Molly had no idea what he was talking about. “He didn’t track me down. He was there at the dig when I arrived.”
“Waiting for you,” Luke said. “We knew you were coming.”
“Sometimes there’s no second chances,” Luke said. “He wants to belong so bad. He won’t ever belong.”
“Belong to what?” Duncan said. “Who’s this ‘we’ you’re talking about?”
“The boys,” Luke interrupted. Molly frowned. That was Duncan’s term. Had the man sneaked up one night and overheard them? It wasn’t impossible.
“Whatever,” said Duncan. “I take it you belong.”
“Same as you.”
“And me?” said Molly. He was like Job, this raving prophet, but without a god to blame for his misery and ugliness. She wanted to hear what he would say.
He looked at her. “Who else do you think we come for?”
A huge dark shape—a truck—thundered past, lights out. The Land Cruiser rocked in its wake. Her thoughts scattered. It was a relief, she decided, to quit the conversation.
11.
They came to a town, or what was left of it. The moon made a brief appearance, and the destruction leaped out at Molly, the dirt as red as Mars. Here and there lone walls stood scored by thousands of bullet holes, the rest of the houses chopped away. Otherwise the place was a shantytown floating on stilts between the rubble.
“Snuol,” Duncan read from his map.
“What happened here?” Molly asked.
“I’d say the United States Army paid a visit,” Duncan said. He had taken the red and white
“Birth is death, brother,” Luke said. “Somebody has to feed the machine. This was their turn.”
The destruction fascinated Molly. The war had erected an architecture so grotesque, it verged on beauty. And the people let it stand, that was the strangest thing. They chose to live among the ruins.
“We’re getting there now,” said Luke.
“North to Kratie,” Duncan guessed. “From there, it’s not so far to Sambor.”
“You know the country?” Luke was amused.
“I came this way years ago,” Duncan said. “I was retracing the footsteps of the great Dutch explorer Van Wusthoff. He was making his way to Vientiane. This was back in 1642. He was the first Westerner to set eyes on the supposed ruins of Sambupura, the capital of a pre-Angkor civilization in the sixth century. Sambor, it’s called now. The locals stripped it clean centuries ago. They took away the building stones to make dikes. There are a few foundation stones left in the ground. Some scholars doubt the Sambor stones mark the real Sambupura. They think the stones are just traces of a satellite city, that the capital must have been somewhere else. Skeptics say Sambupura never existed, it’s just the local version of Shangri-la.”
“More tricks,” Luke said. “You and your folklore and history.”
Duncan was quiet for a moment. “It’s what I do. Temple restorations. My specialty is the pre-Angkor period.”
“Let’s say that’s so,” said Luke. “What’s that change?”
Duncan looked stricken. His little light hovered above the map. Molly didn’t know why he let the crazy gypsy get to him.
The road forked ahead. “Tell the boy to go right here,” Luke said.
They exited Highway 7 onto a side road that actually improved. The ripped asphalt of Snuol smoothed into compacted dirt. Duncan’s map rustled. “East to Mondulkiri,” he said. “This is an old logging road. The Ho Chi Minh Trail branched all through these parts.”
“History,” Luke said.
Night spilled over the windshield. Molly felt vaguely seasick. Since leaving the dig site at seven that morning, she had been on one road or another for over sixteen hours. She was tired. Her head ached. She was thirsty from the lobster, and her mouth tasted sour. She prayed Kleat had grabbed her toiletries kit when he’d gone to the hotel. She was going to want a toothbrush, a T-shirt, and a tent, in that order.
The moon came and went. Molly found herself nodding off in short bursts.
A hand slapped the top of her seat. Molly started.
“It’s coming,” Luke said. “Tell him.”
“We’re there?” She peered out the window. “How can you see anything?”
“Are you going to tell him or not?” Luke reached over the front seat and stabbed at Vin’s ribs. It hurt, Molly could tell. Vin bared his gold teeth and stepped on the brakes. A swirl of dust enveloped them.
“Did I say stop?” said Luke. “Go off up there.”
“Sit back,” Duncan said to him.
Luke’s arm withdrew. The backseat creaked under his weight. Vin gripped the steering wheel, angry at being prodded. At last he flipped on his one good headlight.
There was only the red dirt of the highway and high, green grasses. The grass enclosed them. Slowly Molly made out a dark mass in the distance, the sloping hip of a mountain, or an upward march of trees. In either case, nothing but wilderness.
“We keep going,” said Luke.
“Going where?” said Duncan.
The truck arrived behind them in the moonlight. It approached with the immensity of a shipwreck, its tattered canopy flailing like a torn sail. Bald car tires wired to the prow served as a bumper.
Vin went on sucking his golden front teeth, making up his own mind.
A fingernail tapped at her window. Molly cranked the handle, and her reflection became Kleat. “Lost?” he said.
Samnang’s round face appeared behind Kleat, a creased brown melon with white hair.
“There’s a road,” said Luke. “It goes through the grass.”
“An invisible road,” scoffed Duncan.
“What are you saying?” Kleat asked.
“Turn around now,” said Duncan, “we can be back in Phnom Penh for breakfast.”
“Turn around?” said Molly.
“Look for yourself, there’s nothing out there.” He wiped his hand across the map.
Luke didn’t argue. He had switched off, tuned out. It was their decision.
Kleat fumed. “If it was in plain sight, they would have been found already. Sometimes you have to dig a little further, that’s all.”
Molly didn’t see Samnang slide away. He simply appeared in the light beam, moving up the road, hitching his false leg ahead. One by one they all quit talking.
His shadow reached in front of him, long black lines like puppet strings tied to each limb. He followed the edge of the highway, peering into the overgrown ditch. Fifty yards ahead he stopped and began parting the grasses.
Everyone got out and went up the road, all except Luke. He sat in the car, knowing whatever he knew.
Samnang was working deeper into the tall grasses, feeling along with his one good foot. “A track for oxcarts,” he announced to them. “It hasn’t been used for many years.”
The three brothers descended from the highway and joined Samnang, chattering away, eager to continue. They wanted a week of wages, not taxi fare for a night ride. They churned through the grass, trampling it flat and tying bunches at their tops as landmarks.
Abruptly the night detonated around them. A clamor filled the air. It sizzled and crackled like wild voltage, loud, almost tangible.
The suddenness and volume startled Molly. She whirled around, searching for a source, but the noise pressed
