Salty (20 page)

As if to confirm Turk's newfound belief that he was sitting in the best of all possible worlds, the boy arrived with Turk's beer, ice cold.

…

Captain Somporn came back to camp and went directly to the little hut where Sheila was kept. He felt bad leaving her handcuffed and alone for so long, but it served a psychological purpose: it gave her a reality check and reminded her that she was not the one in control of the situation. He wanted her to appreciate the special attention she received.

Somporn entered the hut. Sheila glared at him.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Somporn didn't react to her anger. It was, after all, entirely natural given the circumstances.

“I apologize. I had some business in town.”

“Collecting ransoms?”

“I have been trying to contact your husband.”

“What's the problem? Call the hotel.”

“It's not that simple. I believe the authorities may be monitoring his phone.”

Sheila hung her head in frustration. “Maybe he's checked out.”

Somporn shrugged. “It would be easier if he had a mobile phone.”

“He doesn't like them.”

“My men will locate him. It is only a matter of time.”

Sheila looked at Somporn, a bitter expression on her lips. “He's not hard to find. Just look for a fat ass with long hair and a beer in his hand.”

Somporn looked at Sheila. She really was beautiful. Even with her hair matted by sweat and her skin dirty and damp, even with her bad mood, she was lovely.

“Would you like to take a shower and have something to eat?”

Sheila nodded. “I'd love to.”

Captain Somporn knelt down and tenderly unlocked her handcuffs.

…

Turk sat back in the chaise longue and looked up at the sky. Coconut palms caught the ocean breeze and wiggled overhead in slow motion. Turk wondered what it would be like if Sheila was dead. He'd hardly even had time to get used to being married, and now he was potentially a widower.

He hadn't known that many people who'd died. Sure, he was a friend of Bon Scott's, the AC/DC singer who drowned in his own vomit in a parked car—the one time seat belts didn't save lives—and of course there were Klaus Van Persie and a few others who'd died of drug overdoses. But he'd never lost a girlfriend or a sibling or a parent.

If Sheila was dead, what did that mean? Did he have to have a funeral? A wake? Should he call a florist?

Turk wondered if Sheila's death would change him. Would he be different? Older and wiser? Would her death be meaningless? Would he just go on partying and carrying on, using the tragedy to propel more willing young women into his water bed? Or would it be cathartic and give him insight into the deeper meaning of life? He didn't know the answer. He figured that, if she was dead, he'd find out. But he didn't think it would change him that much. He already wore black.

…

As Sheila undressed, Captain Somporn handed her a bottle of hair conditioner. “I got this for you.”

Sheila smiled and pulled her shirt off. By way of thanking him, she unhooked her bra with a flourish. She turned and silently teased him, like a stripper, before taking the conditioner from him, tugging her panties to the floor—despite repeated wearings, the lace was holding up surprisingly well—and with her left foot, flicking them across the room.

Somporn smiled and walked over to the bed. He sat cross-legged on the floor and carefully poured himself a glass of whiskey before lighting a cigarette. He looked up at her expectantly, waiting for the show to begin.

Sheila was suddenly hit by a pang of guilt. Why was she enjoying herself? Here she was, a prisoner, forced to strip and shower in front of some kind of perverted Thai pirate, and yet she found it exhilarating. She liked it. She was getting aroused by her own performance. Maybe it was having such an appreciative audience. He was so focused and sincere in his admiration of her body. He was sweet and caring and respectful, and that made her feel good about herself. And feeling good about herself turned her on. She discovered she liked having an audience; she needed to be adored. Maybe that's why she'd become a model in the first place.

That's the great thing about traveling. You can learn a lot about yourself.

…

Somporn sat back and let the whiskey work its magic on his tired muscles. He felt his shoulders relax more and more with
each sip. He watched as Sheila unhooked the clamp on the hose and water began to fall gently on her body. He watched her breasts, so white that he could easily see the bluish veins under her skin, the nipples a vibrant pink—like the snapper he used to catch. He waited for her to turn, to see the translucent white skin of her ass. As Sheila turned in the shower—taking her time, teasing—a shock went through his body; he felt a primal energy rise inside him. It was pure, unadulterated desire.

