Salty (24 page)

She'd come from the provinces; her parents raised ducks by a small lake surrounded by rice fields. They lived near the ruins of Sukhothai, a massive city that had risen amidst the rolling hills in the thirteenth century. The ruins were a popular tourist destination, and Wendy had been plucked from school at a young age to learn the intricacies of
khon
, the traditional Thai dance. Wendy was graceful and athletic and she enjoyed learning the postures, steps, and hand gestures. By the time
she was eleven she was one of the lead dancers performing at the
Loy Krathong
, the festival to mark the end of the rainy season and the beginning of the rice harvest.

A teacher at the academy in Bangkok had seen her perform at the
Loy Krathong
and offered her a scholarship.

But life in Bangkok was hard and there were not a lot of jobs available, even for a graduate of the academy and a gifted
khon
dancer, and it was only a few years before she began working as a go-go dancer in nightclubs and bars along Soi Cowboy. One thing led to another, as it almost always does, and Wendy soon found herself employed as a very successful, highly paid prostitute.

She was ready for a change.

…

Fuck ICE. Fuck Homeland Security. That's right
.

Turk found himself shaking with anger as he tried to finish his lunch. All this time he'd played it cool, tried to be a reasonable, helpful guy, and then the ICE man cometh, getting up in his face, trying to sweat him.
Fuck him
.

Turk flagged down the waitress and ordered a beer. He needed something to calm his pounding heart. Something to distract his brain from all the fucking bullshit he'd been putting up with since Sheila disappeared.

The beer arrived and Turk downed it in a couple greedy guzzles. He nodded for another. Did the ICE agent know that the kidnappers had contacted him? Or was he just fishing?

Turk replayed the scene in his head. He couldn't help but smile when he got to the part where he told the guy to fuck off.
That felt good
. He wished he'd told Steve to fuck off
when Steve was pissing and moaning about how the band wasn't fulfilling his “artistic vision.” He wished he'd told Bruno to fuck off when he said that Turk had to play the bass a certain way. Maybe the band would still be together if he hadn't let them walk all over him. Maybe they'd still be together if he'd just told them to fuck off every now and then. At least they would've treated him with a little more respect.

In fact, the more he thought about it the more Turk realized that he should've been telling people to fuck off for years. Maybe even his whole life. Like the high school football coach who told him he couldn't be on the team unless he cut his hair. That guy deserved it. But instead of telling the coach to fuck off, Turk cut his hair and watched pathetically as Carrie Parsley—the girl with the best tits in the eleventh grade—dumped him for a guy with long hair and a motorcycle. Turk had never really had a steady girlfriend since then. If he'd told the coach to fuck off, maybe he'd still be with Carrie Parsley. Or maybe he would've told her to fuck off, too. Once you get the ball rolling, well, who knows who you'll tell to fuck off. Turk realized that the power of saying “fuck off” had a dark side, a side that found you beaten to death or locked up in jail. As with all powerful things, the “fuck off” had to be used responsibly.

But if he had employed these magic words a few times in his life he wouldn't have been stepped on, used as a doormat; the guy in the back playing the bass who let everyone else make the big decisions and get all the fame and glory. Not that Turk didn't have some fame and glory, but nothing like Steve and Bruno's.

Turk let out a long, low, crab-scented belch, and the riff came to him. An insistent low rumble tumbling through his
head, the bass line for another new song. There were lyrics, too: a story of standing up and empowering yourself. He'd call it: “Fuck the Man in Charge.”

Turk realized that the song would never be played on the radio, and that they'd have to sticker the CD with “Parental Advisory” labels, but it made him want to stand up and sing at the top of his lungs.

“Fuck the man in charge! Come on!”

Takako Mitsuzake spoke quickly into her cell phone.

“Gotta go. My flight's boarding.”

She snapped the phone shut and handed her boarding pass to the flight attendant. She was lucky to be on the flight—first-class to Phuket, with a brief layover in Bangkok.

