So she’d agreed to stop in over the next week and had booked flights that avoided the U.S. system, and had left the Highlander in a parking lot in Zihuatanejo and flown to Mexico City on their first leg to Bangkok — oddly enough, through Frankfurt on Lufthansa.
And suddenly, she was back in Thailand, with all its contradictions and clamor and charm.
The plane banked and began its descent, and then the wheels were bumping down the runway, and they were taxiing to the private terminal, which turned out to be little more than a hut. She liked the place already. A warm breeze tugged at their hair as they strolled along the tarmac and approached the surrounding booths, Hannah clutching her hand, pulling her forward in her eagerness to explore new wonders.
The transaction for the rental car took longer than expected, and then she remembered where she was. Things didn’t ever seem to go quite as planned in Thailand, and on an island, where the pace was even slower than usual, progress was likely to be glacial. Eventually, the always-smiling attendant directed them to a little red Nissan sedan, and after studying the map, they set off in search of Matt’s new digs.
The southern side of Ko Samui was more developed than Jet had imagined, and she saw many familiar franchise names and endless rows of beach hotels with endless groups of wandering tourists milling on the sidewalks. It seemed that the unspoiled paradise that Matt had described to her had been discovered, and developer money had moved in, bringing with it the madding crowds. It happened everywhere, she supposed; there was no escaping it.
They rounded the tip and drove north, where things became much more rustic, all jungle and lush greenery, with few complexes marring the natural beauty. She checked the map again and then spotted the turnoff the clerk had marked, laughing in broken English as he’d remarked, “You’re never lost on an island — just late!”
They weaved down the road towards the beach, where she could make out several compounds of newly constructed resort buildings, then turned right on the frontage road, crawling along as they admired the natural beauty of the flawless turquoise water and glistening sand. It was idyllic. Paradise found.
“Look, Mommy. Smoke,” Hannah called from the back seat, pointing to an area a quarter mile away where a black cloud hung lazily over the strand.
Jet’s throat tightened as they approached the site of the fire. They rolled past a gutted lot, the foundation the only thing remaining of the building, the ground scorched and still smoldering, natives ruminating the rubble as a uniformed police officer waved them by. She tried engaging him in halting Thai, asking what had happened, but he shook his head and motioned for her to continue down the road. Outwardly she was calm, but inside, her heart was sinking.
Several hundred yards up the road, they came to a little market with an attached bar. Jet pulled into the gravel lot and shut off the engine. Five tourists were loitering at the bar, enjoying their beer, looking down the road at the wreckage.
She climbed out of the car, got Hannah free of her baby seat and approached them.
“Hey. What happened down there?” she asked.
“Big fire last night. Whole place went up. We’re staying right down the beach at the closest resort. I swear I heard shots, and then a big explosion, but everyone thinks I was drunk. The cops don’t want to hear about it. Lazy buggers.” The speaker’s face was red from sunburn and decades of heavy drinking, his Australian accent unmistakable.
“Really? What are they saying happened?”
“Hard to make it out with their jabber, but from the scuttlebutt at our hotel, the owner of the house and two workers were killed. Bodies were carted off earlier,” he said, then chugged half his bottle of beer.
Jet tried for a grin but felt bile rise in her throat and had to take deep breaths to keep from vomiting. She bantered and probed for any further information, but the Aussie holidaymaker didn’t know anything more. Her stomach in knots, she led Hannah into the market and asked about the fire, but got the same story from the woman working the scarred register.
“He nice man. Verrry handsome for a farang. Shame. Maybe he piss off wrong people,” she said, shaking her head.
“Why do you say that?”
“My cousin police. He say everyone shot in head. That always criminals. No accident.”
“Really. You wouldn’t happen to know what the address was, would you?”
The woman frowned, thinking.“I think it number nine. Don’t know. Nobody use address here.”
Jet paid for a bottle of water and thanked her, then pulled Hannah back outside. She looked down at the slip of paper with Matt’s address on it in her trembling hand. Number nine.
Vertigo hit her, and the beach seemed to spin giddily before it settled down and her vision cleared. Her heart pounded like a drum roll as she led Hannah back to the car, where she had to force several deep breaths before taking the wheel and pulling back towards the ruins.
The policeman glared at her as she crept by, eyeing the destruction, and then she picked up speed as she returned the way she’d come, suddenly wanting to be rid of the island as fast as possible.
“Mommy. Why cry?” Hannah asked, afraid she had done something wrong.
“It’s okay, honey. I was just thinking about a friend.” Her voice cracked, unable to continue.
Jet dried her eyes at the intersection and pulled onto the main road, the image of smoking devastation behind her receding in her rearview mirror as she accelerated towards the illusory safety of civilization, hoping she could get the next flight out.