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Bangkok is a city of
devout Buddhists. Patpong Road, the infamous red light district, is
two and a half blocks long, but more than eight hundred ornate
wats—temple/monastery com-pounds dedicated to Buddha and the study
of his teachings—dominate the city. I used to go running early
during the cool time, and sometimes it seemed as if no one but the
saffron-robed monks with their shaved heads and bare feet shared
the dawn with me.”
    She gazed at him, a rapt expression on her
face. “I always wanted to travel. I come from Chalcedony, a small
town on the western slope. It’s a decent place, and I had a happy
childhood, but I need more than Chalcedony can provide.” She smiled
ruefully. “I wanted the world, the whole broad picture, and I got
Denver and Pete’s Porches.”
    She fell silent. For a moment she left her
face unguarded, and Bob could see how her problems with Pete ate at
her. Then the eagerness returned to her eyes.
    “What did you do at The Lotus Room?”
    “I acted as manager, but I never had a title.
I did everything from purchasing supplies to waiting tables and
tending bar. Sometimes I cooked, if you could call it that. My
awkward attempts at stir-frying afforded Wu Shih-kai great
amusement.”
    “Was Wu Shih-kai the owner?”
    “Hsiang-li owned the place. Wu Shih-kai was
the cook, a wrinkled and withered ancient who appeared frail and
unsteady until he went into the kitchen, and then he became a
wizard, moving from pot to pot, refining his magic potions.”
    “It sounds like you loved Thailand,” Kerry
said wistfully.
    “I did. Beneath the veneer of congested
traffic and commerce is a city of great splendor. I felt at peace
there.”
    “Why did you leave?”
    Bob pressed his lips together and turned
away. After a moment he said, “I lost my work visa.”
    “I’m sorry you had to leave Thailand, but I’m
glad I got to meet you. You’re different.”
    “So I’ve been told.”
    She laughed. “You have to admit, not many
people have another self running around. I read something yesterday
that made me think of you. It’s from a poem by Oscar Wilde. ‘And
the wild regrets and the bloody sweats,/ None knew so well as I:/
For he who lives more lives than one/ More deaths than one must
die.’”
    Bob felt a shiver creep up his spine, but he
tried to keep his tone light. “Dying more than once seems to run in
my family.”

Chapter 4
     
    Kerry left to seat a party of boisterous
drunks. Bob huddled in the booth with the Oscar Wilde poem hanging
over him like his own personal storm cloud. When she turned and
tossed him a sunny smile, the cloud dissipated, but he regarded her
warily. What was she up to now? It seemed as if every time she went
off to serve someone else, she got another of her notions.
    Finished waiting on the drunks, she plopped
down opposite Bob. “I get off work at eight. Meet me here.”
    “Why?”
    “So we can go check on your other self. On
your own, you don’t seem to be able to get anything done. You’re
like a compass without a pointer. You lack direction.”
    “And you’re going to be the pointer?”
    She beamed at him. “Exactly.”
    ***
    At eight-thirty, they parked across the
street from Robert Stark’s house. Kerry sat behind the wheel of
Bob’s ancient VW, though he had no clear idea how that
happened.
    “Your talents are certainly being wasted in
the diner,” he said. “You should be in a boardroom somewhere
keeping the other board members in line.”
    Her eyes lit up but darkened immediately. “We
missed him. The station wagon’s not here. Now what?”
    “We wait.”
    “I don’t believe in waiting.”
    He didn’t remind her that she had invited
herself, but merely said, “Waiting and patience are a big part of
surveillance.”
    “So how long do we have to wait?”
    “I don’t know. We just got here.
    “Look, there it is.”
    Bob turned to follow her finger. The station
wagon raced down the street to the Stark house. It pulled into