The Chiang Mai Chronicle: A Declan Power Mystery (13 page)

“Peter, your desk is in quite a state.”

Morgan straightened his frame and looked Hartin directly in the eyes. Something seemed amiss. The usual alcoholic eye had been replaced by something more steely. It was unnerving. “I’ve never known you to keep early hours Bartholomew.”

“No. I do like to keep a steady sleep routine Peter. But, lest you have forgotten, I must babysit that miscreant Power today over at King Mengrai University. So, I’ve come to set things in order, a list of questions and all that. But what brings you in so early?” 

Morgan turned off his monitor and began cleaning up his desk. “Working on a story with your mischief maker Bart,” he replied. “And I’m glad you’re here. We’ll need another pair of hands and eyes.”

Hartin stiffened in his chair. “Glad to be on the story then.”

It was said that Captain America never slept. Phitak Pantrem wouldn’t know about that fact or anything else about the man who had become a legend in the world of espionage. He was a true master of the shadow. Today would be their first meeting. And, he knew, their last. In some ways it could be considered an honor to be asked into the great man’s presence. But Pantrem felt only fear.

He walked to the riverside veranda of the Galare Guesthouse. There was nothing special about this holiday locale as it set neatly in with all the other guesthouses along the river. He had never even as much as seen a picture of Captain America but upon surveying the tourists who sleepily made their way to the breakfast buffet he instantly recognized the man who had summoned him.

Looking professorial and fastidiously groomed, the man did not raise his eyes from the stack of papers he was scrutinizing.

“You look like hell.” The words rumbled through the paperwork and hit Pantrem like a cold splash of water..

‘How would you know,’ Pantrem thought unaware his superior had even noticed him. “It’s been a long night sir. I just came from a grisly crime scene.”

His explanation was met with a disapproving glare. “Our business is a series of grisly long night’s son.”

Bangkok Man simply nodded. He was here to receive orders.

“Always look professional. Whether that look be suited for the university classroom or the corporate boardroom, never go about your business with the appearance you’ve brought to me. It will get you killed.”

“Yes sir.”

“What have you got for me?”

The concept of time had long since eluded him. There was no source of light to guide him. Now Martin Gay assessed his day by the temperature. The morning and afternoon would be chilly while the night would become cold. It was irrelevant. He had been held captive for days, perhaps a week. His hopes had been raised after Ben had been thrown into the cavernous cell. At least he now had a companion in his misery. And an extra hand in plotting their escape. But Ben Post had proven of no help. He turned to spit in his direction but found his mouth dry. His food supply was also running low. He returned his attention to the rusted gate. It rattled when he gave it a good shove showing quite a bit of give and the stone frame which held it was, with persistence, moveable. He wanted to wait for his rescue plan to pull through. ‘Declan Power,’ he screamed through a dry hoarse voice that weakly reverberated off the cave’s ceiling. He fell to his knees and pounded the ground. Why would anyone help him? Especially Declan Power. Martin Gay didn’t believe in God. This was a problem. Faith would certainly come in handy considering the situation. He did have faith in himself though. It was time to be honest. The time for lies was finished. Look where it had gotten him. Bloodied, beaten, and locked in a dungeon deep within a mountain. 

The Chiang Mai Chronicle parking lot was empty. Usually Declan welcomed this early morning solitude. Today it made him uneasy. He took a brisk approach to the elevator and made his way to his third floor office quickly. Bartholomew Hartin greeted him as soon as he slumped into his chair.

“We’re on a story Power. Why don’t you bring me up to speed,” he began in an authoritative tone.

Declan laughed. “We’re not on anything Bart. But seeing as if you’re here, why not bring me a cup of coffee.”

Hartin seethed. “It seems you forget I am deputy editor, or, in other words, your boss.”

“Sadly I am unable to forget either of those things, Bart.” Declan then straightened himself in his chair. This was no time to spar with Bart the fart. “But seriously, I do have work to do.”

