Salty (25 page)

Sheila suddenly realized the she wouldn't be escaping for the purpose of getting free; she'd be escaping for the pleasure of being caught. Discovered and chased, tackled and hog-tied. Maybe he'd even spank her for trying to get away. Sheila felt a jolt of adrenaline, a little shiver of erotic delight, run through her body and then—she couldn't help herself—she smiled.

When did I become so kinky?

…

Turk hefted the suitcase into the inflatable boat and bent over to roll up his pants legs. He was wearing flip-flops; they were waterproof, but he wanted to keep his pants dry. He was going
to be uncomfortable enough driving the little boat. Satisfied that his pants were secure above his knees—his legs a pale pinkish beige, like raw chicken—Turk pushed the boat out into the water.

“Need a hand?”

“I got it.”

Marybeth handed him a paper bag from the hotel.

“Some bottled water and a sandwich.”

Turk took the bag and looked at Marybeth. He didn't really know what to say to her, but he was genuinely touched by her thoughtfulness. “Thanks.”

It hadn't even occurred to him that he might need some food or water for the trip. He wondered what else he might've forgotten. Marybeth smiled.

“And a beer. You know. For emergencies.”

Turk smiled back. “You think of everything.”

Marybeth nodded. Turk looked at her. He was nervous, hesitant. “Well …”

He turned and looked out at the open ocean, then down to the beeping GPS in his hand. Marybeth couldn't take it. She ran out into the water and gave Turk a hug.

“You be careful, Turkey.”

She held on to him for a long time.

…

Ben watched from his Sea-Doo. He saw Turk and Marybeth embracing in the water for what seemed like ten minutes. How long was this going to take? Wasn't this guy supposed to be married? But maybe that was the way rock stars did it: a wife, a mistress, assorted groupies and hookers.

It rankled him, to be honest; having all those women seemed well, unpatriotic. America was built on values, things like family and freedom and justice, things that were important. That's what the country stood for. If Turk Henry was not a family values kind of guy that meant he wasn't a red-blooded American. If he wasn't an American, then perhaps he was an enemy of America. Ben remembered something the president had said.

You're either for freedom and American values or you're on the side of the terrorists
.

If Turk was a terrorist then Ben was just doing his duty. Killing terrorists was his job.

Ben was getting antsy; it seemed like he'd been bobbing out here for hours and he was now in some pain. He had brought some food with him but when he tried to eat his sandwich it attracted the attention of a flock of seagulls. They were brazen, swooping down on him and snatching half the sandwich out of his hand before he could even get it up to his mouth. The birds hovered around him, cawing and squawking, trying to land on his head, on the Sea-Doo, swooping down to snag his food. Ben worried that the birds were attracting unwanted attention, so he'd maced one of the little marauders with a blast of pepper spray. The bird had fallen into the water, splashing and flailing wildly for a few minutes until it drowned and sank like a rock. Unfortunately, some of the pepper spray had blown back into Ben's face, his eyes stinging like a motherfucker, and the flailing of the bird had, apparently, attracted some kind of large shark that was now circling the Sea-Doo.

…

Turk gave the cord a firm yank—just like starting a lawn mower—and the engine roared to life. He gave a wave to Marybeth—she blew him a kiss—and twisted the throttle. The little Zodiac jerked forward, moving across the bay toward the ocean and a little blinking dot on the GPS screen.

…

Ben looked through his binoculars with his one good eye—the one not swollen shut from the pepper spray—and watched as Turk left the cove. He would follow, staying as far behind as possible, until he was sure no one was around. Then he would make his move. Ben wiped the stream of tears from his good eye with the sleeve of his camouflage T-shirt and goosed the throttle. Even though the air stung his tender eyes, it was good to be moving. Ben wanted to get away from the shark.

…

Captain Somporn's cell phone rang. Somewhat perversely, he'd downloaded a Metal Assassin ringtone, and a digital approximation of “Drop in the Bucket” began chirping from his pocket. He checked the number and answered. The news he got was good. Turk had left in the boat, alone, and with a suitcase. Somporn ended the phone call and checked the time. He figured it would take Turk two hours to get to the GPS drop.

