Salty (23 page)

She found Turk sitting out by the beach, a cold beer in front of him, his legs kicked up on a chaise longue, snoring
under a palm frond
palapa
. The afternoon showers hadn't seemed to disturb him.

“Turk. Turkey. C'mon.”

Marybeth gently shook him awake. Turk pulled off his sunglasses and looked at her.

“Hey. You get everything?”

Marybeth patted the suitcase. “No problem.”

Turk saw the suitcase and sat up. “What the fuck is that?”

“You don't like it?”

Turk had to think about it. “It's not that I don't like it. I do. But, is it appropriate?”

Marybeth nodded. “Totally.”

Turk looked around. “Where's Clive?”

“He'll be back soon. He had to stop and drop a load in a bar girl.”

Turk shook his head. “That's all anyone does around here. The whole country's just about fucking and getting massages. And the massages are a lot like fucking.”

Turk sat back on the chaise. “Paradise. Really.”

She laughed. “So the bag's okay?”

“Peachy.”

She reached over and took a swig of his beer. “You're in a good mood.”

“I'm just trying to be cheerful instead of freaking out.”

“You won't freak out.”

Turk shrugged. “We'll find out soon enough.”

Marybeth sat down and put her arm around him. She gave him a reassuring kiss on the cheek. They sat there like that for a moment.

“What're you going to do after?”

“After what?”

“After you get Sheila back.”

Turk turned and looked at Marybeth. “She's my wife.”

Marybeth pulled her arm away from Turk, but she kept looking at him. “I know that.”

“Honestly, Marybeth, I don't know what I'm going to do about anything. I really don't. I'm just a bass player.”

There was no bitterness in Turk's voice. He was happy to be a bass player. Marybeth smiled at him and said, “You're a great bass player.”

The boy came running up to Turk and Marybeth, sand flying. He pulled an envelope out of his shorts and handed it to Turk. “This for you, mister.”

Turk took the envelope, his hand shaking. “Who gave it to you?”

The boy shrugged. “You want beer, mister?”

Turk stared at the envelope. He didn't want to open it. He looked at the boy. “Bring two.”

Turk reached into his pocket and handed the boy a hundred baht. The boy turned and took off running. Marybeth looked at Turk.

“Is it from them?”

“Has to be.”

Turk still didn't open it. He sat there, trembling.

“They might be watching. You should probably open it.”

Turk heaved a sigh. “I need a beer.”

He stared out at the horizon, watching soft waves whisper in off the Andaman Sea.

“Hard to believe that they had a tsunami here.”

Marybeth was impatient. “You want me to open it?”

…

Captain Somporn realized he wasn't dealing with the brightest bulb on the planet, so he had made his instructions to Turk as simple as possible. An inflatable boat with a motor and a GPS positioning device was going to be waiting for Turk on the beach near the hotel at four o'clock. He was supposed to use the GPS and drive the boat about twelve miles north to a secluded cove surrounded by mangroves. There he would find a date palm with a red bandanna tied on the trunk. He would leave the suitcase with the money next to the tree and return to the hotel. Once the money was counted, Sheila would be released in town.

The only tricky part, Somporn knew, was navigating through the overgrown mangroves without getting lost. The GPS should lead him to the spot without any problems. But if he took too long it would get dark. This complicated the drop—and Turk's safe return to the resort—but it gave Somporn and his men some protection. If Turk had gone to the Thai police, any sea or air support they might muster would be useless at night.

Somporn hoped Turk would follow the plan and not try anything clever. He'd hate to have to kill Sheila.

…

Ben sat in a chair on the beach, watching Turk and Marybeth read the message from the terrorists. He had a beach bag next to him, his waterproof boots, fatigues, gear, gun, and grenade all tucked inside and covered by a towel and a tube of sunscreen.
A topless woman—judging from her straight blond hair and perfect teeth she was probably Norwegian—came strolling by. Ben's eyes followed her briefly, before he reminded himself of his mission. He turned back toward Turk and Marybeth. He could hang out with topless Norwegians when he was a millionaire.

…

Turk looked at Marybeth. “I'm hungry. Feel like lunch?”

