Rogue Angel - Restless Soul Part 18

Annja thought sadly about Zakkarat Tak-sin and wondered if his wife had been notified. She would call Luartaro later to make sure, and she would send flowers or whatever was appropriate.

"-defeated the Burmese forces and took back this land." He turned and looked over his shoulder, grinning broadly. "In the 1930s Chiang Mai grew to be more important when the last remnants of the Lanna Kingdom dissolved."

She saw a man in a three-piece suit riding a bicycle and balancing a briefcase on the handlebars. Two blocks later she spotted more bike riders in business attire. Traffic had been light when they left the consulate, but it was becoming heavier now, and the driver wove in and out of the lane close to the sidewalk. The sky had been a brilliant blue, although it was full of clouds over the consulate. The farther south they traveled the more gray the sky became.

"It is going to rain again," the cabdriver said.

"I wonder if all this rain hurts tourism." It was an idle thought, and she'd voiced it to be conversational.

"Tourism is very good to Thailand. And Chaing Mai is important to tourists like you. Very scenic, this province, because of mountains, valleys, flowers. Good weather." He paused. "But we are in the rainy season now. So many things to do-mountain biking, elephant shows, trips to hill tribe villages. There are many places you should visit. Chiang Mai Zoo has more than two hundred Asian and African animals. And Doi Suthep-Doi Pui National Park-"

"I don't have much time for sightseeing," Annja said politely. She slid to the other side of the backseat and looked out the window at a temple that was being renovated. Workers scurried over it, accompanied by music from a large boom box on the sidewalk.

"But you have time for shopping, yes? There is Walking Street that you must visit. A big market opens there on Sundays with handicrafts, all displayed and very colorful and very nice. Good prices. Silks, embroidery, umbrellas-hand-painted by the hill tribes. Sa Sa paper, silverware, celadon, souvenirs." paper, silverware, celadon, souvenirs."

Annja tapped his shoulder. "On my next trip to Thailand. I'll act like a proper tourist then." She would come back, to see more of the caves and have a proper vacation, maybe with Luartaro. Definitely to see the long-necked women.

"It is too bad you do not have time for seeing sights this trip. There are many caves in this part of the country."

Annja's thoughts were suddenly thrown back to Tham Lod Cave and the caverns Zakkarat got them lost in the following day, and to the teak coffins with the precious and remarkable remains in them.

"You do have time for a little shopping, yes? The Night Bazaar, three blocks long, is good for tourists. Many goods there. Many restaurants."

She sighed and bobbed her head. She smiled wistfully when the first few raindrops. .h.i.t the windshield. "I will try to visit the Night Bazaar before I leave." She had no intention of doing so, but she thought it would placate him.

"My brother has a restaurant there. Cafe Duan. Very good food. Good prices."

He pointed out a few interesting buildings as he drove south on Suthep Road, one a ma.s.sive white structure with ornate steps and roof sections.

"This was outside the city until the city grew," he said. "Wat Suan Dok. Legend says that King Ku Na favored the pious monk Sumana Thera, and lured him and his teachings of Buddhism here from Sri Lanka. King Ku Na gave the monk his royal flower garden as a place to build a temple upon, and so Wat Suan Dok was built in 1371. Half of a very holy relic is housed inside. The other half is in Wat Phrathat Doi Suthep."

"It is beautiful."

"Part of the Maha Chulalongkorn Buddhist University of the Mahanikai sect is inside. The wat wat is open to tourists." is open to tourists."

"On my next trip," she said.

The driver turned west at the following intersection and slowed. "So you will do a little shopping." He stopped in front of an antiques store. Chanarong's Antiquities Chanarong's Antiquities were the English words displayed beneath the much larger, flowing Thai script. were the English words displayed beneath the much larger, flowing Thai script.

"Wait for you?" he asked.

"No, thank you. I might be a while."

"If you need another ride, you ask for me." He pa.s.sed her his card-Thai on one side, English on the other-as she handed over several more baht than the fare called for.

"I will do that. Thank you." She slung the backpack over her shoulders, the broken pieces of skull clinking.

He drove away and she turned to scrutinize the business. The drizzle was turning into a steady, soft rain. Nearby, a restaurant which hadn't yet opened for the day advertised lunch specials. The antiques shop was on the corner, an alley too narrow to drive down, to its left. It was an older building, three stories, made of dark red bricks that had been painted a few times, the current color dark green. The upper two floors looked to be apartments, one with a window air conditioner, one with a box fan, all of them with mismatched curtains. The antiques store had lighter green paint around its windows, and red chipped paint on the door trim. All of the windows were streaked with the grime of the city, but she could see vases, bowls and wooden knickknacks through the smears. She also spotted a small closed sign propped up against the bottom corner.

