Salty (19 page)

Somporn finished his soda and softly cursed. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe that was why he hadn't heard back from Sheila's husband. Maybe the U.S. government had gotten its hands on the rock star and fed him a bunch of bullshit. Maybe it was intercepting Somporn's messages to him. The Captain realized he'd have to be more discreet, more clever. He'd have to get a message to Turk Henry directly.

…

Clive Muggleton put his hand on Turk's shoulder. “You ready for this?”

Turk felt his knees shaking, his hands trembling. It was worse than any stage fright he'd ever had.

“We gotta do it. Right?”

Clive nodded. Marybeth gave Turk a smile. “It's not Sheila. I can tell.”

“How can you tell?”

Marybeth shrugged. “It's a vibe I get.”

A door opened at the end of the corridor and Ben stepped out with a thin Thai man wearing a white doctor's jacket with a name tag written in indecipherable Thai script. Ben and the doctor came toward them, their shoes clacking and echoing on the shiny linoleum. Clive leaned in to Turk and whispered in his ear, “That the ICE guy?”

Turk nodded. Ben approached Turk and extended his hand. “Mr. Henry. I'm so glad you could come on such short notice.”

Turk couldn't help himself; his nerves caused him to blurt, “Is it Sheila?”

Ben shrugged, appearing as sympathetic as he possibly could.

“We were hoping you could tell us.”

Turk's voice cracked. “Okay.”

Ben looked at the doctor. “This is Dr. Phatharathaananunth.”

Ben pronounced the Doctor's unpronounceable name; the doctor smiled, took off his glasses, and wiped them on the tail of his shirt before extending his hand to Turk. He smiled sympathetically to Turk and nodded as they shook hands.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Ben turned his attention to Clive, glaring at him. “Does your boss in London know you're here?”

Clive was not intimidated. He turned on his Aussie charm, his tan seeming to glow a deeper, richer brown as he flashed his gleaming white teeth. “I'm not here professionally. Turk an' me are old mates.”

Ben decided not to pursue it. He turned to Marybeth.

“You might want to wait outside. This isn't going to be pretty.”

Marybeth shook her head vigorously. There was no way Marybeth was going to miss out on seeing a real dead body. She loved horror movies. Halloween was her favorite holiday. She'd even gone to Oaxaca to see
Dia de los Muertos
celebrations. She had been into the whole Goth thing for a while, too, dressing up as one of the undead before going out to drop some ecstasy and dance all night in a club.

“I knew Sheila, too. I can help with the ID.”

Marybeth liked the way she said that. It sounded professional. Ben just shrugged and turned to the Thai doctor.

“Let's proceed.”

Turk, Marybeth, and Clive followed Ben and the doctor down the shiny hallway, through a door, and into the Phuket International Hospital morgue.

…

The morgue was cold and gray, lit by dim fluorescent lights. It looked just like a morgue on TV. Silver metal trays full of silver metal scalpels and saws, clamps, and forceps were placed on silver metal rolling carts. There were some pots and large spoons that looked like they had been stolen from a cafeteria. A digital scale sat nearby. There were several large drains cut into the tile floor. Turk was surprised to see a set of screwdrivers and a hammer.

They followed the doctor over to a wall fitted with a dozen small doors. The doctor opened one and, with some effort, slid a sheet-draped body out. Ben looked at Turk. He hoped that the sight of the corpse would scare the crap out of Turk and get him off the case.

“You ready for this?”

“Ready as I'll ever be.”

Ben nodded to the doctor, and the doctor pulled back the sheet to reveal the bloated, rotting, insect-gobbled corpse of the woman from Seattle. Turk gasped.

“Fucking hell.”

It was the single most disgusting thing he'd ever seen in his entire life. The skin had blackened gangrenous and foul in some places and yet was pale white in others. Festering holes pocked much of the body and the woman's face had been chewed off by something, bits of skull and jawbone poking
through where the skin was gone. It was much worse than a dead drummer in a bathtub.

Just when Turk's brain had adjusted to seeing a shredded body, the smell hit him: a potent mix of deep jungle rot and antiseptics—nauseating and at the same time reassuringly medicinal, like roadkill sprayed with Bactine. It made him want to vomit. His body convulsed a little as he fought to keep from puking. Ben noticed this and smiled blandly.

