sure he can look Miaow in the eyes. What he has seen is such a horrific violation of the most basic human trust that all adults should be ashamed.
Some people deserve to die, Rose had said. What blight destroyed Claus Ulrich so completely? Did he grow around something vile and alien, like a knot in a tree? Clarissa, Rafferty thinks, with a sudden surge of nausea. Clarissa's loving Uncle Claus. He leans forward to rest his face in his hands, trying to rub away the images he has just seen and the image of Clarissa's face.
He knows the popular Western psychology: Everybody is a cloud of inner children and warring adults. Rafferty has met sadistic policemen who loved their kids, corrupt lawyers who took care of their aging parents. He has come to expect the beast beneath the skin and to respect those who keep it under control. Rose had talked about karma, about people whose reality was stripped from them by some tremendous event, cutting them adrift like ghosts, forcing them to seek their reality in sensation.
No matter how you explain it, Rafferty has never met anyone whose character was as deeply fractured as Claus Ulrich's.
Had he taken care of Clarissa as penance? Was it his way of proving to himself that he was still human? Was Clarissa the one thing that allowed him to sleep at night, the thing that prevented him from putting the gun into his mouth? Or did he not even connect the two? Was his spirit so completely sundered that he felt nothing but sexual excitement when he was brutalizing those children, nothing but greed when he was selling the pictures, nothing but love when he was with Clarissa?
The reason for the multiple entry stamps for Cambodia and Laos in Uncle Claus's passport is now clear: He was hunting children.
And the way the apartment is furnished suddenly makes sense: all that ornate clutter, all that distraction, all those things competing for attention. No clear vistas. Put Claus Ulrich in a bare Japanese room and he would probably have cut his stomach open.
Judging from the occasional date stamps, the missing disks, 500–599, 700–799, and 800–899, contained pictures that were taken eighteen to twenty years ago, during a two-and-a-half-year period when Uncle Claus had been especially active. The most recent photo in the 500 series had been dated 1986, and the earliest dated shots in the 800 series had been taken in January of 1989. The 900 series ended in April of that year.
Rafferty is certain he knows why those three disks were not in the apartment.
It gives him no pleasure to have solved the puzzle. He feels as if he weighs five thousand pounds. He knows that the hours he spent in front of that screen have changed him for the worse, and he hates Claus Ulrich for it as much as he has ever hated anybody in his life.
Empty, bleak, overdressed, and exhausted, he slumps onto the couch to wait for Miaow. The gun feels cold near his heart. For the first time in years, he wishes he knew how to pray.
Hank Morrison's refuge for Bangkok's discarded children occupies a half block of baking pavement surrounded by dirty chain-link. In the center of the pavement, two knots of kids collide noisily in the shade of a squat concrete building that has been painted a squint-inducing shade of buttercup yellow. Oversize Disney characters decorate the walls. As he half drags a reluctant Miaow across the asphalt, Rafferty notes that there are three pictures of Goofy.
Morrison is a tall, slender man with theatrically steel gray hair and sky blue eyes, surrounded by the kind of creases that always identify actors as pilots in the movies. He has a rigid military bearing that may be due to a bad back; he bends stiffly to extend his hand to Miaow.
'And this is Miaow,' he says. To his credit, he doesn't slow down and overact the words, as many adults do when they first address a child. If he is surprised at the glare he gets in return, he doesn't show it.
'Why don't you guys sit down?' Morrison goes behind a beat-up desk and hauls out his chair to make things a little less intimidating. Miaow and Rafferty claim territory on a narrow orange couch made of vinyl. Miaow sits rigidly, her spine at a perfect ninety degrees, but Rafferty leans back to demonstrate how relaxed he is and feels his sweat-soaked sport coat squish beneath his weight.
'This isn't going to take long,' Morrison says. He is speaking Thai for Miaow's benefit. He smiles at her again. 'And it isn't going to hurt a bit.'
Miaow gives a short sniff.
Morrison bends forward. 'Are you unhappy to be here, Miaow?' His Thai is accented but serviceable, much better than Rafferty's.
'Not talk,' Miaow says in English. Her words land on the floor between them like stones.
'We're going to have to talk a little,' Morrison says, still speaking Thai. 'That's what we're here for.'
'Talk no good,' Miaow says, sticking to English. Rafferty looks at her, puzzled. It is the kind of pidgin she spoke eight months ago. She's moved far beyond it now.
'You don't have anything to be afraid of,' Morrison says. 'All we want to do is fix things so you can stay with Poke until you grow up. You want that, don't you?'
Miaow doesn't speak. Rafferty is looking at her, but he can feel Morrison's eyes dart to him. He returns the man's gaze and gives a tiny shrug.
'The two of you have discussed this, haven't you?' Morrison asks.
'Sure. She's just nervous about what you're going to ask her.'
'Is that it, Miaow? Are you worried about what I'm going to ask you?'
'Talk about Poke okay,' Miaow says in the same stubborn pidgin. 'Talk before Poke no good.'
'Her English-' Rafferty begins, but Morrison warns him off with a look.
'That's fine, then. Let's talk about Poke. Do you like living with Poke, Miaow?'
She chews her lower lip, folds and unfolds her hands, and squirms on the hard couch. After what seems like an eternity, she nods.
'And, Poke, do you like having Miaow live with you?'
'I love Miaow,' Rafferty says.
'Do you think Miaow loves you?'
'I hope so. But she'd have to tell you that.'
Morrison looks at Miaow expectantly. Miaow opens her mouth and closes it again. Then, moving stiffly, she reaches over and puts her hand in Rafferty's. She turns her head and regards him soberly. Something inside Rafferty shivers and then dissolves.
Morrison sits back in his chair with a suppressed sigh. He crosses his legs and relaxes. 'Tell me about Poke's apartment, Miaow.'
Miaow looks surprised at the question. She closes her eyes for a moment as though she is searching it for a trap. 'High,' she says at last.
'Really.' Morrison sounds impressed. 'How high?'
'Eight floors.' She raises her right hand as high as it will go and keeps it there. 'Eight floors above the street. No dirt.'
'Well, well. How many rooms?'
Miaow's eyes go to the wall as she visualizes it. 'Four.'
'Let me guess,' Morrison says, beginning to count on his fingers. 'You have a living room, and a kitchen, and Poke's bedroom, and-and-'
'My bedroom,' Miaow says. 'I have one room for me.'
'You're a lucky girl. Lots of kids don't have their own room.'
'Lots of kids don't have a house,' Miaow says severely. Rafferty begins to relax. 'We have a bathroom, too. Our own bathroom. It has hot water. We can use it and Rose can use it, but nobody else gets to use it, no matter how bad they have to go, unless we say they can.'
'Would you let me use it?' Morrison asks.
'If you said please.' She adjusts herself on the couch. 'Then, maybe.'
'Who is Rose?'
For a moment Miaow looks confused, as though it is impossible that there should be someone who doesn't know Rose. Then she says, 'Poke's girlfriend.' She looks up at Poke and says, 'Same-same mama for me.' Rafferty involuntarily says, 'Ohh,' and wishes Rose had heard her.
Morrison pulls his chair a few inches closer. 'Tell me one thing you like about Poke.'
