Cross Currents (11 page)

A ship, he thought. I have to find a ship.

As usual, Patch was dressed like a Thai in an old swimsuit, a frayed blue T-shirt, sandals, and a baseball cap. He didn't own sunglasses. Ryan had on the latest styles and brands—a checkered Billabong swimsuit and a tan Tommy Bahama shirt that identified him as a tourist. Instead of a cap, he wore aviator sunglasses. His face shone with sunscreen. His shirtsleeves were short enough that tattoos could be seen on each of his formidable biceps. The tattoos were of Chinese characters. One meant “dreams,” and the other “resolve.”

Patch remembered how Ryan had gotten the tattoos, seemingly in an effort to fit in with the teammates of his high school football team, most of whom had them. Though Patch had never liked Ryan's tattoos, he'd never told him as much. He didn't think Ryan cared for them either.

Holding Ryan's hand, Brooke appeared to try to slow him down. Her legs were covered by a multicolored sarong she'd purchased that morning, which was wrapped around her hips, hiding the bottom half of her violet bikini. Her pink Race for the Cure baseball cap shaded her face, though she also wore oversize tortoiseshell sunglasses.

When Patch had met Brooke and Ryan a short time earlier, he had forced himself to pretend that so much of her body wasn't revealed. That her full breasts hadn't drawn his gaze. That her bare belly and arms and shoulders went almost unnoticed. He had concentrated on her face, his eyes locked on hers whenever she spoke, but otherwise settled on his brother.

Patch knew that Ryan wanted to talk privately, so he had asked Lek if he could borrow the longboat, which Lek mainly used to take tourists on sightseeing forays to nearby islands and reefs. Lek had shown Patch how to operate the boat, and occasionally he assumed Lek's place on expeditions, navigating the azure waters, talking to tourists, and wondering if such a boat could survive an extended journey at sea.

The sand was already hot, and Patch stepped into the shallows. Lek's boat resembled most of the other vessels on the island. About thirty feet long, it was made of wood and featured an upturned bow. A curved beam jutted several feet from the front of the bow and was wrapped with leis of plastic flowers. Blue, white, and red ribbons—the colors of the Thai flag, and each as wide as a hand—had been tied around the beam and fell almost to the water. On the side of the boat, someone had written
Rainbow Resort
in white paint. Above the lettering and gunwale, a blue canopy, wrapped around a rusty steel frame, cast a large shadow. An open engine featured a long driveshaft that could be swung to and fro over the water by a steering pole. This design allowed the two-bladed propeller to be positioned on the surface of the sea or just below it, enabling the boat to be driven in shallow water.

Lek had beached the longboat with its bow facing the sand. Forcing thoughts of jail away, Patch helped Ryan and Brooke into the vessel, then untied the bow from a nearby coconut tree. He hopped into the boat, moved to its stern, and pulled on a ripcord to start the engine. Without any sort of cover, the engine was loud, but the rhythmic beat of its moving parts was strangely relaxing. Patch untied the stern rope, shifted the engine into reverse, and lowered the spinning propeller into the water.

Normally Patch wouldn't have asked Lek for anything, but over the past weekend, Suchin had told him how their anchor had snagged on the bottom during a fishing trip, and when Lek had tried to pull it up, the old rope had snapped. Lek was going to attempt to retrieve the anchor, but Suchin was worried that he might hurt himself. She'd told Patch where to look, imploring him to recover it. And so Patch had asked Lek if he might borrow the longboat, which would allow him to retrieve the anchor, but also to talk privately with Ryan.

As usual, the turquoise water of the bay was calm, nearly as flat as glass. Patch stood at the stern, holding the steering pole, making sure to stay clear of reefs. Though the water was about twenty feet deep, he could easily see the bottom, which alternated between white sand and darker mounds of coral. Having often seen where Lek and Niran fished, Patch cut the engine and drifted toward the spot. He'd earlier tied a rope to a rock and now, grunting, he lifted the makeshift anchor, dropping it toward a sandy patch of seafloor.