“Take your time.”

Turk swallowed and tried not to breathe. A bile-flavored burp rose in his throat. “What happened to her face?”

The doctor pointed to several gaps in the flesh. “Turtle. Maybe eel.”

Marybeth, who'd been watching goggle-eyed, finally emitted a sound. “Ewww. A turtle?”

The doctor nodded again. “Maybe eel.”

Marybeth thought about all the times she'd eaten eel at sushi bars; in fact, the broiled anago was one of her favorites. She suddenly felt very queasy. Turk looked at Ben.

“It's not Sheila.”

Ben knew it wasn't Sheila, but the longer he kept Turk looking at the disgusting corpse, the bigger the psychological effect.

“Can you be certain?”

“Sheila wasn't fat.”

“The body's been in the water for a long time. Bloating can give the appearance of weight.”

“Maybe. But Sheila had a Brazilian wax. She would never let her pubic hair grow all over the place like that.”

Turk turned to go.

“Are you absolutely positive?”

Turk turned and looked Ben right in the eye.

“I'm positive. This isn't Sheila.”

Ben gave the doctor a nod, and the doctor covered up the body with the sheet. As Turk turned to leave he realized that he'd been holding hands with Marybeth the entire time.

…

Ben caught up with Turk in the hallway of the hospital. “Can we talk? Privately?”

Turk shook his head. He was growing to really dislike Ben. “We can talk right here.”

Ben looked at Clive and Marybeth. “Okay. But you might not like what I'm going to say.”

Turk interrupted him. “Have you heard anything from the kidnappers?”

“You know we don't negotiate with terrorists.”

“That's not what I asked. Have you heard from them?”

Ben shook his head and grimaced. As if Turk was forcing him to reveal bad news in front of everyone.

“And I don't expect to, Mr. Henry. I hate to say this, but your wife's body is probably floating out in some swamp right now. We were lucky to have recovered this one.”

Clive finally spoke. “How did you recover this one?”

Ben turned his attention to Clive. “Thai police got a tip.”

“An anonymous tip?”

“You'd have to ask them.”

“You didn't?”

Ben sighed. “Look, Mr. Muggleton, my job is to protect American interests and American citizens. The first thing
I wanted was to get Mr. Henry down here to help identify the body. I'm going to go interview the police next.”

“Mind if we come with you?”

Ben scowled. “Yes. I do. This is government business.”

Ben turned to Turk; he attempted a sympathetic expression.

“I know this is hard. But the longer she stays missing the less chance there is of getting her back. It's been almost a week. I think you've got to accept the fact that you may never see your wife again.”

Turk glared at Ben.

“That doesn't mean she's dead.”

…

Ben watched them walk out of the hospital. What a motley crew. The pudgy rock star waddling away in his black linen pants and oversized sunglasses; the strangely attractive woman who dressed like she was going to a punk rock show in a short skirt with leather Doc Martens, a motorcycle belt, and a ripped-up T-shirt that revealed her hot pink bra straps; and the overtanned Australian commando who smelled vaguely of gin. Ben was disappointed but not discouraged. He'd been hoping for something a little more dramatic. Like Turk's eyes rolling up in his head as he fainted and cracked his skull on the morgue floor. Or maybe Marybeth screaming and crying, hysterical at the sight of the moldy old carcass. They should've reacted—it was disgusting. It made Ben want to faint and puke and look away, and he was ex-military.

But he'd been pleased to see that Turk had gagged. Maybe that's all you could get out of a rock star. Who knew?
The important thing was that Turk had seen what the terrorists were capable of. The seed was planted. It wouldn't be long before Turk began to imagine his wife and her Brazilian wax floating in a swamp, being slowly devoured by turtles and bugs and seagulls and whatever else felt like grabbing a free slice of dead meat floating in the bay. Turk would imagine this, it would haunt him, and then he'd give up. He'd quit the chase, pack his bags, and go home. And Ben would be rich.

…

Carole Duchamp was not happy to see Turk and his entourage, but she was the general manager of the resort and had a responsibility to her guests, so she turned on her Gallic charm, managing to be gracious, and greeted Turk at the front desk with an exaggerated smile and promises to help him in any way she could. The resort had managed to rebound from the tsunami, but that was Mother Nature, just one of those things. Kidnappers and terrorists were different. The mere mention of the words struck fear into the hearts of Westerners, especially Americans.

