The generator sounds like it has a respiratory disease.
It sputters, coughs, hiccups. Then it makes a phlegmy, ratcheting, throat-clearing sound for ten seconds or so, and the whole pathology starts over.
It’s so loud, Boo thinks, that he could ride in on horseback and no one would hear him.
The big black Mercedes sits empty at the end of the cracked drive, a car-shaped hole in the darkness, its motor ticking as it cools. Boo keeps himself to the darkest areas, moving from the shadow of one bush to another to avoid the thin, chilly-looking moonlight. The ground underfoot is littered with chunks of concrete, jagged-edged, irregular, heavy enough to pitch him facedown if he trips on one. Spiderwebs lace the spaces between the weeds, fat spiders straddling the centers, waiting patiently for blood. Boo isn’t particularly afraid of spiders, but he doesn’t like walking face-first into one.
And the place smells as if the hair of a million women was burned inside.
Boo can stroll the darkest, narrowest alley in Bangkok on a moonless night without so much as a bump in his pulse rate, but this weedy field with its blackened, abandoned factory makes the hair on his arms stand up. The generator goes into a paroxysm of coughing, and suddenly there is light on the bottom floor of the building.
Or is there? The interior is so black that there’s nothing for the light to bounce off; it’s like looking into an infinite space. If it weren’t for the long rectangles of illumination spilling onto the weeds through the doors and windows and shining on the newly visible profile of the Mercedes, Boo’s not sure he’d even register the light. But he knows one thing: Light or no light, the place doesn’t feel any friendlier.
With the noise of the generator clattering in his ears, he doesn’t hear the person behind him, and when the hand lands on his arm, he goes straight up into the air and comes down facing the opposite way, one hand clutching a five-inch knife that’s normally sheathed inside his right front pocket. When he sees who it is, he gasps in relief several times and then knots her T-shirt in his hand to drag her down into a crouch, out of sight from the building.
Da says, “We have to leave.”
“Be quiet. Rafferty’s coming with the cops. We’ll argue then.”
“Now,” she says. “We have to leave now.”
Boo looks back at the building, sees nothing inside the big black room, just the sharp-edged rectangles of light falling through the door and windows. He registers that the windows are barred with thick rods of what looks like iron. “Why?” he whispers. “Why do we have to leave?”
“This place is full of ghosts,” Da says. “They’re everywhere.”
“Don’t be silly,” Boo says, feeling the goose bumps pop out on his arms.
Da says, and her voice is shaking, “They’re on fire.”
“Well, yeah,” Boo says, keeping his own voice steady. “Look at the place. Got burned to shit.”
“Please. These are not ghosts you can talk to. They want blood. They’ve been waiting for blood.”
“Go across the street,” Boo says. “They’ll stay here. Ghosts don’t just wander around. I need to see what’s happening in there.”
“You have to come with me,” Da says. “I can’t have Peep here. If we stay, there will be blood. There will be.”
“Then go, go. Get out of here. Get Peep across the street.”
Da starts to reply, but her voice splinters into “Ohhhhhhh” as a figure inside walks past the door.
“Shut up,” Boo hisses. “It’s just the fat guy, Pan. The little one’s got to be around somewhere. He was driving. He’s not in the car, so he’s somewhere else. Look, he’s only a guy.” Then he puts a hand on her shoulder and says, barely louder than a thought, “Don’t move.”
Dr. Ravi comes through the door of the factory and picks his way down the driveway to the Mercedes. He opens the trunk and leans in, and when he straightens up, he has something coiled over one shoulder and bulky objects dangling from each hand. Inside the factory door, he puts down the things in his hands and pulls the coil off his shoulder and drops it to the floor.
“Lights,” Boo says. “And cord. Electrical cord.”
But Dr. Ravi is already on his way back to the car. This time he removes long pieces of something that looks like pipe. Once inside again, he takes two of the lengths of pipe and begins to screw them together. Then Pan appears at the door and picks up the long coil of electrical cord. He unloops it, backing away until he is out of sight.
“What are they doing?” Boo whispers. “Are they going to light the place? And why are they doing this themselves? Pan’s rich. There must be a hundred people who could do this for him.” He squeezes Da’s shoulder. “Go now. Tell the kid at the gate—his name is Tee—to come up here. I want him to use that video camera.”
Da puts both hands on his arm. “I’m telling you. You should go, too.”
“Ghosts leave me alone,” Boo says. “I’ve come too close to dying, too often. They look at me and know it’s just a matter of time.”
“You don’t know anything,” Da says furiously. He hears the brush rustling for a couple of seconds, and then the generator drowns out the sounds of her movement.
A moment later Pan appears, pushing something black and shapeless across the floor, right to left. Things—pieces of it—fall off as he shoves, and he kicks the fragments out of the way. And then he reappears, moving in the opposite direction, picking up things as he goes, and ten or twelve heartbeats later he carries an armload of shapeless objects past the door. Whatever he’s arranging, it’s being set up on the side of the room that’s to the left of the door.
Boo looks over his shoulder just in time to see Da slip through the gate, heading across the street. Other than the gate, there seems to be no way out; as far as Boo can see, the fence, at least three meters tall, surrounds the overgrown plot of ground on which the burned factory is centered. He’s thinking, Keep the path to the gate clear, when he hears the boy who’d been stationed at the gate, Tee, coming up behind him. Without looking back, Boo says, “You stay here. I’m going to check the window to the left over there.”
Tee says, “I don’t like it here.”
