The Fear Artist

up her face with effort.

Arthit watches with an expression halfway between apprehension and fierce pride.

Anna, her eyes still closed, says, slowly and tonelessly, “No … glass.” Her eyes fly wide open and go to Arthit’s, and he’s beaming from ear to ear. She drops her head to hide her own smile and turns deep red, and Rafferty wishes lightning would strike him where he stands.

Anna gives him a shy, quick glance and hands Arthit a glass with a good four fingers’ worth of whiskey in it. Then she mimes wiping sweat off her forehead and collapses beside him on the couch, letting her head drop onto his shoulder.

“We’ve been working on that,” Arthit says. He rests his free hand on her thigh. “She thinks she sounds ugly when she talks. But she doesn’t.” He catches himself and shakes his head. “Please. Let’s talk about your problems.”

“Well, first,” Rafferty says, sitting, “I’m very happy for both of you.”

Anna says, out loud, “Thank you.” She drags out the a on “thank” a bit experimentally and gives both words the same pitch and the same stress, but her voice is low and pleasant, coming from someplace in the center of her chest. Arthit’s face, as he watches her, is as transparent as water.

“So,” Rafferty says, mostly to break the moment, because it’s too painful to look at, “I want to bounce something off you.”

“Anything,” Arthit says. “And if I can help, tell me.”

“No, I don’t want to involve you. But you can give me an opinion.” He tries not to glace at Anna and fails. She smiles encouragingly.

“Helen Eckersley,” he says. “The woman in Cheyenne.” For a wild, panicked moment, remembers that when he talked to Anna last, he said, “Helena,” but she hasn’t noticed the change; perhaps it’s the difficulty in lip-reading either word. And Arthit doesn’t know that Eckersley is dead, that she was Vietnamese, a survivor of the massacre in the Delta, but he knows he hasn’t. They’ve barely spoken, beyond immediate needs, for days. It’s Ming Li he’s been talking with. “I called her in the States, starting a few days back. Left three or four messages on her machine. I never talked to her. But she called me a couple of days ago. She’s here. She wants to meet me.”

Arthit says, “Mmm-hmm,” but there’s nothing in his face. Anna’s eyes, on the other hand, are sharp with interest.

“So I’m thinking about doing it.”

Arthit looks over Poke’s shoulder, in the general direction of the front door, and Poke knows he’s thinking. “For what purpose?”

“She was the last person on Sellers’s mind. She was important to him. Part of my problem is that I don’t know who he actually was or why he was killed.” He’s never lied to Arthit before, and every sentence makes him feel more counterfeit. “She might be able to tell me-I don’t know-who he was, beyond his name, what he was doing here. What his relationship was with Murphy.”

“What if she’s a plant of some kind? What if Murphy-”

“They didn’t know her name, remember? That’s why they were after me in the first place.”

“Suppose they figured it out somehow,” Arthit says. “Suppose it’s not even really the same person. Suppose it’s a trap and she’s just some floater, just some burnout he’s picked up and paid a few hundred bucks to call you and try to set up a meeting.”

Anna is writing, and when she lifts the pad, the words startle him. It says, No. Too dangerous.

“I followed her today,” Rafferty says, and Anna sits just a tiny bit straighter. “She went to the place where Sellers was shot. Stood in the rain in the middle of the spilled paint, praying.”

Arthit says, “Doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it was a show. Maybe they knew you’d be following her.”

They certainly did, Poke thinks. “Maybe. But maybe she’s got something I need to know to get myself out of this. It’s pointless to pretend they’re not going to find me sooner or later.”

“I still don’t think you should do it, but if you do, where?”

“The new shopping mall on Rama IV. At the peak of business, about eight-thirty tomorrow night. We-I-spent part of the day checking it out.”

Arthit says, “ ‘We’?”

“A friend.”

Arthit nods, but he’s obviously stored the evasion to question it later. “So there will be people around.”

“Thousands of them. Not the kind of place to make a big fuss.”

“Good and bad both,” Arthit says. “It also means they can salt the crowd. And getting out can be a problem.”

The comment catches Rafferty unprepared, since he’s given no thought at all to how he’ll get out. “If there’s anyone there, they’ll be watching her,” he says. “What I’m planning to do is get there two, two and a half hours early so I can look the place over again. Then I’ll go into the business center on the fourth level with a couple of books for them to copy, so I have a reason to stay there. It’s got a big window, but it’s away from the heaviest traffic. I’m going to ask her to meet me at the fountain on the first floor. I can see it from up there.” Up to this point, he’s rehearsed it mentally, but now he’s off the map. “When she shows,” he says, “I’ll go back into the business center and call her and tell her to go out through the front. If anyone is watching, they’ll see her answer the phone and trail along after her. I’ll go down the interior stairs and out the other way.” As he invents it, it feels almost plausible. “Then I’ll call her again and tell her to walk toward the back of the lot, and I’ll pick her up in my car. If there are people behind her, I’ll just keep driving.”

Arthit says, “You have a car?”

“Rented.” He’s startled again by how little he’s told Arthit. “Got it this morning.”

Arthit shakes his head. “You can’t use your ID or your credit cards. Who rented it for you?”

“The same friend. You’ve never met him.” He gets back to what he came to say. “So. I’ll get there about six- thirty, stay mainly in the business center, wait and keep my eyes open for the opposition, and then leave through one door while they’re following her through another. What do you think?”

“I think it would be better if you had someone to watch as she leaves and make sure she comes out alone, not trailing some posse.”

Anna holds up her pad. She’s written Don’t do it and underlined the words twice.

“I agree,” Arthit says. “I’ll go. Instead.”

Anna’s face freezes. She looks like someone who’s seen lightning and is waiting for the thunder.

Rafferty says, “You wouldn’t recognize her.”

“Describe her to me.”

“No. No, it’s not possible.” He gets up, just to do something. “I can’t put you in that position. Suppose you’re right, suppose she really is a plant, suppose it’s a trap and Shen’s people are there with Murphy. How could you explain it? You’d be committing suicide. Your career would be over.”

Arthit looks at his glass and swallows most of what remains, and Anna watches every move as though she’s afraid she’s seeing him for the last time. He lowers the drink and looks up at Rafferty. “I’m not sure what you might get that’s worth the risk.”

“I’m not sure of anything,” Rafferty says, sitting again. He closes his eyes and rubs them with the heels of his palms. “Except that this can’t drag on much longer. They’re going to catch me sooner or later, and if they don’t, I’m going to die of exhaustion. And I’m lonely. I want my wife and daughter back. I want my life to be ordinary again, the way it was before. When I barely appreciated it. I just want to get through this and put things back together and then be grateful for everything I have, everything I had, before all this began. Honest to God, Arthit, when I get through this, I’ll never be bored again. If you ever hear me complain, you have permission to kick me. Hard.”

Arthit says, “Why does it take something terrible to make us understand how blessed we are?” He leans forward, and Anna shifts away slightly. Rafferty thinks, She’s frightened. But then he pictures Pim, blistered on speed and hanging on a pimp’s arm, and the moment passes.

“If you have to do it,” Arthit says, “just think it through a few more times. I’ll do the same, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Maybe we can find a way to improve it.”

Rafferty wants to tell his friend the truth, that he’ll be nowhere near the shopping mall, but he can’t. And it