Black Heart, page 20
And at last, at last she could feel the first brush of his rampant sex against her intimate hair. She cried out and reached for him, stroking him lovingly between her fingers, revelling in the wetness he expelled.
She climbed him then, as blind as a troglodyte, locking her ankles at the small of his back, feeling the hard flesh of his buttocks against her heels and, placing the head of him against the swollen folds, pushed him inside her.
The moment he felt himself engulfed by her heat, Khieu felt along stab of pain deep inside himself. Thoughts roiled through his mind and his stomach clenched, seeming to double in on itself.
The nerves along the beachfront of his skin registered the Pressure of her writhings as if they were mere markings on a scientific graph. Feeling rushed from him, so that he felt numb ln the area of his pelvis.
Night surrounded him like the grave, the erotic gyrations
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seen within his mind's eye too clear to deny: a bed, an open window, curtains fluttering, the oppressive heat of summer in Chamcar Mon. And Malis touching herself, spreading those magnificent legs, opening her secret folds in the ultimate intimacy of that still and clinging semi-darkness. Stone chedi loomed over him and he could scent the rich sweet stench of the cindered dying. His own death seemed very close to him then. He shook while Joy came in a long convulsive burst, a starfish against him, and he was almost unaware of her climbing down from him, until her lips slid over his erection and her tongue
began to lave him.
Her cheeks hollowed as she began to suck in earnest, her fingertips finding their way between his damp thighs, into the cleft of his buttocks and over the contours of his scrotum. His connection to her because she was like him in an important and elemental way - evoked feelings in him now he would prefer not to feel. Death sailed through the night towards him and he saw its billowing sail, the bitter hatchet, its device of pain. The wailings of his kmoch were at their height and he whipped his head back and forth to deny the force of pleasure threatening
to engulf him.
Joy felt him jerk in her mouth, swelling even more with blood and she moaned a little, moving up and down on him all the faster. Her tongue lifted, laving the underside of his head and then spasm after spasm shook him, the hot viscous jets coming against her working tongue and palate.
And he could no longer contain himself. Malis, Malis, Malis,
oh
Around to the side, towards the FDR Drive, Thwaite had seen a pair of ambulances from Bellevue Medical Center, just a few blocks to the south, standing dark and empty. The whole place had the aspect of a graveyard at midnight but he knew from long experience that it was only outwardly that the CME building was not humming with activity. Inside, you were lucky to get a ten-minute interview with the associate ME
handling your stiff.
There was a uniform Thwaite did not know at the front desk, a black man with a short afro and splay teeth as big as shovels.
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He flipped open his case to the gold detective's shield. 'Here to see Miranda on the Chin snuff.'
The cop nodded, consulted a typed sheet attached to a fibre clipboard on the table in front of him. His wide finger stopped at a printed extension and he dialled it. He spoke in low tones for a moment before cradling the receiver. 'She'll be right up, sir,' he said. He could not have been less interested. Thwaite saw a copy of Ebony open on the table beside the clipboard. He was about to reprimand the uniform when he changed his mind. He eased up on his tone. 'You been on this tour long?'
' 'Bout three weeks,' the black cop said. 'Between you and me, it's boring as shit.'
'Pretty dead here, huh?'
'Hell, yeah,' the other said. He made a face. 'Talk about the graveyard shift!'
'Detective Sergeant Thwaite?'
Thwaite turned to see Dr Miranda. She was somewhat of a surprise: a formidable Indian woman somewhere close to forty with skin that looked as if it had been dusted with kohl. She was dressed in the regimental cool green autopsy gown that was standard here. Her gleaming black hair was pulled back from her face in a tight bun.
'You wished to see me?' She had the knack of being able to impale you on the sharpened ends of her clipped words. Thwaite disliked her on sight.
'Yes,' he said evenly. 'About the Chin homicide.'
'Not here,' said Dr Miranda, as if he had uttered a filthy word in front of the children.
