Authors: Bob Sanchez
Inside, a telephone sat on a desk behind a counter. Behind it, a two-year-old calendar hung on the wall. There was old carpeting on the floor, and faint music drifting through the air like the wail of a ghost. The air smelled like incense and death. No people in sight, just a bare desk and a few folding chairs leaning against a dark-paneled wall. Overhead, a fluorescent bulb spattered intermittent light. Bin Chea had to be in here. Soon they would cuff him and lead him away, unless he made a false move and Sam could blast him. Old memories tried to ease into Sam’s mind, and he shoved them aside. Curtains cut off sunlight from the front window. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling and illuminated an empty room. On the far side, a hallway led to several doors.
Sam approached the first door on the left and quietly pushed it open. No one was in there, either. A camera mounted on a tripod stood on the floor, aimed at an empty chair. Polaroid photos, three neat rows of five, were attached to the wall with red pushpins. The pictures all showed Asian men. Sam’s skin crawled as he recognized the photos of Khem Chhap and Dith Chang. The wall was a gallery of the dead, like in the old Tuol Sleng prison.
He felt like a fist had caught him in the gut.
“Goddamn, what a smell,” Fitchie said.
“It’s coming from the cellar,” Sam said. The next door he opened let out more of the stench. He flipped a switch, and downstairs a light buzzed, flickered, and went on. He took a cautious step, his guts coiled tight. He listened.
A clatter, a groan.
Sam went down the stairs in a hurry and crouched, swinging his weapon in an arc. Now the smell was almost overpowering. There were three men chained to the walls, lying in shit and vomit. Sam’s gorge rose. Oh God oh dear God, one of them was dead and a rat was chewing on his toes, the rotting flesh gnawed down to the bones. Sam gave a furious kick that smashed the rat against an empty chemical drum.
Another man lay curled in a ball, his eyes open, seeming to stare at nothing. His muscles jerked, and he made no sound.
The incense came from three candles on a wooden table. Maybe they were supposed to mask the other smells. Behind him, cops yelled and began to gag.
“Oh holy shit!
Holy shit!”
“What the fuck is this?”
“Shoot me,” the third man whispered in Khmer. “Please!” His eyes were vacant, as though his soul had already left his bony frame. Dried blood crusted on his mouth.
Ninety pounds of desperation.
Sam bent down and touched his forehead; it was cold, so cold. He knew what he had found and tried to control his fury.
“Get these people free,” Sam snapped at Garibaldi. “Get ambulances now!”
Garibaldi turned away and made the call.
“It’s okay, uncle,” Sam said. “We’re going to help you.”
The prisoner panicked. “No, shoot me!”
Fitchie tugged at a chain on the wall. “And get us a chain cutter,” he said. “Let’s get ‘em out of this fucking place!”
“Anybody check the top floor?” Sam asked. He turned back toward the stairs as Callahan threw up on his boots. There on the far wall hung a video camera.
“He has to be there,” Sam said. “He’s been watching us. Back me up, Fitchie.”
Sam gasped for fresh air as he reached the ground floor. He stood still for a couple of seconds and listened. The music again, coming from the top of the stairs.
A radio?
Sam looked up the stairwell and couldn’t see anyone. He started up the stairs, a step ahead of Fitchie.
Sam treaded quietly, conscious of every squeaking board. At the top of the stairs was a dark hallway; at the end, the door was closed. The music was much clearer now, Cambodian music filtering through from the other side of the door.
Probably a cassette player.
Fitchie stood to one side and nodded as Sam held up three fingers, took two deep breaths.
One--two--
Slam the door on your fears--
--
three
!
His kick ripped the door off the jamb.
For a moment, it seemed like the wrong place. Drapes covered the windows, and red satin sheets covered an elegant four-poster bed.
Fancy wallpaper, polished wood floor with a blue area rug.
Bin Chea stood up from a plush chair in front of a huge television. He was a small man with a slight frame. With his flowered print shirt and shorts, knobby knees and sandals, he could have been a grandfather dressed for a picnic. His eyes locked on Sam like a missile on its target.
He held a cigarette lighter; at his feet was a red gasoline can with a rag jammed into the opening. Sam caught the faintest whiff of gasoline,
then
caught his first real glimpse of the television screen. It showed a close-up of a man who had been eviscerated but who was still alive. From the edge of the screen, a hand held the man’s liver. A stack of videos sat on a small table. Bin Chea’s home movies.
Sam’s jaw trembled.
“Hello, Long Sambath,” Bin Chea said in Khmer. His soft voice barely carried over the music. “Welcome to Paradise.”
“You’re under arrest!” Sam yelled, fighting the urge to pull the trigger.
The wheel of history turns, Comrade!
“You have the right to remain silent--”
Bin Chea held up a cigarette lighter, his thumb poised to strike the flint. “You give me no rights. I say what I will. You cannot kill me, I am already dead. Shoot me now, and this room goes up in flames with you in it.”
