Black Heart, page 42
It was possible now for Khieu to understand the insidious nature of Sam's indoctrination into radical politics. Rene had sucked him in, the false promise of a kind of freedom that was, in reality, no freedom at all, had infected them all. Khieu Samphan, leng Sary, Pol Pot, none of them were immune. But it was power they lusted after and that lust blinded them to the fact that what they were buying wholesale was a philosophy of negation. To achieve their goals, the entire history of the Khmer needed to be wiped out so completely that it would be as if it had never existed.
How could they? Khieu asked himself now. How could they? Tears dropped from his eyes, seeping down from his clasped fingers onto the dried bones of this unknown Khmer child. See how your dream has ended? The Youn own the land now and they butcher us just as you butchered us before that. Death without end. Life without hope.
He fell asleep, propped up against the bole of a huge tree, without eating the bananas he had found in his foraging. He dreamed of a place filled with dark light. A network of naked animal jaws rose above his head, the long curving yellowed teeth overlayed one upon the other like the profusion of stars on a cloudless night.
The place he dreamed of was bare: a wooden floor, walls he sensed rather than saw. But in its centre was a raised rectangular
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structure draped in black cotton, the folds of-fabric along the sides, rippling like flags in the wind. A bed or an altar, the concepts seemed to merge and fuse.
He became aware of a shape atop the raised structure and, moving closer, he saw that it was a human figure ... a female figure. She was moving and he squinted in order to get a better look. She writhed on the platform, contorting her body this way and that. It seemed to him that she moved in a purely erotic, primeval way.
Malis. It was Malis!
He felt himself growing hard as he saw again the sensual rocking of her hips, the slow spreading of her legs, the passage of her delicate fingertips up along the satiny pale flesh on the insides of her thighs. They moved to the very core of her and then over it, upward over her bent torso to caress her hardened nipples. She pinched them, pulling her breasts upward gently into spouts, moaning slightly with the action. Her tiny pink tongue came out, licked at her lips, wetting them. They parted
invitingly.
Then her hands had swept downward, the palms pressing briefly against the hard rounded bowl of her belly. Now she raised her legs and her fingers tangled in the dark rich delta of hair at the base of her thighs. She sighed and her breasts shook in response to the deep caress.
Watching this, he felt again his brain on fire. Now, he thought, now is the time. I can have her all to myself. To take her. To love her, enfold her, plunge into her, to give her pleasure and in her moaning under me release my hot seed into
her.
His penis was so painfully hard he had trouble standing upright as he approached and this distraction, perhaps, was what made the shock all the greater.
He was close now, very close. And he saw that he had been mistaken. Completely and utterly mistaken. What he had thought were writhings of pleasure must surely have been the spasms of pain, the hands at her core not a caress but a protective
gesture.
For he saw towering over her a great muscled Ytion, the hata
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Vietnamese invader. He had a grip on her that Malis could not break though she would not give up trying. She clawed and scraped at him until he balled his free hand into a fist and punched her viciously between her thighs so that she gasped and tried to vomit with the shock and pain. But his other hand was clamped over her mouth. She could do nothing but swallow or drown in her own bile.
Now the Yuan had a knife in his free hand, the blade black as the core of night. Its darkness was chilling. The blade whooshed down towards Malis and the Yuan moved the hand holding her so that he had her around the throat. He leaned into her, savagely jamming the back of her head against the black cotton covering the structure, bringing the lower half of her face up towards him.
The knifeblade swopped down in a swift arc as a predatory bird when it sights its prey. It sliced into her flesh neatly at the side of her jaw, peeling away the skin as if it were the rind of a fresh orange.
Brother and sister leapt upwards at the same time as if both had been cut. Khieu, howling with rage, shot forward and, as he did so, saw the huge Yuon begin the backward motion for the second cut. He reached out, ready to tear the arms from the man but there was nothing for him to grip.
