A Nail Through the Heart (27 page)

“Oh, good,” Rose says sweetly. “We can send you someone you already know. You won’t even have to learn her name.”

“Rose, our Cambodian guest is gone. You can come home.”

“Hmmm. That means the bed is free?”

He is up and pacing, feeling better than he has all day. “Why not come right now? We’d have the place to ourselves.”

“I’d love to.” She lowers her voice. “You have no idea how much
I’d love to.” Back at a normal volume, she says, “We’re meeting with a designer about the new letterhead and business cards, and then I’ve got two interviews to supervise.”

“The demands of success,” Rafferty says.

“A good businessperson puts business first.”

“I guess she does.”

“A good businessperson also pays her debts,” Rose says. “And, of course, the interest. Have
you
got a payment coming.”

He finds himself grinning at the phone. “I’ll change the sheets.”

“Hardly seems worth it.” Rose lowers her voice again. “We’ll probably have to throw them away when we’re done.”

W
ith nothing to do and a recently emptied stomach, Rafferty discovers he is ravenous. He hasn’t eaten since the breakfast with Chut and Nick. By now, he thinks, they should have some buyers lined up.

He kills ninety minutes at a restaurant called Banana House, eating as much chili as the waitresses dare to serve a foreigner, since all Thais secretly believe that
farang
live on mayonnaise and warm milk. He sits back in the chair, burps fire, and thinks about the past few days.

Chouk is in jail, partially provided for. Action is being taken to close Madame Wing’s long-overdue account. Clarissa Ulrich is poised for her heartsick flight home. Rose is designing the graphics for her new business. Hank Morrison is knee-deep in adoptive parents. Miaow is at school until three.

Doughnut is making a life, he supposes, either selling flowers or not. Whatever it is, he hopes it will be less interesting than the one she has had so far.

On his way out of the restaurant, Rafferty finds himself at a complete loss. The day stretches in front of him, hot and featureless as the Gobi, although he’s never seen the Gobi. He’s pretty sure it’s hot and featureless, though, and if it’s not, it must be a miserable excuse for a desert.

Well, the boy might be back by now.

It takes him just twenty minutes, a world record, to get home. With no need for hurry, the Bangkok traffic moves like lightning. He nods out in the back of the
tuk-tuk
and revises his plans as it lurches to a stop at the curb. He’ll sleep until the end of the world, or maybe a little longer.

His sleepiness vanishes at the sight of his apartment door. It is wide open.

The boy, he thinks, the boy doesn’t like air-conditioning. But even from the hall, he can see that something—everything—is wrong. He has the gun in his hand as he goes in.

The first thing he registers is the long slash in the couch, the stuffing exploding from it onto the floor like the cotton snow in the Christmas windows of Bangkok department stores. Yellow streaks across the wall announce the places where raw eggs shattered against it. The coffee table is on its side with one leg snapped off. The carpet where the boy likes to sit has been sliced and torn to expose the gray concrete beneath.

Why can’t the world be soft?

The boy.

Rafferty runs down the hallway to Miaow’s room and throws open the door. No one there, everything where it should be. The bunk beds are made. The pink T-shirt she gave him is the only thing out of place, wadded tightly on the floor. He picks it up, and it flutters to the carpet in pieces. It has been cut into ribbons.

And suddenly he
knows,
and his stomach shrivels until it is the size of a walnut and heavy as an anvil. He hurtles back through the hall, into the living room, and stops, his heart plummeting. The laptop is open, its screen bright and terrible.

The boy,
he thinks.
He was going to play Tetris.
And then Rafferty
realizes that he e-mailed Morrison, got up, and left the disk in the computer.

He hurries into the bathroom and, for the second time that day, he throws up.

HE NEEDS SEVERAL
frantic minutes to find the telephone number. He has had it for months on a pad next to the phone on the chance he might need it, but nothing is where it should be, and in his panic he picks the pad up and throws it aside and then chases it across the room, kicking things in front of him.

The boy glares at him from the computer screen on his desk. His hands are cuffed behind him, his feet separated by a pole like the ones that forced Doughnut’s ankles apart. His eyes are wide and dry, glittering through his tangle of hair: Even then he had refused to weep.

