Band of the Hand is Part 2 in a series we began in the Winter 2006 issue with the story Krung Thep. Until now, the series was unfinished. Mr. Hove worked diligently on the stories and we are now able to present Parts 2 and 3. Par 3 WIll appear in the Summer 2008 issue. You may read Part 1 in its entirety in the Winter 2006 issue (in our Archives). We also provide a synopsis of that part here:

PART ONE SYNOPSIS
The series opens with “Krung Thep”, the story of Josef Jakobson, a self-employed agent hired by a secret society to deliver a communication to the interior minister of Thailand . On his first day in Bangkok , Josef encounters an enigmatic woman possessing a mysterious black box and shadows her only to be discovered and bewitched in an instant. His attempt to resume his mission is subsequently foiled first by a monstrous parade, then by a quirky overbearing foreigner. Josef returns to his hotel to find an anonymous note arranging a meeting for that night at a club. When he arrives, Josef finds the woman dancing on stage. But the annoying foreigner shows up too and, mistaking Josef for the interior minister, claims he has been hired to warn Josef that the woman is out to kill him. She instead kills the foreigner and disappears with Josef into the night.

BAND OF THE HAND

By Scott Robinson

Der Teufel halte, wer ihn hält! Er wird ihn nicht so bald zum zweiten Male fangen. – Goethe

I

‘We always find sufficient strength to endure the misfortunes of others,' reflected Royal Thai Police detective Suvichai as he looked down upon the gruesome headless cadaver. So wrote La Rochefoucauld . For this poor soul, dukkha has ended. Or is it simply the suffering of change? Suvichai poked the ribcage a couple times with the end of his cane. A viscous drop of blood spilled onto the darkened floor. This one was rather fresh. The single cut must have required a unique power and skill. It was the second decapitation in three days. Nana was going to develop a reputation.

The forensic officers stepped gingerly around the body as they unpacked their cameras and rulers. It was an awful image, for a Buddhist in particular, to have to look upon. The monstrous act was probably the last crime left that could still defile this longstanding den of sin, the present aftermath somehow crowning the usual squalor revealed beneath the nightclub's full lights, a depressing scenery Suvichai had grown accustomed to, minus the beheaded of course. What sort of face could have accompanied such a body? Did you know your killer? Don't you worry, we will find your precious head. Suvichai turned his back to the corpse and surveyed the scattered chairs, the drinks and ashtrays abandoned along the bar and tables. A blue dance light was left flashing obliviously onstage through a faint haze of smoke that still floated about the room. The place stank of cigarettes, liquor and sweat.

“Khun Mongkut,” Suvichai addressed the attending sergeant standing at his side. “Any idea who he was?” he asked rather skeptically, nodding back over his shoulder.

“No, sir. Another kek, though, it would appear.”

“Can you account for all the girls?”

“Yes, sir. And we are trying to calm them at the station now.”

“What about the other staff?”

“Yes. Too shaken right now to aid in the inquiry. But always willing in time,” the sergeant smiled lightheartedly.

“How many do you have otherwise, Khun Mongkut?”

“Nine, sir. Same as last time. Three groups of three. All farang.”

“What about our tabs on Tuesday's group? Any crossover?”

“No, sir. Looks like the last batch is in the clear.”

“This one's getting ahead of us fast,” Suvichai mumbled, half to the sergeant, half to himself.

Suvichai worried about the efficacy of the forthcoming depositions. In the last incident there wasn't a single bystander who caught the slightest glimpse of the crime itself. And none outside the detained could be accounted for. How so singular of an event could elude all memory baffled the detective. He had certainly encountered selective amnesia before, when the trauma was simply too much for an average psyche to retain. But never en masse like this. Besides, those present would merely be trying to spare their own asses anyways, habitually distorting and covering up their own petty transgressions despite the serious matter at hand. In many ways it was the perfect setting for such a crime: the bars were quiet on a weeknight; everyone distracted by the show and their personal secret misdeeds. Suvichai feared his men would again retrieve only the most mundane of details and nothing more. Nothing until the moment when the nightmarish vision of a twitching headless corpse rudely dawned upon the collective consciousness. It was as if all pertinent recollection had walked out the door with the seemingly invisible perpetrator and his grisly prize.

“We're going to the press this time,” the detective coldly stated. The police had blacked out the prior murder in anticipation of an underground political group claiming responsibility. But this had never materialized. “The chief wants all the bars closed until further notice.”

The detective stepped over to a remote table with an emptied glass sitting on it. He raised it before his large bifocals, his brow pinching at the nose as it always did whenever he studied something closely. A smudge of orange lipstick ran along the rim.

“Well then, there is one other besides we should track down. Let me know if anyone remembers who this woman was.”

II

There is work suited for the night, then there is work that is better accomplished during the day. Indeed detective Suvichai found that, while the majority of cases surfaced after nightfall, most were usually solved in the full light of sun—the plain fact being that so much of the criminal act's premeditation unfolds and leaves its mark in the world of the waking. Wasn't this the habitual rationale and behavior of the cold-blooded murderer? That he must embark upon a measured retreat from the sight of society until, having reached the calculated moment of treachery, he strikes and extinguishes his enemy in the dead of night? Then the deed is done and guilt hides and hopes there is truth in the saying that ‘the nighttime hides all calamities.' But now, having passed that critical node, now it was Suvichai's turn to trace the cycle in reverse and bring the secret author to light. The subtle symmetry and weave of shades between the committing and the uncovering of the crime always pleased Suvichai's aesthetic sense greatly.

Yet there was an unusual daring in the sinister mode to these killings that defied the typical motives. Either some psychopath was collecting trophies or an assassin was rendering proof of a job well done. Or perhaps someone was trying to send a message. Suvichai wasn't going to rule out any combination of the above at this stage. And it was in fact the broader psychological aspects that Suvichai wished to now meditate upon while the sergeant and his men continued to chase the few tangible clues.