Gasping and shaking, the cold sweat dripping off him like rain, he stood there, watching the black blade begin its terrible journey up the hills and valleys of Malis' face. Now there was a double tract of raw pulpy flesh, quivering like jelly as the exposed nerves jumped in unending agony. The skin peeled away in another long strip, joining its sister at the feet of the Yuon.
Again and again the Vietnamese soldier sliced into Malis, until Khieu was at a loss to recognize anything human beneath the veil of blood and rent tissue.
Sunk to his knees, crying and beating at himself uncontrollably, he knew there was nothing he could do to save her. He had abandoned her when he had left Phnom Penh to join the Khmer Rouge, to follow Sam's shining example, to join the glorious revolution against the Western capitalist aggressors and
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the Yuon infidels, to build a free Kampuchea. Left her to be captured by the Vietnamese, to be tortured, raped repeatedly, killed slowly and lingeringly.
He heard her screaming then, the bare white teeth drawn back in a rictus of terror and agony, her swollen bloody tongue flickering back and forth until the Yuon had had enough and, with a thick grunt of satisfaction, took the wet thing between thumb and forefinger, lifting it out as far as it would go, and slicing it off with the honed cutting edge of his
knife ...
Khieu started awake. Had he cried out? He was shaking. The hot night beat on all around him. He heard the stealthy pad of predators, the flurry of nocturnal wings high above his head in the arboreal reaches.
He stood shakily up. The bitter taste of copper was in his mouth. He put one hand against the tree trunk to steady himself. He was sweating profusely and he felt slightly nauseated as if he had been forced to overeat. His breath came loudly and he heard the high-pitched skree skree of bats in flight, signalling to each
other.
After a time, he sat back down, his soaked back against the bole of the tree to wait for morning. No more sleep for him this
long night.
He knew now what he must do before he left Kampuchea and the thought filled him with a creeping pervading dread.
Thwaite stopped off to see the police surgeon before he left town. He thought briefly about dropping in on Melody or calling her even but somehow he never got around to it.
The surgeon, a porky jovial man with a balding bullet head and a moustache turned yellow from his constant smoking, expertly redressed the wound. He asked Thwaite if he was feeling much pain and at what times.
Thwaite told him the truth. The thing only bothered him now when he twisted his body sharply and, sometimes, if he had overdone it physically during the day. The surgeon nodded, wrote out a prescription for a mild pain-killer. As soon as he was out of the office, Thwaite threw it away.
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That morning he had phoned a friend of his in the Chicago Police Force.
Since he needed an entree into the Kenilworth police department, Thwaite had decided on Art Silvano. They had worked together more than once but on the last occasion the Chicago Detective Sergeant had had to come to Thwaite for a rather large favour. Together, they had bent the departmental rules a bit and that was a powerful bond between them.
Silvano met him at O'Hare. He had a bit more white hair and the shade of blue in his eyes seemed to have lightened a little but otherwise he seemed the same. He was a man whose wide shoulders allowed him to carry more paunch than he had to without attracting too much attention. He had a tanned, seamed face which always reminded Thwaite of a full-blooded Texan though he knew Silvano was from nearby Cicero.
The two shook hands warmly and Silvano told Thwaite how sorry he was about the death of the other's family.
'I got a connection in Kenilworth,' Silvano said. 'One of the three sergeants, guy name of Rich Pleasent. Not too bad a sort considering where he works. He'll take care of us.' They were passing the urban blight of the city as quickly as was possible. 'Now you'd better fill me in on what you're looking for.'
Twenty minutes later they were at Pleasent's office. 'Thwaite here's been after a fugitive, thinks the bastard may have had something to do with Senator Burke's murder.'
Pleasent shrugged. 'I think you're outta luck, then. I was the one who caught the squeal so I was first on the scene. It was nothing but a B and E. Burke must've caught the perpetrator in the act and tried to attack him. That was a mistake. This guy was a professional. He left nothing.'
Silvano nodded thoughtfully. 'Still, we'd like to take a look at the ME's report. Can you help us out?'
