The Fear Artist

of clothes, wet when he put them on hangers in the bathroom the previous evening, waiting for him all dry and orderly, the wrinkles hung out of them.

He considers booting up the computer he bought. He’s barely opened it since Ming Li showed up with hers, but he can’t think of anything he wants to look at except the weather forecast, and a glance out the window gives him that: wet and then wetter, with the chance of a biblical deluge. He shucks his wet shoes, pulls out the laptop anyway, and powers it on for about a second and a half, after which it powers itself off. Dead. The power brick is at the bottom of the sodden fake-leather bag, so he pulls it out and plugs it in to charge.

There, he thinks, he’s done something. Lesson for tomorrow: no assumptions. Call everyone first thing in the morning and go over all of it. Go over it twice.

Of course he’s worried about Ming Li, even though she’s probably already asleep in her own room. How could he not be? He’s dragged her into this, even if sometimes she makes him feel like it’s the other way around, since she’s so clearly braver than he is. Going up to the second floor of that coffee place, for example, just to make sure Elson hadn’t overpowered him and put in a call for the marines. He feels himself smile at the thought, the first real smile of the day. The smiles at Arthit’s had been heavy as stone.

What in the world is he going to do about Arthit? How can he repair all that dishonesty?

Not that he’s necessarily going to be in a position to repair anything after tomorrow night.

Since there’s nothing for him to do, he kicks his discarded shoes against the wall so he can’t trip on them in the dark and falls on his stomach on the bed. Naturally, the moment he’s comfortable, he has a pressing reason to stand up again.

It takes him a moment to choose a phone that hasn’t been used for anything dangerous. He launches himself at the bed again, pushes some buttons, and closes his eyes in prayer.

Rose says, “Hello, you.”

Instantly he has tears in his eyes and all his muscles loosen. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“Should I ask how you are?”

“No.” He sniffs. “Okay, ask.”

“How are you?”

“You don’t want to know. But I’m doing what I can, and that’s what I can do.”

“I have faith in you. Just keep your head clear.”

“I’m clearing it as we speak.”

“Meditate. Tonight. Before you go to bed. You know, no one in the history of the world has ever done harm while meditating.”

“I promise.”

“You know,” she says. “All those little monkey voices that start chattering in your head when you have to decide something. You need to shut them up so you can hear the calm voice.”

“Got it,” he says. “Meditate.”

“Is it going to be dangerous?”

“Maybe.”

“Is there a way to avoid it?”

“Not that I can think of. Not if I want all this to end.”

“How dangerous will it be?”

“No, no, I take it back. Not so dangerous. The only person I have to be afraid of will be miles away. I should have an hour or two, easy.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

“Murphy’s Law.” He hears the words after he speaks them, and the hairs on his arms stand up.

“What does that mean? What’s Murphy’s Law?”

“It’s an … it’s an old joke.” He looks up at the ceiling, trying to frame an explanation that won’t frighten her. Frighten both of them. “From the army, I think. Murphy’s Law says that anything that can go wrong will.” She says nothing, and he adds, “But it’s just a joke.”

She draws a deep breath. “We’ll go to the temple tomorrow, Miaow and I.”

“Good,” he says. “That would be good.”

Rose says, “It will, you know.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “At the very least, it’ll make me feel better.” He rolls over onto his back and looks down at his feet in their wet socks. “How is Miaow?”

“In love, to hear her tell it.”

“Well, so is Andrew. He’s come by looking for her, as though this whole thing is a plot to separate them. He looks completely lost.”

“I’ll tell her that. It’ll make her feel better.”

“To know that the guy she loves is unhappy? That’ll make her feel better?”

“Of course.”

“I give up,” Rafferty says. “Women are like cave paintings. You know what they look like, but not what they mean.”

“This isn’t mysterious. She’s stuck up here, missing someone who’s probably forgotten her, who’s cutting a swath through the girls of Bangkok-”

“Andrew?”

“And to learn instead that he’s lonely, maybe even a little heartbroken, wandering around, lost in a gray cloud-”

“He is.”

“Good,” she says. “He should be.”

He’s using one foot to peel a soggy sock off the other. “I can’t tell you how much I miss you.”

“Sure you can,” she says. “You haven’t even tried yet.”

“Let me think. Okay, so here you go: A spirit appears before me-”

“Male or female?”

“Male. With a mustache and long, curving blue teeth. And he says, ‘I’m going to give you two choices. You can have one or the other, but you can’t choose neither and you can’t choose both.’ Are you with me?”

“Of course. A million stories begin this way.”

“The first thing the spirit offers me is, I get to see you for an hour. The second thing is, it will rain as long as I live, and I’ll live for centuries.”

“And which one would you choose?”

“Well,” he says, “if my socks weren’t wet-”

“I’d choose the same,” she says. “I’d rather be with you right now, wet socks and all, than anything else in the world. Do they smell?”

“Of course.”

“Send them up to me. I need them.”

He rolls onto his side and comes face-to-face with the little automatic that Ming Li bought him that afternoon. “Whatever happens,” he says, “I want you to know that I love you more than the rest of the world put together.”

“What about Miaow?”

“Miaow’s a special exception.”

“She certainly is,” Rose says. “Right now she’s sitting outside under a big tree, very dramatically getting wet.”

“Give her a kiss from me. Tell her it’s from Andrew.”

“No,” Rose says. “Let her get wet. I’ll keep the kisses for myself.”

HE RACKS THE gun and dry-fires it a few times, trying to get used to the feel of it in his hand. It’s not as heavy as his Glock, but it’s bulkier and more awkward. Then he pops the magazine in and handles it some more, getting used to its loaded weight. He doesn’t like it much, but he figures it’ll put down anything it hits.

The loaded gun and the remaining shells go on the bed table. He gets the hotel hair dryer from the bathroom and sticks it into his socks, one at a time, watching them balloon and steam until they’re dry. Then he uses it on the inside of the fake-leather bag until a sort of chemistry-is-not-your-friend smell makes him stop and let it cool for a while. He uses the time to assemble his clothes for the next day: his better-looking pair of pants, his still-wet belt,