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Since then, there hadn’t been any communication, and the brother was afraid that Lazlo had finally gotten himself into a situation he couldn’t readily get out of.
Their guide turned out to be a young man in his mid-twenties named Analu, who spoke passable pidgin English in a high-pitched, excited voice. He proudly escorted them to his vehicle: a ten-year-old Isuzu SUV with fading red paint and questionable tires. When Sam told him they were bound for Vang Vieng, he smiled, offering a dental display that was every oral surgeon’s dream.
“You backpacking? Tubing?” Analu asked.
“Uh, no. We have a friend who we think might be up there.”
“Lots of people go and get hurt on river. Some die. Every year. Used to be crazy.”
“Used to be?” Remi asked.
“Yeah, uh-huh. Big tourist town, many kids party. But now not so bad.”
“What happened?” Sam asked, curious.
“Government tear down all river bars.”
“So there’s no drinking?” Remi said. “That sounds like hell on earth for Lazlo . . .”
“Still plenty drinking. Lots in town. Same-same but different. And few bars rebuild on water. Friends of police. Family, cousins, brothers, yeah?”
“I think I understand. So you know the place?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, sure, uh-huh. I take you now?”
“How far is it?”
“Three, maybe four hour. Road pretty good. No rain. Not so good in rain.”
“Are there hotels up there?”
“Sure, uh-huh. Plenty good hotels.”
“Well, then,” Sam said, “let’s get going. The day’s not getting any younger.”
They piled into the SUV and the engine started with a cloud of ominous black smoke and then began idling roughly on its three remaining cylinders. Sam silently wondered where Kendra had gotten the tip for their new friend.
Analu pulled into traffic with a casual disregard for the oncoming vehicles—an effort that was rewarded with ample honking. He floored the pedal and made a gesture through his open window that Sam interpreted as a sign of friendly acceptance. The little SUV lumbered forward like a losing boxer at the end of the eleventh round after swerving to avoid a delivery van by a matter of inches, which didn’t faze Analu in the least.
Ten seconds later, a black Nissan sedan rolled from the curb half a block behind and took up a trailing position, the two Laotian men in it serious, their attention focused on the SUV. The passenger made a call, as their quarry took the on-ramp to Route 13, and, after a terse discussion, gave instructions to the driver, who dropped back another fifty yards.
Once out of the Vientiane area, the road became a flat, two-lane strip in marginal condition, with swarms of motorcycles buzzing past each time the Isuzu neared a town. As far as Sam could tell, there were no discernible rules of the road and by the second hour he’d grown accustomed to near misses and kamikaze riders racing toward them in the wrong lane, pulling to one side to safety moments before impact.
To their surprise, lush farmland with almost neon hues of green stretched for miles on either side of the highway. They’d been expecting jungle and rain forest and instead seemed to be in a tropical agricultural strip that went on endlessly, the wind blowing twisted waves of ripples across the fields.
For all their misgivings, Analu avoided killing either them, or any other drivers, and offered a running commentary on the various communities as they drove north. Some of his asides were humorous, some sad, but all world-weary, the result of living in a society where poverty was endemic and corruption was an expected aspect of any form of authority.
As they neared their destination, Remi pointed to a string of mountains thrusting into the sky. “Oh, look. That’s really beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Karst formations. Limestone eroded away by the river over time,” Sam said.
“It’s like something out of a movie.”
Traffic increased as they drew closer to town and soon they were part of a long line of cars inching forward like a frustrated concertina as they waited for a herd of cattle to cross the road ahead of them.
“What first stop? We almost there,” Analu chirped, leaning on his horn occasionally to break the monotony.
“The police station.”