“Enough, both of you,” Peter Morgan said striding into Declan’s office. He shut the door tightly behind him. “Declan, come on, I’d like to see these photos, all of them.”

Power took a deep sigh. He did not relish looking through them. His memory likely would never delete the horror that had confronted him only hours before. He leaned over and opened his bottom draw. He produced a bottle of Scotch and three shot glasses. He filled two. The phone, firmly clutched in his other hand, was now connected to his computer.

Slowly the jpeg images popped onto the screen. Declan waited for them all to boot before clicking on the first image, then the second, and then the third. The carnage and gore could not be adequately digested. Limbs sawed off, or in some cases partially so and hanging from the exposed tendons. Eyeballs gouged from their sockets. Skulls precisely hacked in half. The ladies teeth firmly clenched on the severed penises of the unlucky party goers.

“Good lord,” Bart Hartin whispered as he filled himself a shot of Scotch. “Who would be capable of such devilry?”

“The Lan Na Ripper,” Declan replied whirling angrily in his chair.

Peter Morgan stood up purposefully. He looked at Power with a respect he probably should have ceded earlier. “You nailed it! That’s our headline. I want to go to press asap Declan. I can get an addition on the streets by late this afternoon. Give me my story.”

“You got it boss,” Declan snapped in reply. A sudden bolt of energy emerged. Despite the long, arduous, and horrific night he had endured, he was on a story and had never felt more alive.

Mengrai University had been established in 1988. The signs announcing various twenty fifth year anniversary celebrations dotted the campus. The university had been the brain child of Thanat Jaisaen who wanted to build an intellectual institution to be the focal point of what he saw as the reawakening of the Lan Na culture. It was a private university built largely on his family’s prodigious fortune. If the Chiang Mai crown had been taken away from his family’s mantle over one hundred years ago their wealth remained untouched. Built on the edges of Wiang Khum Kam, King Mengrai’s original capital erected in 1286, the university had grown into an internationally recognized research institute.

Declan gazed impressed out the window as Bart Hartin steered his car up the impressive driveway which led to Jaisaen’s palatial mansion. The neatly trimmed bushes were themselves worthy of admiration. Elephants, giraffes, even bears had been expertly sculpted from the knotty tangled branches and vines. Brightly colored orchards and flower beds sat at their feet. Truly an abode ‘fit for a king’ Declan whistled.

Hartin slowed as the lane curved revealing a gate manned by two ornately costumed guards. Declan quickly commandeered his phone and snapped a quick photo. “What the hell are you doing Power?” Hartin snarled.

“Boots,” Declan snapped dismissively.

Best Bar usually opened its doors for lunch at noon. The expat retiree lunch crowd was brisk. Beer would be poured and girls would be on the menu. Today the doors remained shuttered. Oum surveyed the messy unkempt bar area and set about restoring her saloon to order. Yes, the Lan Na Ripper was on the loose. But closing her doors meant losing money. She glanced down at her watch. One hour would be enough. Before long her stable of ladies, those that had not found a date last night, awoke to lend a hand. A beehive of chatty activity sprung out of a storm of yawns. The bustling laughter buoyed her spirits as her treasured bar beer came glistening back to life.

In the back alley, Oum had another business discreetly run outside the glare of the Loi Kroh neon lights. In fact, the small sign sitting atop the non-descript entrance read Secrets. Secrets was no more than a well-maintained corrugated tin shack. It consisted of three rooms. The first room held a small bar, a pool table, and a jukebox with the two other rooms standing to each side. These rooms contained a bed and a tub. They were the soapie rooms. The love shack had become a popular and profitable business and one where her girls eagerly lined up for duty.

So, it was with no surprise when their first customer of the day ordered a one hour soapie massage. Oum had been hesitant to open Secrets in lieu of the current crisis. But her girls needed to earn and she was not going to let her girls out of the pub until the Ripper had been apprehended. Still, she’d only let regulars enjoy the pleasures of her back alley hideaway.

“Hi Joe, what is your pleasure today?”

