The Collected (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) (6 page)

BANGKOK, THAILAND

W
HAT DAENG HADN’T
told Quinn was that the thing he’d come home to deal with turned out to be nothing. The message he’d received from Ton a week earlier had concerned a Burmese refugee kid, one Daeng had personally helped get onto the right path. According to the note, the boy had been arrested by the Bangkok police for drug trafficking, an offense punishable by death.

When Daeng couldn’t get ahold of Ton right away to get more details, he had caught a flight home the next day, knowing the arrest had to be some kind of mistake because there was no way the kid would get mixed up in something like that. And he was right. Only it wasn’t the police who’d made the mistake, it was Ton. The kid was not in jail and had no idea what Daeng was talking about when Daeng tracked him down.

Relieved but frustrated, Daeng had called Ton to try to figure out where the miscommunication had occurred, but Ton was still not answering his phone. Daeng had then checked around and learned that the man had gone northeast to Issan to visit family. That didn’t explain why he wasn’t answering his mobile, though. As a member of Daeng’s loose organization of misfits, Ton was expected to have his phone on him at all times. Not about to travel out to the countryside himself, Daeng wasn’t going to do much about it until Ton called him back.

Over the following few days, Daeng had become so preoccupied with checking in on his network of people and businesses, and making sure everything was still running smoothly, that he’d shoved all thoughts about Ton to the far reaches of his mind. He knew they’d get things cleared up soon enough.

Maybe that had been a mistake.

He headed into the bathroom with his mobile phone, turned on the speaker function, and tried Ton once more. As the line began to ring, he applied shaving cream to his face. Receiving no response, he punched
DISCONNECT
, finished his shave, and jumped in the shower.

In less than five minutes, he was dressed and making another call as he walked through the house.

This time the line was answered with a grunt.

“Yai, wake up,” Daeng said.

Another grunt.

“Come on. I need you.”

“Who is this?” Yai asked, his voice a slur.

“Who do you think it is?”

There was a rustle on the other end. “Daeng? Sorry. It’s kind of early, you know?”

“Yeah, and I’m already up and dressed.”

“Oh…um…what’s going on?”

“When was the last time you talked to Ton?”

“Ton?” Yai seemed confused for a moment. “Little Ton? Or Big Ton?”

“Little.”

“Uh, I don’t know.” Yai paused for a moment. “Well, he did tell me he was going away.”

“When was this?

“If you hold on, I can check the time on his text.”

“Wait, he told you by text? Not on the phone or in person?”

“Yeah.”

“When was the last time you actually talked to him?”

Another few seconds of silence. “Maybe a week ago. It was a Friday, I think.”

“Did he say anything about visiting his family then?”

“No. Not that I remember. Why?”

“Have you tried calling him since?”

Daeng could almost hear Yai shake his head. “I didn’t have any reason to.”

“What about a number for his family in Issan? Do you have one?”

“He should have his mobile. Just call that.”

“I
have
called his mobile. He’s not answering. But I need to talk to him now.”

“Okay, okay. Um, let me think.” Yai fell silent for several seconds. “Dom might know. She’s been hanging out with him on and off for a while now.”

“Get ahold of her. Tell her to call me.”

“Sure, of course.” A pause. “You want me to do that
now
?”

“Yes,” Daeng said. “Now.”

While he waited for the girl to call him, he cut up a mango, and started to eat it. Two slices in, his phone rang, only it wasn’t Dom. It was Yai again.

“She’s not answering,” Yai said.

“You tried more than once?”

“Yeah. Three times. Maybe she sleeps deeper than I do.”

Maybe
, Daeng thought.
Then again
…

“You know where Ton lives, right?” he asked.

“Sure,” Yai said.

“Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

“It’s going to take me a little more than—”

Daeng hung up.

__________

T
ON LIVED IN
the rooftop apartment of a building near Silom. Yai was waiting out front when Daeng’s taxi pulled to the curb.

