I get up to stand with the two women. Chanya clicks on the new attachment to the latest e-mail. It seems the anonymous one is smarter than we thought. He’s not so much a random pornographer, more a focused campaign strategist. Now the image unfolds from the feet up, as before, and just as before, we are treated to a veritable fireworks display of male virility-but the revelation no longer stops at the neck; it continues unrolling until we have the full face.
Linda doesn’t have time to reach the yard before she throws up; as a resourceful American, she manages to open the window just in time before emptying her stomach’s contents. The room is filled with the sound of her retching while Chanya stares in fear and awe at the monitor, and I feel a strange kind of rage. At first I can hardly credit what I’m looking at. Then I have to shove a fist into my mouth. “Oh, no,” I mutter. “No, no. It can’t be.” Can’t be what? Can’t be a human face. Well it is. A face put together by a demon, to mock our species all the way to annihilation. Nothing is aligned properly, the ears, the eyes, the mouth-especially the mouth-and it’s hard to see anything that isn’t scar tissue. There is no nose, only a hole, and a chunk of the upper lip is missing, showing crooked teeth and crimson gum. This is man inside out. If I was that young fellow, I’d probably rape anything that moved.
“Sweet Buddha, such suffering,” Chanya whispers.
Linda has stopped retching but is still in cannabis-enhanced shock. She signals it’s time for her to go, and I help her cross the road to the blue Rolls-Royce. I have to admire the strength with which she pulls herself together. Apart from one unplanned stumble, you would never know she was stoned out of her skull. I note, with an ironic smile, that her limo is parked under one of General Zinna’s election posters. Just like Vikorn, he commands every third lamppost, but never the same one as the Colonel. I wait until the limo starts to move away and wave at the tinted windows. I’m a tad stoned, and I’ve got the munchies; I noticed we’re almost out of both fig rolls and three-in-one, so I stroll down to the 7-Eleven to buy some.
When I return to the house, I see that Chanya is holding her cell phone and staring at the street. She clears her throat. Her voice quivers when she says, “General Zinna just called me. I could hardly believe it was him-he sounded broken. He said there’s a risk Manu-apparently that’s his name-is headed this way.”
“Why would he be headed this way?”
She inhales. “Zinna is stuck in traffic. That’s why he called. He said Manu is following up contacts with women he’s met over the past few years. Apparently he met us once in Phuket-you remember, when we were celebrating our wedding anniversary, and we went to that five-star hotel for supper, and Zinna was there with his lover? He got our address from Zinna’s address book. He said Manu is unarmed but very strong. It seems he’s a big, muscular young man. He has already harassed a young army wife this morning, and yesterday he raped two women whose names also were in Zinna’s address book. The general says it’s all about Manu getting back at him for ruining his life. We should lock the door and protect ourselves.” She nods toward the sink where a carving knife is prominent. “I stood here for a few seconds just now with that in my hand, but I felt foolish. D’you have your gun?” I show her the gun. “I don’t want you to use it, Sonchai. Not to protect me. Protect yourself with it if you have to.” She goes to the window and leans on the frame. “Such suffering. Dear Buddha. And I thought I had problems.”
“He’s a killer,” I blurt. “He’s the one who killed those three at Vulture Peak.”
We stand at the window like two androids in a sci-fi movie and watch a late-model Benz draw up on the opposite side of the street. It’s a convertible with the top closed: some kind of famous sports model. I can just make out a man in the driver’s seat wearing a sports jacket and cravat, although I cannot see his features. He stops and sits in a composed posture staring straight ahead, no doubt with the engine running for the air-conditioning. He seems to be waiting for something specific to happen. We watch.
The man in the driver’s seat shifts to pull out a cell phone from his pocket. He seems unhurried, even serene. Now he punches in a number and raises the phone casually to his ear. Then something clicks in my head, and I’m seeing him in a different light: a man in a daze.
“Zinna?” Chanya asks, squinting at the car.
“I’m ninety percent certain-” I stop talking because a five-ton covered army truck has appeared. The driver of the Benz moves the car forward as far as he can, so the truck can park behind him.
“It is Zinna,” Chanya says, putting her hands on her hips and staring hard at the Benz and the army truck behind it. After a couple of minutes the man in the Benz opens his door and gets out. Yes, it is General Zinna of the Royal Thai Army, dressed in a sports jacket with brass buttons, open-neck shirt, and beige pants, hands thrust into his pockets; there’s no mistaking that strut, nor the broad chest in a short body. He seems uncertain, though, as to what to do. His strut droops. When he approaches the truck a sergeant jumps out to give him a stiff salute, but the General in civvies only thrusts his hands more deeply into his pockets and stares up and down the street. He seems frustrated, helpless.
Now Chanya and I gasp because some army privates have emerged from the back of the truck with a net. It could be a fishing net for large fish, but to me it most resembles the kind of thing they cover ammunition dumps with in the jungle. About five of the young soldiers have rifles with bayonets fixed. Zinna stares at the bayonets for a moment, then starts to remonstrate with the sergeant. To my surprise, the sergeant remonstrates back, as if this is a private job he’s doing for Zinna, and therefore he has civil rights here. I have the feeling he’s protecting his men. No way will he tell them to put the bayonets and rifles away, and Zinna in civvies has no authority in this street at this time. The little General looks sad more than angry.
Now everyone suddenly turns to stare in the same direction, as if there has been a shout. Zinna seems scared and relieved at the same time. Now five of the soldiers run off with the net. There’s a commotion loud enough for us to hear in the hovel-a kind of roar, half animal, half human-excited and scared shouts from the soldiers, a moment of panic-someone has got away-no, it’s okay, got him-more commotion, he’s stronger than we thought — yells as if someone has escaped again-another scuffle, this time sounding more controlled, as if the soldiers have had enough and have started to apply real will. Now a group comes into view. A human figure is trussed up in the net and carried like a wriggling mummy, howling hideously. Zinna has looked away, extreme grief on his face. The soldiers lift the captive up into the back of the truck. The howls cease. Zinna walks quickly to his Benz and drives off. The truck follows.
I have been preoccupied with the street drama and not paid any attention to Chanya for about ten minutes. Now I turn to look at her, and I see she has followed every nuance. She has covered her face and is staring at me in horror. I blow out my cheeks. She backs away from the window to squat against a wall, her hands still pressed over her cheeks, staring. I squat next to her. Now she puts a hand on my forearm and nods toward the street. The Mercedes has returned, and the driver is parking in the same space as before. Chanya and I watch as the General gets out, locks the car with a remote, and struts across the road. There is a knock on the door. You get it, Chanya’s eyes say.
When I open the door, General Zinna is standing ramrod straight in the posture of a man of honor doing his duty. I give him the high wai at the same time as he wais me.