"Wonderful." Annja had thought about calling the store before she came over, but didn't want to tip anyone off. She'd decided just to stop by, as it should be open according to the hours printed on the card.

She stepped close to the door, which had a small window set in it, and she peered inside. The overhang kept her dry, rain pattering against it in a steady rhythm. It was dark in the shop, but she noticed shadowy shelves filled with all manner of objects, and larger pieces-chairs, tall urns and statues lining the walls-all of it too dark to make out much detail. It was not a large store, and everything looked cramped-a curiosity-seeker's paradise.

A faint glow came from the back, and at first Annja thought it was a security light. But it flickered, as if someone was walking past it inside the shop, and she realized there was a doorway in the rear behind the sales counter, and the light was coming from a back room.

Annja didn't hesitate; she headed down the narrow alley, tipping her head up to the rain and seeing a fat orange tabby cat resting against the screen of a secondfloor window. The police might already have been here; she'd given them the name of the place last night...or was it early this morning she'd done that? Maybe that was why it was closed; the owners were being questioned. She'd kept the business card, though, and the other cards-all tucked away in her f.a.n.n.y pack. She slowed at the end of the alley, out of force of habit, and took a quick peek around the corner.

The back of the shop was up against another alley, one that was wide enough to drive delivery trucks down and cut through by the back doors of other businesses. Trash cans lined the alley, several of them tipped over and spewing their contents onto the gravel. It reminded her of alleys she'd been down in New York. The smell was just as bad-smog from the city mixed with the garbage, the predominant odor being spoiled food tossed out by the restaurant, all of it picking up an even stronger scent in the rain. As she slipped around the corner, an oversize rat scurried out of her way and disappeared several yards away in a mound of wilted vegetables.

Only one vehicle was in this section of the alley, and Annja crept toward it. An older model Jeep, it was parked directly behind the antiques shop, and its tires were caked thick with mud. The top was off the Jeep, and rain pattered against the worn seats.

Annja put her ear to the back door, which was painted the same red as the front and peeling in equal amounts. She heard voices, but they were m.u.f.fled by the wood and the rain, and she didn't understand the language, though it clearly had an Asian sound. Music was playing to complicate matters, from something that had poor speakers. It was fuzzy-sounding and crackled with static.

She tested the k.n.o.b. It wasn't locked.

Annja almost didn't go inside. The police should deal with these people-if they were involved in the smuggling. And they most definitely were involved somehow, she knew; the Jeep was evidence of that. It was no doubt one that had been in the mountains when she, Luartaro and Zakkarat had emerged from the treasure cavern. But the police might have already been here and found nothing concrete, or they might already have arrested people. However, it was equally possible that they might not have checked out this lead yet.

Annja slowly opened the door, the hinges creaking, but not loud enough to be heard over the static-laced music. She had to go inside; her curiosity had won out, coupled with a desire to see the puzzle through. She glided through the door and hugged the shadows thrown by a tall shelf. The light was in the forward part of the room, near the door to the shop. It spilled from a wrought-iron pole lamp that probably was an antique; a fluted bowl covered with a dusty film shielded the bulb, and the bowl part of it was definitely an antique. It threw a pale yellow light over a man who was scratching at something on a desk, maybe writing in a ledger. Another man, one in his sixties judging by the gray-speckled hair, stooped shoulders and overly thin frame, hovered over him. Between the men and Annja was a high countertop that had two crates and packing material on it. They looked similar to the ones that had been in the cavern, but crates were crates. She started toward the counter to get a better look, her mind touching the sword...just in case there was trouble.

And there would be trouble. Except for a few days spent in the cabin, this vacation had been nothing but trouble.

Annja didn't see a weapon on either man, but then she was only getting back views. The radio was on a shelf above the desk; the music stopped playing and was replaced by a commentary she couldn't understand. She held her breath and edged forward, listening for the third man, the larger shape she'd earlier seen walk in front of the door and blot out the light. She picked up a rustling sound from somewhere in the shop; the third man was still out there.

Scattered in the packing mix were bra.s.s figurines the size of lemons-small Buddhas, gazelles, apes and pigs, some with other metals inlaid in them and all of them looking old.

Annja took another step, preparing to hunker down behind the countertop. One more step, and then pain consumed her as something heavy crashed down on her head. Darkness reached up and swallowed her.