She sat by the window, her tiny body almost getting lost in the first-class chair, and went through the list of editors and reporters she'd put together and stored on her Treo. She was excited, energized. It was a juicy story; there'd already been a couple of deaths related to the kidnapping—bodies abandoned by a shopping center, floating in a swamp—and nothing sells like a mix of celebrity, murder, and terrorism. News of this magnitude had to be handled carefully—let's face it, it wasn't every day that the supermodel wife of a rock star was kidnapped, much less rescued by that same rock star. She wanted to maximize the exposure but at the same time control it. It wouldn't be any good to anyone if the news landed on the back page of some random newspaper. She didn't want Reuters or the Associated Press to put the story out over the wire. This had to be placed on the front cover of
US Weekly
,
People, Rolling Stone
, and any number of other glossy magazines. That would be the initial wave. Then feature stories in the serious media. Maybe an exclusive interview with
Vanity Fair
. Lastly, when interest had ebbed, she'd leak private photos to select Web sites around the world. She'd already contracted a photographer she knew from Singapore—he did fashion shoots for
Hong Kong Vogue
and slick publications in Tokyo—and he was meeting her in Phuket.

Takako kicked off her Prada shoes and settled in for a long, boring flight. It'd take her eight hours to get to Phuket. She hoped she'd make it in time to be there to art-direct the exclusive photographs.

…

Heidegger stood in line in the Bradley Terminal at LAX. He was waiting in the Royal Orchid first-class queue and was a little annoyed that it wasn't moving more quickly. I mean, what's the point of coughing up the money to be a Royal Orchid if you aren't given every possible shortcut? He could see what the problem was: a young couple going on their honeymoon, holding hands and smooching at the Thai Airlines ticket counter like no one else in the world existed. Young love fresh out of the can and on display for everyone to see. They were a real “you complete me” pair. A perfect union of perfect-for-each-other people untainted by the ill winds of life and commerce and ego and aging. How could you get mad at them for being in love? Heidegger was no psychic, but he was a cynic, and he could see the future for this wonderful couple. The first few years of happiness, then the difficulties, the monogamy fatigue, followed by betrayals,
disappointments, the accusations and reprisals all culminating in the inexorable, inevitable divorce. That's why he didn't say anything. He didn't clear his throat or look at his watch or give off any sign of impatience, letting them enjoy the moment. It might be all they got.

Going to Thailand was the last thing Heidegger wanted to do. He was up to his ass in alligators, so to speak, with several deals to close, the planning of Rocketside's big summer tour to promote its new CD, photo shoots to supervise, demos to listen to. Flying halfway around the world was low on his list of priorities. But Takako had told him he needed to be there. He would be the person she'd steer the press to for quotes; neither one of them was willing to trust Turk to actually sound coherent or intelligent on the subject of international terrorism, kidnappings, and the rescue of his beloved wife. So Heidegger had thrown a swimsuit and a casual outfit—khakis and a vintage Hawaiian shirt—along with some underwear and sandals into a small carry-on and here he was at the airport, standing in line for his Royal Orchid seat.

…

The boat was waiting, just like the note said. It was small, just one seat, and made out of some kind of inflatable plastic. It looked, basically, like a life raft with a small motor. The word ZODIAC was painted on the front. A small plastic bag containing instructions and a battery-powered GPS was duct-taped to the seat. There was a plastic paddle, a life jacket, and an outboard motor. Turk and Marybeth stood there, looking at it like it was some kind of alien spacecraft.

“Have you ever driven a boat?”

“When I was fourteen.”

“Maybe I should go with you.”

“I'm supposed to go alone. Besides, do you know how to drive a boat?”

Marybeth shook her head. “No. But how hard can it be?”

Turk flicked on the GPS and it beeped to life, the coordinates preprogrammed in. “I guess I just drive to that dot.”

Turk looked at the tiny device in his hand. Drive a boat to some dot? He was baffled, lost, in over his head. Why couldn't the kidnappers just show up and take the cash? What was their problem? “I wish Clive were here.”

Marybeth gave him a pat on the back. “C'mon, Turkey, you've played live at Budokan, you've headlined Madison Square Garden—you can drive a stupid boat.”

Turk wasn't so sure if the experiences were comparable, but he nodded in agreement. “The show must go on.”