The detective had been at the crime scene well into the day and was growing unbelievably tired. Indeed he had slept but a few hours here and there since the night of the first murder. His aging body could no longer endure this pace quite so gracefully and he was going to have to restore his energy if he wanted to engage in this type of mental exercise. So, being in the area, he gladly welcomed the opportunity to indulge a little refuge and lunch at Rafi's Place . Besides, his good friend Rafi had an ear to the street and, if the sergeant's assumption that the victims were Muslim was correct, Rafi might have something to contribute. He had helped Suvichai in similar situations numerous times before. Almost as many times as the reverse.

It was getting late in the morning and the north side of Sukhumvit had cleared for Friday prayer. This was the most certain time to catch Rafi at the restaurant, for Rafi intentionally avoided prayer. Having long ago surrendered to the temptations of drink, Rafi was shunned by the greater part of his Muslim community. From Suvichai's viewpoint, it was to the Arab neighborhood's loss that they avoided Rafi and his establishment, because Rafi's offered the best halvah to be found in the whole district. One was, however, consequently guaranteed a good table on the veranda almost any time of day.

The man does more good then harm , Suvichai judged for himself as he swiped his last pickle through the dollop of hummus on his plate and then popped it into his mouth. He dabbed his lips with his napkin and dropped it on the newspaper on his table. His water glass gleamed in the noontide sun. A songbird's haphazard trilling descended from over the veranda. The detective twisted his cane anxiously between his thumb and index as he bent back in his chair looking for Rafi to appear so he could order some of that halvah.

“You are a lunatic if you expect me to pay for this shit!” Suvichai suddenly heard a female voice shout from inside. Suvichai leaned back further to catch what was going on. He saw a tall shapely Thai girl, in her twenties perhaps, in ripped jeans and a tight t -shirt, standing at her table, glaring Rafi indignantly in the eye. Her pigtails made for an odd juxtaposition with her severe expression. Suvichai found something arousing in her thick-lipped scowl, the way her lower lip pouted out.

“The samboosak were sweating oil!” she yelled.

A blatant exaggeration.

“Your okra tastes like stewed snot!”

Utter calumny.

“And your kebabs were as tough as crocodile hide!”

Well, perhaps there was some truth to this latter allegation. Suvichai knew Rafi was sensitive to criticisms about his food, and as he watched his friend endure this heaping of abuses, he saw his face turn from one of startled embarrassment to one of uncontrollable outrage, his eyes grown wide, his mouth pinching ever more tightly until it could no longer contain an explosive, “Out! Out! Out!”

For an instant, the girl's glance met Suvichai's and she smirked ever so slightly. Suvichai suddenly had the strange feeling this whole scene was being performed expressly for his attention. The girl then turned and stormed off, knocking over her chair and bumping into the waitress, then down the stairs shouting, “Trust me, the entire city will read about your culinary affronts! And about how you treat your customers!” You could hear the front door crack shut below and the bell over the door ring violently at her exit. The waitress stood frozen, rattled, mouth agape.

The detective shuffled over to calm Rafi and immediately noticed a small handbag the girl had left behind. He leaned his weight against the table, letting his cane rest against his hip so he could slyly slip the bag into his pocket while placing his other hand on Rafi's shoulder. Rafi was trembling.

Suvichai led poor Rafi to an empty table and signaled the waitress to bring him a drink. For several minutes, the two sat silently while the detective watched Rafi fume over a tall glass of arak. The waitress lurked nervously in the background. Suvichai could tell his friend would rather not talk about it and decided to just let the liquor do its trick.

Eventually Rafi stopped rubbing his forehead with his hand and his temper mellowed. His focus finally resurfaced to the present and he lifted his face to Suvichai, looking him once up and down.

“Detective, are you okay? You look weary. Let me get you an espresso. Suriporn, an espresso for the detective, please,” he called to the waitress, which was evidently means for gaining some privacy. For as soon as the waitress had disappeared into the kitchen, Rafi looked Suvichai worryingly in the eye.

“My dear friend, I have reason to believe you are in over your head,” he spoke gravely. Rafi started to explain how he had read about the murders in the paper this morning. Certain acquaintances of his in the know were already drawing most terrible conclusions.

“Rumor is that there is a djinn afoot and that these killings are just the beginning of his infernal handiwork,” he whispered in all seriousness. “Someone is stirring up restless ghosts,” which he meant quite literally. This sort of fantastical nonsense was wholly characteristic of Rafi: though negligent in the ordained practice of Islam, he was steeped in the superstitions that surrounded it. It was a weakness similar to that which Suvichai had come to resent in his own people. But the detective did nonetheless understand the importance of recognizing, and to a degree respecting, others' true beliefs, because once you know what convictions are nourished in the innermost heart, you will know what governs one's every action. Suvichai had consequently learned to be a good listener, no matter how much doubt he may have inwardly harbored. Besides, once you cut through all the superstitious fog, there was usually a shred of sound basis to Rafi's tales.

“I think you should pay a visit to Big Tiger, detective. Seek out Ezra'il there,” Rafi insisted under his breath. “Ezra'il ibn Ibrahim. The guards will know. He alone can reveal to you more than I ever fully or safely could.”

Big Tiger. It was the term used for Bangkwang prison. Suvichai hated going there…too many enemies. Perhaps he would wait until nighttime, when the inmates would be asleep, to test this lead.

The waitress returned with the espresso and Rafi quickly dropped the conversation. He seemed genuinely concerned she might overhear. The two men finished their drinks in silence. As the detective stood up to go, he put his hand on Rafi's shoulder again.

“Mr Rafi, the lamb was unparalleled, as always.” Suvichai then settled his bill with the waitress, though it was never expected of him, and left.