“Oum, top of the afternoon to you. I’ll start with a glass of Heineken and a wee bit of whiskey. Is Mimi here this afternoon?”

Oum smiled. She had a soft spot for the Dublin man. “Of course Joe, I think she always wait for you.”

Joe raised his glass and gave a sheepish grin. “Well madam, then a one hour soapie is in order.”

“Ok Joe. Mimi now set up Secrets for business. You are first customer.”

“My lucky day then,” Joe said happily opening his wallet.

If the outside of Thanat Jaisaen’s palatial mansion echoed a mini Versaille, the interior had a distinctly more businesslike flair. Youthful university administrators bustled up and down the hallways purposefully and the air hummed with efficiency. Declan Power trailed behind Bart Hartin as he was led to Thanat Jaisaen’s office. The walls were lined with portraits, recently rendered, of the kings of Lan Na. Directly outside of Thanat’s executive suite, and prominently visible from the beginning of the hallway, was the portrait of the empire’s founder, King Mengrai. He had half expected to find Jaisaen’s portrait also gracing the grandiose wall. There was none.

They were asked to wait in a small reception area. Hartin exchanged stiff pleasantries with a striking secretary. Declan’s smile was received with a frown. He relaxed in his chair perplexed by Hartin’s rigid stance of attention. His colleague seemed riveted to his thoughts, a state Declan was intent on disturbing when his phone whistled a call was incoming.

“Hello,” he answered coolly.

“Mr. Declan Power,” a seductive voice spoke in a hushed tone.

“Yes.”

“I was told to contact you should I feel my life to be in danger,” the stranger stated directly though her tone no more than a purr.

There was something hypnotic in the lady’s voice. It was cultured. Declan stood up and stepped back into the hallway.

“And who told you this Miss, uhm, can I have a name please?”

His request was met with silence. Declan was poised to say something. But she had called him, better to not push. He heard labored breathing yet still no reply.

“Can we meet Mr. Power?” There was a muffled frantic quality to her speech.

“Of course,” he hesitated. Declan knew he was playing high stakes poker. He needed to tread carefully. “But please answer my question. Who told you to contact me?”

Again, silence was the reply. Declan waited. His gaze was drawn to the impressive hallway he had just walked through. He began to look intently at the portrait of the last king of Chiang Mai. The face seemed remarkably familiar but he couldn’t put his finger on why as the last remnant of Lan Na glory had long since passed.

“Marty Gay,” the caller blurted out in a shriek.

He felt his skin stand on end. “Ok, where can we meet?”

“Tonight. My place. I’ll forward an address. Please, please Declan Power,” the increasingly frenzied voice pleaded, “You must help me escape Chiang Mai.”

Declan gripped the phone. He could feel the blood pumping his veins. He had found Martin Gay’s mysterious upper crust mistress. “Who are you afraid of?” he queried trying to calm his tone.

“Thanat Jaisaen. You too Declan Power. I’d watch your step. My uncle is setting traps all over Chiang Mai.” The line suddenly went dead.

“The show must go on Prem,” Oum sighed to her top bartender. She had just seen Mimi and Joe off for their hour of frolic and looked around the interior of Secrets lounge. She smiled at the newly bought Lazy Boy recliner. Declan often liked to relax in Secrets lounge, watch his beloved Boston Red Sox, listen to Rock ‘n Roll, and drink his favored Beer Laos. The chair was bought for his last birthday and Secrets was the venue for his surprise party. In many respects this was his private club. He had even come up with the idea of monthly and yearly memberships. Oum liked the idea of having Declan as her partner in life as well as in business.

A frown crept on to her usually sunny face. Her mind became clouded with fury. Accepting the money from Marty’s wife had been a big mistake. No good could come from it she knew. That fact was clear when she tucked the envelope in her purse and was even more apparent now. The spit and polish boots gave testament to that truth. Last night the lady from Stairway To Heaven recalled seeing those shiny boots. The same shiny boots she had taken note of only a day before.