…

Ben had thought he was prepared. But as he watched Turk and Marybeth standing next to an inflatable boat he realized that he hadn't planned for an exchange at sea. Ben sauntered over to the resort's lifeguard station, where several hard plastic canoes and kayaks sat on the sand next to a pile of Styrofoam boogie boards and a couple of Sea-Doo Jet Skis. Flashing his badge didn't impress the lifeguard, but five thousand baht did the trick, and Ben quickly put the Jet Ski into the water, started it up, and roared off toward open ocean with a little salty geyser of seawater spewing up behind him.

Driving the Sea-Doo turned out to be a lot of fun. Ben thought it would be cool to buy a pair. He'd get a little trailer to pull them behind the new Cadillac Escalade he was planning to purchase. He'd take them to the beach, maybe meet some cool chick who'd want to go ride around on the waves with him. That was the great thing about Sea-Doos—girls wore bikinis when they rode on them. Maybe he'd even pack a picnic lunch. They could find a deserted beach somewhere, park their Sea-Doos, eat some shrimp cocktails, and drink some champagne. Then, well, who knows what could happen.

Ben was jolted out of his daydream when he hit his first real wave. Outside the protection of the cove, driving became a little trickier. He almost crashed, and worse, his tactical kit disguised as a beach bag almost fell overboard. Ben slowed down and regained control of the Sea-Doo. He couldn't help himself. He smiled.

These things are fun!

When he was far enough out that he didn't think anyone could see him, Ben quickly changed clothes. He put on his tactical camouflage and holstered the handgun. He let the binoculars dangle from his neck and stuffed the other equipment into a small backpack that he strapped on tightly. As a last touch he clipped the grenade to the backpack strap.

He let the Sea-Doo idle as he bobbed in the waves. He focused the binoculars and scanned the shore. Sure enough, he saw Marybeth wheeling the psychedelic daisy suitcase toward Turk. Ben was impressed. The suitcase wasn't small; in fact, it looked a little bigger than the other one.
Maybe the ransom went up. Maybe there's more than a million dollars in it
.

Ben smiled to himself. Now all he had to do was wait and hope that no one noticed a lone gunman wearing jungle camouflage sitting on a bright yellow Sea-Doo in the middle of the ocean.

…

Sheila wasn't used to rejection. Not from men, anyway. But despite her advances, the Captain had rejected her—and really, had anyone ever said no to that move where she bit her lower lip and spread her legs slightly? Now Somporn was off doing something, preparing for the exchange, the ambush, the getaway, whatever task it was that kidnappers did. He was too busy to spend time with her and had lunch delivered by one of his men. Sheila had thought about seducing that guy just to show Somporn what he was missing, but it was the guy who'd stolen her Chanel sunglasses and there was no way she was gonna fuck him.

So she ate her rice with dried shrimp, chilis, and some kind of green leafy vegetable and thought about Turk. She wasn't looking forward to seeing him. For one thing, after paying her ransom he'd have her on the hook; he'd want sexual favors for the rest of her life. Favors she didn't feel like providing anymore. For Sheila, the thrill was gone.

Their marriage had been forged in rehab; they'd bonded in recovery, a two-person support network. But she wasn't addicted anymore, was she? She didn't need grams of coke or to be Mrs. Rock Star. She was over that. Now she wanted to take care of herself. She sure as hell didn't want to take care of Turk. Turk was a baby. A forty-five-year-old baby wrapped in black leather and tattoos, driven by infantile needs and childish
desires. When he wanted sex he was like a toddler begging for a piece of candy. He wouldn't stop whining or trying to make her feel guilty until she let him get on her and get it over with. She shuddered, thinking of the gratitude he'd demand for rescuing her. She wasn't grateful. She hadn't been mistreated or abused. If anything, she'd learned more about herself in the last few days then she had in twelve years of therapy.

She considered escaping. Let Somporn send his men out searching frantically through the jungle. That would get his attention. He would lose his hostage and the chance to collect what she assumed was a healthy ransom. Would he be so cavalier then? Would he regret snubbing her? But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that it wasn't going to work. How could she escape? She didn't have a plan. She didn't know where she was or which way to go. And after all the pampering and coconut oil treatments her skin was looking really lovely. Why go slogging through a hot swamp and ruin her complexion? Not to mention all the bug bites she'd get.