That picture, on this screen, in this room. That disk in the computer. The boy’s last chance to trust, and he finds that evil here.

I should have known. I should have known.
The disk is on the floor, warped and blackened, partially torched with, Rafferty guesses, a disposable butane lighter, one of the dozens Rose has left behind. He dials the number on the pad and waits, swearing at each ring. The battery on the computer dies, and the screen goes black. A small mercy.

“Hello?” says a male voice on the other end, and Rafferty waits for a moment, struck dumb at the possibility he is making a disastrous mistake. If he talks to Miaow, she’ll know something is wrong, and she’ll demand to know what it is. He can’t explain yet, doesn’t know how to frame it, especially at this stage in their relationship.
Adoption,
for Christ’s sake.

“Hello?”

On the other hand, if he doesn’t say something, the boy will go get her. He will want to rescue her. From Rafferty, from what he thinks Rafferty is. It can’t be risked. Whatever happens, Rafferty has to talk to her before the boy does.

It takes him less than two minutes to get through to the person he
needs to talk to and make the arrangements: Miaow is to be kept there after school for an hour, or two if necessary, released to no one but him under any circumstances. She is not to be allowed on the playground. If she wants to know why, she is to be told he will explain it to her later.

When he’s had time to think of something. After he’s made things right with Superman.

He pulls the computer off the desk, yanking out the power cord, and throws it across the room.

As he runs onto the Silom sidewalk, all he can think is,
At least I probably know where the boy is.

HE SEES HIM
instantly.

The boy stands with his back to the street, pressed up against the chain-link fence that surrounds the school, watching the playground. He is once again all in blue—in the first clothes Rafferty bought him. Two very dirty smaller boys flank him, keeping lookout. Despite the tinted windows of his taxi, darkened against the heat of the day, it is all Rafferty can do to keep from shrinking out of sight.

Twenty or thirty feet away, a group of kids play with typical childlike violence, doing their level best to blind and maim each other, apparently immune to the noon heat. Miaow is not among them.

“Around the block,” Rafferty says.

“Okay.” The cab swings right, narrowly avoiding an oncoming van, and shoots up the street, hugging the middle to bypass the traffic in the lane nearest the curb. Cars and pedestrians scatter.

“Slower.” Rafferty is studying the side of the school, which takes up much of the block. No sign of Miaow. No other boys loitering, waiting for something to happen.

“All the way around?” They are at the corner.

“All the way.” A stretch of shop fronts intervenes, the sidewalks crowded with pedestrians. A few children, none of them Miaow.
Be inside, be safe,
he wills silently.

As they make the next right, Rafferty hands a wad of bills over the
front seat. “Back to where we saw those three kids. Slow down, but don’t stop. I’ll get out while you’re moving.”

“Up to you. You have insurance?”

“There’s no such thing as insurance.”

The driver makes the last right, and Rafferty jumps out of the cab at a run. He is no more than ten yards from Superman when one of the smaller boys spots him and yells, and Superman glances over his shoulder and takes off, the other boys scattering in his slipstream. They head in different directions, apparently a standard drill, but Rafferty stays behind Superman, watches the long hair flowing in the sun as the boy lopes down the sidewalk, easily, effortlessly out-pacing him.

He wills his legs to pump faster, feeling Doughnut’s cigarettes clawing at his throat. Chain-link blurs past. Superman takes the right that Rafferty’s cab took, glancing back, running straight into the traffic. Rafferty follows, already gasping with the effort, as cars swerve to avoid him, their brakes a high screech like a diamond on glass.

A
soi
opens up on the left, and Superman streaks into it, lengthening his stride as though shifting gears, and Rafferty knows he will never catch the boy. He thinks for a despairing instant about giving up, but the boy leaps onto the curb and catches his foot, staggering for a moment, and Rafferty closes the gap by a few yards before the running boy gets his feet under him again. A shot of hope courses through Rafferty’s veins, red and hot. He finds speed he didn’t know he had.

Then he has to negotiate the curb himself, and he looks down to keep from stumbling, and when he looks up, the boy is gone.

He slows, irresolute, scanning the street. Two turned heads, adults, form a kind of wake that tells him which direction the boy took, and for the second time in a few days, Rafferty runs into an underground garage.

