's Blackberry. He'd had the foresight to request that the intelligence station back in
Bangkok tap Turk's hotel room phone line. Any calls the rock star made would be recorded and sent to him. Ben had to squint a little to read it, the type being so small, but he got the gist of it. Turk Henry was going to be a problem.

Sheila slipped out of her clothes, carefully folding them and putting them on the floor, and walked over to the makeshift shower. Captain Somporn had provided her with a new loofah, some expensive moisturizing soap, and a jar of all-natural coconut oil. It was like he'd turned this little corner of his hut into some kind of spa.

“Is there anything else you need?”

Sheila turned to look at him. He was sitting on the floor, his legs crossed in front of him, a cold bottle of beer in one hand, a smoldering cigarette in the other, watching her, like a patron in a cabaret waiting for the show to begin.

“No. This is fine.”

“The coconut oil is for your skin. It's very good. Very healthy.”

Sheila smiled and then stood under the hose and unhooked the clamp. Warmish water trickled out, and she began to soap her body, building up a thick, rich lather.

The Captain's attentions reminded her of the ad campaign she'd done for a French soap company. They had wanted her skin to be glowing, healthy, and blemish-free and had sent her to a series of experts who prescribed exotic scrubs,
herbal wraps, mud baths, and moisturizing sessions. They'd even hired a nutritionist to prepare her meals and make sure she drank four liters of water every day. For two months all Sheila did was get treated like a prize pig before the state fair.

The French soap company had spared no expense; it had hired a famous Dutch photographer, and the best, most creative makeup artist, a tomboyish British woman with a yogarific aura, had been employed to dust her skin with subtle orange-gold hues. They'd gone so far as to bring in Carlos Lemoyne, the world-famous eyelash specialist. He'd arrived with a whole team, shoved the makeup artist and photographer aside, and got to work. He spent three hours hand-painting each of her eyelashes so they became miniature works of art. Sheila loved them, because they made her green eyes pop out of the photo. Even though her breasts were fully exposed, people noticed her eyes; they couldn't help it, they looked that good.

That campaign should've made her an icon, the rare supermodel who's forever attached to a hugely successful product, like Cheryl Tiegs and Olympus cameras or Tyra Banks and Victoria's Secret. Sheila would've been set for life, but her daily habit of hoovering several grams of Peruvian marching powder had finally caught up with her. Her left nostril had sprung a leak, bright red blood gushing from it like a broken water main.

It had taken about an hour, but she'd finally got it to slow to a trickle. The photographer and makeup artist had worked valiantly to control and conceal the constant ooze but they only got off a handful of shots before it became impossible to continue. As the makeup artist ran off to get more cotton gauze, and the photographer stomped off in a hail of unintelligible curses to smoke a joint, Sheila calmly
chopped herself a couple of lines of blow and snorted them up her good nostril. What with all the drama going on, she needed a bump.

When Carlos saw that, he had become so enraged that he physically attacked her, knocking her to the studio floor and attempting to remove her eyelashes with a sharp pair of tweezers.

Sheila had been left with a deviated septum and a destroyed reputation.

Still, the photographs were strikingly beautiful. They became the central image of the ad campaign. Sheila's face and body were plastered on billboards, in magazines, and on the products themselves.

No one had paid that much attention to her body since then, not even her husband, and although she was a little confused and frightened by Captain Somporn, there was no mistaking the intensity of his gaze.