Authors: Mark Haskell Smith
“What's going on?”
“I'm afraid something has happened to your friend.”
Marybeth felt her knees start to go. She was confused. How could anything have happened to Turk? It was too soon. Carole helped her into the back of the car.
“It'll be okay.”
She closed the door. Marybeth wasn't sure she'd be okay. She'd lost feeling in her body and her brain refused to generate a single thought. It was like being in suspended animation; like something out of a science fiction story.
The police didn't seem to notice that their passenger was freaking out. They sat in front and listened to some kind of talk radio show. Maybe it was the police radio, but it seemed more like one of those call-in shows like they had in Los Angeles. Dumb-asses spouting their moronic, ill-informed opinions to bigger dumb-asses who phoned in and expanded on the moronic, ill-informed opinions with even bigger, stupider, and more ill-informedâif that was even possibleâgeneralizations and bogus calls to action, except this was in Thai and Marybeth had no idea what they were really saying.
They took her to the same hospital, the same bright corridor, the same double doors, the same pathologist with the incredibly long and unpronounceable name. Marybeth shuffled along, dazed and confused, numbly following the police officers into the morgue.
Because she didn't speak Thai and the officers' English was extremely limited, there was a lot of pointing and nodding going on. The doctor opened one of the steel refrigerators and pulled a body out. He unzipped the white PVC body bag and revealed the deceased.
Marybeth's first reaction was one of relief. She gasped, not at seeing Clive's strangely purple face, but at not seeing Turk in the bag. She'd never been so happy to see a dead man.
The police and the doctor had a rapid exchange in Thai and then the doctor turned to her.
“You know him?”
“Yes. That's Clive. Clive Muggleton.”
The police asked a question, the doctor translated. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“On Patpong Beach. He went into a bar and said he'd see me later.”
The doctor translated that to the police. There was another question. “Is he your husband? Your boyfriend?”
Marybeth shook her head. “I'm gay.”
That was how she came out. With two simple words, telling some uncomprehending strangers and a dead Australian that she preferred to have sex with women.
â¦
It wasn't until they were almost back at the hotel that the reality of Clive's death sunk in. The doctor had told her that Clive had been murdered, his neck broken by someone. The police had no leads. All they had was the testimony of the bar girl, who said she didn't see anything because her eyes were closed. The police and the doctor were sure of one thing: the bar girl wasn't strong enough to snap Clive's neck. So someone must've entered the room and killed him while he was having sex. They asked her a number of other questionsâafterward, Marybeth couldn't really remember what they
wereâand she answered them as best she could without telling them anything about Turk, the money, or the ransom drop that was in progress. But Marybeth's mind was spinning. Was this related to Sheila's kidnapping? Was it random? Was Turk okay? Marybeth didn't know what to think. Although she was pretty sure that if Clive had to die, he'd probably have wanted to go while boning a bar girl.
â¦
The setting sun cast a golden glow across the sky, turning the clouds orange and the water deep green. Flocks of birds rose up from the jungle as the little boat motored along.
Turk thought about Sheila. It'd been almost two weeks since she'd been kidnapped. He wondered what he'd say to her when they finally met. But what if they didn't? For the first time it occurred to him that maybe something bad had happened to her. What if she was dead? What if she'd been beaten? What if she'd been raped? Up until this point Turk had been operating on the assumption that the kidnappers were, somehow, honorable businessmen. They wanted money in exchange for Sheila. A tit for a tat. But he had to remember that they were criminals. Why wouldn't they just take the money, kill everyone, and go on their merry way? It was like what they always told you about wild animals: they might look cute, but they'll bite you if you get too close.
Turk's blood pressure went up; he felt a lump of fear harden in his throat. What if the ICE agent was right? What if they took Turk's money and took flying lessons or built a dirty bomb? Turk gripped the throttle of the little outboard motor tightly, his knuckles turning white. He tried to reassure
himself. These guys didn't seem like terrorists. They weren't speaking Arabic or releasing wobbly home videos of their hostages reading some kind of prepared statements while the kidnapper-terrorists stood behind them with shopping bags on their heads. That was what Turk didn't get about terrorists. Clearly they weren't using their money for A/V equipment or film school.