'Sure.* Pleasent swivelled around, pulled open the drawer of a metal file cabinet. He extracted a buff folder, spun it across.
Thwaite opened the folder and went through it carefully. There was no mention of the nose cartilage.
Thwaite found the name of the associate ME who performed the autopsy. 'You know a Dr Wood?'
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The sergeant shrugged. 'Don't know any of em down there. I mean, why would I hang out with a buncha ghouls? You think I wanna eat my lunch in the cold room with all those stiffs? I got other hobbies.'
Thwaite leaned forward. 'Mind if I make a call?'
Pleasent turned his phone around. 'Help yourself.'
Thwaite dialled the number. When the operator answered, he asked for Dr Wood. He was put on hold, then was told that Dr Wood was currently in court, testifying in a case. Did he want to leave a message? Thwaite said he did not and hung up.
He tapped the cover of the report absently before sliding it back onto the desk. He asked for and got the police photographs of the crime scene. He didn't think he'd learn much from them but it was bad procedure to overlook anything, even the obvious.
'I'd like to see the list of stolen property. The insurance company must've furnished you with one.'
Pleasent shrugged again. 'Why not?' He got the stuff. 'But I still think all of this's a waste of everyone's time.'
Thwaite ran his eye down the list: stereo, a portable TV, two antique clocks, video tape recorder, Intellivision video game, an inlaid gold box. A list of personal jewellery followed: rings, diamond cufflinks, a Philippe Patek solid gold watch.
'I'd appreciate it,' Thwaite said carefully, 'if you'd take us out to the Senator's house.'
'Oh, for Christ's sake,' Pleasent said to Silvano,' is this really necessary, Art?'
'I gotta take a look at the place,' Thwaite insisted quietly.
'Ah, shit, okay. C'mon.'
They drove out to Kenilworth. The countryside was spectacular, long, tree-lined streets, well-paved and perfectly clean; large, expensive houses and estates bordered by sculptured hedges and low-growing trees. Sunlight, dappling through the foliage, lit their way.
Pleasent took them into the house. It was hot and stuffy. All the windows were closed and, of course, the air conditioning had not been on in recent days.
The place struck Thwaite as odd immediately. All the black
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and white was somehow eerie. He wondered how anyone could've lived here.
Pleasent stood in the centre of the living room, explaining to them just where the body had been found, how they had reconstructed the crime.
'Know how the intruder got in?' Thwaite asked. 'The front door wasn't locked when I came by. I just walked right in. Maybe the perpetrator did the same.'
'Yeah, maybe,' Thwaite said without enthusiasm. He could not buy that. It was a lazy answer and he never trusted lazy answers.
Pleasent stayed where he was, jangling the keys to the house while Thwaite and Silvano made a search of the rest of the rooms.
The master bath was all black including the porcelain fixtures. Thwaite wondered what the senator had thought about while he was in there; it seemed to him more like a crypt.
The bedroom, expansive and airy, was, in contrast, all in white save for a double lowboy dresser that ran the length of one wall.
'Quite a spread,' Silvano said sarcastically. 'So this's what I voted for.'
The den with its rows of bookshelves seemed the most livedm; it appeared as if no one had slept in the guest bedroom for some time.
'Let's take a look at the grounds,' Thwaite said and Pleasent groaned.
Burke's property extended off to one side and straight out back. To the side, the original wild stands of trees had been cut down by the builder and a professional landscaper had been brought in to do the replanting.
Out back, the original trees had been left. 'How far does this go back?' Thwaite asked.
'Oh, quite a ways,' Pleasent said, not paying much attention.
Thwaite and Silvano took a walk. The sun was lowish, sending oblique rays filled with dancing dust motes through the gaps in the trees. The stand of birch and oak lasted for perhaps a hundred and fifty yards, then broke slowly apart as the land
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sloped down to the bank of a rather large pond. Swans and a pair of mallard ducks swam contentedly, ruffling their feathers in the summer sun.