Although the British couple's story got only minor play in the media, Carole rightly assumed that it was just a matter of time before some journalist figured out that something was amiss with the famous rock star and his wife. Adding celebrity to terrorism fears was like throwing fresh meat into a pool of piranhas, guaranteed to create a feeding frenzy of snapping paparazzi and sound-biting reporters, who would descend on the resort and strip it down to the bones in a day. It was not good for business. Carole hoped Turk would only stay for a
day or two; then this whole unpleasant incident would blow over.

She handed Turk his room keys. “I hope you are able to resolve your situation as quickly as possible.”

Turk thanked her and turned to Clive and Marybeth. “I need a drink. I'll be down by the beach.”

Turk walked off, leaving Clive and Marybeth to finish checking in. Clive was immediately struck by the hotel managers' hazel eyes and flashed her his trademark smile.

…

Marybeth found Turk sitting on the end of a chaise longue digging his bare feet into the sand. He held a Singha in his hand and was sipping it distractedly as he stared out at the ocean. Marybeth had picked up a Singapore Sling at the pool-side bar before heading out to find Turk. She sat down on the sand.

“It's pretty here.”

Turk nodded.

“Quiet, too. I can see why you'd want to come.”

Turk belched silently. “It wasn't my idea. I never wanted to come to Thailand.”

“Why not?”

Turk shrugged. “I don't know. I guess I thought it was too tropical.”

Marybeth laughed. “Too tropical?”

Turk smiled back. “What did I know?”

Marybeth looked out at the ocean and sipped her drink. It was sweet and sour, the gin providing the engine that cranked the cocktail to life, the cherry brandy and Cointreau
combining with the lime and pineapple to create a kind of fantasy flavor. Like a tropical Popsicle.

Marybeth noticed all the topless women lounging around. “Is this a nude beach?”

“Nobody wears clothes here.”

Marybeth peeled off her T-shirt and unhooked her bra. Her breasts tumbled into the air. Turk looked over at her; he couldn't help himself. He followed a bead of sweat as it rolled down her sternum between her breasts. Turk had to admit that they were lovely. Not too large, but perfectly shaped, with small pink nipples pierced by little silver studs with balls on each end. Funny, he hadn't noticed the piercings in the brothel.

“If it bothers you I'll put my shirt on.”

“It doesn't bother me.”

“It feels good to be naked. It's hot here.”

Turk realized that he'd forgotten how hot it was. He'd grown accustomed to the heat and humidity, the constant trickle of sweat under his arms, the damp collar of his shirts. In fact, he realized, there was something calming about the heat. The spicy food, the muggy air, the scorching sun; it all kind of worked together somehow. Maybe that's what it meant to be tropical.

Marybeth looked at him. “What if you don't get her back?”

“I'll get her back.”

“Yeah, but, I'm just saying, what if you don't?”

Turk looked at Marybeth. “I'll get her back.”

Marybeth saw that Turk was not going to discuss any other possibility, so she picked up her cocktail and took a long sip. She noticed a young Thai boy walking toward them, waving to Turk. She wondered if she should cover herself.

“Beer, mister?”

Turk smiled at him. The boy's presence was reassuring.

He pointed to Turk's almost empty beer.

“You want beer? Cold beer?”

Turk nodded and handed the boy a wad of baht.

“The coldest you've got. Hurry.”

The boy smiled at Turk, then turned and sprinted off down the beach. Marybeth was impressed.

“He brings you beer?”

“He doesn't mess around.”

Marybeth smiled as she watched the boy run to the end of the beach and hand his parents the money.

“You should take him on tour.”

Turk looked at her. “If I ever go on the road again, maybe I will.”

Marybeth sipped her drink. “You'll be back on the road in no time. Jon's got plans for you. Don't you worry.”

It suddenly occurred to Turk that, even with the new song in his head, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to go on tour or be in a band again. Maybe it would be okay to just sit here on the beach drinking beer for the rest of his life. Why not? Maybe that was enough. No more happy finishes, no more strangely intimate scenes in Bangkok brothels, no more worrying about the band, the fans, his wife, the business. No more stress. No more guilt. Just a beach and beer.