Turk realized that the nervousness he felt now was the same nervousness he felt before going on stage. He didn't have stage fright, he just got nervous, but the other members of the band used to tease him about it. Of course Steve, that megalomaniac, didn't get nervous. Steve loved the spotlight, the roar of the crowd. It fed the insatiable appetite of his outsize ego. Bruno never got nervous, but then he was always drunk.
Turk gritted his teeth. He'd just have to suck it up, see this thing through. Even if he now had second thoughts about his marriage, it didn't mean he was going to leave Sheila in the clutches of criminals. That just wasn't the way he was raised.
â¦
Sheila slipped out of her clothes, carefully folding them on the bed, and stood under the shower hose. Even though Captain Somporn wasn't there, Sheila felt like she was performing. Not for an audience exactly; it was more like she was performing a ritual for herself. Careful not to waste the water, she washed herselfâshe didn't have time to wash her hairâlathering up with soap and feeling her body becoming slick and clean as she rinsed. She dried herself thoroughly with one of the nice towels Somporn had provided.
Sheila sat on the bed and began to spread coconut oil on her body. She tried to imitate the soft touch of the Captain, meticulously coating every fold and curve with the moisturizing emollient.
Even though Somporn wasn't there to watch her and spread the oil on her skin, Sheila felt herself getting aroused. She slid her oily hand over her breasts and, slowly, down along her belly until she reached between her legs and allowed herself to do something she hadn't done since she was kidnapped: Sheila lay back on the little cot and masturbated.
â¦
Ben's left eye had turned a bright scarlet and was swollen shut. He tried to open it with his fingers but it was too difficult on the bouncing Sea-Doo, and too painful besides. It wasn't getting better. In fact, it was getting worse. It might, he realized, require a trip to the hospital when he was done murdering Turk and stealing the money. He immediately caught himself. He wasn't necessarily
murdering
Turk. Sure, he was going to kill him, make no doubt about that. But he was killing him to keep him from giving money to a terrorist organization. That he was keeping the money, well, maybe that wasn't the most ethical choice, but it was a whole hell of a lot better than giving it to al-Qaeda. Ben Harding wasn't a murderer. He was a hero. And heroes did whatever needed to be done.
Ben's eye began to throb and ooze some kind of toxic pus. He decided he needed to act now, before it got any worse. He hit the throttle and shortened the distance between himself and Turk. When he got to about a hundred yardsâthe
length of a football fieldâfrom Turk's Zodiac he stopped the Sea-Doo, unholstered his gun, and took aim. Out in the open water, Turk was a sitting duck. There was no cover, nothing to get in the way of the bullet, and nowhere for Turk to run.
Ben looked around. A fishing boat was off to the left, maybe a quarter mile away; the shore of the island looked deserted, an uninhabited tangle of mangroves. Ben held the gun in a modified Weber gripâhis hands overlapping for stabilityâtook aim, and squeezed off two shots.
â¦
Turk had played for years standing behind Steve and Bruno, stuck in the back next to Chaps as the muscle-bound drummer had pounded his kit and hammered his cymbals like a beat-happy gorilla on crystal meth. The proximity to Chap's crash cymbal had had the unfortunate side effect of damaging Turk's hearing. The ear specialist he'd visited figured he'd lost a good portion of the high-frequency sensitivity in his left ear; that had been the side that faced the cymbals. So Turk didn't hear the shots. He didn't notice the strange whining whistle that cut through the air as the first bullet flew past his head, missing by an inch or two. He didn't notice the second bullet either. It punctured the side of the Zodiac, flew across at an angle, and blew a second hole on the other side as it exited. But Turk did notice that the nifty little boat was no longer handling so well. In fact, it was melting in on itself like a Salvador Dali clock.
Turk didn't hesitate; he turned the boat toward the shore and hit the gas. Even though he had a pool at his Hollywood Hills home and used to swim laps every day to stay in some
kind of shape between tours, he wasn't a great swimmer. He wanted to be as close to shore as possible when the boat finally went down.