When he stepped out into the sun-drenched alley, he heard that same songbird's incessant chirping modulating through a frenzy of melodies. He pulled out the handbag. It was a child's pencil bag, plastic, with ridiculous anime flying-robots printed on it. Inside he found: several duplicate business cards that read: “ INK, Bangkok Beacon Food Critic” with the newspaper's logo of a lighthouse and a phone number; a small amount of notes and loose change; and two sticks of lipstick, one of which was pink, and the other orange. Having removed one of the business cards and put the bag back into his pocket, the detective looked up and was surprised to notice the curious Thai girl at a distance peeking at him from around the corner. Suvichai recognized a gambit when he saw one. He promptly countered by pretending he didn't see her and instead turned south down the soi towards Sukhumvit. So, Ink, it appears you have something you need to talk about , he thought to himself as he ambled away. You will have to come to me on my own terms though. There is still a little time…

III

Suvichai got a call from sergeant Mongkut that afternoon on his way back to the station. There was a small break in the investigation.

“We've found a bill of lading folded up in the second victim's shoe, sir. It's for an incoming shipment of coconuts it would seem. It's being held up at the Port Authority,” came the sergeant's voice over the mobile. The detective moved back from the sidewalk crowd and ducked behind a soup stall so he could hear better.

“Coconuts? Coming into Thailand ?”

“I know. From Constanta , Romania no less. This wondrous age of global trade of ours, I guess. The carrier is Indonesian.”

“Who's the consignee?” Suvichai asked.

“It's addressed to the Consulate General of Uzbekistan. Otherwise, no name.”

“And the shipper?”

“It took me a while to translate, but it is something like the Trinity Coalition for Lost Children.”

“Why's it being held up?”

“A weight discrepancy. That and some sort of ‘form W ' was inappropriately included . I got a fax from the Port Authority. Again, no name. But there is a seal on the form. I'm sending a scan of it now. Okay. ”

“ Good work, Khun Mongkut. Have the shipment seized and searched right away. And see if you can track down any other paperwork, an invoice, whatever.”

“Certainly, sir. Anything else?”

“By the way, did any of the witnesses remember seeing that woman?”

“No, sir, unfortunately not. Anything new on your side?”

“No. Nothing yet.”

Just then the image came across to Suvichai's phone:

IV

When he returned to the office, Suvichai called a friend at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His friend told him that there currently was no delegation assigned to the Uzbek embassy, just administrative staff. But, after making a dozen or so calls of his own, Suvichai's clerk friend called back after a few hours to inform the detective he'd found out from the Department of Export Promotion that, as luck would have it, Uzbekistan's deputy trade secretary—one Baron Zoltán Sárkány—had just arrived in Bangkok this very afternoon in order to attend the upcoming economic summit of the Pacific Asian Commerce Community with Transoxania . He had also learned that several of Thailand 's less prominent ministers, along with some local business moguls, were planning to take the deputy secretary out to dinner this evening to welcome him. They would be dining at La Rose . Suvichai knew the restaurant well.

In the meantime, forensics wasn't producing anything fruitful. And the Beacon was running him in circles concerning Ink. And trying to get any kind of cooperation from the Romanian authorities was proving to be a real nightmare. And the chief insisted he was completely wasting the department's time with the shipment of coconuts…at this rate, he was going to have to arrive fashionably late to La Rose .

By the time he got there, the taxi had to drop Suvichai off at the cross street because the area was so jammed with state vehicles. The detective slowly walked his way down the small dark alleyway. It was a warm and humid night. The nearly full moon was peering above the silhouetted tops of trees that drooped languidly over the walls and fences. When the detective reached the old Thai style house that is La Rose , he found the side courtyard packed with journalists eagerly sidling past the bored looking security in order to peek through the windows into the dimly lit restaurant. He had never seen the place so crowded. The publicity from hosting a visiting dignitary would be good for business. The detective flashed his badge to a guard and squeezed his way in.

The interior had been arranged into two large tables: one for the elite of the press, and the other for politicians, businessmen and other VIP s…many faces that Suvichai recognized, for better or for worse. While the entire room was abuzz with chatter, the general focus was around a smaller clique of people at the larger table who were in turn lavishing their attention on a big grey-haired Caucasian in a dark blue business suit seated in the middle. This must have been the deputy trade secretary. The heat seemed to be getting to him, for beads of sweat dotted his forehead. His heavy jowls hung off a deep-seated frown and his eyes had a dark weariness about them. The detective discreetly inched along the room's periphery, trying to get within earshot of the discussion…

“…Do you know how vee know Adam und Eve were not Chinese?” Zoltán asked his company in a blasé tone. He had a thick accent and it wasn't clear how much anyone understood, his listeners looking at one another in confused silence. “They would haf eaten the snake!” the deputy secretary then snorted out. A facade of awkward smiles crossed his audience, and in the end even the teller seemed somewhat apathetic about this poorly prefaced joke.

“Baron, tell us, what are some favorite foods in Uzbekistan ?” the education minister's wife jumped in with as an attempt to salvage the conversation.

The baron began a litany of Uzbek dishes that escaped all comprehension, and those present quietly counted their blessings that they instead lived and ate locally.

“But tell me, is it true what they say, that your Laotian will happily eat the brain of the monkey?” the baron crudely digressed.

No one quite knew how to reply to this bizarre query. And while many of the attendees were just xenophobic enough to think this might indeed be widely true, none had the gall to openly humor such a topic. One of the eavesdropping journalists from the other table took advantage of the momentary pause…

“Baron, allow me to interrupt if I may…my name is Mr Sunan. Might I suggest that, if it is a question about heads you have, perhaps Bangkok 's renowned police detective Suvichai here may be able to answer,” the reporter said as he pointed Suvichai out. Sunan had a personal grudge against the detective for discrediting a story on police corruption written several years back. Ever since, the sniveling Sunan had seized on every opportunity to embarrass him. “It is a topic he's becoming quite expert at of late.” The entire room grew silent and everyone turned toward this calculated setup. It was not the position Suvichai had been hoping to be in, but he would simply have to muster the energy to play it for all it was worth. He resisted shooting Sunan a bitter glare and instead bowed a humble wai to the baron, his cane dangling from between his joined hands.

