The Reckoning Read Free

refused to call out. She couldn’t possibly be lost. It was broad daylight and the immense floodplain lay flat in every direction. An orange pin flag marked one of the paths. The flies flocked to her sun-screen, and they had a bite like bees. Cursing in whispers, she set off along the path with her camera bag swinging.
    At the end of ten minutes, she spotted a figure quivering in and out of sight on the far side of a drained lake. Molly wiped the sweat from her eyes. Through her longest lens she decided that with his blond hair and long jaw he had to be one of the American soldiers. He seemed to be looking right at her, but didn’t return her wave.
    Take the bull by the horns, she thought, descending from the footpath. By the time she unraveled their trail system, he might be long gone. She was about to start directly across the dried lake bed when a man spoke behind her. “I wouldn’t go out there,” he said, “not if it was me.”
    Molly turned. The man was tall and thin and tidy, with a red-and-white-checkered Khmer scarf hooded over his head. Dirt smudged the knees of his baggy Levi’s. He was clean shaven and wore a T-shirt emblazoned with the movie-star face of Che Guevara. A mason’s trowel hung from one hand. On the ground behind him, a dented and scratched steel briefcase sat neatly upright on top of two sticks, obviously his work kit. And something else, she noticed. He was not sweating. In every way, he seemed to govern himself, even in this climate.
    â€œI didn’t see you,” she said.
    â€œThe place is littered with leftovers. War junk. Nightmares,” he said.
    UXO, he meant. Unexploded ordnance from thirty years of killing. Ordinarily she would have rolled with the sermon; it was gentle enough. She was new to the territory, and as a journalist she valued the early guide. But she was tired and pissed off by the heat and this strange flat maze, and was in no mood for wisdom.
    â€œI’ve had the lecture,” she said. “The orange flags mean the area’s cleared. Red means stop. But the lake bed is empty.” It was a silly thing to say. Just because you couldn’t see the danger didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
    â€œEver seen them fish?” he said. “Take one grenade, any vintage. Remove pin. Throw in water. It’s easier than a net. The problem is, the stuff is old. Half the time it just sinks into the mud and waits.” He paused. “What I’m saying is, Molly, let it not be you. You’re much too pretty.”
    He knew her name. And he was hitting on her? In this heat? She fanned furiously at the flies.
    He leaned down to offer his hand, and reading her race, affected a brogue. “Duncan,” he said, “Duncan O’Brian, descended from kings. As for you, Miss Drake, there’s no mystery. Everyone’s known you were coming.”
    She thought he only meant to shake, but he took a good grip and lifted her from the lake bed. He was simply not going to allow her to be stupid. She desperately wanted to sit, but it was too soon to show weakness. It showed just the same.
    Before she knew what he was doing, his scarf was draped over her head like a veil. “There, that should help,” he said. “It gets brutal out here.”
    The scarf was a marvel. Immediately the air felt cooler. The blinding sun became bearable. The flies disappeared, and with them the feeling of assault. To her surprise, the cloth smelled clean, like rain, not sweat. The small bit of shade heartened her. She had a place to hide. All of that in a stranger’s gift.
    â€œI’m fine, thanks.” She started to lift away the scarf.
    He brushed aside her pride. His hair came to his shoulders, streaked with gray at the temples. She could not tell his age. A very weathered mid-thirties, or a young fifty.
    â€œIt’s called a kroma, ” he said. “The Khmers use it for everything you can imagine, a hat, a