As the boat began to fill with water, Turk quickly fastened the life jacket around the psychedelic-daisy suitcase. He then secured the GPS in his pants pocket. He was determined to get the money to the little blinking dot, even if he had to walk through the fucking jungle to do it.
As it continued to deflate, the boat began to lose its shape; it appeared to be dissolving, slowly being sucked under. It looked as if Turk was straddling a giant used condom.
Turk grabbed the suitcase and hit the water. His weight pulled him under for a moment, but then he pulled himself up on the suitcase, the money growing quickly wet and heavy, and began to kick toward the shore.
â¦
Ben held the binoculars up to his good eye and watched as Turk floundered with the suitcase through the waves. It was another stroke of luck. It was much better if the rock star's body washed up and the cause of death was accidental drowning. With no bullet holes to explain, there wouldn't be an investigation; it'd just be a news item. Turk's fans would lay flowers and candles in front of the Rainbow Room on the Sunset Stripâwhere Metal Assassin played its first showâand Turk would get a special tribute in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.
Ben scanned the shoreline, trying to determine where the suitcase might wash up. He could see a dense thicket of mangroves lining the shore. His swollen eye was beginning
to throb with pain. Ben realized that the salt water spraying up when he drove the Sea-Doo wasn't helping.
He squinted through the binocularsâhe had trouble scanning the waves with only one eyeâtrying to monitor Turk's progress. He saw the suitcaseâwrapped in a bright orange life vest, it was easy to spotâbobbing in the waves. But no sign of the pudgy rocker.
Ben gripped the throttle; he was about to race over and grab the suitcase when he saw Turk's arm raise up and go down, followed by his other arm. Turk was doing the backstroke. Ben considered running him over with the Sea-Doo, but then decided he'd take the long way around, cut through the mangroves, and be waiting for Turk when he finally washed ashore.
â¦
Captain Somporn lit another cigarette. He'd already smoked half a pack. It wasn't like himânormally he was the coolest of customersâbut for some reason he was nervous. He never should have gotten entangled with Sheila. It was obvious. Rule number one for kidnappers and fugitive pirates: don't get emotionally attached to your victims. There were a number of reasons for this, all of them good, but it really boiled down to the simple fact that if you had to pull the trigger, you couldn't hesitate.
Maybe that's why he was so nervous. He knew he couldn't kill her. If everything went haywire and the CIA or the Thai police or, worse, the
Thahan Prahan
showed up, Somporn wouldn't be able to pull the trigger; he would lose face in front of his men andâperhaps a more honorable optionâhe would be killed himself.
His cell phone rang, “Drop in the Bucket” chirping out in digital glory. He answered it, and grimaced. The news was not good. Even though Turk had left in the Zodiac and headed off in the right direction, for some reason he hadn't made it to the drop point. Somporn cursed. He'd thought about having one of his men shadow Turk's boat, just to make sure nothing went wrong, but had decided that it was too risky out on the water; it would be easy for the police to spot. Besides, Somporn didn't want any of his men to be there when the money was exchanged. He had plans of his own.
â¦
Heidegger was groggy when he woke up. It took him a couple of minutes to figure out where he was. It was dark, the gloom lit by the glow of distant doorways and the beams of overhead reading lights. The
No Smoking
sign was lit, with its icon of a burning cigarette and the red circle and slash. The dull roar of jet engines also confirmed to him that he was in an airplane.
He turned his head and saw a Japanese couple sitting across the aisle from him watching some kind of pornographic cartoon on their laptop computer while their hands busied themselves underneath a blanket.
Hentai anime
âhe knew what that was. A slender Thai woman in a traditional silk dress walked down the aisle and smiled at him as if she knew him. A crazy martial arts movie from Hong Kong was playing on the little TV screen mounted in front of him. He craned his neck, looking behind him. The perfect couple from the ticket counter at LAX slept snuggled together in their seats. She had her head on his shoulder, he leaned his head onto hers. They had a blanket
tucked up under their necks. They looked like a Hallmark card for honeymooners.