Somporn entered the hut and found Sheila sulking on the bed, a glass of whiskey in her hand. She glanced over at him and gave him a sneer.

“Well, well, well. Look who's returned to the scene of the crime.”

Somporn went over and picked the bottle of whiskey off the floor. He noted that it was more than a quarter gone.

“What are you doing?”

Sheila stuck out her lower lip in a pout she'd made famous in a Moschino campaign in the late '80s. She spoke slowly, punctuating her words with a hurt expression.

“I was bored.”

“I am sorry. I had many things to attend to.”

“Like making me go back.”

Somporn nodded. “You can't be my hostage forever.”

Sheila looked at him. “Why not? Why can't you just keep me?”

Somporn sat down on the cot next to her and picked up her hand. He stroked it tenderly and looked into her eyes. “I would love to keep you. But … my men, myself—we need money.”

“I could give you money.”

Sheila's bottom lip had begun to quiver uncontrollably. Somporn shook his head and stood up. “Your husband is on his way.”

Somporn walked across the room and picked up a fresh pack of cigarettes. He turned to see Sheila sobbing quietly.

“Don't cry. This is all for the best.”

Sheila wiped a string of mucus from her nose. “Can I see you? After?”

“What do you mean?”

“After you let me go. You know? We can meet somewhere. In Bangkok or someplace.”

Captain Somporn thought about it, but the thought of trying to rendezvous with a former hostage set off alarm bells in his criminal mind. It would be too easy for her to go to the police and organize a trap. He'd never be able to trust her. He exhaled a plume of smoke into the air, chasing some mosquitoes out of the room.

“Perhaps.”

Sheila jumped up and into Somporn's arms. Somporn reeled backward, surprised by her ardor.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

She clung to him fiercely, and for the first time Somporn felt the full strength and suppleness of her Pilates- and yoga-enhanced supermodel body. He pulled her hands free and looked her in the eye.

“But right now, you must get ready to leave.”

Sheila grinned. “When can we meet? Where?”

“I'll contact you when it's safe.”

Sheila couldn't help herself—she kissed him. Full on. For his part, Captain Somporn was not about to deny this once-in-a-lifetime chance to French-kiss a supermodel. He returned her kiss with a passion that took him by surprise. In fact, the feelings that were suddenly and undeniably welling up from deep inside him did even more than take him by surprise. They freaked him out.

Sheila broke from the kiss and held Somporn's face in her hands. She leaned in close, her voice husky and hoarse with desire, and whispered, “Promise?”

Somporn looked in her eyes and nodded.

“Promise me you'll stay out of the sun.”

…

Salty ocean spray blew up and hit Turk in the face as the Zodiac bounced through the surf. Turk was impressed with the little boat; it handled the waves with ease. All he had to do was keep the front part pointed in the right direction. The tiny flashing dot on the GPS screen moved left or right depending on which way Turk steered, telling him when he was getting off course, keeping him honest. It wasn't nearly as difficult as he had thought it would be.

As he left the protection of the cove and started out into open water, Turk relaxed. Despite his current circumstances, he felt pretty good. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and, though he'd grown used to the tropical heat, a cool breeze was blowing along the water. It was peaceful. The churning of the small engine had turned into a muffled purr, the boat slapping against the waves in a kind of steady, syncopated rhythm.

As he motored along, the GPS signal having him running north and parallel to the coast, Turk's boat was joined by a small pod of dolphins. They surfed in the wake of the Zodiac, jumping and gliding all around the boat. Turk remembered something Sheila had told him about dolphins when she was working with that Heal the Bay group in Malibu. Apparently they were just as intelligent as humans, with their own language and a kind of organized society, and they were the only species besides humans that had sex for pleasure. Sheila had gone on to describe the mating habits of dolphins—they tended toward wanton group sex with multiple partners—and how the pod becomes like an extended family. They lived, essentially, like a rock band on tour.