“Pleeze, detective, come sit,” the baron gestured while a waitress brought another chair to the table. “So, you are the lucky one who has been tasked to unravel these mysterious crimes. I haf read about them at the hotel this afternoon. Very gruezome. But I haf also been told you are the right man for the job. Tell us, are the streets of Bangkok safe to walk at night?”

“No less so than a week ago, Mr Zoltán,” Suvichai dryly replied as he squeezed in next to the baron. A couple of flashbulbs caught the meeting of the two men on film and the baron squinted from the glare. “I assure you, as well as everyone here, that, no matter what the feckless press dare publish, the investigation is progressing at a promising pace,” the detective added, looking the baron squarely in the eye. It was an uncomfortable glance to sustain. The baron's face was not a pleasant one to behold—his expression was sullen, his brow glistening with sweat, dark bags beneath the eyes, his pale grey stare somewhat lifeless. Yet there was also something almost hypnotic in this gloomy face. “There is nothing to worry about,” Suvichai concluded, “We will have our killer soon.”

“What sort of pzychology does it take to perform such a heinous crime? Surely your man is a veritable monster.”

“…Who should be hanged and fed to the dogs,” interjected one of the nearby businessmen. The education minister's wife visibly winced at the idea.

“On the contrary,” the detective answered. “I think that you will find very little separates the average citizen from the cold-blooded killer. We are all but flesh and blood. In the end, it is more so a difference in circumstance than a difference in core psychology that divides the two.”

Suvichai was bluffing and did not in the least believe the gist of his assertion. But it was a stance he enjoyed feigning among those who, without a second thought, looked down their noses at the criminal class. Besides, there was more to this Zoltán character than he was letting on. Suvichai had the unmistakable feeling this was an individual who habitually misrepresented himself and the detective was hoping to elicit a little more substance. ‘Warfare is based on deception,' he recited to himself.

The audience was now either distracted or losing interest, for disparate conversations began to recommence while the waitresses started dishing out rice and placing all variety of curries around the table. As one of the girls was withdrawing from Zoltán's place, he gruffly grabbed her arm with his huge muscular hand and said, “A coconut lassi, pleeze. Sour.” It was then that Suvichai noticed a large dark metallic ring on the baron's index finger bearing a raised engraving:

Zoltán then turned back to Suvichai, this time in more direct privacy.

“With all due respect, detective, I think you are miztaken. I think your killer is an entirely different breed.”

At this point one of the baron's aides approached from the other side and bent over to whisper something in his ear. Zoltán stood up. “You will haf to excuse me. There is a call I must take,” he explained to his hosts around the table and then, with no further decorum, walked outdoors with a group of aides, holding a phone to his ear. Suvichai sat abandoned, everyone else's attention having now been fully diverted. He wasn't quite sure what to do with himself…

And then suddenly there came a blood-curdling scream from the kitchen. The dining room froze in silence. Again, another scream. Suvichai scrambled to the kitchen as fast as he could, starting to unsheathe his sword cane from its casing. When he got there, he found a woman in hysterics, still shrieking in spasms, a dripping cleaver in one hand and a coconut in the other, her face splattered with blood. But could it possibly be blood? Because the thick dark red liquid was spilling from the sliced coconut. Clearly no one was hurt and the staff could attend and calm her. Suvichai sheathed his blade and dashed through the crowd of reporters that had gathered at the kitchen doorway, out into the courtyard. Everyone had rushed inside by now and the yard was emptied. Suvichai saw a black sedan speed away and turn south down Soi Tonson. We will finish our talk in the morning, then, baron …He pulled out his phone and dialed Mongkut.

While he was waiting for the sergeant to pick up, Suvichai saw someone slip out from the trees near where the car had departed from. The pigtails were unmistakable. It was Ink. She furtively skulked off in the other direction. Had she noticed him? The detective started pursuing at a distance. The sergeant finally answered.

“Sergeant, send two men to La Rose immediately. Soi Lang Suan 3,” Suvichai demanded under his breath. Ink had turned north up Lang Suan. She was making a good clip. “I'll call you back later.”

“One moment, sir…our shipment of Romanian coconuts…we didn't get it. It's been released…”

She darted across the busy street and Suvichai had to follow from the other side. He was having trouble keeping up.

“On whose authority?”

“The prime minister's.”

“I'll call back,” the detective panted and hung up.

And the two shadows continued their silent foot chase through the heart of the city under the rising moon.

V

Suvichai followed her midway down Ploenchit and up the walkway to the Chit Lom Skytrain station. He flashed his badge past the attendants and, by the time he caught up with her, she was waiting at the far end of the Mo Chit-bound pickup. The detective had had enough of this running around. He slowed his pace past the few waiting passengers in order to catch his breath, Ink guardedly watching every step of his approach. The black leather jacket she'd donned since this afternoon gave her an edgier appearance. When Suvichai finally reached her, he pulled the pencil bag from his pocket and extended it toward her.

“Little sister, I believe you may be looking for this.” She snatched it from his hand. “Tell me, in your expert opinion…what did you think of the dinner?” the detective continued.

“I think a silly old man should be careful how much he bites off!” she retorted.

The impertinence was exhilarating.

“You seem to have bitten off quite a mouthful yourself,” Suvichai replied. “Perhaps you can start by telling me what you were doing in Nana last night.”

“I go where I want, when I want! And answer to no one!”

“Needless to say, little sister, leaving the scene of a crime is a prosecutable offense. I could arrest you on the spot.”