Though he wanted to fulfill Suchin's request immediately, he'd promised Ryan that they would talk, and he made his way toward the bow, where Ryan and Brooke sat on the first bench. “Fun, isn't it?” he asked, moving past them, until he was able to lean against the side of the boat.

Ryan wondered how anything could be fun to Patch, based on his future prospects. He started to ask the question but realized that doing so would only irritate his younger brother. “It's beautiful,” he replied, shifting on the wooden plank, watching Brooke remove her sarong. “I can see why you like it here.”

“I love it here.”

“Do you want to come back someday?”

“Absolutely.”

Ryan looked to his right, his eyes following the contours of a massive cliff. “I'd like to come back with you. I really would. But do you understand that if you escaped, you could never come back? That's if you survived the journey. You'd be a fugitive from the Thai police. And coming back wouldn't be an option.”

“I've thought . . . about that.”

“If you turned yourself in and settled your debt, you could come back as often as you wanted. Hell, you could live here. Open a restaurant or something.”

Patch removed his baseball cap and felt the sun on his face. “If you were me, you'd turn yourself in? You'd seriously do that?”

“After I'd lined up a bunch of help, yeah, I'd do that. Then I'd get on with my life.”

“In jail?”

“After jail.”

A longboat full of tourists passed, headed in the opposite direction. One of the backpackers waved, and Brooke waved back. “I don't really know if I should be here for this conversation,” she said, turning back to Patch. “But since I am, I'm wondering what happened in Bangkok. If I understood what happened, it would be easier to think things through.”

“I was an idiot,” Patch replied, his heartbeat quickening as he recalled the chain of events that had led to his escape. “I tried to take the easy road. And everything . . . blew up in my face.”

“What easy road?”

Patch started to respond and then paused. For some reason, he didn't want Brooke to think less of him, and his story would have that effect. “I feel stupid,” he finally said, putting his cap back on. “Really stupid.”

“Don't feel that way. We've all done stupid things. Everyone inherited that gene.”

“Not like I did.”

“If you're reticent to talk about it, that's okay. I understand.”

He kept his eyes on her face, wishing that she hadn't removed her sarong. “I smoked . . . some marijuana a few times in Bangkok. In my guesthouse. Everyone was doing it. Everyone wanted it. I thought I could get a big batch and sell off little batches to the other tourists. With the money, I figured I could add another few weeks to my trip.”

“You could have just asked me,” Ryan said. “I would have wired you the money.”

“I know.”

“Jesus.”

“What happened then?” Brooke asked, glaring at Ryan.

“Well, this guy who I was buying from turned out to be a cop. He pulled a gun on me, and I just . . . I panicked and knocked it away. And then we were fighting and the gun went off and I punched him and somehow I got out of that room and started running. I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt. That's the last thing I'd ever want. It just happened. All I wanted was to stay longer. I was making friends and having fun and I wanted to stay.”

Brooke nodded, replaying the scene over in her mind. “Comfort does that.”

“Does what?”

“You got too comfortable. With your situation. You got too comfortable and you made a mistake.”

“I should have known better.”

The water around them darkened as one of the few clouds in sight obscured the sun. Ryan reached down for a plastic bottle of water and offered it to Brooke. After she drank, he did the same. “I've talked with people at the American embassy,” he said. “They told me this kind of stuff happens every day. You'll pay a fine, do some time, and that will be the end of it.”

“They don't know what they're talking about.”

“And you do? You know their jobs better than they do?”

“I hit him, Ry. I hit him and I escaped. Do you understand what that means? He lost face. Big-time. And that's important over here. Really important. Losing face like that doesn't happen every day, and if he'd caught me in that alley, he probably would have shot me. And if I'm in jail, he'll probably pay someone to hurt me. So, yeah, I do know what I'm talking about. I've been living with the locals for five months. And some Harvard hotshot sitting in his fancy office in Bangkok doesn't know squat about that.”