Returning to Silvano's car, Thwaite asked the police operator to patch him through to the MEs office. This time, Dr Wood came on the line after a slight pause.
This's Detective Sergeant Douglas Thwaite from the NYPD,' he said carefully. Tm currently out here with the Kenilworth and Chicago police, looking into the murder of Senator Burke. I understand you performed the autopsy.'
'That's correct,' Dr Wood's thin voice came down the
line.
'Can you tell me what shape the senator's nose cartilage was
in at the time of the autopsy.'
'What?' The pathologist seemed nonplussed.
'The cartilage was,' in effect, the agent of death, was it not?'
'Well, yes, but -'
'Doctor, please answer the question.'
Wood thought a moment. 'The nasal cartilage was pretty much intact.'
Thwaite's heart beat harder. 'Pretty much?'
'Well, I mean to say, there were minute chips here and there along the interior end but, other than that, it was in one piece. Quite remarkable.'
'Thank you, Doctor,' Thwaite said excitedly. 'You've been a big help.' He put the mouthpiece back in its cradle.
'Well?' Silvano asked anxiously. He was bending down, peering through the open window. 'What's up?'
Thwaite looked up at his friend. 'This's my bastard, all right, Art. The ME just confirmed it.'
'Yeah, okay,' Silvano said. 'But you're still at a dead-end.'
Thwaite got out of the car. 'Maybe not. I'm thinkin' that he's no B and E man. That means the stolen property was a scam all the way.' He turned his head, looked out at the sun-dappled trees rustling in the warm wind. 'He had no truck to cart off the heavy stuff so what did he do with it? Even if he was as strong as a bull, he couldn't've taken the shit too far.' Then he
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began to walk back the way they had come In the stand of birch and oak behind the house, he answered his own question 'The pond '
Tracy would have preferred to linger awhile down the hillside in the cool refined atmosphere of the Jockey Club bar on the eighth floor, overlooking the now deserted race track An iced daquin would have done him well now in celebration But he decided that would not be politic He did not want to rub Mizo's face in it, after all
He tried not to gloat as he climbed into the taxi he had had them call for him at the stables but it was a difficult task indeed For the first time, he felt closer to his quarry and the resulting surge of adrenalin almost eliminated his concern
From the moment he had come away from his dinner with the Director, he had been on guard That the Director had no knowledge of what Kim was up to told Tracy much But not nearly enough For every answer it provided, ten questions had sprung up in its place For instance, it was now not surprising that Tracy had been unable to contact Kim during the last fortyeight hours Yet he was still in the dark as to why the Vietnamese had brought him in on this
Partly to clear his mind of unanswered questions, he told the driver to take him to the Diamond House on Queens Road On the long flight over, he had had much time to think about Lauren and he had determined that he would not allow Bobby's ghost to come between them He'd find some way to explain it to her
It took him two hours - most of that fighting traffic - but he returned to the hotel with a four-carat flawless blue-white stone in a platinum setting On entering the lobby, he crossed straight to the concierge's desk, requesting the use of the hotel's safe He gave them the small gift-wrapped parcel from the Diamond House and the concierge, a young Chinese with bad skin and a winning smile, signed the receipt, handing Tracy the original
'You merely have to present this,' he said helpfully, 'and your parcel will be returned to you, Mr Richter '
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Tracy thanked him, went across the lobby, took a lift up to
his room.
In the hallway, he slowed his pace, waiting for the French couple to pass him, take the elevator down to the lobby. When they had gone and the hallway was clear, he knelt in front of his door, inspecting the lock. He was expecting nothing but old habits die hard and he was, after all, on a mission. It was a mistake to become careless.
Satisfied, he put his key in the lock, turned it over. Inside, everything was where he had left it. He went to the bureau, opened the bottom right-hand drawer. Under a pair of Sea Island cotton shirts, he uncovered the case his father had so painstakingly packed for him. He smiled. He did not think he would need any of the contents now.