…

Sheila took her time. She soaped up her body, letting the bubbles build into a thick lather, rubbing herself all over. She was hamming it up. Not that the soap and water didn't feel good, but she was touching herself, exaggerating, putting on a show for the Captain. It almost made her laugh out loud; here she was like some actress in a soft-porn movie.
Emmanuelle 15: Thai Prisoner
. It was kind of campy, but it was fun, and she knew the Captain would appreciate it. She looked over at him to see what his reaction was and saw the unmistakable outline of a raging hard-on in his shorts.

Sheila smiled and looked at Somporn. She turned to face him, in all her full frontal nudity.

“Enjoying yourself?”

She pointed at his crotch and smiled. Somporn instantly knew what she meant. He looked down and saw how aroused he was. He'd been so caught up in watching her that he hadn't even noticed his erection. Now that it was the center of attention it was difficult to ignore.

Somporn stood up, with some difficulty, and handed her a towel.

“Dry yourself, please.”

He turned and left the hut as quickly as he could.

Once outside he slipped on his flip-flops and moved toward the jungle with quick, agitated steps. It had gotten dark, night falling with a velvet thud, and the moonless sky was bright with stars. Somporn walked about ten feet into the dense foliage, the trees a deep black against the already black sky, and stopped. He listened for a moment, to insects buzzing and chattering, frogs croaking, birds screeching, bats swooping through the air with sonar peeps, the cacophony punctuated by an occasional howl from monkeys mating. Sure that he was alone, swallowed by the black forest, he pulled down his shorts and quickly jerked off into the night.

…

Turk didn't remember how many beers he'd had. Ten? Twenty? A hundred? No, if he'd had a hundred he'd be really drunk. As it was he just felt kinda smashed. Not shitfaced, not three-sheets-to-the-wind, but definitely polluted. He strolled along the beach, chasing the little crabs back into the surf in a kind of stumbly-stagger, occasionally roaring and belching at the scurrying crustaceans, like a drunken tiger with a tranquilizer dart in his ass.

Turk had left Marybeth and Clive at the seaside buffet, Clive working his way through a third bottle of white wine and desperately trying to get Marybeth to go to bed with him. To her credit, she'd shown no interest. Yet Clive was undeterred, letting the Chardonnay wage a war of attrition on her morals and aesthetics until, he hoped, she'd be ready to hump a giant sea cucumber.

Turk laughed out loud. Poor Clive, working his ass off for a piece of tail. That was the best part about being a rock star. You never had to work too hard to get laid.

Turk reached his beachside cabana and stood on the porch looking at the water. He gripped the railing for balance as he swayed in the soft breeze coming off the bay. The cabana was new, a replacement for one that had been yanked off its foundation and dragged out to sea by the tsunami. A couple on their honeymoon had been asleep at the time. Turk shook his head and muttered to himself, “Poor fuckers.”

He was almost ready to feel something like a kind of beer-goggle empathy when he realized that it might not be such a bad way to go after all. Everyone wants to die in their sleep with their loved ones near.

He opened the door to the cabana and stopped. Hadn't he locked it when he left? With his beer-impaired memory Turk couldn't be sure, but any fear he might've had was shoved aside by an urgent need to piss. He pushed the door open and flicked on the light before making a beeline to the toilet. He decided he should say something to scare off any potential intruders, and opted for a cheery greeting in the kind of mock singsong voice popular with actors in situation comedies.

“Honey, I'm home.”

He walked quickly into the bathroom and stood swaying over the toilet, fumbling with the string on his pants.

“Sorry I'm late. There was a meeting at the lodge.”

Turk pulled out his penis and recycled the beer into the basin.

“I may go bowling with Fred tomorrow.”

He chuckled at his joke, tears of relief swelling in his eyes, as he squeezed out the last couple of squirts and shook the lingering drops from his dick.

“Maybe you can have bridge night with your girlfriends.”

Turk flushed the toilet and walked into the room.

He noticed it right away: a white envelope with his name written on it. Turk opened it and read the short note.

This is a last opportunity to save your wife. We want one million American dollars. You have one day to get the money and then we will contact you. Do not contact the authorities. We are watching
.