She took him upstairs to her office on the third floor. The oldfashioned door had a frosted glass panel at head height. Inside, it was warm and cosy, if you liked Bunsen burners, beakers, vials md thick textbooks on pathology. Thwaite liked none of those things.
Dr Miranda sat in the one slat-backed wooden swivel chair
111 front of her cluttered desk. She turned to him, put her hands
* her pockets. She crossed one leg over the other at the knee Mid Thwaite saw she was wearing orthopaedic shoes. Flat feet. Wd her right, he thought. Now,' she said with the air of a crotchey professor, 'what do
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you want? I've got three reports to write before 3 a.m. and I've got to testify in court at ten this morning.' 'Let's start at the beginning,' Thwaite said. Actually, Thwaite had no interest in the Chin slaying at all. Flaherty had given it to his unit and he'd assigned it to Enders and Borak. A typical Chinatown snuff: a member of the Dragons had been shot to death at close range with a small calibre pistol in the orchestra of the Pagoda movie theatre on
East Broadway.
'You're up late, aren't you, Sergeant?' she said now. 'Caught blowing bubble gum on duty,' he said, 'so I'm cruising with the bats. What's your excuse?'
'Dedication,' Dr Miranda said, without a trace of humour. She turned behind her, opened a battered green metal file draw, spun a buff folder across her desk towards him. 'Read it here. This isn't a lending library.' Thwaite had her number. He reached out a fresh pack of unfutered Camels, slit the top with his thumb.
She waited until he had one in his mouth and was about to touch the tip with the flame from his lighter. 'I wish you
wouldn't do that.'
Thwaite, who had seen the discreet NO SMOKING sign over her desk, ignored her and took a deep drag, hissing the smoke out into the room. The associate ME turned her head away in
disgust.
Of course, it was much easier for him to get access to the files at One Police Plaza but in this case it would have done no good. Normally, a police photographer took photos of any death scene even nominally considered not of natural causes.
Such had not been the case with John Holmgren. The associate ME who had responded to the call had, in turn, notified Barlowe, the Chief Medical Examiner who, because of the personage involved, arrived himself. His preliminary verbal report indicated nothing more than a massive MI, brought on, he surmised, by overwork and fatigue. His unit took photos as
a matter of course.
By the time Thwaite had given credence to any of his doubts about the nature of the Governor's death, it was too late.
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But there remained the set of photos and Thwaite was determined to get a look at them.
Dr Miranda was coughing. Thwaite pretended to peruse the Chin file, ignoring the hostile glare she was throwing his way. The phone on her desk gave a buzz and she grabbed for the receiver as if relieved at the distraction. Thwaite listened.
Dr Miranda said nothing for a moment, then, Til be right down.' She cradled the phone, got up. 'A case's come in,' she said. 'Just leave the folder on my desk when you're through.'
At the door, she gave him a thin smile. 'Don't get too comfy. Officer White has to log you out downstairs and I'll be taking a look at it on my way back.'
Thanks,' Thwaite said to her retreating back, 'for nothing.' He listened to the soft squeak of her orthopaedic shoes down the riled hall. He waited five minutes, then took a quick peek out into the hallway. It was deserted. Dr Miranda, besides being one of the four associate medical examiners, was also the librarian.
Thwaite went through the 'H' s twice but could find no file on John Holmgren. He looked around the office. In the far corner, next to the window, was a smaller set of files one column - all locked. It took him just over two minutes to pop it. He figured he had another three minutes before he had to get out. It wouldn't do for Miranda to see how long he had been alone in her office.
The Holmgren file was there. He quickly skimmed the preliminary autopsy report. Nothing out of the ordinary there. There was Barlowe's scrawled signature at the end of the report. More papers behind: statements by the attending associate ME, the two uniforms who were first on the scene, even a copy of Thwaite's own preliminary statement from the Monserrat woman. All appeared in order. No photos.