“Well,” Boo says, “you’ve got a lot of company. Try to keep me in sight, but don’t let them see you.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But what?”
“But I don’t want to be here alone.”
“That damn Da,” Boo says. “Ghosts everywhere.” He straightens partway and looks down at Tee. “You going to be okay?” It’s more a threat than a question.
Tee averts his eyes. “I guess.”
“Won’t be long.”
As Boo starts to move to his left, he sees Dr. Ravi, who’s still standing in the doorway, unfold three legs at the bottom of one of the pipe-like objects to create a tall tripod. He bends down and picks up one of the lights and starts to screw it onto the top of the tripod. He has to stand on tiptoe to tighten the light. He handles the objects clumsily. They’re obviously unfamiliar to him, and assembling them fully engages his attention.
At the edge of the driveway, Boo pauses and steadies his breathing. The driveway is about fifteen feet wide, and with the Mercedes behind him there’s no cover at all. He waits until Dr. Ravi turns his back to the door, picks up the light, now securely atop the pole, and carries it left, out of sight. Then Boo crouches low, takes one last look at the door and the window, and sprints, bent almost double, over the cracked asphalt. He has made it most of the distance across when his toe catches on the edge of a fractured, uptilted piece of paving. He windmills his arms, he tries desperately to find a point of balance, but he was moving too fast, and there’s no question. He’s going down.
At the last possible second, he realizes he’s going to land on his elbows, and he pulls them back to avoid breaking them, and he hits flat on his stomach. The grunt that the impact forces out of him can be heard even over the generator. He remains absolutely still, holding his breath, his eyes glued to the doorway, wishing fiercely for invisibility, and he hears someone inside say, “Somebody’s out there.”
And then something cold and wet touches his arm.
“WHY DR. RAVI?” Arthit asks.
The taxi is absolutely rocketing now that the densest parts of the city are behind them, the driver using flashing headlights, a nasal horn, and a well-oiled accelerator pedal to muscle the rest of the world out of the way.
“Process of elimination,” Rafferty says as the landscape flashes past. “What it comes down to is that nobody else knows as much about what’s happening in Pan’s life, no one else is in daily contact with him. Let’s say Dr. Ravi applied for the job because he thought, like a lot of people, that Pan was a great man.”
“He probably could have been,” Arthit says.
“Pan?” the driver asks. “You mean the one with all the money? What a guy.”
Arthit says, “I rest my case.”
“And maybe one reason Dr. Ravi wanted the job was that it hadn’t escaped his attention that Pan could have a significant political future,” Rafferty says. “And let’s say that Dr. Ravi has unexpectedly democratic sentiments and he thinks that Pan might be the person who could finally give the poor a say in how the country is run.”
“I’d vote for him,” the driver says.
“Just drive,” Kosit says.
“I’d like to be next in line for his girls, too,” the driver says.
“Here’s the thing,” Arthit says to the driver. “Shut up and drive, or when we get there, I’ll shoot you.”
Rafferty looks over at him, and Arthit shrugs.
“Cops,” the driver grumbles.
“And get us there in ten minutes,” Arthit says, “and you’ll make an extra five thousand baht.”
The driver says, “Driving.”
“So he gets the job, Dr. Ravi does,” Rafferty says, “and the first thing he does is go through everything in the files, probably including some stuff he shouldn’t have seen at all. As he told me, he’s the media director. He needs to know whether there are any skeletons in the closet. He’s expecting one or two—nobody gets as rich as Pan without a few skeletons folded away here and there—but he’s not prepared for a hundred and twenty-one of them.”
Arthit thinks about it for a moment. “How do you know he found out about that?”
Rafferty also thinks for a second, then shakes his head. “Actually, I don’t. But he knew what Snakeskin was.”
Arthit says, “Mmmmm.”
“So let’s say he didn’t know about what happened at the factory. But the deal with Ton, with Snakeskin, is happening in real time, in the office Pan shares with Dr. Ravi, and Dr. Ravi found out about it.”
He breaks off as Arthit touches his knee and lifts his eyebrows at the driver, whose eyes keep going to the rearview mirror.
“And that information…um, confounded Dr. Ravi’s expectations, and all of a sudden his political allegiances shifted. I mean, drastically. Whether he knew about the fire or not, he suddenly realizes that the archangel is in bed with the archfiend. So Dr. Ravi decides to use his privileged position to work against you-know-who’s ever getting elected to anything, and here comes the last thing on earth he wants to see: some hack writer, and a farang to boot, all set to crank out a biography of the no-longer-great man.”
“Why would he think the book would be sympathetic?”
“My fault. I kicked him out of the office before I told Pan about the threats from the other side, before we came to our understanding. When the door opens, half an hour later, Pan and I are getting along great, so great that I’ve been invited to the malaria thing, and then Pan’s lending my wife diamonds worth millions, and I’m apparently allowed to drop by whenever I want. So sure, Dr. Ravi figures the book will be a whitewash, a fan letter. I’m going to turn Pan into Gandhi.”
Arthit scratches his head. “So it was Dr. Ravi who warned you not to write the book.”
“Yeah. I don’t think he was actually going to carry out the threats. He thought I’d scare off easily, and I would have if it hadn’t been for Ton. But he got some people who are really serious about their politics to keep an eye on me, and when he told them to discourage me for a second or third time, they went a little overboard.”
Arthit glances at the bandaged hand. “I’d say so.”
“I’d like to keep listening,” the driver says, “but we’re almost there. It’s the next right.”