Mr. and Mrs. Old MacDonald studied the card as if it were the fine print of a real estate contract, nodded eagerly, and then followed the Asian boy.
The street was packed, waves of people heading in both directions. There were other neon signs too. Some in English, some written in characters Michael did not understand. They were not, he knew, Chinese or Japanese. Not Hebrew or Arabic either. No cars were on the road, but he could hear them close by. On his right, he saw tables set up with watches, shirts, pants, sweaters, cassettes, everything. “Three dollars for LaCoste shirt,” one vendor cried. Another shouted, “One dollar for favorite cassette. Six for five dollars. All favorites of you. George Michael. U2. Barbra Streisand. You name, we have.”
The door behind him opened. “Well, well, we’re awake.”
Michael slid back to the floor. The man in the doorway was large and stocky. He appeared to be very muscular, though not as disproportionate as most weight lifters. His hair was slicked back like Pat Riley’s, the former Lakers coach, and his suit looked like something off the cover of
“Welcome, Michael,” the man began. “My name is George. Did you read my note?”
Michael nodded.
“It was for your own good,” George continued. “Escape would be very dangerous. You see, I have already killed a lot of people. Killing your wife would just be one more.”
Michael struggled, but the chains held him in place.
“Now, just relax a second, Michael.” George knew a lot about the art of intimidation. Threatening a man’s wife was one of his favorite tactics. It was connected to the whole possession thing, he guessed, and nothing demoralized a man more than the thought that his wife was balling another guy — by force or otherwise.
George grabbed the chair from the corner, sat down, and leaned toward his captive. “You look confused, Michael, so let me explain to you what’s going on.” His voice was relaxed, casual. A casual voice, George knew, was often more unnerving than the loudest of screams. “We are in Bangkok. That’s right, we are in the Far East, just you and me, pal. In fact, this building is on Patpong Street, the red-light district. Twelve-year-old whores suck off guys in this very room all the time, Michael, isn’t that sick? Twelve years old and already they’re hustling. A real shame.”
George shook his head solemnly. “I tell you, the world is falling apart before our very eyes and nobody cares. Fact is, we’re standing over a topless bar right now — bottomless too if you pay the right price.”
George laughed maniacally at his joke. Michael stared back in horror.
“Don’t get so upset, Mike. Can I call you Mike? Good. Maybe later we’ll have time to see the sights. The Reclining Buddha is a must-see in my opinion. Same with the Grand Palace. Maybe we’ll even take a little boat trip through the floating market. Would you like that?”
Michael just continued to stare.
“But first, let’s talk business. If you do what I say, no one will be hurt and you will be free very soon. We might even have some fun. If, however, you do not cooperate, my reaction will be swift and painful.” George smiled again. “Let me give you an example.”
Without warning, George’s hand shot out. It moved so fast it was barely a blur. His knuckles landed on Michael’s nose. Michael heard a crunching, squelching noise and he knew that his nose had been broken. Blood trickled out of his nostrils.
“You see what I’m saying?”
The pain engulfed Michael’s entire face. Since his mouth was still covered with the tape, he had no choice but to breathe through his broken nose.
“Now let me tell you something else,” George continued. “I have things to do, so I can’t sit here and watch you all day. Besides, it’s too hot in here. Bangkok is always so humid, Michael, but you get used to it after a day or two. The thing is, my employer told me to make you as comfortable as possible. So I would like to loosen some of those chains and take the tape off your mouth. But I need your promise you won’t try anything. Do you promise, Mike?”
Michael nodded.
“Good. If you leave this room or do something cute, my men will spot you, and Sara will suffer. I am good at making people suffer. And Sara is such a delicate little flower, Michael. You wouldn’t want me to attach electric cables to her clit, would you? Juice her up good and then let my boys take turns with her?”
Michael quickly shook his head.
“I’m also pretty handy with explosives. If the police did by some miracle find you and decide to try a rescue”—he paused, smiled, and nodded toward the sticks of dynamite by the door—“ka-boom! Michael all gone. Blood, limbs, screams — very messy stuff. Follow me?”
Another nod.
“I’m going to take the tape off your mouth now. If you scream, I’ll break your jaw. No one will pay attention anyway. People are always screaming on this street.” George reached out and ripped off the tape.
Michael caught his breath. With some effort he worked his vocal cords. “What do you want?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll pay you anything you want.”
“Forget it, Michael.”
Michael managed to sit upright. “Can you take off the handcuffs?” he asked. “They’re killing my shoulders.”
“Sure, but the ankle chain stays on.” George used a small key to unlock the handcuffs. They opened with a click. “Better?”
Michael nodded. He rubbed his wrists, eyeing George in the process. His head still swam; his vision still blurred. George sat no more than a yard away.
Later, Michael would claim that pure fear clouded his brain and distorted his rational thinking. It was the only explanation for what he did next.
With something approaching horror, Michael realized that his fingers were forming a fist. His eyes watched helplessly while he cocked the fist and launched it toward George’s face.
The punch moved at a pitifully slow pace. The drugs George had pumped into Michael’s body continued to extract a heavy toll on his physical prowess. George’s right forearm knocked the blow to the side with a casual wave.
“You are a brave man, Michael Silverman,” George said. “You are also very foolish.”
George’s hand reached out and took hold of Michael’s broken nose between his thumb and index finger. Michael screamed.
Then George twisted.
Tiny fragmented bones began to grate against one another, making a horrid grinding noise like someone was tap-dancing on a thousand beetles. George increased the pressure. Tendons and tissue ripped. Blood sprayed in different directions. Michael’s eyes widened and then closed, his body falling slack.
“Try something like that again,” George said, “and it will be Sara who pays the price. Understand?”
Michael could barely nod before he passed out.
Cassandra looked at her sister. Sara’s bright green eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into her skull. Dark circles surrounded them. The beaming look of life had been replaced by a bleak look of incomprehension and shock. Three days had passed since she had been knocked unconscious in Michael’s room — three days of depression, sadness, fear, and confusion. But now it was as though those emotions had hardened into something more concrete. During the last three days Sara’s hurt had transformed itself into something more powerful, something more… useful.
Anger. No, rage.
“Hiya, baby sis.”
Cassandra’s smile was broad, too broad. It looked fake and Sara knew it.
“What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?”