He cursed under his breath, went to another drawer of the file. All the photos were in one section and under 'H' he found five of them. He had no more than a minute and a half to look Jt them. Not enough time. But it was all he had. He could not risk smuggling them out. Not with the ever-suspicious Dr Miranda knowing he'd been alone up here.
His eyes roved the photos. He could detect nothing but these
'H..G
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had been taken by the ME's photographer for strictly medical use. A police photographer would've taken a different set entirely.
Thwaite looked at his watch, reluctantly shoved the photos back in place, carefully closing the drawers and locking them. With a handkerchief, he wiped all surfaces he had touched. Then, leaving the Chin file on Dr Miranda's desk, he left the
office.
There had to be another way.
He stopped at the desk to sign out. White, who had seen him coming, had put away his issue of Ebony.
'All through here, Sergeant?' He hummed sadly. 'Wish I could walk right outa here, know what I mean?'
Thwaite nodded. 'I do, indeed.' He lowered his voice, beckoned for the man to lean closer. 'And I've got your ticket right here with me.' This was the other way.
White smiled, his splay teeth showing. 'Who I gotta ice?'
They both laughed softly and Thwaite knew the pact was cemented. 'You think you can get me a set of photos out of the
files?'
'Piece o' cake, m'man.'
'The locked section.'
White raised his eyebrows. 'In that case,' he said softly, 'you're gonna have to give me a reason I can live with.'
Thwaite nodded. 'Fair enough. I'm running a little number, ah, independently of the department.'
'Legit?'
'If it pans out, it's one hundred per cent.'
'And if not, we all get our fannies bounced, that it?'
Thwaite laughed. 'Don't worry. I got you covered. You bring me the goods, you're in on the machine. I've been looking for another good man. What d'you say?'
White smiled, gripped Thwaite's hand. 'I say, get me the hell
outa here, man.'
'Okay.' Thwaite scribbled on a slip of paper. 'When're you
on the day shift?' White told him. 'Right. Bring the material to my house.' He handed over the
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slip of paper. 'Let's say midnight day after tomorrow. That suit you?' 'M'man, I am at your service.'
fifteen minutes after Thwaite had departed the building, Dr liranda returned from the basement morgue where, contrary to what she had told the detective, she had gone for a sweet roll and a cup of freshly brewed espresso. There was something interesting about receiving such a strong jolt of life in among the tiers of the dead. It was as peaceful as bliss down there.
However, this particular night, she had not been alone. The man who had come to her the previous afternoon had been waiting for her, leaning against the gleaming central storage bay. The close proximity to all those stiffs seemed not to affect him at all.
'Which one of them was it?'
For a time, Dr Miranda said nothing. Despite the government shield he had shown her, she resented any intrusion into the world she thought of as her own. Her domain was sacrosanct. Instead, she busied herself with brewing the coffee. She did not ask him if he wanted any.
It was not until she had begun to nibble at her sweet roll and had taken her first sip of the espresso, that she answered him. The cop.'
Kim nodded. 'Thwaite.'
Dr Miranda eyed him. He had come around to the front of the gleaming stainless steel bank. He opened a storage bay at random, peering down at the waxy-skinned corpse slowly being revealed. The large T-incision across the chest indicated that the autopsy had already been performed on this one.
'How'd he die?'
Dr Miranda frowned in distaste. She disliked both irreverence and indifference to her charges. They were there, each as a singular puzzle for the staff to unravel, bringing a kind of solace to an otherwise griefstricken family.
'I would have to look at the file,' she said, 'in order to tell you that. Why, do you know him?'
'No,' Kim said. 'Just curious.'
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'Curious about death?'
He looked up. 'I know so many ways to inflict it, I'm always
on the lookout for new ones.' 'Surely you're joking.'
He pushed the bay closed with a dull clang. 'I must leave, Dr Miranda. Please be assured that the Federal government is in your debt. The photos of John Holmgren will disappear within two or three days.'
'You're very sure of yourself.'
