THE DESIRE NOT TO LIVE

A moment later Ladarat was half running down the street, past the WesternGirl bar, and onto Loi Kroh Road, where she could easily flag a taxi. She looked quickly behind her and was surprised but not astonished that Wiriya hadn’t followed her.

He should have followed her, shouldn’t he? That’s what Ladarat was thinking as she waved down a taxi and gave her address to the implacable driver. He should at least have called out after her, instead of just sitting there like a lazy elephant, finishing his—and her—kao niew moo yang.

That would only have been right. And leaving her to find her own ride home, that was not very gentlemanly. He had picked her up at home and he should have offered to drop her off.

Ladarat’s thoughts bubbled along in this style for the twenty-minute trip out to her house, and by the time she’d paid the driver and let herself in, she felt several degrees more calm. Almost peaceful. Almost, but not quite. Hadn’t he dismissed her abilities of detection? She found herself getting angry all over again.

In the kitchen, Ladarat took a moment to take a deep breath, and then another. As Maewfawbaahn twined himself around her legs, she rummaged in the cupboard and found a can of cat food that emitted a little gust of fish smell when she popped it open. She dumped the whole can into Maefawnbahn’s bowl with a sharp thwack of the can that surprised both of them. Her loyal cat looked up at her in confusion.

“No, it’s not you.” She rubbed his head and scooted him toward his waiting dinner. She herself hadn’t eaten much, but she found she wasn’t hungry. That gang som pak ruam had been too sour and the gang som cha om kai had been cold. Although she hadn’t tried the kao niew moo yang, Ladarat was certain it was not nearly as good as Sonthi’s. For sure the som tam was too spicy—a trick to hide papaya that was a little too green. Thinking about that disappointing meal killed her appetite entirely.

Instead, she perched on one of the two old concave wooden farmer’s stools that were tucked under the counter. They didn’t get much use these days; she ate dinner outside whenever she could. But they were surprisingly comfortable, worn smooth by decades of sitting.

Ladarat checked her cell phone for messages as Maewfawbaahn ate, but there was nothing from Wiriya. There was, however, a message from Sisithorn, saying that she felt much better and thanking Ladarat for taking care of her. And another message from Ukrit. “Blood test positive for trichloroethanol.”

Trichloroethanol? What could that be? It wasn’t a drug she’d ever heard of. Ethanol was alcohol, of course. Everyone knew that. But trichloroethanol? No idea.

She could look it up, but it was past nine, and despite her prolonged nap, somehow Ladarat still felt exhausted. She could feel her eyelids starting to droop as she watched Maewfawbaahn’s finicky eating, one small bite at a time. At this rate he wouldn’t be done until morning. She’d fall asleep waiting for him.

It wouldn’t take long to look up one chemical, would it?

Indeed it didn’t. She hustled upstairs and grabbed her iPad from her nightstand and then sat on the edge of her bed, her iPad balanced on her knees. A quick search for trichloroethanol led to interesting results, results that she could, perhaps, have expected. Although those results didn’t point to a culprit in the night robber case, they were proof that there was, in fact, a case.

She lay back, bunching all of her pillows behind her and putting her feet up on the bed. What did these results mean?

For a second she thought of calling Wiriya with those results. But he was the detective. The real detective. He would figure it out.

Her iPad was still open in front of her, and Ladarat found herself completely and inexplicably wide awake. Before she knew what she was doing, she found her fingers navigating to Richard April’s website. She was looking for … well … she couldn’t really say. Something that would shed light on his disappearance? Or some evidence that he hadn’t actually disappeared?

What she found, though, wasn’t what she expected. It was something, she noted with intense satisfaction, that Wiriya the real detective had missed.

On the far right of the screen were short snippets of thoughts and suggestions from the great man himself, arrayed from newest to oldest. The short line at the top, posted just three days ago, was very brief. “Sad news,” it said.

Ladarat clicked on the link and was taken to another page with a black banner across the top. There were a few paragraphs of text, apparently written by Richard April.

Dear fans:

I’m sad to have to write such a sad letter, so soon. But I’m happy, at least, that there are fans to whom I can write it.

About a month ago, I started feeling unwell, and when I went to my doctor, she put me through a series of tests that were, to be honest, pretty unpleasant. (Think of the torment I put Gerald through in the first chapter of The Lighthouse Murders, and you’ll have a pretty good idea of what those doctors did to me. Perhaps it’s Gerald’s revenge.)

Anyway, they found liver cancer that was very advanced. That’s their way of saying cancer’s not curable. Not even treatable. (In the world of cancer, you really don’t want to be “advanced.” You really just don’t.)

They gave me maybe three months to live. If I’m lucky.

Well, I thought about that for a few days, and I figured that I’ve already been about as lucky as any guy can be. Successful books, lots of loyal fans. And above all, I get to make a living doing what I love. I’ve been lucky. Very lucky. And all luck runs out eventually. It seems like mine has.

So I’m not counting on any more luck. And rather than struggling on through the next few months, or whatever time I have, I’ve decided I don’t want to spend my last months on earth being sick. I’d like to check out while I can.

So that’s what I’m going to do. Travel a bit. See the world. Or at least a little of it. And check out while I’m still awake and with it enough to have a deep conversation.

In short, I want to check out when I’m still the person that my characters would recognize. Josie, especially. Remember Josie? My publisher thought she was a silly idea, but she turned out to be one of my favorite characters.

I don’t want to get to the point where I’d be one of her patients. So thanks for being great fans. And thanks for reading.

A full minute went by as Ladarat read that message again. And then a third time.