“You go up yet?” Daeng asked.

Yai shook his head. “Just got here.”

“Come on, then.”

They went inside and took the scuffed-up elevator to the seventh floor. From there, they had to climb the stairs one more flight to Ton’s place—a four-room structure built right in the middle of the roof. It had a wide wooden patio at the front, and a jumbled storage area behind.

A plank pathway led from the stairwell door along the edge of the roof to the home’s side entrance. Daeng knocked when they reached it, but, as he expected, no one answered.

He tried the knob and was surprised to find the door was unlocked. He glanced back at Yai, who also looked confused.

“You armed?” Daeng whispered.

Yai reached around to the small of his back, and pulled a gun out from under his shirt.

Daeng’s intention had been merely to find a way inside, where he was sure they’d find some way of contacting Ton’s family in Issan, but as he opened the door, he instantly knew a call to the countryside would be unnecessary.

The smell of death rushed through the opening as if it had been waiting for someone to let it loose.

“Shit!” Yai said, blinking his eyes and twisting his head away.

Daeng looked around, and spotted several old rags by the back corner of the house. They were dirty, but better than nothing. He retrieved them, gave a couple to Yai, bundled together the two he’d kept, and pressed them tightly over his nose and mouth.

Yai looked surprised. “We’re going in?”

Daeng answered by doing just that.

They found Ton and Dom in the living room, sitting side by side on the couch, their throats slit. A swarm of flies hovered around their bloated corpses like auras. Their eyeballs and tongues seemed to be trying to jump out of their head.

Yai groaned twice before rushing out of the room.

Daeng could hear him just outside the front door losing whatever was left in his stomach from the previous night. Daeng didn’t have the same problem. Even before he’d started working with Nate removing all sorts of bodies, he’d seen more than his share of the dead. Instead of running out, he moved closer, looking for any clues as to who had done this and why.

But whoever slashed Ton’s and Dom’s necks had left no calling card.

__________

“T
HIS IS VERY
disturbing,” Christina said.

Daeng remained silent, letting the woman process what he had told her.

They were in a storage room at the back of a restaurant Christina owned near Khao San Road, just one of dozens of businesses the American woman had around the city. She’d been in the Thai capital for decades and was known in certain, very exclusive circles as someone who got things done. She and Daeng had used each other’s services many times over the years, and she had always exhibited a level of protectiveness over him, not quite as if he were the son she never had, but close.

“And you’re sure about how long they’ve been there like that?” she asked.

“As sure as I can be,” he told her. Given the condition of the bodies, Daeng was certain Ton and Dom had been dead for at least a week, which would have been right around the same time Ton had sent Daeng the message to return to Bangkok. Perhaps even
before
.

She stared at an empty shelf, the hint of concern on her face. Without turning back to him, she said, “Someone
was
asking about you.”

“What? Who?”

“I didn’t talk to them directly. They spoke to one of my people, who then put them in contact with your organization.”

“With Ton?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

She hesitated, then nodded.

“When?”

“Thursday last week.”

A day prior to the message Ton had sent Daeng.

“Who was it?”

“Like I said, I didn’t speak to them, so I don’t have a name.”

“But you can call whoever it was they talked to and find out.”

“Do you really think a name will get you anywhere? If this person is responsible for the deaths, the name was undoubtedly fake.”

“It’s a place to start.”

Five minutes later he had a name—Thatcher—and, in an unexpected bonus, a cell phone picture taken by Christina’s man as Thatcher left. Thatcher was in profile and far enough from the camera that his facial features were slightly blurred.

But he did have one distinctive feature: a bald head.

CHAPTER 8

A
SOUND, A
smell, then nothing as Nate passed out again. Over and over, the sequence repeated.

A constant droning, like an air conditioner in the background.

Black.

The overpowering smell of sweat.

Black.

A door slamming.

Black.

A vibration.

Black.