Kim ignored her. 'I want you to know they will be put to
good use.'
She shrugged. 'They were gathering dust here. But I don't see why you had to take them for an hour yesterday.'
Kim decided it was time to turn on the charm; this cold war was doing him no good. He smiled widely. 'Dr Miranda, you already know far too much,' he lied. 'To reveal anything further would be to put your own life in jeopardy.'
She put down her half-eaten sweet roll. 'Really?' Kim nodded. 'Quite. As I've said, you've been most helpful.' As he turned to leave, he said, 'But that all could change drastically if you should tell anyone about this.'
Dr Miranda had got the message. 'It's already forgotten.' Kim's smile was dazzling. 'Splendid. That's just what I wanted to hear.'
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April-May 1967 Battambang, Cambodia
Lost within the darkling jungle, Sokha moved ever northward. The skies turned from dirty grey to brown with the incipience of storms. Often, the ground shook from the sonic wash of low flying planes and once he heard the dull booming of what he at first took to be the storm's onset. But the trees shuddering all around him gave evidence that the sound was something more sinister, man made and lethal.
As if by instinct, he found the growing enclaves of montagnards, restless and fearful of Lon Nol's marching troops. They fed him and housed him overnight but the stench of their anxiety, exuding like a sickening perfume, was too much for him to bear for long.
He was a soldier now and during those long hours of march when there was nought else for his mind to do he sought the meagre comfort of the military discipline, steeling himself for whatever was to come.
He had not asked for this war, had, in fact, prayed to the Amida Buddha that it would never come. But it had been made his. He was part of it now for good or ill and he knew that he must be prepared. Death and destruction were all around him like a ghostly pall.
It was already the beginning of the rainy season and Sokha was obliged to make many detours because so much of the lowlands, especially around Tonle Sap, were beginning to flood and footing was treacherous.
Like a Buddhist monk, he subsisted on the meagre food of the folk he passed. At one tiny outpost, two days out from Phnom Penh he first heard the word Angka. The organization was already behind the maquis. No one knew precisely just what Angka was but all seemed to fear and respect its power.
From that time on, he invoked Angka's name at villages where he wished to be fed and encountered no difficulties.
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There was rice and, because of his increasing proximity to Cambodia's swollen great lake, always fresh fish. The ancient Khmer gods, he knew, had graced their country with Tonle Sap, a virtually inexhaustible supply of food.
Upon leaving the city he had, of course, discarded his glasses as well as his two-syllable given name. He had been around Satn and Rene enough to understand the nature - at least outwardly
- of the maquis. They detested intellectuals and would in all likelihood execute him should they guess his origins. Glasses, quite naturally, were a dead giveaway as would be his name. He became Sok to all who asked.
Once he made the mistake of speaking his classroom-taught French to one of the mountain people who had addressed hitn in the same language. From the look on the man's face he knew something was wrong and then when the man spoke again, he understood. He would have to remember to bastardize his French with these people in order to fit in. At night, when he camped in the wilderness, tired though he was, he would practise breaking all the rules of grammar he had so painstakingly learned as a child in the lyde. Thus he taught himself to speak
like an illiterate.
On a day when it had been grey and overcast, raining on and off all the morning so that his progress had been significantly hampered, he collapsed against the sodden bole of an ancient palm. He put his head back against the rough brownish bark and, ignoring the swarms of buzzing insects, closed his eyes.
He had been on the go for more than four days now and he was exhausted. His limbs ached and his head throbbed. Despite the fact of his purporting to be a member of Angka he had not had enough to eat during his journey. The peasants were being systematically robbed of their crops and their debts to local moneylenders were becoming unbearable. The twin spectres of abject poverty and starvation were slowly becoming a reality
here.
Sok could hardly believe it. Where was the Kampuchea 01 yesterday? Swallowed whole by the mists of revolution, war and political greed. A premonition abruptly washed over hta' He had always thought that behind the revolution would coffle
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