Marybeth shook her head. “I'm going to take a shower.

I'm stinky.”

Turk stood up. “That's just part of your charm. I'll meet you back here at three-thirty. If you see Clive, tell him what the deal is.”

Marybeth gave him a reassuring smile. “Okey dokey.”

Turk turned and walked up the stairs, toward the restaurant on the terrace overlooking the pool. Uncharacteristically, he didn't bother looking at the dozen or so topless women arrayed around the pool like a Nordic smorgasbord.

He
waied
to the Thai hostess and she dutifully led him to a table. It was a nice table, with a view of the pool and the ocean beyond it, the hard cobalt of the sky and the shifting azure of the ocean contrasting and blending, all framed by coconut palms and dotted by fluffy white clouds and topless Scandinavians. Turk had barely had time to look at the menu when Ben Harding walked up to him.

“Mr. Henry. May I join you?”

Turk nodded. “Any news? Or do you want to show me another dead body?”

Ben tried not to snap. “I'm sorry if I upset you, Mr. Henry. But nobody ever said fighting terrorism was pleasant.”

“You keep saying they're terrorists.”

“I think the statements the other hostages made were conclusive.”

“What do you mean? They said they were lost in the woods.”

“That, as you might have guessed, was what we wanted the world to hear. Trust me, their debriefing was conclusive about the fact that, whether you like it or not, we're dealing with an international terrorist organization.”

Turk didn't respond.

“But we haven't stopped working. We're exhausting all the possibilities. My team in Bangkok has been on it twenty-four-seven.”

He looked Turk right in the eye, using a technique they'd taught him in interrogation class. Ben was hoping Turk would confide in him, tell him what the plan was, give him some kind of inkling about when things were going to go down. It was difficult to do a round-the-clock surveillance without a team of operatives covering from a variety of angles. Any little hint—a time, a place, a tiny tidbit of information—would make it that much easier for Ben to follow Turk and kill him.

“How about you? Any word? Have the terrorists tried to contact you?”

Turk felt the message from the kidnappers burning a hole in his pants pocket. He wondered why Ben was so curious about the terrorists all of a sudden. He hadn't bothered to ask before. Did it mean that he knew what was going on?
The last thing Turk wanted was more interference from the U.S. government.

“Nope. Not a peep.”

Ben could tell by the way Turk's pupils dilated when he answered the question that he was lying. Not that he needed any more confirmation than what he'd already witnessed. A waitress came over and Turk ordered a papaya stuffed with blue crab salad and green mango.

“Hungry?”

Ben shook his head. “I've got a lot of work to do. Trying to get your wife back.”

“You told me she was probably floating in the bay.”

Ben looked a little sheepish, like a kid caught lying. “I—honestly, Mr. Henry, I don't know. We don't know. Anything is possible at this point.”

“You made me go to a morgue.”

“I needed you to ID a body. I'm sorry—I know it wasn't pleasant, but it was necessary. Just like it would be necessary for you to tell me if the terrorists contact you, as I'm positive they will, if they haven't already.”

Turk felt a surge of conflicting emotions jolt through his body. He wanted to laugh at Ben and at the same time he wanted to pile-drive his fist into Ben's soft pink face. He looked down and saw that his right hand was clenched in a tight fist, the knuckles white. He shook it off. It wouldn't do any good to punch the guy. Probably end up in Siberia or Romania, or worse, with a lawsuit to settle and an unflattering mention in
People
magazine. Turk took a breath. He thought about his therapist. Keep cool. Breathe. Try and detach from the urge. Don't let your emotions push you to do something you'd regret later, like strangling the ICE asshole
sitting across the table from you. Turk finally spoke, measuring his words carefully.

“I appreciate your concern. If any terrorist tries to contact me, you'll be the first to know.”

“This isn't easy for anyone, Mr. Henry.”

Turk nodded. It wasn't easy. It wasn't easy to keep from telling this guy to go fuck himself, despite the consequences of whatever the Patriot Act might bring.

“What about my money?”

Ben felt a shudder run through his body. He'd grown so used to thinking of the money as his that he felt a sudden shock of jealousy. Ben had been hoping that Turk would forget about the money. Wouldn't that be easiest? Couldn't Turk just give him the money?