Voices, talking to him but making no sense.

Black.

Then the prick of a needle in his arm.

And black, deeper than before. Oh, so deep…

CHAPTER 9

LOS ANGELES

B
ETWEEN THEM, QUINN
and Orlando had seven messages on their phones when they deplaned in L.A.

Each was from a freelancer who had worked with Quinn and Nate in the past. All had received calls from Nate within the past week, checking on their availability, but to a man they had been previously booked and therefore unavailable. The most disturbing part was the bookings. While two of the men had actually gone out on jobs, the other five had been put on paid holds for projects that ended up not panning out, so they had basically earned their fee for doing nothing.

“I don’t like this,” Quinn said as they waited for the shuttle that would take them to the rental car lot. “We need to know who hired them.”

By the time they had their car and were driving away from LAX, they’d finished calling everyone back. Though the contact name changed from job offer to job offer, the descriptions of the projects the men had been put on hold for were remarkably similar. Calls to the two men who’d actually gone out on assignments confirmed another suspicion. They, too, had been contacted about being put on hold, but had turned the offers down because of their prior commitments.

It was clear someone had purposely tied up the people Nate would have normally hired.

Quinn took La Cienega north toward the hills. Just after they passed Wilshire Boulevard, his phone rang.

He checked the display before putting the call on speakerphone. “Daeng?”

“Have you heard from him?” Daeng asked.

“Nothing yet.”

There was a pause before Daeng spoke again. “Something’s happened here. I’m not sure if it’s connected, but it might be.”

“In Bangkok?”

“I believe I was tricked into returning home.” Daeng explained about the message he’d received that turned out to be untrue, about the man who had sent him the false information being murdered, and about the guy calling himself Thatcher who had been looking for Daeng just before all this had happened.

Quinn’s concern had already increased after learning about the other freelancers. Now, it skyrocketed. “Any idea who this guy was or what he wanted?”

“No. Haven’t been able to find out anything else about him. I’d be willing to bet he’s not even in the country anymore. A friend did get a picture of him, though. It’s not very good, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Send it to me.”

“Hold on.” Daeng was quiet for several seconds. “On its way.”

Before Quinn could even reply, his phone beeped with the incoming message. “If anything else comes up, let me know right away.”

“Screw that. I’m flying back,” Daeng said. “On my way to the airport right now. My ticket’s for L.A., but if you think I should go somewhere else, tell me.”

Quinn was pleased to hear it. Though he hoped Daeng’s help would turn out to be unnecessary, it would be nice if he were close, just in case. “L.A.’s fine for now. Call when you land.”

“Will do.”

As soon as the line went dead, Orlando took the phone from him and accessed the photo Daeng had sent.

“I don’t recognize him,” she said.

“Show me.”

She held the screen out so Quinn could take a quick glance.

As Daeng mentioned, the profile shot of the bald man in question wasn’t the best. Quinn took a second look, and finally shook his head. “Me, either.”

“I’m going to send this around, see if any of our regulars know who he is.”

Quinn nodded but said nothing, his dread growing by the second.

__________

I
T WAS STRANGE
pulling up to the gate of his house after more than eight months since the last time Quinn had set foot inside. In some ways, it felt like the place didn’t even belong to him anymore.

Orlando jumped out and punched the code into the keypad, triggering the gate to roll open. Before Quinn could even pull the car to a stop in front of the house, Liz hurried out the door.

She looked drawn and pale, her eyes bloodshot.

The moment he climbed out of the car, she rushed over and threw her arms around him, her head pressing against his shoulder. Momentarily caught off guard, he hesitated then returned her embrace, telling himself she was only looking for comfort, not trying to show him any affection.

“Have you heard from him?” she whispered anxiously.

“No,” he told her. “But we’ve been checking with a lot of people. I’m sure we’ll find out where he is soon.”

“He was supposed to meet me at the airport. He was supposed to be there waiting.”