“Oh, that's right. He's a hotshot because he has a degree, because he's got a great job. That makes him an idiot? What a load of crap. Why don't you stop talking like you're seventeen and grow up?”

Patch looked away from his brother, toward shore. “I'm not going to turn myself in. No way. Anything could happen to me in jail. Anything and everything.”

“Do you understand that I'm trying to help you? That I flew ten thousand miles to help you?”

“That doesn't make you right.”

Ryan swore, squeezing the wooden plank beneath him, the muscles of his forearms tightening. “We pay a few bribes, we ensure your safety. That's how it's done. I'll get you through this. I'll—”

“I agree with Patch,” Brooke said softly, turning toward Ryan. “I think we should get him out of here.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

“Tell me you just didn't say that.”

“I did say it. I am saying it.”

Ryan squeezed the wooden plank again. “I can't believe it.”

“It's the right choice.”

He stood up, rocking the longboat. “You happy now, Patch? Maybe you can get Brooke thrown in jail too. Hell, why don't the three of us just go in together?”

Patch held up his hands. “Ry, let's calm—”

“Screw you, Patrick,” Ryan said, removing sunglasses. “And thanks for your support, Brooke.”

“You have my support, and I didn't mean to blindside you. I just think Patch is right.”

Ryan took off his shirt. “Well, he's not. And you blindsided me in the worst possible way.” She started to reach for him, but he shook his head, sat down on the side of the boat, and rolled backward into the sea. He surfaced, treading water. “I can't talk about this now.”

“So you're going to swim back to shore?” she asked. “You're going to leave us?”

“Why not?”

She turned to Patch. “Is it safe?”

He nodded. “But, Ry, I don't want to fight. Why don't you just—”

“I don't want to fight either. That's why I'm leaving. Because I'm about to blow my top, and I don't want to do that. No matter how much you piss me off, I don't want to do that.”

“Don't leave.”

Ryan shook his head, squinting from the sun's glare. “You know, you've always taken the easy way out. Always. That's why you're in Thailand. That's why you're in trouble. Don't you understand that we all have to make sacrifices? I've made them. Brooke's made them. So have Mom and Dad. What makes you so freaking special?”

“I'm not special.”

“I don't want you to die. Do you understand that? I don't want you to try to escape and end up with your throat cut. I came here to save you, not bury you.”

“You won't bury me.”

“It's time for you to leave Fantasy Island. And it's time for me to take a swim.”

“Come on, Ryan. Let's—”

“See you later.”

Brooke watched him turn on his back and kick toward shore. “Do you want me to come with you?” she asked, raising her voice. “I'll swim with you.”

Ryan didn't respond. A brief gust of wind caused the surface of the water to ripple.

“I'm sorry,” Patch said. “I'm really sorry.”

“It's all right.”

“No, it's not. This is your first time overseas, to a place like this. And I'm ruining it.”

“It's not your fault.”

“It is my fault.”

“Trust me. It's not a big deal. We're good at fighting. We excel at it, actually. So let's leave it at that.”

He shook his head, feeling as if he had betrayed her as well as his brother. She sighed and closed her eyes. Suddenly he needed to make her smile, to redeem himself once again. “Let me show you something,” he said, reaching down, picking up a mask and snorkel and handing them to her.

“What?”

“Put those on. And hop in the water.”

“But . . . are you sure he'll be all right? That's a long way to swim.”

“Ryan? He could swim the English Channel. We're only a hundred yards offshore.”

“You're positive?”

“He could tow this boat back to the mainland.”

She nodded, taking the mask, putting it over her face. Though she was tempted to ask Patch to start the engine and follow Ryan, she'd seen him in such moods before and knew that he wouldn't want to talk. He needed space. And so she glanced at the water, remembering how Ryan had left the boat, and she tried to repeat his motions, sitting on the edge of the gunwale and rolling backward, somersaulting underwater. She surfaced smiling, surprised at herself. “What now?”