The Reckoning Read Online Free PDF Page B

if peeling away layers of reality.
    One morning she noticed one of the hooded figures trailing her in the muggy gloom. She stopped. He stopped. “Hello?” she said, approaching him.
    It was old Samnang, wearing a blue-and-white kroma like a shawl, and under that a headset for his tape recorder. All but buried in the mist, his prosthesis had a blue sandal glued to the pink foot.
    â€œAh, bonjour, Molly,” he said. Maw-lee. His accent, so beautiful.
    â€œSamnang, what a surprise,” she said without surprise. It was so clear. “Did the captain tell you to follow me?”
    â€œThe captain? Not at all.”
    â€œThis was your idea,” she said.
    Samnang sniffed at the air. “The hour is so fresh, don’t you agree?”
    She could have been rude and insisted on her privacy, but she liked Samnang. He was as honest as a monk, and the American recovery teams hired him year after year to run their crews. He jokingly compared himself to a chicken scratching in the dirt for a living. She had never heard him speak about his past. He never mentioned the loss of his leg, never said a word about any family. Following Duncan’s example, she made a point of calling him by his full name, not Sam like the others did.
    Finally she said, “So what are you listening to?”
    During the wet season, when excavation was pointless, Samnang used his U.S. dollars to go around the countryside collecting folk songs. Before the water washes them away.
    He laid the kroma along his neck and handed Molly his headset. He pressed the button. Expecting folk music, she was amazed to hear Margo Timmins singing on The Trinity Sessions. “The Cowboy Junkies?” she said.
    He smiled sheepishly. “An old vice of mine.”
    After that there was no way she could refuse his company. They started walking together.
    â€œDuncan told me about your photograph of the morning people,” Samnang said. “I thought to see them for myself.”
    It occurred to her that he had come to protect her. Did he fear they might resent her presence? But they seemed unaware of her. For that matter, they seemed unaware of one another.
    â€œThey’re harmless,” she said. “They never look at me. They never come close.”
    â€œAre there any out there now?”
    She counted a woman with two children in the fog, and a man standing in place, looking off. “Just three,” she told him.
    â€œBut some mornings, more?”
    â€œMany more. I wonder if they’re studying the damage. You know, figuring out how to repair the paddy walls before the rains come.”
    â€œWhat are they doing now?”
    She glanced at Samnang and his black eyes glistened inside the lips of his shawl. He was watching her face, not even trying to look for them. Was he testing her, or were his eyes too old? She turned her head. Several more had appeared a hundred yards to the side, motionless or nearly so. One drifted along some hidden dike path. “Nothing,” she told him. “They’re just standing out there, like they’re waiting for a train or something.”
    Samnang nodded his head slowly, intent on her face.
    â€œMy other thought was that they might be foraging,” she said.
    â€œ ‘Foraging,’ ” he repeated.
    â€œLike a cargo cult or something. Salvaging the plane’s wire and metal. Getting a little treasure before the day starts and the Americans show up. This is their backyard, after all.”
    â€œHave you seen them taking anything? Reaching into the ground? Digging?”
    â€œNever. They never do anything. They don’t even talk to each other.”
    He had risen early for her. He could still be sleeping. She felt responsible. “You shouldn’t worry about me,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
    â€œThe villagers are quite frightened by them,” Samnang said.
    She frowned. These were the villagers. “I don’t