Turk looked at the dolphins swimming next to the Zodiac and for a moment he was jealous. They didn't have to
deal with marriage and commitment; they weren't monogamous creatures, and didn't pretend to be. They swam around all day without a care in the world, without jobs or bills to pay or cell phones to answer, and spent their lives eating sashimi and fucking. It occurred to Turk that maybe dolphins were the more highly evolved species.

The thought that human beings were not naturally monogamous was not a new one for Turk. In rehab the sexual addiction counselor had told him that the compulsion to mate with multiple partners was something biological, part of the survival-of-the-species instinct encoded in the DNA of every human. The counselor had told Turk that despite his quite normal biological urge to get it on with every woman he encountered, society had different rules, and it was those rules he needed to learn to play by. He was urged to become monogamous, if only to preserve his mental health and the public peace.

Turk had been true to Sheila—not counting the happy finish—but he wondered if it was as good for his state of mind as the counselor had suggested it would be. He wasn't happy. He couldn't necessarily lay the blame for his misery on his marriage; he knew that a lot of it stemmed from the breakup of the band, the fact that he wasn't playing music, wasn't doing what he loved to do most. But the fact remained, he wasn't happy. He was distinctly unhappy, and until recently he hadn't even been aware of how unhappy he was. He'd been slowly sliding into a beer-blurred monogamous monotony that was turning to borderline clinical depression. Sheila's abduction, and his subsequent time by himself, had forced him to realize this. This marriage thing just wasn't working out the way he'd hoped.

Turk watched the dolphins. They seemed pretty happy. He'd never heard of a dolphin dropping dead from stress. What if being promiscuous was just part of the natural world? What if having multiple partners was how things were supposed to be? What if society's demand for marriage was actually unnatural? What if sexual addiction was just some kind of made-up “illness” to keep people from straying?

It slowly dawned on Turk that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't a sex addict at all. Maybe he was just kind of slutty. Like a dolphin.

…

Ben followed the slow-moving Zodiac from as far away as he could. He realized he could quickly close the gap between them if he needed to; the Sea-Doo was much more powerful than the poky little engine clamped to the back of the Zodiac. That's what he wanted to do. Overtake the Zodiac and plug a couple of holes into Turk. But he couldn't do it right this second. Not right now. There was a surprising amount of boat traffic out on the water. There were small fishing boats, sightseeing boats, kayaking tourists, and boats filled with scuba divers either on their way to a dive site or returning from one. Ben didn't want to take the chance that someone might see him kill Turk and take the suitcase. He realized he'd have to wait until Turk got closer to shore. Surely the terrorists had planned for the exchange to be in some secluded location. It would be too risky on the open sea.

…

Marybeth stood on the beach and looked at the ocean. Turk had been gone for at least an hour, but she couldn't bring herself to move. She didn't know what to do or where to go. She was worried about Turk. She was scared shitless she might never see him again. Her stomach bunched up in a tight, nervous ball and warm, salty tears welled up in her eyes.

Turk is the bravest man I've ever met
.

It was inspirational. Really. Turk risking life and limb to rescue his wife. That takes some stones, some
cojones
, some real courage. Marybeth knew that she'd need that same kind of courage. She was about to embark on her own risky journey. She didn't know where her relationship with Wendy would go—what it might lead to or if it would last. She would need some of Turk's guts and audacity to come out to her friends and family. She would have to be brave. What else could she do? She was in love.

“Ms. Monahan?”

Marybeth turned and saw Carole, the hotel manager, standing with a pair of Thai policemen. She gulped.

“Yeah?”

“These officers would like to talk to you.”

Marybeth's body went rigid as she mutely nodded. There were so many things to worry about that she wasn't sure which one to choose. Was it Turk? Was it the money? Was it Wendy? Was it news about Sheila?

She followed them up the steps of the hotel, past the pool, into the lobby, and out to the big circular driveway, where a police car was waiting. One of the officers opened the back door of the car and gestured for her to get in. Marybeth turned to Carole.