Ladarat sat there, vaguely aware that Maewfawbaahn had followed her up the stairs and wedged himself next to her on the bed, just as a loyal watchcat would. She was aware of her cat and his contented purring, but her mind was elsewhere.

So this man … Richard April. He was dying? So he came to Chiang Mai and the Magic Grove Hotel and he … what?

Ladarat thought back to Wiriya’s theory that he’d had a liaison with a sex worker. That certainly wasn’t the case. Not now.

And the notion that he’d just … disappeared seemed implausible. Someone might do that if they had debts, or if they wanted to begin a new life. But there would be no new life for Richard April.

Ladarat scanned the letter one more time, looking for a phrase that had caught her attention before. Her brain hadn’t known what to do with that phrase the first time.

Richard April said he didn’t want to spend the time he had left “being sick.” He wanted to check out.

Ladarat’s grasp of colloquial English was perhaps not all that it could be, but this was a phrase she’d become familiar with during her year at the University of Chicago. She knew what it meant. And she knew that this desire to “check out” was not uncommon among Americans who wanted to control their lives and, ultimately, their deaths.

So. This Richard April had decided to end his life. That much was clear. He’d come to Chiang Mai, and to the Magic Grove Hotel, to do it. If his discarded luggage meant what she thought it meant, it would seem that Richard April had succeeded.

Everything made sense and yet … it didn’t. Richard April’s note to his fans explained so much, but it created as many mysteries as it solved. So he’d come to Chiang Mai to end his life, but why? When he had a successful life, and probably family, and—who knew?—perhaps months left to live?

He didn’t want to spend the time he had left being sick. Ladarat found herself saying that out loud. In English.

And as she did, she thought of the conversation she’d had with Melissa Double. What had she said? That she didn’t want to go back to Wales—Cardiff—where people would think of her as “sick.” As “dying.”

So Melissa Double had been thinking the same thing?

It was at that moment that Ladarat’s head recognized what her heart had figured out a few minutes before. Richard April and Melissa Double had been sick and dying. But they didn’t want to be. Richard April had gotten his wish, and, Ladarat realized with a sinking feeling in her stomach, Melissa Double probably had, too.

“Oh … no.”

She said that out loud, with enough force to wake Maewfawbaahn, who looked up at her curiously, flicking his long tail against the pillow next to her.

“Oh, no,” she said again, because the next logical thought was not far away. If it was all but certain that Richard April had traveled to the Magic Grove Hotel to end his life, and if it was very likely that Melissa Double had done the same …

Ladarat didn’t need to finish that sentence to know that things were very bad indeed. These disappearances of Sharon McPhiller and Demian Ober and probably many, many more now seemed to have a solution. But it was a solution that Ladarat didn’t like one bit.

Now, at least, her course of action was clear. There could be no question of her continuing this investigation on her own. She would need to call Wiriya, and soon.

Soon. Meaning: Now.

If ever there was a time to put aside their differences, now was that time. She would extend … what was that English saying? A branch. Some variety of branch. Whatever the appropriate variety of branch was … well … she would extend it.

Wirya answered, as she knew he would. Their conversation was stilted at first and uncomfortably formal. No doubt Wiriya was still miffed by her clandestine spying and, worse, her clandestine spying without his knowledge. But now at least he would appreciate the results she’d obtained by her … unorthodox methods.

And he did. He even apologized, perfunctorily, for his skepticism.

Ladarat found she was relieved that she had another reason for this call.

Ladarat read Richard April’s note in its entirety and then returned to the line that had caught her attention.

“He said he didn’t want to spend his final months ‘being sick.’”

“That’s what he wrote?” Wiriya sounded surprised. He, too, had missed that the first time.

“Exactly.”

Now Wiriya was silent for a long time. “You think that this man came to Thailand to … stop living?”

Ladarat said that was exactly what she thought. She reminded Wiriya of Demian Ober and Sharon McPhiller and Melissa Double.

“And who knows how many other people,” Wiriya said slowly. Ladarat could imagine him shaking his head.

“Is it possible,” he asked, “that this desire not to live is common?”

Ladarat nodded. “Certainly I’ve heard about it. And in some countries in Europe, and even in America, it’s permissible to take your own life.”

Wiriya seemed stunned by this. “For everyone? Whenever you want?”

“No, no. Just under certain circumstances. For instance, if you’re very sick, with a medical condition like what Richard April had.” Or, she thought, like Melissa Double’s cancer.

Now Wiriya seemed more worried than she’d ever seen him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, I don’t know. Not for sure. But I have a bad feeling about this.” He paused. “We have all of these people who are coming through Chiang Mai and disappearing, right?”

Ladarat nodded.

“And one person—just one, I admit—seems like he might have been intent on ending his own life.”

“And …?”

“So what if all of these people are disappearing for the same reason? What if Chiang Mai has become—unbeknownst to us—the place where people come when they don’t want to be sick? When they would rather be dead?”

Like a good nurse, Ladarat congratulated herself on letting Wiriya reach this conclusion on his own.

“I’m afraid you may be right,” was all she said.

There was a long pause as they considered the situation. Eventually, after what felt like minutes, it was Wiriya who broke the silence.

“I apologize for doubting you. You were suspicious, and … well … you certainly had reason to be.” Another pause. “Unfortunately.”

Another time, and under different circumstances, Ladarat might have extracted a more detailed apology. She might even have gloated a little. But not now. Now the only appropriate response was a humble acknowledgment and a plan.

Much to her surprise, she found that Wiriya was looking to her for that plan. That was astonishing. He was the detective in this relationship, was he not?

Far more astonishing, to her, at least, was the fact that she did, in fact, have a plan. A good one, she thought. And one they could put into motion tomorrow morning.