“Anything you say can and will be used against you--”
Did you kill my mother, too?
Sam took a step forward, his weapon aimed at Chea’s center mass. Was Bin Chea right? Could a gunshot ignite the room, turn it into a funeral pyre? Maybe that’s what he wanted.
Bin Chea’s expression changed to one of pity. “Are you ready to die, Long Sambath? So sad, you could have had a good life serving
Angka.
We left you a token of our good will.”
“You did the same for Lieutenant Wilkins, didn’t you? You paid him off so he would lose your fingerprint files.”
That idiot Wilkins!
“A lot of people hated you, so you faked your death. Why would they bother with a dead man?”
Bin Chea jerked the lighter in Sam’s direction. Sam blinked, and Bin Chea offered a kindly smile. “Yes, there is freedom in death. Your enemies put down their weapons and let you get on with your business. Are you a Buddhist, Long Sambath?”
Don’t answer him. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
If today was the day for Sam to die, then it was also the day for
Angka
to die. He pushed aside thoughts of Julie crying at his wake, of Trish growing up without a father.
“Those people downstairs have confessed to offending
Angka.
Now they must suffer so their next lives may be filled with bliss.” Bin Chea’s words flowed in a river of sarcasm. “Me, I am not coming back to another life. Better to find Buddha in this one and roast his body over hot coals.”
Then from the cassette came a sound that made Sam falter.
A woman’s voice, high and sweet.
Was it Sarapon?
His sister?
Was this son of a bitch playing Sarapon’s songs?
Behind Sam, Fitchie yelled--
Sam walked until he was face to face with Bin Chea. They stood a foot apart, the cigarette lighter between them. A surge of energy ran through Sam’s body, and Sambath’s father stood beside him, an arm around his shoulder as they stood together against death. Sambath turned for a moment: father’s eyes were fierce and proud. Sambath had never abandoned father at the stake, never turned his back in shame. Now they stood together to defy the core of evil.
Together they would die.
Sam turned back to Bin Chea. “I have a confession to make,” Sam said. Bin Chea leaned forward, his eyes glinting. Comrade Bin loved--
Sam spit in his face.
Bin Chea’s mouth opened slowly, and the lighter shook in his hand. Sam could grab it easily now, but he wasn’t through. “Light it,” Sam said, and he spit in Bin’s face again. “Light it! Light it! Light it!”
Bin Chea’s body trembled, his eyes full of rage and his face dripping with spittle. A hand slammed down on Sam’s shoulder. “Let’s go!” Fitchie yelled. “He’s gonna do it!” Sam took a step backwards to balance
himself
.
Bin Chea flicked the lighter, yellow flame shooting high and dancing in his eyes. A smile passed across his face and died. “The light is bad in here,” he said. “For a moment I thought I saw a brave man.”
Sam lunged, but Fitchie held him back. Bin Chea opened his hand and dropped the lighter.
Fitchie twisted Sam away--
“Gonna hit the--”
Holy Jesus,
it’s
going to
--
Whump!
The flames erupted behind Sam and seared the back of his head and arms. Dear God Dear God Dear God! Help me! He gasped for air, hot scorching air. Sam and Fitchie made it past the door to safety as more cops arrived. Sam turned, and Bin Chea lay screaming, screaming. The initial flash had died down and given way to flames that licked across the floor. It was old, dry wood like the straw torch Bin Chea had dropped at Father’s feet.
The smoke and fumes would kill them if they didn’t leave now. But there was something else, the bitter smell of vengeance. It was going to stick to him long after he left here, and he didn’t want to live with it.
“Sam! Sam! Let’s get out of here!”
Sam’s chest heaved as he turned back. Now Bin Chea was rolling toward a corner, his clothes in flames. Fitchie pulled at Sam’s arm, then let go. “Forget him,” he said. “We’ve gotta clear the building.”
Sam could not take his eyes off Bin Chea.
Black smoke blotted out the ceiling. The flames licked up the walls.
Worms from the oven.
Sam crouched low and dashed back directly through the flames, picking up the rug. Bin Chea’s eyes were wild, his face twisted and burning, his clothes turning black. Don’t die, damn it, not until I’m through with you. His arms flailed until Sam wrapped him in the rug.
He scrambled along the floor beneath the worst of the smoke, covering his face, hauling Bin Chea across the blistering floor. Gasping, gasping. There were shouted orders and frantic voices, the words meaning nothing to Sam.
And then another voice, familiar and calm.
The man stood above him, indifferent to the smoke and fire. His hand was extended--
Come with me, Sambath.
“Father?
Father?”
Then the lights went out.
Sam woke up breathing pure oxygen on the edge of the cemetery across the street, his guardian angel a black medical technician. Had everyone made it out safely? Where was--?