That night Rafferty sits shirtless at his desk, icing his shoulder and drawing with a soft pencil on a drafting pad. The green-shaded student lamp on the desk is the only light in the room. The boy is asleep on the couch, his mouth open. He has, Rafferty notices, very good teeth.
A long time ago, he started to think of the books he wrote in terms of floor plans, working with pencil and eraser to explore the shape and balance of the manuscript without the distraction of words. Now he draws a floor plan of the mess he has gotten into, trying to create a geography of the situation.
The front door of his floor plan is opened by Arthit, who directs him to Clarissa. A line joins both of them to the two rogue cops. Clarissa points him down a hallway to the rooms that represent Uncle Claus, rooms that were furnished with secrets and violent pornography but are abandoned now. A short corridor leads him to Doughnut's room, scoured clean and locked tight, linked by two lines, the first leading downstairs to Noot, working for Mr. Choy, and the other pointing toward a box for Bangkok Domestics. Bangkok Domestics is connected to the dark, gothic complex inhabited by Madame Wing, from which two lines run, one leading to the dead safecracker Tam and the other toward a mutilated Cambodian named Chouk Ran.
If this were cosmology, the area surrounding all the neat little boxes would be the realm of quasars, dark matter, and the Great Attractor. Applying Arthit's suggestion of Occam's razor-the principle that says always to look for the simplest explanation-there would be a Great Attractor out there somewhere, pulling Doughnut, Uncle Claus, Madame Wing, Chouk Ran, and the others, known and unknown, toward a single point.
If that were true, the course of action would be relatively simple: Find the Attractor and ambush them on their way to it. Except that Rafferty doesn't believe in the Great Attractor in this case. He thinks he's looking at two separate orbits that just happen to share some space.
He rubs his stiff neck. Rose is asleep. Miaow is in her room.
His shoulder throbs. The pain pills have given up for the night.
He tears the page from the pad as quietly as he can and folds it into quarters without even knowing he is doing it. Then he drops the page into the wastebasket and gets up, pushing the chair back slowly. The boy doesn't stir as he passes, although Rafferty senses a coil of tension in the still form.
The security lock is in place on the inside of the door, which means it would take two kicks to knock it in instead of one. Rafferty goes into the kitchen and pulls five or six cans of tomatoes from the shelves. Rose buys almost as many cans of tomatoes as she does jars of Nescafe. He carries them to the door and kneels, pulling the gun from his waistband and laying it on the carpet, because it pinches when he leans forward. He stacks the cans on top of each other, leaning slightly away from the door at an angle somewhat less acute than the one that distinguishes the Leaning Tower of Pisa. If the door opens even an inch, the cans will fall to the floor, making enough noise to wake everyone in the apartment.
He checks the arrangement one last time and turns to see the boy up on one elbow, watching him.
"Burglar alarm," Rafferty says, feeling silly. "Kind of low-tech, but it's what we have."
"Good," the boy says with a nod. "Do you think they will come?" His voice is slightly hoarse, as though it does not get a lot of use.
"No. But it's better to be ready."
The boy's eyes go to the gun on the floor. "Can you shoot?"
"Enough," Rafferty says. "Listen, I want you to sleep in Miaow's room."
"Why?" the boy says immediately. He pulls back physically, shifting his weight to the other elbow.
"I want the couch. If anybody comes in, I want to be the one who's out here."
"You will need help." The boy has not moved.
"And you can come in as soon as you hear anything wrong. That way you'll surprise them, like you did in the alley."
"Okay." The boy gets up and wraps the sheet around him.
"Great. And tomorrow you can repair my fax."
"What's wrong with it?" The question comes quickly.
"I'll tell you tomorrow. Thanks for your help tonight."
The child thinks about it and then nods. "No problem." He trundles off down the hall, the sheet dragging behind him, and Rafferty goes into his bedroom to grab a blanket and a pillow.
He settles in and knows in ten seconds it's not going to work. The couch is too short for him. It's still warm from the boy. It has lumps in it. There's nowhere to put his knees. The room is too bright. His arm and shoulder throb. He knows he will never get to sleep.
When he wakes up, in broad daylight, the boy is sitting wrapped in his sheet, on the floor halfway across the room, looking at him.
25
He writes, carefully, "TEN MILLION BAHT."
He had wanted to demand 25 million, but a quick calculation told him that it would be too bulky. Not manageable.
Anyway, the money doesn't matter.
The restaurant is as empty as before, but the waitress is awake. She greeted him as though he were a personal inconvenience, brought him his sweetened iced coffee silently, and retreated to her chair and a Thai movie magazine. The time is ten past four in the morning.
Chouk Ran-the man who called himself Chon-has placed a bright blue zippered bag on the table beside his notepad and pencil. He bought it on the street only two days ago, and the zipper is already broken.
He moves the bag aside with his elbow to give himself writing room.
"You will need to buy two large suitcases," he writes. "They will need wheels, because they will be heavy." He pauses and reviews the letter in his mind, where he has written and rewritten it many times. He reproaches himself for his failure of nerve, for the time he has wasted: There are only six days remaining to him before one of them must die.
"Put the money in the suitcases. It should be in bills of 500 and 1000 baht. Tomorrow afternoon at four, a maid from your house will come out of the gate alone, with the suitcases. This is why they must have wheels. She will turn left, walk to the intersection, and get a taxi. She will put the suitcases in the trunk. I know your staff by sight, so I will know if she is not one of your maids. I will know if she is not alone. I will know if she doesn't get a real taxi. If she does not follow directions, you will lose the money and you will not get the envelope."
He sips the iced coffee. The ice has melted, and the drink tastes watery. He tries to remember when he slept last.
"She will carry the cellular phone I have enclosed in this package," he writes. He reaches into the blue bag and pulls out a small Nokia cell phone. He pushes the "power" button and checks the battery level, although he has done this three times already.
"She will return in two hours or a little more. If you have done as I say, she will have the envelope with her. That will be the end of our business."
He puts down the pencil and lights a cigarette. He lets the letter rest for a few minutes before he rereads it.
Her anger will be immeasurable. She will want to kill someone. He once saw her kill a four-year-old child because it was crying.
She will send the money. He is certain of that. As much pain as it causes her, she will send it. For the first time in her adult life, perhaps, she will have no alternative but to do as she is told. He tries to imagine the agony she will feel when she realizes she has no choice but to comply. Then he closes his eyes and tries to visualize how she will feel later, when she gets the suitcases back and looks inside.