“It couldn’t be. They’re not natural.”
Somchai shrugs. “They breed. They eat. They live. They breathe.” He smiles slightly. “If you pet them, they will purr.”
Jaidee makes a face of disgust.
“It’s true. I have touched them. They are real. As much as you or I.”
“They’re just empty vessels. No soul fills them.”
Somchai shrugs. “Maybe even the worst monstrosities of the Japanese live in some way. I worry that Noi and Chart and Malee and Prem have been reborn in windup bodies. Not all of us are good enough to become Contraction phii. Maybe some of us become windups, in Japanese factories, working working working, you know? We’re so few in comparison to the past, where did all the souls go? Maybe to the Japanese? Maybe into windups?”
Jaidee masks his uneasiness at the direction of Somchai’s words. “It’s impossible.”
Somchai shrugs again. “Still. I could not bear to hunt a cheshire again.”
“Then let’s hunt men.”
Across the street, a door is opening and a Ministry worker steps outside. Jaidee is already crossing the street, sprinting to catch the man. Their target strides to a rack of bicycles and bends down to unlock a wheel. Jaidee’s club slides free. The man looks up and gasps and then Jaidee is on top of him, baton swinging. The man has time to raise an arm. Jaidee swats it aside and then he is inside the man’s reach and clubs him across the head.
Somchai catches up. “You’re fast for an old man.”
Jaidee smiles. “Take his feet.”
They lug the body back across the street, slipping into the puddled blackness between the methane lamps. Jaidee goes through his pockets. Keys jingle. He grins and raises them to show the prize. He ties the man quickly, blindfolds and gags him. A cheshire drifts close, watching, a molting of calico and shadow and stone.
“Will the cheshires eat him?” Somchai wonders.
“If you cared, you would have let me kill them.”
Somchai ponders this, but doesn’t say anything. Jaidee finishes binding the man. “Come on.” They jog back across the street, slip to the door. The key enters easily, and they are inside.
In the glare of electricity, Jaidee stifles the urge to locate light switches and plunge the Ministry into darkness. “Stupid to have people working so late. Burning all this carbon.”
Somchai shrugs. “Our man may be here in the building, even now.”
“Not if he’s lucky.” But Jaidee has the same thought. He wonders if he will be able to restrain himself if he catches Chaya’s killer. Wonders why he should.
They slip through more lighted halls. A few people are still present, but no one gives them a second glance as they stride by. Both of them walk with authority, have the air of men others must defer to. Jaidee acknowledges others with a quick inclination of his head as he walks past. Eventually he finds the records offices he requires. Somchai and Jaidee pause in front of glass doors. Jaidee hefts his baton.
“Glass.” Somchai notes.
“You want to try?”
Somchai examines the lock, pulls out a set of tools, sets to work probing the aperture, massaging its tumblers. Jaidee stands beside him, waiting impatiently. The corridor blazes with light.
Somchai fiddles with the locks.
“Eh. Never mind.” Jaidee hefts his baton. “Move aside.”
The shattering is quick; the sound echoes and fades. They wait for footsteps but there are none. They both slip inside and proceed to rifle through the cabinets. Eventually Jaidee finds the personnel files, and then there is a long period of examining poor photographs, of setting aside ones that seem familiar, sifting, sorting.
“He knew me.” Jaidee mutters. “He looked right at me.”
“Everyone knows you,” Somchai observes. “You are famous.”
Jaidee grimaces. “You think he was at the anchor pads to collect something? Or just there for the inspections themselves?”
“Or perhaps they wanted whatever was in Carlyle’s holds. Or some other dirigible that aborted arrival and dropped in Occupied Lanna, instead. There are a thousand possibilities, no?”
“Here!” Jaidee points. “This is the one.”
“You’re sure? His face was narrower, I thought.”
“I’m sure of it.”
Somchai frowns as he scans the file over Jaidee’s shoulder. “A low-level man. Not important at all. No one with influence.”
Jaidee shakes his head. “No. He has power. I saw the way he looked at me. He was at the ceremony when I was demoted.” He frowns. “There is no address information from him. Just Krung Thep.”
The sound of scuffling comes from outside. A pair of men stand in the broken doorway with their spring guns drawn. “Hold!”
Jaidee grimaces. Clasps the file behind his back. “Yes? There is a difficulty?” The guards step through the door, survey the office.
“Who are you?”
Jaidee looks at Somchai. “I thought you said I was famous.”
Somchai shrugs. “Not everyone loves muay thai.”
“But still, everyone gambles. They should have at least placed bets on my fights.”
The guards come closer. They order Jaidee and Somchai onto their knees. As the guards come around to secure them, Jaidee lashes out with an elbow. Catches one guard in the gut. Whirls with a knee that slams the man in the head. The other guard fires a stream of blades before Somchai hits him in the throat. The man falls, dropping his pistol, gurgling through a broken windpipe.
Jaidee grabs the surviving guard, drags him close. “Do you know this man?” He holds up the picture of his target. The guard’s eyes widen and he shakes his head, tries to crawl away towards his pistol. Jaidee kicks it out of reach, then kicks the man in his ribs. “Tell me everything about him! He’s yours. Akkarat’s.”
The guard shakes his head. “No!”
Jaidee kicks him in the face, drawing blood. Gets down beside the mewling man. “Tell me, or you follow your friend.”
Both their eyes travel to the gurgling man, strangling on his own crushed airway.
“Tell me,” Jaidee says.
“No need for that.”
At the door, the object of Jaidee’s hunger stands.
Men pour in through the door ahead of him. Jaidee draws his pistol, but they fire and blades slash into his gun arm. He drops the pistol. Blood pours. He turns to run for the office’s windows, but men tackle him, skidding on the wet marble. Everyone goes down in a tangle of limbs. Somewhere far away, Jaidee hears Somchai bellowing. His arms are yanked behind him. Zip straps bind his wrists in rattan bonds.
“Tourniquet that!” the man orders. “I don’t want him bleeding to death.”
Jaidee looks down. Blood is welling out of his arm. His captors staunch the flow. He’s not sure if he’s lightheaded from blood loss or the sudden lust he has for his enemy’s death. They yank him upright. Somchai joins him, his nose pouring blood, his eye closed. Teeth red. Behind him on the floor, two men lie still.
The man studies the two of them. Jaidee returns the gaze, refusing to look away.
“Captain Jaidee. You were supposed to have entered the monkhood.”
Jaidee tries to shrug. “My kuti didn’t have enough light. I thought I’d do my penance here, instead.”
The man smiles slightly. “We can arrange that.” He nods to his men. “Take them upstairs.”
The men yank him and Somchai out of the room, drag them down the corridor. They reach an elevator. A real electric elevator, with dials that glow and designs of the Ramakin on the walls. Each button a small demon’s mouth, and busty women playing saw duang and jakae around the edges. The doors close.
“What is your name?” Jaidee asks the man.
The man shrugs. “It’s not important.”
“You’re Akkarat’s creature.”