The fourth watcher

his hand, and he puts it on the crate, beside the others. “And what good would it do?” For a moment his body goes loose, his face slack. “The girl,” he says, as though to himself. He turns to Pradya. “Get back there. Do whatever you have to do. I don’t care if you have to shoot people. Bring me that girl. And you,” he says to the one with the broken tooth. “Move these people. I want them out of here in an hour.”

PART IV

MILLION-DOLLAR MINUTE

38

We’ve Got People to Kill

The mask is clear plastic, more terrible because it hides nothing. It cups Arthit’s nose, his slack mouth, and his chin. A transparent tube runs into it, supplying oxygen; one of

the medical technicians had carefully stubbed out his cigarette before turning the valve on the tank he had wheeled up behind him. The banging of the tank against the stairs is the first sound Rafferty can remember since the shot from Ming Li’s gun that put the Korean down. The ten or twelve minutes between the time he saw Arthit sprawled on the hallway floor and the bumpy progress of the tank up the stairs seem to have passed in complete silence.

Rafferty, collapsed heavily on the couch, can’t look at Arthit’s paper-white face, can’t look at the mask. A pink froth of blood speckles the inner surface. It looks like Arthit chewed a pencil eraser and spit it out.

“The lung,” says the medical tech who is holding the mask in place. He lifts one of Arthit’s eyelids, peers under it, and lets it drop. “The bullet hit the lung. Probably took a bounce off a rib. No exit wound, so it’s still in there somewhere. Maybe a.22, not enough velocity for a pass-through.”

To Rafferty it seems that the tech is speaking very slowly. Everything that is happening in the tight knot of people gathered around Arthit seems to take an excruciatingly long time. He lowers his eyes again until he is looking at the suitcase between his knees. The suitcase is safe to look at.

From Rafferty’s left, the older cop, Kosit, says, “It’s a.22.” Kosit has the Korean’s gun wrapped in a handkerchief.

Rafferty knows he has to get up, knows he and Ming Li and Leung have to get out of there, but he can’t make himself move. Arthit going down; Arthit hitting the floor; the blood on Arthit’s shirt. .

“What about him?” asks the other tech, thumbing the Korean, trussed and bleeding on the floor in front of the couch.

“Fuck him,” says the first tech. “Let the second team-”

“Blood pressure dropping,” says the second tech. His voice is tight.

“Up and out,” the first tech says. “Now.” The two techs and their helpers lift the stretcher and carry it down the hall, moving fast. Rafferty hears their feet on the stairs, synchronized with the flashes of red on the ceiling, thrown by the lights on the ambulance below.

He feels the young cop’s eyes on him. “I saw what you did,” the young cop says. “I saw you take the money.”

“I did. . I did what Arthit would have done,” Rafferty says. In fact, he can barely remember his frenzied rush through the apartment, fueled by sheer terror at the thought of Arthit’s dying. He couldn’t help Arthit, but he had to do something. What he recalls is a blur of motion, punctuated by full-stop images: a closet filled waist-high with neatly stacked brand-new counterfeit bills, a canvas bag stuffed with loose money, dirty and well handled, a big hard-sided suitcase under the bed. He and Leung jamming money into the suitcase, Leung grabbing the canvas bag. But now that energy is gone. Now there’s nothing except the apartment, the sound of the men rushing downstairs, and the weight of his own body. He can’t lift his head to meet the cop’s stare. He remains focused on the suitcase and, beyond it, the bare feet of the wounded Korean. If he raises his eyes, he’ll see the broad smears of blood on the front of Ming Li’s white blouse, as though someone had wiped a paintbrush across it.

Arthit’s blood.

“You can’t just steal-” the young cop begins.

Kosit says, “Stop it. Just shut up.”

“You saw us together,” Rafferty says to the younger cop. He can barely form the words. “We’re friends. We did this together. I did what he would have wanted me to do.”

“It’s true,” Kosit says. “Arthit talked about him all the time. They were friends.”

“We are friends,” Rafferty says sharply. “He’s not dead.”

No one replies. Kosit studies the floor.

“Oh, dear sweet God,” Rafferty hears himself say.

“We have to go,” Leung says from the window. “More cops will be coming.”

“Coming?” Kosit says. “They should be here by now.”

Rafferty says, to no one in particular, “I’m not sure I can stand up.”

“Yes you can.” Ming Li is standing in front of him, although he isn’t aware of her having crossed the room. “You have to.”

“What you have to do is get out of here,” Kosit says. “You’re just going to make things more complicated. Arthit is the only one who can explain why you were here in the first place. Not to mention why you’re with a couple of Chinese.” He goes to the doorway and looks down the hall. “If my colleagues find you here, they’ll take you all in. I’m not sure even Arthit could get you out of it. Even if Arthit. .” The words hang unfinished.

“Listen to him, Poke,” Ming Li says. “If they arrest you, if you’re not there to meet Chu at five-thirty, your wife and daughter will die. I promise you. He’ll kill them.”

Kosit turns back to the room. “Whatever this is about, get moving. And use the back door. We called in more than ten minutes ago. They’ll be here any second.” He fumbles in his pocket and comes out with a card, which he extends to Leung. “Give this to him. It’s got my name and number. You,” he says to Rafferty. “Wake up. Do what you’re supposed to do. You can call me later about Arthit, about how he’s doing.”

“Poke,” Ming Li says. She bends down, bringing her face to his. He feels the warmth of her breath. “One thing at a time, remember? Right now we need to go. The only thing that matters is getting out of here.

You can’t help Arthit now.” He feels her hands on his arm, feels the strength flowing from them, and somehow he finds himself on his feet. Leung has come from nowhere to grasp his other arm, and Rafferty hears a grunt as Leung lifts the suitcase with his free hand. Ming Li has picked up the canvas bag. Propelled between them, Rafferty sees the straight lines of the door grow nearer, as though the wall were coming toward him in some amusement-park mystery house, and then the hallway slides past and he is on the stairs, the world tilting downward. Leung moves in front of him to catch him if he falls.

Outside, car doors closing, men’s voices.

“Faster,” Ming Li says, and then they’re through the back door.

Rain slaps Rafferty in the face. His eyes sting.

Two steps lead down to a small garden: broad-leaved palms whipping around in the wind, tall ferns blown almost flat against the ground, black water standing a few inches deep. In one corner the spirit house, made of rough wood, has toppled over. The garden ends in a low, unpainted wooden gate, and beyond and above it there’s a streetlight, a yellow flame in a halo of rain.

“Don’t move,” Leung says. He drops the suitcase in front of them and goes through the gate without a backward glance. The gate squeals open into a narrow alley and then is blown shut. In seconds, Leung is invisible, a shadow wrapped in rain.

“Are you here, Poke?” Ming Li asks. Her hair clings to her face in long tendrils. “We need you to be here.”