24.

Annja knew she was dreaming, but she couldn't wake up-didn't want to, as this was thoroughly pleasant. She was floating, or at least treading so lightly on her feet that she couldn't feel what she was certain was marshy ground under her. However, she could feel-or imagined that she could-the soft brush of fern leaves across the backs of her hands hanging at her sides and the breeze that played across her face, cooling her.

It was warm in her dream, the sun high overhead and cutting through a gap in the tall jungle canopy. Summer, maybe, she speculated, and near noon. She wanted it to be summer and so guessed that it was-it was her dream and she could make it whatever season she wanted. But it wasn't too hot. She'd sweated enough the past few days.

Beads of water on the big acacia leaves hinted that it had rained recently. Annja hadn't been caught in it, though, as she was thoroughly dry; she'd had enough of rain recently in real life that it didn't need to intrude on her dream. She didn't hear anything, but thought that she should.

Then sounds intruded, all of them pleasant, the chirp of the small green tree frogs that had sprung up on the trunks, the musical chitter of a little monkey, the cry of a bird circling overhead and the gentle hush of the leaves nudging one another in the breeze.

Paradise.

And she was floating in it.

Primitive and beautiful, as she imagined the land must have been to the ancient Hoabinhiam people.

The hunter-gatherers were near the mountains, and so she added those craggy peaks to the vista, towering up and artfully sculpted by her mind, covered with thick jungle growth and not yet bearing the scars of trails and ruts from Jeeps, and not yet rubbed clean of cave paintings by tourists needing to touch the past.

Annja would have p.r.o.nounced the scene "amazing," but she had no voice in the dream. Only the creatures and the wind and the leaves made sound, and she considered that just as well. She'd talked so much lately-to Officer Johnson, to the people at the consulate and, before that, to Luartaro. Should he be here, in her dream? She could make Luartaro give back the jewels he'd taken from the treasure cavern. Couldn't she do whatever she wanted, as she was making this up as she floated along?

In answer to her thoughts Luartaro appeared a short distance in front of her. He was clean-shaven and in pressed clothes that hung perfectly on his rugged frame. Zakkarat stepped out from behind him, ruining her romantic thoughts.

Zakkarat's clothes were slick with mud and blood and a knife protruded from the center of his chest. Bullet holes riddled his torso, the design an arrow that pointed to a sign that had materialized: Bird Show.

Annja blinked and tried to dismiss Zakkarat, as she dismissed her sword when it was no longer needed. Zakkarat looked at her with empty eyes and reached out, thick gold rings on each of his fingers.

Go away, she ordered the walking corpse but no sound came out.

Zakkarat melted into the ferns. Luartaro followed, the colors of him smearing like an ice-cream cone dropped on hot pavement. The monkey howled mournfully, and Annja looked up to see it hop from the tree above her and race toward the mountains.

"Free me," the monkey called to her. "Free me. Free me. Free me."

Annja glided after it, curious where the dream would take her. She pa.s.sed beneath a spreading tree covered in bright pink and white blooms. It looked like a dogwood, out of place in the jungle. There were willows, too, like the ma.s.sive old trees she remembered from her youth in New Orleans, some with vines growing so profusely on them they looked like giant green mushrooms.

Farther in pursuit of the monkey, which seemed to have slowed to accommodate her lazy pace, she heard wind chimes. Clinky-clanky and almost tinny, not as pleasantly musical as the gla.s.s chimes that used to hang in the orphanage's yard. The sound grew louder and she looked up.

Not wind chimes...dog tags, hanging from a dead branch and dripping blood. She floated out from underneath them and hurried after the monkey.

The mountains were easy to climb in her wraith-like state, and the vines that seemed to grab at her feet pa.s.sed harmlessly through her. The scents were more intense as she rose, the flowers the strongest. They were mostly native Thai flowers: bunnak, phikun, lotus and chumhet-yai, some of which were edible and had medicinal purposes. But there were out-of-place blooms, too: tulips, daffodils and crocuses.

Annja loved the smell of flowers, and she was certain she picked up a trace of bougainvillea. The bright magenta and purple flowers were native to South America, and she remembered that they grew profusely outside Luartaro's office window in Argentina.

The plant was discovered in the mid-1700s, Luartaro had told her, by a French botanist accompanying an explorer named Louis Antoine de Bougainville. She saw the beautiful th.o.r.n.y vine between a gap in the trees and she glided toward it, hovering and inhaling the fragrance. The bougainvillea's thorns were normally tipped by a black, waxy material. But these were coated with dried blood.