He read it several times, the bad penmanship of the author and the beers he'd consumed conspiring to make certain parts of it blur and blend like an optical illusion. But Turk knew what it meant: Sheila was alive. He reached for the phone and then stopped. Clive had told him not to use the phone, that it was probably bugged. Everything had to be done discreetly.

Turk burst out of his cabana and jogged down the beach toward the restaurant. He had to show the note to Clive and Marybeth.

…

When Somporn, visibly relieved, came back to the hut, Sheila was wrapped in a towel, sitting on the bed and drinking a glass of whiskey. Somporn couldn't be sure, but it looked like she'd been crying.

She looked up at him. “Did I do something wrong?”

Somporn shook his head. How could he explain his reaction to her? He strongly desired her, it was true, and knew
he would love to have sex with her. But he was a disciplined professional criminal and a Buddhist. As a criminal he knew that Thai laws looked at kidnapping one way—carrying a brief prison term—while rape was considered a capital crime and carried the death penalty. The sex between them might be consensual here in the jungle, but once free—and with DNA evidence still on her body—she might have an entirely different story.

As a Buddhist, despite violating all Five Precepts in this lifetime, Somporn realized that the desire he felt rising in him was an emotional response that he could control. He could sever his desire for Sheila with mental discipline—while still realizing the truth behind it—and keep himself from acting impulsively.

“No. You are fine.”

“But why did you leave? Don't you like me?”

There was something sad about the way she said it, as if she had been lonely her entire life. It broke Somporn's heart to hear her sound that way. He sat down on the bed next to her and lit a cigarette.

“I like you. Very much.”

He exhaled a plume of smoke and reached for the whiskey bottle. He unscrewed the cap and poured a little of the amber liquor into her glass before filling his halfway. He took a sip of the whiskey, as usual loving the way the flavor of the alcohol mixed with the smoke of the cigarettes; it tasted earthy and strong.

“Hand me the oil. You must keep your skin moist.”

Without saying a word, Sheila removed the towel and lay naked on the bed as Captain Somporn began to slowly and tenderly rub sweet oil on her body.

…

Marybeth sat back in her chair and watched as Clive goggled his head around and leaned in toward her, flashing his irritatingly white teeth that looked like a theater marquee.

“Listen. What's a bloke got to do to get you to go to bed with him?”

The teeth flashed again; a blinding semaphore smile. Marybeth considered the question. If she thought about her history and answered honestly, she would say,
“Be famous.”
But now things had changed; if she were really going to tell the truth, she would say,
“Be Wendy.”
She chose to be coy instead of honest.

“I take it on a case-by-case basis.”

Clive grinned even wider.

“Allow me to present some evidence to prove my claim.”

Marybeth hoped he wasn't going to unzip his pants, but before he could do a thing Turk came racing over to them, sweating profusely and gasping for breath. Marybeth jumped up and moved toward him.

“Oh my God! Turk, are you okay?”

Turk gulped air and nodded.

“Sheila.”

He waved the piece of paper in the air. Clive instinctively took command of the situation. “Mr. Henry. Sit.”

Clive signaled the waiter. “We need some water over here.”

Turk nodded, catching his breath. “And a beer.”

While Marybeth used her napkin to mop the sweat from Turk's face, Clive took the piece of paper from Turk's hand and held it up to a candle to read it. Marybeth watched him.

“What is it?”

Clive smiled.

“They've made contact.”

…

Ben, neatly disguised with a Yankees baseball cap and a fake mustache, sat on the far side of the beach restaurant. He was about to dig into a second blue crab with chili sauce when he saw Turk running up. Obviously—when had anyone ever seen Turk run?—the kidnappers had made contact. Ben considered taking the million dollars and leaving. Just go on the lam. But he'd need a fake passport, a new name, all the stuff you need when you go underground, and he didn't have the criminal connections for that kind of thing. Besides, he liked being Ben Harding. He didn't want to adopt a new identity and live in Amsterdam. He wanted to go to his twentieth high school reunion and see all his friends, he wanted to visit his parents over the holidays, he wanted to collect on his veteran's benefits. He didn't want a new life. He just wanted to be Ben Harding, millionaire.