Salty (28 page)

Somporn began pulling the wet stacks of cash out of the suitcase.

“I want to see Sheila.”

“Sit down and be quiet.”

Turk didn't feel like arguing with the gunman, even if he was a fan. So he sat on the beach and watched as Somporn counted the money in the suitcase, dividing it into two piles. The big pile he wrapped in a plastic trash bag and, using his hands to scoop out the soft sand, buried near a tall tree. The smaller pile he stuck back in the suitcase. Somporn then stood over the buried loot, took a small GPS device out, and locked in the coordinates.

…

Turk sat in the front of the boat with his back to the bow. He was facing Somporn, who was holding the gun with one hand and driving the boat with the other. Somporn leaned forward and spoke over the exertions of the outboard.

“Why did you break up?”

“What?”

“Why did Metal Assassin break up?”

Turk thought about it.

“Why did you kidnap my wife?”

“For the money.”

Turk spread his hands in a kind of “voila” gesture. “Exactly.”

Turk watched as Somporn processed that. He could see that Somporn was an intelligent, thoughtful man. And surprisingly handsome. For some reason Turk had assumed that the kidnappers would either be ragged, toothless orc-like cretins or bearded, turban-wearing fanatics. To discover that the criminal was actually a kind of beach bum Chow Yun-Fat … well, it unnerved him.

…

Somporn couldn't risk taking his boat out on the open water. For all he knew a police helicopter or a CIA submarine might be lurking, just waiting for a glimpse of him, a clean shot at his head. He wasn't being paranoid; someone had been on that Sea-Doo, and something had to explain the explosion.

So he took the back way, expertly guiding his little boat through the narrow channels that naturally develop in mangroves. It would take a little longer, but he'd already called his men and told them he had the money. They should break camp. They needed to disappear tonight.

…

Sheila watched as Kittisak ran out of his hut and began barking orders. The men and women dropped what they were doing, a couple of men taking machine guns and running off in different directions to guard the camp, while two women took pots of rice off the fire and dumped the contents into the sea and others began to pack up their belongings as quickly
as possible. It wasn't like they were panicked; it was simply that it was time to go.

Saksan approached her with a length of rope. He roughly grabbed her arm and dragged her toward a palm tree. Sheila tried to pull away from him, but that only made him grip her more tightly.

“You're hurting me.”

“Sorry. Captain say.”

Sheila was suddenly nervous; things were changing too fast. Her lower lip quivered and tears sprung out of her eyes.

“But why? What's going on?”

Saksan shoved her against the trunk of the tree, yanked her arms behind her back, and tied them. He then came around to face her. “Don't worry. It's part of the show.”

Sheila swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”

Saksan turned and looked around, making sure no one was watching, and then he quickly copped a feel, grabbing her breasts in both his hands.

Sheila recoiled at his rough touch. “What are you doing?”

Saksan smiled, and one of his gold teeth glinted. “American girl.”

With that he walked off.

Turk didn't know what to expect. As the boat cut through the mangroves he saw fires illuminating a clump of huts along a tree line and a couple of boats beached on the sand. Silhouettes flickered in and out of the blackness as people moved quickly and purposefully around what looked like a camp. Turk saw Sheila, off to the side, tied to the trunk of a palm tree.

He turned to Somporn. “You're going to let her go now.”

It wasn't a question. It was a statement, though Turk needed some reassurance. Somporn nodded. “One of my men
will drive you into town. But if you make a noise or attract the police, he has my permission to shoot you. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Turk turned and waved to Sheila. It looked like she smiled at him, but he couldn't be sure.

Saksan waded out into the water and helped Somporn land the boat. Kittisak and another man then joined them. Somporn told them to take the money back to Bangkok and divide it there. He didn't know if the police were after them, or the Army, or what, but the last thing they needed was for any of them to be caught in town spending U.S. dollars. He told them about the explosion. Kittisak nodded and, with Saksan's help, began transferring the wet stacks of greenbacks into a ratty-looking canvas sack. They had already arranged for a fishing boat to ferry them to the mainland in an hour. After that a train would take them north to Bangkok, where they would melt into the metropolis.