“Your money?”

“Yeah, remember? The million bucks you impounded?”

“Oh.” Ben nodded. “Don't worry. It's safe.”

“You've got it?”

“ICE has it.”

“Well, how could I pay the terrorists if you've got the money?”

Ben sighed. “Mr. Henry. We're not stupid. We know that you've got resources. Don't mess with the United States government.”

Turk couldn't help himself—he laughed in his face. “Go fuck yourself.”

Ben bristled. “What?”

“Fuck off.”

That wasn't how you talk to the authorities. Maybe you could tell a Land Rover customer service rep to fuck off, maybe you could even tell a helicopter repairman that. But that's not
what you say to America's first line of defense. No one tells them to fuck off. It isn't patriotic.

“I understand that you're under considerable stress, but I don't think that's the way to talk to someone who is trying to resolve your case.”

Turk considered that. “You're right. It's probably not the way to talk to someone like you. But I can't help it. So, fuck off.”

Ben looked at Turk. The conversation was, apparently, over. Ben stood up. “You'll regret that.”

Turk didn't blink. “I doubt it.”

…

Marybeth didn't shower right away. She sat on the bed in her little bungalow, picked up her cell phone, and called Wendy in Bangkok. Marybeth wasn't sure what she'd say to Wendy. What
was
there to say? Did Wendy feel the same way about her? Or was Wendy just a really superb hooker who fulfilled her client's fantasies? But Marybeth had felt a connection. It wasn't just sexual, it was bigger than that—big, fresh, unfamiliar, and unsettling. Marybeth didn't know what it was exactly that she was feeling, but whatever it was, it was there. Living and breathing and growing inside her.

Wendy answered, and when her voice came on the line, Marybeth hesitated. For a split second she considered hanging up the phone and never calling again.

Just hit “delete.”

Falling in love is a scary thing, especially when it packs a surprise, suggests something you'd never imagined about yourself,
like maybe you could be in love with a prostitute from Bangkok. But the sound of Wendy's voice made Marybeth's heart leap.

“Hey. It's me.”

“Marybeth. I was hoping you'd call.”

That did it. Marybeth was overwhelmed by the wave of genuine affection and excitement she felt coming through the phone.

“I said I would.”

“I'm glad you did.”

“Can you come down here? Please? It's not that far and I'll pay for your ticket.”

“Are you all right?”

“I just wish you were here.”

Marybeth couldn't believe what she was saying, but she couldn't stop herself, it just came out of her in a big sloppy blurt.

“I think I'm in love with you.”

There was a pause on the line. Marybeth cringed. She couldn't believe she'd just said that; maybe she'd blown it. But it was exactly what Wendy was hoping to hear.

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

…

Wendy hung up her phone and smiled. She had just received the phone call that every prostitute dreams about. A rich American was in love with her. Of course, normally it was some middle-aged man, lonely and desperate for some companionship, who would take the lucky girl back to Michigan or some other exotic place and marry her. Wendy didn't mind
that a woman was in love with her. She took it as a compliment. Besides, sex was sex, it didn't really matter who it was with as long as it put food on the table. Wendy was practical that way. Although she had to admit that she enjoyed having sex with Marybeth. Usually she had no feeling about it one way or the other.

She went to the window in her tiny apartment and looked out at the jumbled-up architecture of the city. Power lines were strung along the alleyway next to her building like spaghetti, and several small stores spilled out below them. There was constant noise from the traffic and the small motorcycle repair shop, smells of charcoal and grilling meat from the
satay
stand, and the almost nonstop blare of Thai pop music from the little kiosk on the corner. For someone who worked nights and tried to sleep during the day, it was far from ideal. She realized, with a wry smile, that she wouldn't miss this view.

Wendy opened the door of her armoire and looked at her clothes. She didn't have a lot. She'd come to the city with just a change of clothes and, except for the see-through dresses she wore when she worked at the club, she had added only a few blouses and slacks. Hanging in the back of the armoire Wendy saw the yellow and orange silk dress she'd worn for her first performance at the Ram Thai Academy.