“You really are a very funny old man, detective,” she smiled, her tone shifting from indignation to mockery. “Do you think yours is the only law? Don't embarrass yourself any further. Next thing you'll be telling me is that you've caught the killer. Do you think you have the slightest notion what is really going on? I heard what you told the baron: ‘It's all coming along very nicely,'” Ink imitated the detective teasingly. “Well then, tell me. Who killed my two predecessors? You wouldn't know if he was staring you in the face. I saw the last one die myself,” she spoke more desperately, “and I myself couldn't even tell you at whose hands. Why don't you go back to arresting your drunks and whores and leave the important stuff to us.”

What did she mean by us ?

Do you have any idea what it is to be hunted like this?” Ink continued in a fury. “We spend an eternity looking after your petty little souls, and this is the return we get—you track us down and kill us like wild animals. Or worse, you damn us to humiliating servitude. And you expect me to wait for a tedious old fool like you to figure things out and protect me in the end?”

Suvichai didn't know how to respond. He could hear the train approaching from behind. Ink glared at him, biting her lip, as if she was genuinely awaiting an answer. He felt like he should promise her something. But all he could think was how soon he had let this girl get the better of him…the detective was not used to being the manipulated.

And then she grabbed him by the collar and pulled his face hard against hers and kissed him roughly. His glasses smashed into his nose from the pressure. He could feel her leather jacket crinkle between her breast and his. Squirming to pull back, he dropped his cane. She held him tight to her lips and, through the pulse of his heart beating in his ears, he heard the train come rattling into the station. Her florid perfume drowning his nostrils, his knees trembling as he fought for breath. A bitter taste permeated his mouth and she let him go and he dropped to the ground. The train's doors slid open and a wave of people poured around him as he lay feeling for his cane. Someone bent to help him, but the detective grunted and brushed the stranger away. The doors closed and the rushing hiss of the train quickly faded down the dark line. The detective alone, dizzied, left to struggle to his feet.

VI

Perhaps Rafi had been right. Perhaps the detective was in way over his head. But even if this were so, it was too late to change things now. Suvichai could no longer sustain his usual objectivity towards the case. Now there was something irrationally personal at stake.

Suvichai wandered the streets aimlessly for at least an hour. It was late and the city was quieting to a low murmur. The moon hung stilly in the sky and the humid night seemed to compound the detective's mental fogginess. He was too engrossed in trying to untangle the proper significance of this latest event to notice what streets he had walked and for how long. He just kept repeatedly pulling out the business card he'd taken and rereading it. What sort of professional uses only her nickname on a business card? What's stopping me from calling her?

Truth is the detective was nonplused to the core and, no matter what approach he took to analyzing the baffling encounter with Ink, he couldn't penetrate beneath the surface. In essence, if you were to ask our brooding sleuth: ‘What exactly transpired?'—the best Suvichai could answer would be: ‘I don't know.' It was not at all characteristic of him. It may have been due to the lack of sleep, or perhaps from the recent delirium that was helping him push through this sleeplessness.

And not until he decided it best to stop thinking about the thing at all did the detective suddenly sense he was being followed. As he was climbing the crossway over Khlong San Sap, he looked over his shoulder and thought he saw something disappear into the shadows behind. The hairs on his arms stood up. Clutching his cane tightly, he stopped atop the bridge and turned to see if there was any more movement below. Apart from a stray motorbike or two, Chitlom was bare of traffic. His phone started ringing and he quickly reached in his pocket to silence it. He waited and listened. A drunk's distant laughter floated from across the canal. Otherwise nothing else. Perhaps it had been just a dog. If he pressed on to Petchaburi, he could flag a taxi. Suvichai rapidly descended the opposite side of the bridge. But when he reached the bottom of the steep stairway, he fell directly into the trap.

Two strong pairs of hands seized him by the arms and yanked him back into a dark niche. The detective felt as limp as a choked chicken in the powerful grip of his shadowy assailants and struggled merely to hold onto his cane. Another figure stepped in front and a thin shaft of streetlight illuminated the youth's hateful face and the small gleaming knife he wielded.

“Tam-luat, isn't it past your bedtime? An old pops like you needs to get his rest.”

Suvichai's heart was pounding. But this was hardly the first time he had faced such a cornering. The fact that this punk prefaced with an insult was a good sign that the detective would probably walk away. The smartest thing to do was to simply hear him out.

“I saw you gettin' your kicks at the station, Khun Pan. You should be ashamed of yourself, old letch.” One of the other thugs snickered at this, and Suvichai felt an inexplicable mix of outrage and embarrassment at the slight. Still, he held his tongue.

“I've got a message for you from The Hand,” the youth continued as he moved close and placed the blade behind the detective's right ear. “Leave the girl alone. She belongs to someone else, okay. She's got a job to do, and we don't need you gettin' in the fuckin' way.” There was no conviction in his emphasized use of we , and it was clear this asshole was merely embellishing a message whose content he barely understood to begin with.

“Now get yourself off to bed, grandpa. I don't want to catch you trollin' for little-girl pussy in the middle of the night like this no more…” and here the punk flicked his knife and the detective felt a sharp sting at the base of his earlobe. The two brutes holding him flung him back against the hard wall, knocking the breath out. Suvichai crouched over, instinctively feigning more injury than was inflicted so the three scumbags could make their pathetic getaway. From the corner of his eye he watched them run off hooting and laughing into the night. I guess they would have felt cheated if they didn't get to have at least a little fun .

VII

After he got in the taxi, Suvichai pulled the handkerchief from his ear and looked at the wound in the side view mirror. The bleeding had stopped and the cut looked superficial enough.