Somporn looked up and saw that Turk was walking toward Sheila. He decided to give them a minute alone, after which he would have them taken into town.

…

Turk couldn't hug her because she was still bound to the tree, so he just stood in front of her for a moment, not really knowing what to say. Finally, he said, “Hi.”

Sheila nodded. “I didn't think you'd come.”

Turk scratched his head. “Sorry, it got kind of complicated.”

“It got kind of complicated here, too.”

He moved closer to her.

“You smell like beer.”

Turk shrugged. What could he say? Smelling like beer was kind of his chronic condition.

“You want me to untie you?”

…

Captain Somporn watched as his men scrambled to get their belongings collected. He was going to leave by boat; hopefully any law enforcement that might be watching would follow him. He promised to meet them back in Bangkok when things cooled off. Somporn told them to make sure the American rock star and his wife made it back to town safely. It was important that the Americans were returned unharmed.

Somporn gave his men a salute, got back in the boat, and motored off into the darkness.

…

Sheila looked for the Captain, but he was nowhere to be seen. There would be no tearful good-byes, no promises to call or write or get in touch; there were just a couple of men with machine guns shoving her and Turk into the back of a
tuk tuk
and roaring off into the night.

It was pitch black. There were no lights on the road, no houses or stores; it was just a deserted two-lane illuminated by the single dirty headlight of the
tuk tuk
. As the
tuk tuk
whisked them toward the distant glow of Phuket Town, the warm night air—filled with the sweet scent of tropical flowers mixed with the acrid blast of unleaded exhaust—swirled around them. In any other circumstances it might've been
romantic, like a horse-driven carriage ride through Central Park. Sheila reached over and took Turk's hand in hers; she turned to him with a heartbreakingly sincere expression on her face.

“I think I want a divorce.”

Turk didn't blink.

“Okay.”

Heidegger was at the back of a long line of tourists—they all seemed to be German—going through passport control. He was looking forward to getting to the hotel. He needed a cocktail and a shower, not necessarily in that order, and had arranged for a tailor to meet him in his room and measure him for some tropical-weight clothes. Some trousers and short-sleeved shirts.
Maybe a nice seersucker suit
. That's what you did in Thailand—you had clothes custom-made by expert tailors for next to nothing. The big companies that moved their factories to Southeast Asia knew what they were doing.

Heidegger was expecting Marybeth to meet him at the airport; he was not expecting Marybeth to be accompanied by someone else. Especially not a woman that she was sneaking kisses to.

Heidegger got his passport stamped, picked up his little carry-on, and walked into the main lobby. Marybeth and the woman—Heidegger had to admit she was lovely—were standing side by side, arms intertwined as if they were schoolgirls.

When Marybeth saw him, she let out a squeal and rushed to hug him.

“About fucking time you got here.”

She jumped into his arms and gave him a squeeze. Marybeth's smile was infectious, and Heidegger found himself grinning from ear to ear like a schoolboy with a really good secret.

“Who's your new friend?”

Marybeth blushed a deep red and stammered as she introduced Wendy. “Uh, Wendy. This is my boss, Jon.”

Wendy clasped her hands in front of her and bent forward in a
wai
. Heidegger imitated the movement, then extended his hand. His eyes met hers, and he understood right away what was going on. Like the perfect couple on the plane, love was in the air.

“Nice to meet you.”

Wendy shook his hand. “Marybeth has told me a lot about you.”

Heidegger cocked an eyebrow and shot a look at Marybeth. “She hasn't told me anything about you.”

Marybeth stood there getting more and more embarrassed. “I've been busy.”

Heidegger grinned; he couldn't help himself. “I bet you have.”

…

Turk had wanted to go straight to the police. In fact, when he saw one of the Thai Tourist Policemen—easily identifiable in their jaunty berets—standing outside of a beer hall, he waved to him. But Sheila refused to have anything to do with the police. She wasn't going to tell her story. She wasn't going to press charges or file a complaint. All she wanted was
to go back to the hotel, eat a meal, and sleep on a soft bed. Alone.

…

There was no celebration when the taxi dropped them off at the hotel. No crowds of reporters, no paparazzi. There were no champagne corks popping, no ticker tape parade; just two tired and dirty people—the fat one smelling faintly swampy—hobbling out of a car and walking into a hotel.

