The brand-new Mi-8 helicopter touched down directly on the grounds of Mahosot Hospital. Until the warranty ran out it would continue to have a Russian pilot at the controls, which explains why it didn’t remove the hospital roof or land in the trees. It did, however, manage to blow all of the new chrysanthemums out of their bed. Stretcher bearers crouching low ran to the open hatchway, carefully lifted Judge Haeng onto the canvas, and whisked him away. The helicopter could have taken him to the temporary field hospital in Sam Neua in the north, but Siri had insisted the man’s condition was so grave they had no choice but to take him directly to Vientiane.
It mattered not a jot to Siri that the judge had no condition to speak of. Apart from the broken wrist, once his boss had slept off the drug, he would be his old disagreeable self within twenty-four hours. Siri was just tired and he wanted to go home. Despite the incomprehensible ranting of the pilot, he insisted on remaining on board until the rotors had stopped spinning. He decided he was already short enough, thank you, and he preferred a dignified homecoming.
French medical and US military choppers had arrived frequently at the hospital during the war years but, four years later, all flights had stopped. So it wasn’t surprising that doctors and nurses and patients came spilling out of their buildings to look at the spectacularly gleaming Russian craft. To Siri’s profound disappointment, Dtui and Geung were not among them. He’d hoped to impress them.
He handed the twins, now crying in coordinated stereo, to two maternity nurses and asked them to take care of the infants. He told them he’d stop by later. He walked to the morgue, carrying the remains of Danny and Eric under his arm, his only luggage. One of the uprooted chrysanthemums lay on the morgue’s welcome mat as if it were insisting on an autopsy. The door was padlocked and for some mysterious reason his key didn’t work. He wondered why they’d needed to change a three-month-old lock. He went to the office window but the curtains were drawn tightly and there was no gap to allow him to see inside.
It was just after five and usually Dtui and Geung would be heading off to water the squashes in the cooperative plot behind the hospital. They understandably dawdled getting there so it wasn’t unheard of for the morgue to remain open till five thirty. They certainly wouldn’t have rushed away before five. He had to consider another obvious possibility. On his last protracted interstate trip, the hospital had drafted Siri’s staff to work in other departments. He thought he’d kicked up enough of a stink about it to ensure it wouldn’t happen again but he wouldn’t put anything past the current administration.
He stopped by Urology and wandered in to the office of Dr. Mut. “Wandering in” was a standard procedure in most Vientiane offices. Doors were usually left ajar due to the heat and a lot of the buildings were open plan. Apart from personages at the absolute top of the heap, there were no receptionists or secretaries to keep out unwanted guests. So riffraff was to be expected.
“Good health, Mut,” Siri said.
The doctor was staring at two plastic cups that sat in front of him on the desk. He looked up and smiled. He was a kindly, greasy-faced man with hair slicked to his scalp like trails of paint.
“Ah, Siri. Can I tempt you?”
“Can’t say I’m sure what you’re asking me to do,” Siri confessed, not knowing whether these were specimens or oolong tea.
“I always end the day with a hot ginseng. Keeps me active in the bedroom.” He winked, threw back one of the cups, and wiped his lips.
“I’ll pass, thank you, Mut. Being active all by yourself makes you blind.”
Mut laughed. “Word on the ward is that you’ll be rabbiting soon on a regular basis. Young bride. Disgusting. Envy you, though.”
He threw back the other cup.
“Shouldn’t you be savoring that?”
“No. Horrible stuff. Don’t want it to last a minute longer than necessary. Tastes like pubic-hair roots. Gets stuck between your teeth the same too. Know what I mean?”
Siri had always found it fitting that the head of Urology should be so adept at toilet humor. Mut was its grand master.
“Well, seeing as you know so much about everything,” Siri said, “and seeing as you stole my nurse last time I turned my back, I thought perhaps you’d know what’s become of my morgue people.”
“Ooh!”
Mut let the end of the ‘ooh’ trail into a long noisy breath. “Now that I can’t tell you, comrade.”
“Because you don’t know or because it’s a secret?”
“Mystery, Siri. Mystery. Nobody has any idea. The morgue’s been locked like that for several days now. Nobody seems to have a sound idea why. But there are rumors, Siri. Lots of ‘em.”
“I’m listening.”
“Something happened, they say. Your Nurse Dtui and her policeman got caught up in something nasty.”
“And?”
“That’s all I heard.”
“That’s not much help.”
“Sorry, comrade. All I know.”
Siri, anxiety growing with every stride, hurried to the administration building. As it was after five, he wasn’t surprised to find it devoid of administrators. None of the clerical staff there knew anything beyond the same rumor passed on by Mut. His frustration grew. He knew how unconcerned Dtui and Phosy were for their own safety. It was like them to get into trouble. He went to Mr. Geung’s dormitory room but his neighbor admitted he hadn’t seen Geung for three or four days. The mystery was thickening.
Siri’s Triumph was in the parking lot where he’d left it before he headed north. He wiped a thick brown layer of dust from it and tried the key. It charged into life first time. He had to hand it to the British. If nothing else, they knew how to make motorcycles. He attached Danny and Eric to the back of the seat and headed to Madame Daeng’s shop. The shutter was bolted and a sign, not in Daeng’s own hand, was taped to the front of it. It read,