Chuck Logan - The Price of Blood

The normal-sounding cadence of profanity carried from the water line. Men working in hot, humid conditions and bitching. The sound pecked at walls of shock.

LaPorte walked over to Broker. “Pardon our little act. We are scouting hotel sites on the coast. You’ll rest as long as it’s light and be fed. Tonight, after we’re reasonably sure no one is going to wander through, we’ll get down to business.”

He started to walk away, paused, and turned.

“I would have given her a divorce, you know. But she was…well, greedy,” said LaPorte, slowly shaking his head. “And there was something else. She lied to me. Don’t lie to me, Phil, and render service. You and the girl just might come out of this.”

The vets were loaded into the boat and Bevode and one of the mercs motored them off up the coast. LaPorte sat with Blue Shirt and Trin at the camp table. They talked and drank from glistening green bottles they took from one of the coolers. LaPorte talked on a radio, presumably to someone on the Lola .

Nina’s voice muttered, striving for control, “He’s going…to have to change…the name…of his fucking boat.”

Broker looked away. Every muscle fiber in her body struggled to contain the uncontrollable shivering. Patches of her skin shuddered. Sick dog jerky. Broker discovered that he couldn’t look her in the eye.

Not physical. Pain she could take. No. He glanced at the pit site. The loose sand had settled into a slight concave depression. He’d brought her to within fifty yards of where her father lay…

He looked out to sea. His father had said that death approached with a slow deliberate tread. Gradually you got to see its features, know its habits.

Death wiggled on Bevode’s leash, smack in his face, so close that he had to wait for it to back up a few feet to get a good look at it. Broker was ashamed that, in these first moments, he thought only of himself.

Broker confronted the paradox of hope during the benign interval of planning that followed in the aftermath of Lola’s murder. Hope played hide and seek in the hot sun. Hope was fickle enough to root on the gallows steps.

Why were they allowed to live?

He and Nina were handled efficiently, like important merchandise. They were frisked and Broker was allowed to keep the glass vial. Then they were positioned apart so they couldn’t communicate. But they were hand-fed water and energy bars by Save the Whales.

Snatches of conversation carried to him. They would lay low for the day and see if there was a local reaction to Bevode’s shooting. LaPorte sounded better informed now about the deserted nature of the place.

Trin.

Broker was blindfolded and was marched off the beach. His hands brushed the baking masonry of one of the old graves, where he was stored in the shade so he wouldn’t spoil.

He lost track of time. The day broke down into simple experiences. When he sat, his tired body ached. When he lay down, it didn’t hurt as much. He found himself creeping after the shade along the round walls, staying ahead of the sun. He was fed and watered and allowed to relieve himself. His bound hands were checked and loosened slightly. They needed him for his hands and his back.

To dig it up? They had more men, in better condition.

One of the European mercenaries gave him a cigarette. Communication was practical, without animosity, conducted on the level of skilled animal handlers. He waited, kenneled in his blindfold.

For Bevode, who would come out at dark.

Later, afternoon maybe, Broker heard LaPorte’s voice getting louder, casually discussing his manpower problem. His tone had changed. Less anxious. In practical matters he consulted the one he called Marc, Blue Shirt: How close could they hazard bringing the vessel in to shore? How long would it take to ferry loads? How many men to hoist them with the winch into the cargo hold? The weather was always a worry.

Then Broker learned why he was being kept alive. LaPorte was concerned that, given Jimmy Tuna’s fascination with demolition and practical jokes, the gold pit could be booby trapped.

Footsteps in the sand. Broker was so sensitive to the blister of the sun that he could feel a man’s shadow. He smelled fresh, hot coffee, not the soupy Vietnamese stuff. American.

“I thought you might like some coffee, Phil.” The relaxed, deep voice had a slight drawl, not enough to be regional, just enough to be interesting. LaPorte. Talking with macabre nonchalance while he tracked blood. Did he learn that from Bevode? Or did Bevode learn it from him?

The lip of a cup touched Broker’s cracked lips. Even hot, the coffee was wonderful and tasted like home. He felt a cigarette tuck in the corner of his mouth. Heard the flare of a lighter. After one drag the cigarette was removed, Broker wondering what he had to do to get it back. The cup returned and then the smoke.

His throat and senses lubricated, he asked, “How did you get to Trin?”

Sounds. The sand stirring. LaPorte was sitting down, getting comfortable. His voice was practical.

“Don’t underestimate Bevode. He wasn’t in Wisconsin because he tarried in Lansing, Michigan. Lucky for him…I guess.”

“Kevin Eichleay.” Broker winced. He got a picture of yellow police tape strung at a charity relief office.

LaPorte chuckled. Broker was allowed another sip of coffee. This time the cigarette was left in his mouth. “Oh, Kevin still has all his fingers and toes,” said LaPorte. “Fingers are probably in a cast by now, though. Bevode motivated him to give us Jimmy’s Vietnam connection. I guess he was pretty tough. All Bevode got was Trin’s name and a phone number. I damn near shit when I heard that .”

LaPorte’s voice took on an absent quality, ruminating. “You know, Bevode grew up in one of those Christian cults, way back in the swamp. Snake handlers. He used to suffer in this moral quandary. He drank a lot when he was a cop. I guess the problem of evil really bothered him. He’s been sober since I revealed to him that he really was just a sadistic sociopath.”

Broker had another sip of coffee. LaPorte continued. “Bevode has been here with me before. One of the things he does is run security checks with the police on potential employees. So he ran Trin with the cops in Hue. To set up his gimp day care he needed permits. Our Communist brethren are sticklers for paperwork. It left a trail. From People’s Committees, the district, the province on up to the state. He followed the trail out here.”

“Still doesn’t tell me how you turned him,” said Broker.

LaPorte’s baritone shook with laughter. “Turned him? From what? Hell, he was using you and he meant to use me. Your buddy has been picked up for vagrancy, drunkenness, petty theft, and pimping in the new hotels. He’s suspected of smuggling and running scams on tourists. I just gave him his head.”

Broker grimaced. LaPorte continued. “Oh, we made him an offer, manager of the hotel I’m building, threw in a new car…” LaPorte laughed. “These people are nuts about new cars. Do you know the Koreans have the inside track on widening Highway One into a four-lane freeway? The way these guys drive, I’m thinking of investing in a national ambulance service.”

“Why’d you string up that poor dude on the flagpole?”

“I didn’t. Bevode got a little carried away. But to answer the question: Trin was thinking bigger than hotel manager. The Hue cops suspect that he’s been bribing the local militia post for years. Uses this stretch of beach for smuggling.”

Broker winced. The cigarette had burned down and the paper was stuck to his lip. LaPorte plucked it away.

“So,” said LaPorte, “figuring Trin might be up to his old tricks, I sent Bevode and all the boys in early to have a visit with the militia. Caught them at dinner. Dumb shits had their guns locked up. With a little persuasion, they talked. Trin planned his trap for tomorrow morning. We would have come ashore into twenty AKs and a machine gun. He even tried to delay me and tipped the customs police. They showed up at our hotel and combed through our luggage. Looking for art objects. Fortunately, bribery is a way of life in the Orient.”