Sheila went to the front desk and asked for a room. There was some clacking of keyboards and signing of papers and then a key was slid across the counter. Turk stood by and watched. He reached over and put his hand gently on Sheila's shoulder.

“You okay?”

Sheila nodded. “I'm really tired. We can talk tomorrow.”

He watched her follow the bellhop toward her room.

…

Marybeth and Wendy—discreetly holding hands under the table—sat with Takako and Heidegger in the hotel restaurant. If Heidegger was concerned about Turk's safety, he didn't show it. He ordered a martini and a green papaya salad. Wendy suggested they get an order of
kaeng pladuk chuchi
, which was, apparently, a dip made out of dry curried catfish and chilis. Heidegger, still hungry from his long nap on the plane, also wanted some
pad thai
, and Wendy had told the waiter—in Thai, of course—that they should use fresh shrimp and not the frozen kind so often pawned off on unsuspecting
tourists. This would be followed by a spicy crab curry and bowls of steamed rice.

But Marybeth was worried about Turk. He should've been back hours ago. Not that she knew what the plan was after he dropped off the money—maybe the kidnappers had dumped Turk and Sheila on some deserted beach somewhere—but she still didn't think it should take this long. Takako too, was concerned. She had wondered aloud if they shouldn't make a police report, just so the authorities would be on the lookout for a stranded American couple.

All of the anxiety—spoken and unspoken—lifted when Turk ambled into the bar looking for a cold beer.

“Turkey!”

Marybeth jumped out of her chair and gave Turk a hug. “I was so worried about you.”

“I'm okay.”

She detected something in his voice that made her pull her head back and look at him. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Is Sheila okay?”

Turk nodded. “I really need a beer.”

Turk broke away from Marybeth and moved toward the table. Heidegger stood and gave him a bear hug.

“You're a fuckin' hero, man.”

Turk shrugged. He didn't feel particularly heroic at the moment. “Good to see you, man. Thanks for coming.”

He bent forward, giving Wendy a
wai
. “Hey, Wendy. Good to see you.”

Heidegger looked from Turk to Wendy to over where Marybeth was getting a beer at the bar. “I obviously missed something.”

Turk slumped, exhausted, into a chair. “Yeah, bro, Thailand rocks.”

…

Sheila entered the hotel room and locked the door behind her. She sat on the bed and stared at the floor. She was free: no longer a prisoner, no longer subject to the humiliations, degradations, and perversions of the pirate captain. She could do what she wanted, when she wanted, and no one could stop her. She could return to her old life of privilege and haute couture. She could eat the freshest sushi and take Pilates classes; she could spend all day getting treatments at a groovy day spa and then go out and drink the best wines California could produce; she could go first-class all the way back to her big Spanish-style hacienda in Los Angeles and live in air-conditioned splendor swathed in the finest cotton sheets from Italy.

She could go home and be miserable.

Sheila went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She didn't need to worry about conservation now; the hot water never runs out in a five-star hotel. She carefully took off her clothes and folded them, placing them on a little settee near the bed. When the water was hot, almost scalding, Sheila entered the shower and slowly, deliciously, began soaping her body.

She missed Captain Somporn's watchful eye.

…

Takako Mitsuzake was pissed. She went back to her room, opened up her laptop, and tried to go online. It took her
several tries with a variety of adapters to finally get the dataport on the little desk up and running. A half hour later she had the necessary dial-up codes installed—don't these people have DSL?—and was listening to the old-fashioned growling-beeping-swirly sound of her modem connecting. She was pissed, because she knew she'd be up all night dropping emails to her various contacts telling them that the juicy scoop she'd promised would need to be delayed. Takako needed to start sowing the seeds of damage control immediately. She couldn't just come out and tell them that it looked like Turk Henry and his supermodel wife were headed for Splitsville. That was the kind of information she wanted to keep out of the papers. Yet without some kind of happy ending to the kidnapping story, well, where was the story? All good stories need a beginning, middle, and end. It was preferable, with stories like this, that it be a happy ending. No one wants to see the hero rescue the girl and then get shit on by her. That's not uplifting or redemptive.