Annja shuddered and looked closer. Bougainvillea thrived in moist soil. There'd been a few pink-flowered ones across the street from the orphanage in New Orleans. She'd also seen some in the gardens of the wat wat the cabdriver had taken her past in Chiang Mai. The flowers were all over the world now-in warm climes. The plant in her dream was especially vibrant...and disturbing. the cabdriver had taken her past in Chiang Mai. The flowers were all over the world now-in warm climes. The plant in her dream was especially vibrant...and disturbing.

She thought she saw something in the leaves. Peering closer still, a face stared back at her. It had been almost indistinguishable at first from the foliage. A young man's face, smooth and unlined but covered with stripes of green and black paint that made the whites of his eyes stand out starkly. The mouth was set in a determined scowl. There were other faces, too, all painted, and all with sweat beads on their foreheads.

The monkey called to her, and she turned to see it hanging by its feet and holding something so she could see. A skull? No, just part of one. The monkey's fingers traced designs on it, and dark symbols appeared as it filled with a black substance. The monkey pointed at the symbol for Papa Ghede.

It was her skull bowl, and it cracked into pieces when the monkey dropped it and scrambled farther up the mountain.

Annja followed it.

She crested a rise and teetered at the edge of a gaping maw yawning up from the ground. Light flickered from inside, revealing mounds of treasure. Luartaro and Zakkarat were there, stuffing their pockets. It was almost comical how their pockets bulged with coins and jewelry, their cheeks, too, just like chipmunks that had stuffed walnuts away for later.

Put it back, Annja tried to tell them, but with no voice.

Luartaro understood. His expression haunted and sad, he opened his pockets and spilled the contents on the stone floor. He grew thinner as the coins continued to spew, Zakkarat kneeling and scooping them up. Thinner and thinner until he was little more than a skeleton.

"Free me, Annja," he implored as he melted into the stone, the broken skull bowl marking the place where he had stood.

"Free me," Zakkarat said. A heartbeat later, he was gone, too.

She tried to wish them back; it was her dream and she could paint it the colors she wanted. But they didn't return. And moments later the treasure vanished, too, leaving her alone at the top of the mountain, staring down at the green of the Thailand jungle. Thunder boomed, but there were no clouds. It boomed again and again, and she thought that maybe the sound was a drum beating. It came from down below, on the other side of the river that had magically appeared.

Annja went toward the sound, feeling the trees pa.s.s through her and sensing her heart beating in time with the thunderous drum. She stepped in time with it, walking over the water and following the bird-show sign. The breeze had stopped, taking the coolness with it.

She started to sweat.

My dream, she thought, make the heat go away.

But the opposite happened. The heat became more intense, the sun beating down in time with the drum, the leaves withering in what had become Sahara-like temperatures. The drum thrummed louder and Annja threw her diaphanous hands over her ears and tried to hum to blot it out, a tune she'd remembered Luartaro humming.

Leaves drifted to the ground around and through her, and branches curled and darkened in the oppressive heat. She felt the rings of sweat grow on her chest and under her arms and she smelled the smoke in the air-all the perfume from the bougainvillea gone. The wisps of smoke writhed like snakes and trailed away, beckoning.

She followed, still stepping in time with the drum.

The forest died and the trunks became blackened slashes that crumbled and then reformed into squat stone buildings. The smoke-snakes thickened and formed streets that radiated out from the center of a village like the spokes of a wheel. In the middle of the ring a fire burned; it was the source of the oppressive heat.

The drum quieted, to be replaced by the crackling and pops of the wood.

There was a figure in the middle of the blaze, burning and crying, and forever finding a place in history as a martyr.

Annja had dreamed of Joan and the fire before.

This had turned into a nightmare.

Bring back the bougainvillea and the gold coins and the little monkey that threw the remnants of the skull bowl, she thought.

The fire raged higher, the embers spitting away and sparkling like shards of silver, all flying through the crowd that had instantly appeared and streaked toward Annja.

The heat hurt her, it was that severe, and the shards that pelted her stung horribly.

Her face hurt the most, her right cheek swollen and aching. Why did it hurt so much? Her wrists, too, something squeezing them. Her shoulders...something digging into them.

The shards?

Embers from the fire?

Pieces of Joan?

Fingernails?

The village vanished and in place of burning Joan was a man with an expression twisted in anger.

"Wake up, Annja Creed," he said.

25.