Breathing Water: A Bangkok Thriller

The smell chases him up the long hill. When he crests it, he sees that the lighting in the garden has been shifted to create an island of brilliance around the apple tree. The jeweled fruit gleams green and red through the leaves, and the verdant moss that surrounds the tree has been raked or fluffed up to make it seem deeper, lusher, more sensuous. As befits, Rafferty thinks, the spot where the world’s most pleasant sin had its world premiere. Half a dozen men are at work around the apple tree. Several of them are up on ladders and seem to be putting something into its branches. In the relative darkness on the far side of the garden, behind red velvet ropes policed by two uniformed guards, is a gaggle of people whom, from their cameras and casual dress, Rafferty identifies as members of the press. They have their own bar and are using it with some enthusiasm; its surface bristles with bottles, and the voices he hears have the tone-deaf loudness of the freshly drunk.

A guard gives Rafferty a few minutes with the RSVPs. About a third of the attendees are on the yellow list, the anti-Pan list, and about a fifth of them are on the list Pan gave him. He pulls out his copies of those lists and circles the names of the people who are present. He wants to get a look at as many of them as possible tonight. Pan’s line comes to mind: It’s good business to know your enemies.

He works as fast as he can. The booth is hot, even this late in the evening. His shirt is damp by the time he finishes. He refolds his lists and pockets them, thinking that by tomorrow morning it may all have proved to be a waste of time. Elora Weecherat’s article will be out by then, with its hidden threat: If anything happens to Rafferty and his family, the paper has information that could lead to the person responsible.

If he weren’t American, he thinks, it wouldn’t have a chance of working. The potency comes from the threat of the embassy pushing the Thai investigation along. And if Arthit is right and this has something to do with the national political scene, pressure from the United States is the last thing the people who are threatening him would want.

During his time in Bangkok, he’s learned not to take too much comfort from a string of hypotheticals, but it’s all he’s got.

He approaches the policeman, Thanom, first. The picket fence of protectors parts as though he’s expected, and Thanom offers him a wet hand to grasp and a fat-faced smile of welcome that almost makes his flat little eyes disappear. “Certainly,” he says. “I’d be happy to talk to you. Anything to help a writer with such an interesting subject.”

“Isn’t it?” Rafferty says. “And of course I want to do it well.”

“I’m sure you do,” Thanom says, and one of his guys snickers. Thanom’s smile remains in place, but his eyes, when he turns them to the man who laughed, look as if smoke should be coming out of them.

When Rafferty reaches the other side of the room, the living skeleton, Porthip, is more difficult. “No time,” he says.

“I’m sure you’re busy-”

“I have no time. Didn’t you hear me? I’m working twenty hours a day as it is. And Pan no longer interests me.” There’s a tremor to his voice that could be lack of breath support. It could also be pain.

One of Porthip’s guardians puts a hand on Rafferty’s arm, and Rafferty shakes it off. “That’s going to disappoint some people,” he says. The guardian takes Rafferty’s arm again.

“Who?”

“Tell you what,” Rafferty says. “Rather than discuss a bunch of names in front of everyone, I’ll have one of them call you tomorrow.”

Porthip extends a shaky hand and touches the shoulder of the man whose hand is on Rafferty’s arm. The man lets go. “Do that,” Porthip says. “If they’re the right people, I’ll talk to you. But you arrive ready to work. No matter who calls me, I can only give you an hour. If that.”

“That’ll be fine,” Rafferty says. He turns away.

“Wait,” Porthip says. “Who is she?”

“Who?”

The tip of his tongue touches his lower lip. “You know who.”

“Oh, her,” Rafferty says. “She’s a spirit of the forest. She only assumes human form when the moon is full.”

Porthip looks past him, to where Rose towers over Pan, yellow fire at her throat. “The moon isn’t full.”

Rafferty says, “I guess I was misinformed.”

The third man, the beautifully dressed man whose name Rafferty doesn’t know, won’t allow Rafferty anywhere near him. The bench-pressing phalanx that surrounds him simply stand, massive shoulder to massive shoulder, a human Stonehenge, several feet in front of their employer, and stare Rafferty down.

“At least let him tell me himself,” Rafferty says.

One of the musclemen says, in English, “Fuck off.”

“Is that message from you?” Rafferty calls over the muscleman’s shoulder.

The beautifully dressed man simply turns away. Rafferty has been snubbed before, but this is a whole new level. He starts to push between two of the men in front of him, but the one to his left, a short, wide, dark-skinned man whose teeth stagger drunkenly across his mouth, leaning in all directions, reaches around the side of Rafferty’s neck and digs an iron thumb into a spot behind Rafferty’s jaw, just below his ear. Pain radiates outward in all directions. Rafferty lets his knees go loose, trying to drop out of the hold, but the other man grabs his necktie and holds him up. It has taken almost no movement, nothing to draw attention, but Rafferty’s entire awareness is focused on pain. By the time the two men release him, the beautifully dressed man is gone.

“Next time,” says the one with the drunken teeth, “you’ll be limping for a week.”

Then he brings up his right hand and, with his index finger, flicks Rafferty across his open left eye.

The pain is dazzling, enough to take Rafferty to his knees, both hands cupped over the assaulted eye. Tears stream down his face. After what seems like ten minutes, he becomes aware of an open hand extended down to him.

He looks up with his good eye to see a man in his early fifties with long, wavy hair, worn brushed back without a part, in a senatorial style. His hand is framed by half an inch of immaculate white French cuff fastened by a link of lapis lazuli set in gold. “Please,” the man says. “Let me help you up.”

“Thank you.” Rafferty reaches up to give the man his hand and is more or less hauled to his feet.

“I saw that,” the man says. “Filthy trick.”

Rafferty mops his face with the sleeve of his jacket. The vision in his left eye is badly blurred. “And he’ll have an opportunity to regret it.”

The senator smiles gently. “Don’t say it too loudly. There are people in Bangkok who could wipe you up like a spill, and Ton is one of them.”

“Ton?”

“Oh,” the senator says, dropping his eyes to adjust an immaculate cuff. “I thought you knew.” When he looks back up, he is smiling. “Given the beauty of your companion, you have good reason to stay alive. If I were you, I would think of Ton as a wrecking ball and stay out of his path.” He nods slightly. “Please excuse me.”

The senator moves off, doing a little genteel glad-handing here and there, and Rafferty turns to find Rose standing behind him. “Nice-looking man,” she says.

“He returns the compliment. In fact, everyone returns the compliment. You’re all anybody here wants to talk to me about.”

“That’s not surprising, considering that one of your eyes is bright red. You look better when they match. What happened?”

“I ran into a finger.”

“Who was it attached to?”

“Captain Teeth.”

Rose says, “Is this something else I have to worry about?”

“Worry?” Rafferty says, blinking against the pain. “In a gathering like this one?”

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