During the roughly ten kilometer ride to Nonthaburi province, he checked his voicemail. The call on the bridge was from Mongkut who sounded amazed as he relayed how he and his men opened every last coconut at La Rose and found two more of the strange fruits. He had them promptly analyzed and they did indeed contain blood—all O -negative to be exact. The sous chef said the fruits had been delivered just that afternoon. Mongkut was presently tracing the supply chain in reverse and should have something more definitive in the morning. Beyond this, the sergeant wouldn't dare venture a guess as to the significance of the gruesome contents and wished the detective would call back with more from his side. Suvichai however felt there was some business he had to finish on his own beforehand and only sent the ambiguous text message “Later” in reply. He then indulged the golden opportunity for a brief nap.

The detective woke abruptly just as Bangkwang prison was coming into view. As the taxi approached Nonthaburi Road , Suvichai saw the central guard tower rise slowly above the barbed walls like an ominous black cairn against the drab sky just now becoming suffused with morning's first few particles of light.

The detective paid his fare and walked to the front gate. Over the entrance there was a sign that read simply: “853”. It represented the number of inmates who were currently sentenced to death. Thais call Bangkwang prison Big Tiger because it swallows lives whole. This number changes almost daily.

Suvichai gave the guards the prisoner's name and requested his records and a room in which to conduct the interrogation. Once the guards had processed the detective and made several calls, all rather indifferently, one of them led him through a maze of corridors until they reached a small windowless room buried somewhere in the depths of the prison. The detective took one of the two chairs sitting opposite each other at a small card table. Except for these scant furnishings and a cheap neon ceiling lamp, the cement-walled room was completely bare. There was a distinct chill to the chamber. The guard left and Suvichai waited alone for upwards of fifteen minutes, reviewing the records and wondering where to begin the questioning.

Suvichai eventually heard a rhythmic metallic rattle ushering down the hall toward the room. The door swung open and another pair of guards walked in with the prisoner between them. His wrists and ankles were bound with chains.

Ezra'il ibn Ibrahim was a slight man, short and dark. His face had something sprightly about it—small round ears sticking out from his thick crop of silvery hair, a thinly-mustached upper lip that curled at the ends in a natural grin, and a magnetic glint to his lively eyes. He smiled at the detective pleasantly, showing absolutely no sign of drowsiness or annoyance from being disturbed at five o'clock in the morning. Indeed it seemed as if the preliminary years of his sentence had hardly deadened his prevailingly debonair demeanor whatsoever. Suvichai motioned for him to sit and told the guards they could wait outside.

“Sir, it says here you are serving ninety-nine years for three counts of lèse-majesté,” the detective began once the guards had left.

“The King is a grown man by now and I should think he has forgotten the offense these thirteen years since,” the prisoner smiled back in utter levity. He had a Malaysian accent. His voice was soft and lilting. Suvichai liked his pluck.

“Perhaps you are right…Mr Ezra'il, my name is detective Suvichai. I apologize for waking you at this unusual hour, but I was told that you may be able to help me with something important.” The detective tended to give those he questioned the benefit of the doubt and, as a rule, approached these types of interrogations as cordially and forthrightly as possible, rarely feeling the need to resort to duplicity or abuse. The latter especially almost never produced reliable results.

“Detective, before we proceed any further,” the prisoner interrupted, “do you believe in ghosts?”

“Why do you ask?” Suvichai was willing to humor this charming individual and see where this might lead.

“Because I fear I am looking upon a dead man walking,” Ezra'il stated in a more serious tone.

“You'll forgive me, but I think you miss the irony of your position. I am not the one condemned to life in prison.”

“It is true the walls of my life are exceedingly narrow. I harbor no delusions about my bonds,” and here Ezra'il pulled his wrist chains taut for effect. “But God willing, salvation may be found in the eye of a needle. Your life however, despite all its supposed breadth and intricacies, yours is as the house of the spider.” The Koranic allusion was lost on the detective and his patience was already beginning to wear a little thin.

“Mr Ezra'il, I am not here to split theological hairs with you. I am investigating two murders and was told you might know something about them.”

“I know why you are here, detective. Or should say I know what you think you are here for. You have two bodies that have lost their heads. Correct?” Suvichai simply nodded. Up to this point the prisoner had said nothing that could not have been gleaned from ordinary sources. It would not at all have surprised Suvichai if word of his impending arrival and its purpose had already reached and filtered through the prison population.

“Let me assure you there will be a third,” the prisoner continued. “It is the only way for the last fiend in question to prove its supremacy. You must realize, these spirits are reluctant servants. And it is only through trial that The Hand will know it has summoned the proper one and can master its loyalty.”

When the detective heard mention of The Hand, he realized this odd little mystic might actually have something significant to say. But here was a man who resided in two realms, and Suvichai thought it best to try and steer the conversation back to the terrestrial.

“Tell me what you know about this group, The Hand.”

“Do not get distracted by immaterial questions. They will only cloud your judgment at the critical hour. I can tell you that the course of events will not be determined by this secret brotherhood. Their influence is already waning. No, there will come the time when you, detective, and you alone, have a choice to make. And everything will rest upon this one decision. When that moment arrives, know your true enemy well. Nothing else will matter.”

“Your riddles are getting us nowhere, Mr Ezra'il. Now please, tell me what you know about a shipment of coconuts coming out of Romania ,” the detective persisted irritably, grasping at straws.

The prisoner ignored him and boldly stood as if to leave. Through mounting exasperation, the detective clutched his cane tightly and, for a brief moment, considered applying harsher tactics. But as he peered into the prisoner's bright and steady eyes, he loosened his grip. There was no deception, no animosity there. This man was, in the only way he knew how, being honest to the utmost. And Suvichai was simply too weary and pessimistic at this stage to fight his way down what was certain to otherwise be just another dead end in a growing series. He shouted for the guards to take the prisoner away and listened as the rattle of the chains faded down the corridor. When he was sure they were out of earshot, the detective cracked his cane across the tabletop violently.

“Damn this waste of time!”

The papers scattered to the floor.