And thinks instantly,
This is a mistake.

He hears feet scuffing behind him, five or six people by the sound of it, and he runs farther into the gloom of the garage, putting distance between him and them, trying to see Superman. The light coming
through the door behind him dims and then brightens again, and he looks over his shoulder to see eight or ten children, none of them any older than Superman, crowding through it and separating into two groups. There are already four others, the first feet he heard, circling off to his right. He thinks,
Coyotes.

“Boo!”

No answer, but something strikes his shoulder, sharp as a knife, and a stone clatters onto the concrete at his feet. Another missile whistles past his head, a chunk of cement as big as a child’s fist, and bangs into the door of a car. Then an impact on his right elbow, and his arm goes numb. More cement.

He calls the boy’s name again. Knowing it will do no good, knowing the boy will not answer. Knowing he has to get out of the garage. He turns to see more than a dozen of them, all small, between him and the door. Individually they would be harmless. He starts toward them, thinking he can break through the line, and they charge.

They swarm over him, a storm of hands and feet, knees and elbows, climbing him, hitting him high and low, taking him to his knees. A small hand comes up with a stone in it and slams it down across his cheekbone with an impact that ignites a sudden flare of red light, blossoming and vanishing like a pound of flash paper. For a blind moment, he sees nothing, feels the hands tearing at him, feels the bright radiating pain of a bite on his upper arm, and then something hammers his shoulder, high up, where the muscle is still sore from the fight in the
soi,
and he manages somehow to get a leg under him. Nails rake his face, aiming for the eyes. Kicks rain on his ankles and shins. He tries with all his strength to shake the children off, a bear besieged by a pack of dogs, and the back of a hand swipes his mouth and skids off wet skin. He is bleeding.

Fierce gasps as they jockey for position, the smell of dirt and sweat, kicks and blows drumming on his back and thighs, a hand grabbing at his hair. Another stone, in the small of the back this time, just missing the spine, and Rafferty strikes out for the first time with all the force he can command and connects with something solid, hears the high cry of a child, and his assailants retreat just enough to give him room.
He gets his numbed hand down to his waist and brings it up with the automatic in it. He knows he cannot use it, and he hopes they don’t know it, too.

He is on his knees. The children take a step away, ringing him, two deep. He can hear their panting, smell their breath. Their eyes are on the gun, but he cannot cover them all at once even if he could bring himself to fire, and again something slams into his back, savagely enough to knock the breath out of him. Then again, in a different place, but still only inches from the spine.

A shouted word, and the blows stop. He turns slowly, keeping the gun close and low, and sees Superman emerging from between two cars. The boy walks toward them deliberately, his eyes narrow, fixed on Rafferty’s. Rafferty tries to say something and fails.

The children part to let Superman through. He looks down at Rafferty, who is still kneeling, and extends a hand. There is only one thing Rafferty can do to demonstrate faith.

He hands the boy the gun.

Superman hefts it, as though considering its weight.

“Let me explain,” Rafferty says. A rock grazes his ear, and then there are children climbing his back, beating at him, and he goes down beneath them. The world is a concrete floor and a crowd of dirty shoes. Pain ignites along his spine.

The shot almost blows out his eardrums.

The children back off, and Rafferty looks up to see Superman brandishing the gun, aiming it in the general direction of the kids. “Leave him alone,” the boy says.

The gun clatters to the floor in front of Rafferty’s face. The clip lands next to it.

“You can have it back now,” Superman says with contempt, and the children turn and walk away. Sauntering, not running. At the door to the garage, the boy turns to look at him. “I’ll be back,” he says. “For Miaow.” Then they are gone.

Rafferty is still for a long while. Getting to his feet requires a set of careful stages, moving one thing at a time. It seems to take an eternity to limp blinking into the bright day. The children are gone. He mops
the blood from his face and flags a taxi, bleeding, stinking with fear, and aching in every joint. He ignores the driver’s eyes in the mirror. When the elevator doors open on his floor, he has to lean against the hallway wall for another long moment before he can force himself to cross the hall and open the door of his apartment, where he finds himself looking into the bottomless eyes of Madame Wing.