They communicated by hand signals then opened the door and went in together, one high one low, with guns drawn as they had been taught. The room was empty. There was the Blackberry with its signal that had led them to the house and an open book lying face down on the bedside table and there were clothes strewn on the floor but no Carl. The Cat and The Rat sat on the bed, guns casually on their laps but pointed at the door, and evaluated their situation.
“Do you think he’s in the garden?” the Cat asked the Rat.
“We would have seen or heard him.”
“What do you think is going on?” the Cat asked.
“Who knows what these farangs do?”
“Let’s get out of here and kill him on the street tomorrow when he goes out.”
“Do we have enough stuff for a stakeout?”
“I have six pills.”
“OK. Then we will kill him tomorrow in daylight. Maybe the ghosts are protecting him here and that is why we can’t see him.”
“That is probably it. Only a stupid farang would live in a haunted house.”
Under their dark green military combat jackets and T-shirts they were both covered in the religious black ink tattoos that they believed protected them from all of the dangers of their chosen profession, the most important two of which were ghosts and bullets. The tattoos ran from their waists to their necks both front and back and had taken years of enduring pain from hand-tapped needles to complete. Their protective tattoos were the reason they had reluctantly agreed to enter the haunted house that had been made famous on television.
They slowly retraced their steps back down through the house and across the lawn to the orchard. They sat for a while and watched the house for any movement but there wasn’t any so they made their way through the orchard and climbed back over the gate.
“Where’re the pills?” the Rat asked. “I hate ghosts.”
“In the bike. I’ll get one for you.”
The Cat went to the bushes where they had stashed the bike and Carl walked out from the dense foliage and shot him in the chest. Carl kept walking forward firing at the Rat. He knew he wasn’t a great shot so he made sure he got closer every time he fired. He saw two out of three bullets hit him in the middle of his body and saw him drop like a stone. When he turned around he saw that the Cat was still alive, breathing bubbling red foam but trying to stand up. He walked back to where the Cat was trying to use the bike to pull himself up from the ground.
“Who are you? They said you were an ordinary person. How come you shot us?”
Carl put the gun to his head and said, “I’m very ordinary until people start killing my friends.” Then he shot him with his last bullet, point blank, and saw the brains vomited out of the back of his head.
Carl had spent the late evening digging a hole in the far corner of the orchard by the beam from a torch. It was back-breaking work and he hurt all over from it. He opened the gate and dragged the bodies one at a time and dumped them in the hole. Then he went and got the torch that he had placed on the ground behind their motorcycle, where he had been waiting for them to give up the hunt and do what was inevitable and return to their means of transportation. He closed the gate and walked back to the corner of the orchard and buried them by torchlight. Two hours later he patted down the earth and carried the shovel back to the house. He needed a drink badly but for a change the drink he craved was water.
He sat under the deck watching the swans and the fireflies and drank a litter of cold water straight from the bottle. The gun was on the round marble table beside him and he picked it up and threw it in the pond, much to the disapproval of the two swans. He had no more bullets and so the pistol was of no further use to him. The colonel had said it was untraceable so it would make no difference if it was found one day and linked to the bodies in the grave in the corner of the orchard.
Carl was counting on the bodies not being found for a long time, putting distance between him and his brief stay at the house. George had used an alias so given time they would not link a Hollywood film crew to the time of the shooting of two known assassins and there would be no way of putting Carl or George in the area. They probably wouldn’t try, as it would offend them to believe mere foreigners had killed such notorious assassins.
He closed up the house for the night and took a shower and went to bed. He was totally exhausted. He had had a very long day. As he was going to sleep he thought to himself that it was a good thing he was moving out the next day. It wasn’t that he hadn’t fallen in love with the place; he had. It was that it had suddenly occurred to him that if there weren’t any ghosts before there sure as hell were now!
Chapter 26
It was already noon when Carl heard the car coming up the dirt driveway. He had slept seven hours and was still in bed. He had been so sound asleep that even Pretty Boy Floyd had been unable to wake him in spite of giving it his best vocal effort to date. Carl rallied his aching body and went out to the deck. The clear blue sky and bright sun alleviated some of his aches and pains. It looked like it was a very nice day.
A few minutes later George came and sat at the table. He seemed excited.
“What’s up George?”
“Boonchoo went to the court building like you asked him to. This morning was his second day there. As you told him to expect, there were arguments over the application for a search warrant on the Phetchburi Road address. The drug squad boys were in and out of the court since yesterday afternoon. There were strange people sitting around since early this morning. They called someone on their phone and told them what was happening. Boonchoo said they must’ve been talking to someone very important. Lots of grovelling was taking place from what he could hear.”
“Good.”
“What does it mean?” George asked.
“It means they’ll be circling the wagons and so you have to tell the owner of the house that Hollywood is not interested at present. We are leaving today. I’m going to miss this place.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s time to end this. Everything should be ready and there is work to be done. I assume everybody showed up and did what was asked?”
“They did.”
“How were Damien’s Finns?”
“Speaking techno babble in three languages as usual.”
“You paid them well?”
“Just like you told me to. It may not have been necessary; they are still grateful for what you did for them with their visa problem at immigration.”
“It is always important to pay people well.”
“Maybe that’s why you are always broke.”
“And Damien doesn’t know what they are doing?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Not that it would make much difference,” Carl said. “Better for him if he doesn’t know.”
“They’re professionals and have IQs through the roof. They said they could meet your time requirements and I saw no reason to doubt them. They said to tell you not to worry, they won’t let you down.”
“That’s good. Then we need to pack up and leave. We’ll wipe the house down for fingerprints before we go.”
“Is that necessary?” George asked.
“You can never be too careful,” Carl told him and went to the bedroom to pack his belongings back into their shopping bags. He wasn’t going to tell George about his revenge on the two assassins. The trick to getting away with murder is not telling anybody.
They left the house late that afternoon. Carl watched through the rear window of the car until he couldn’t see the Thai roof any more. After a while the car left the rough laterite and they were driving on smoother asphalt. The car was making good time towards Bangkok. When they reached the early evening traffic on the outskirts of the city