VIII

Suvichai received two calls on the ride to the embassy but didn't bother to answer either. He didn't even check from whom. He was sure they were from Mongkut.

The detective arrived at the gate in a huff. He demanded to see the baron immediately and, to his surprise, without any resistance from the anonymous thin voice on the other side of the intercom, the mechanical gate cranked slowly open.

The grounds were quiet. Suvichai traversed the pomegranate-lined walkway measuredly, expecting someone from security to come meet him. But the place was absolutely dead. He climbed the short stone stairway to the building's front door and knocked, but no one answered. The handle was locked. So he started exploring around the building, ever on the lookout for anybody that could direct him. Eventually the detective found a small side entrance obscured by two overgrown ferns. The door was unlocked. He walked in without knocking this time.

He found himself in a low antechamber with two doors. A withering potted bird-of-paradise sat next to a small bench against the back wall. There was a faint oily scent in the air. The left-hand door was closed. The right-hand one, however, was half-open with a splinter of light spilling from it. He could hear the dull clatter of typing coming from inside. Suvichai rapped on the door with his cane and the typing stopped.

“Pleeze come in, detective,” he heard Zoltán's voice issue from inside.

Suvichai swung the door open upon a dark office lined with shelves full of books and various exotic artifacts. The baron was slouching behind a large mahogany desk covered in papers. He was dressed in a thick purple terrycloth bathrobe and sat peering into a laptop in front of him, sipping tea from a heavy raku cup. He set the cup onto a stack of papers and looked up from his computer at the detective, staring for a moment like he was trying to adjust his focus. The soft light of a small green desk lamp made the reliefs of his fat face stand out starkly from the deep shadows beneath his brow. His skin was vapid and the baron looked absolutely listless, like he had been awake working all night long.

“I knew you would be able to find me. To what do I owe the pleazure?” the baron asked dryly after the short pause.

“Mr Zoltán, I am sorry for arriving unannounced, but I feel our conversation was prematurely cut short last night. You departed without enjoying your lassi. You know, you missed quite a scene after you left La Rose .”

“Pleeze sit down, detective. If you don't mind me saying, you look awful. What has happened to your ear? Take a load off. I promise it is no problem.”

The detective took a seat in a low-backed chair perpendicular to the desk against the wall. And it was from this vantage that he first noticed three large black wooden boxes lined up along the lower shelf behind the baron. Each identical box was about the size of one's head. Suvichai's curiosity had certainly been pricked.

“I am indeed exceedingly tired, sir,” the detective began, ignoring the comment about his ear. “Especially tired of having my time wasted. I will be straightforward with you, Mr Zoltán. I've been chasing loose threads all night long and the few solid clues I have to these murders are all pointing me directly back to you.”

“I can zympathize with your weariness. I myself honestly cannot remember the last time I haf slept. If you will indulge me, detective…haf you heard of fatal familial inzomnia? No, I did not expect so. You see, I suffer from this same rare und awful affliction. You would not wish such a curse on your worst enemy. I am in the throes of the last stages now, when there is abzolutely no hope of ever sleeping again. As you can see, my pupils haf shrunk to the size of pins. I am prone to unexpected hot flashes that burn from inside like fire. I fall prey to hallucinations too, und they are becoming more und more frequent. There is, alas, no drug known to man than can avail…” and here his words took on a decidedly bitter tone as he bent forward into the light and glared at the detective. Suvichai could see now what he meant about the almost absent pupils, the baron's slate-grey irises as wide and flat and motionless as two cold stones. If it hadn't been for the sweat forming on his brow and the strained articulation of his taught scowl, it would have been like peering at a hideously captivating sculpture. The detective had to shake off the inclination to fall into a trance-like stare.

“…Und all I haf to look to for salvation is the final moment when my mind can endure no more und collapses into fatal madness! Und yet the unslaked thirst for life perzists!...So be cautious to whom you complain about lack of zleep, detective! You cannot even begin to imagine what drastic measures I have been forced to take in order to maintain my already threadbare zanity!” The baron ended his rant in a deep indignant groan. He then took a deep breath, reclined back in his chair, pulled his robe more tightly about his neck and tried to regain composure. After another pause, he continued, “But tell me again, why are you here? How exactly do I figure into this web of intrigue of yours?”

For the first time Suvichai realized the baron was as unpredictable as a snake waiting to strike. He discreetly felt for the hilt of his sword cane with his hand.

“We have discovered an implicating import form with your seal on it,” he answered, gesturing towards the baron's gigantic ring. “You appear to have friends in high places. Can you explain to me why the prime minister should release a shipment of blood to you, concealed inside of coconuts no less?”

“Is this really what you haf come to ask me about, detective? About coconuts?” the baron replied, waving his hand in front of his face as if to brush aside the question. “Truly there must be zomething more worthy of your time. I would haf pegged you for a more intelligent man, detective. I would haf thought a man of your age could distinguish between trivialities and knowledge that is truly worth attaining. But you insist on wasting both our time with such extravagancies.”

“Knowledge is like the forbidden fruit, baron. How do you know its worth until you have taken that first bite? A man's reach should exceed his grasp…” Suvichai interjected with the ready quote.

“But at the expense of one's fingers?” the baron brusquely retorted. “No, I think not. I think you haf your hands in too many pies, detective. I was once like you, ingesting whatever stray scrap of knowledge came my way. Take a look around this office. The trinkets that line these shelves are testament to many of my search's follies,” the baron said as he stood from his chair and pointed out different areas along the shelves. “Over here, an ancient Dvaravati relief of the Buddha in meditation, being protected by the Naga. Und in my youth I pondered for years: ‘What is its deeper inner meaning?' Or here, the fabled Nepalese kukri knife that, as myth would haf it, must never be unsheathed without drawing blood—nothing but a fiction. But wait, allow me to show you my latest acquisitions…I can tell they haf already caught your eye. I haf gone to great pains to acquire these, und their possession threatens my very life.” The baron moved over to the three boxes behind him and carefully, proudly, brought them one at a time to the fore of his desk. “Und you tell me what is their zignificance.”

What was the purpose of this charade? Suvichai looked at the baron quizzically and stood forward to examine them more closely. The identical tall black-lacquered boxes' pigment was unnaturally dark. The craftsmanship was primitive and brutal. And yet nothing except two thin silver hinges and a tiny silver lock sealed each shut. The lids themselves were the most enticing element. Those marvelous bits of artistry were encrusted with countless rubies that caught the dim office light as it danced like fire spreading across and delineated a bare section in the middle of each where the stones were arranged as if to outline the silhouette of a hand.

It would appear the baron had some connection with the group known as The Hand and the detective's imagination immediately guessed at the boxes' horrible content. He was beginning to fear what the next few moments might bring…

“Shall vee open one? You decide which. I haf the keys right here,” the baron tempted, glowering at Suvichai over these his mysterious trophies as he fished a set of ornate silver keys from his robe pocket.

The baron was playing a dangerous game. But Suvichai did not hesitate in the least to accept the gambit. The face of Ink crossed his mind…her last questioning expression…Was this the decision Ezra'il had spoken about?

Suvichai pointed to the last box.

The baron singled out one of the keys, removed it from its ring and handed it to the detective. “Here. The honor is yours.”

Suvichai slowly took it and his brow pinched at the center as he fitted the key into its lock. He was too engrossed in the mesmerizing design upon the lid to notice how the baron was gloating over him as the detective stared down upon the harrowing box intently. Suvichai could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He turned the key and the lock clicked. He lifted the lid in dreadful expectation…but the box was empty. Its black painted inside somehow plain and shallow in the revealing light, disenchanting compared to what its exterior seemed to portend.

“See what I mean…absolutely nothing. Life so zeldom delivers what vee expect,” the baron chortled, relishing the detective's mix of relief and disappointment. “But pleeze forgive the diversion. I apologize for the waste of your time. I believe there was the matter of the coconuts you were asking about…”

But just then a loud smash from the other side of the door cut the baron off. The two men looked at each other in mirrored puzzlement.

“Uh,…you will…haf to excuse me. I am…expecting some-…one…” the baron murmured distractedly as he inched toward the door and stuck his head outside. He looked back at the detective over his shoulder. “Pleeze wait here, detective. I will be right back.” He exited awkwardly, closing the door behind.

Suvichai heard a door slam from the other side and he too slipped to the office door and peeked out. The antechamber was empty. The door opposite had had its jamb ripped through forced entry. It sat slightly ajar and the detective could hear the baron talking inside.

Suvichai scurried back to the boxes on the desk and desperately tried to pry open the other two, but they were sealed tight. He pulled out his phone and hurriedly sent the following text message to Mongkut: “2cars.UzbekEmb.Now”. He then slipped into the antechamber and ducked behind the plant by the other door.

The room on the other side was dark. The detective could see through the narrow crack a flickering light, as that of an enormous candle, play across Zoltán's morbid face in three-quarter view. He was addressing someone, his enormous fist with the mysterious ring jutting forward. The ring's insignia was glowing red. A putrid oily smell was wafting through the doorway.

“…Where were you when I zummoned you at midnight?” demanded Zoltán. “You no longer work for The Hand, Dantalion. You answer only to me. Such is the price of your prezervation. Need you gaze upon your would-be tomb to be reminded?”

“My time is my own, baron,” growled a deep and resonating voice in reply. “You have my vowed allegiance. But do not push your luck, old wizard. I have served and outwitted men far wiser than you.”

“Haf you performed the task?”

“It is done. Your prize is in the bag,” answered the obscured stranger gravely.

“Good. Then there is another that I must alzo ask you to behead.”

So, here was the assassin Suvichai had been hunting all along. He feared he had walked right into a fatal pitfall. But more than for his own life, he feared for the fate of Ink. Had she been the prophesied third? Why hadn't he offered her protection while he could? If only Suvichai could hear her voice once more and know she was safe. Before he even thought to draw his weapon, he frantically dug the business card out of his pocket and dialed…

“The zooner we are rid of this meddlezome old…” But the baron was interrupted by the muffled ringing of a phone. And then another ring.

There was no time to wait for the sergeant. Suvichai hung up, dropped his mobile and drew his sword. The door felt hot. He burst in, his blade raised, and was stung by a wall of acrid heat.

There the two figures stood, both now turned toward the commotion—Zoltán drenched in sweat and sneering contortedly; and Ink!…in front, dressed exactly as when the detective last saw her. Except now she was holding a large burlap satchel in one hand and a broad menacing dagger in the other. The chamber was bare except for a makeshift alter behind with a large silver basin burning wildly upon it. Shadows pulsed about the room, foiling the two in surreal outline. Ink's once spirited face was completely vacant, so grotesquely different from the last time Suvichai looked upon her. She gazed straight through him with her empty eyes…How the strange transformation in her voice?...The pigtails like a cruel joke now…

Is it too late to ask forgiveness, little sister?

Suvichai limped forward a step and, with a single motion, brought his sword slashing across her neck. The cut was, at least physically, as effortless as if slicing through air. The ghastly head spun like a flung rock, tumbling against the altar. The satchel dropped with Ink's corpse and a coconut rolled out in front of Suvichai's face. For our anguished detective too had fallen to the ground, his hands slipping in the pooling blood as he struggled to get to his feet. The basin was billowing, its endless smoke suffocating. A wave of overwhelming exhaustion quivered through Suvichai as he crawled coughing on the floor, feeling about for his sword. Zoltán grimaced down over the helpless detective. His terrible eyes aglow. But Suvichai could no longer see…only the sound of the approaching sirens ringing in his ears as he choked into inescapable unconsciousness.