The Reckoning by Jeff Long Page B

three years to find a picture of her,” Molly said. She had it now, in her passport wallet, a Texas driver’s license issued in 1967. But no way was she going to share that with them, at least not with Kleat. “It took another two years to find her grave.” She did not describe the miner’s cemetery in Breckenridge, altitude 9,600 feet, wildflowers everywhere.
    â€œAt least she got a grave.”
    Molly stared at him. From the start, he had treated her like treason waiting to happen. She’d thought it had to do with her occupation, but it was both more and less personal than that. He was one of those troubled souls in constant need of a scapegoat, and for some reason, she’d been filling the role for a month. Going along to get along, maybe. Not anymore. The story was stone cold. Let the bastard go find another punching bag.
    Molly looked out the window. The river was on fire with red. Small boats ferried back and forth, the far shore going dark.
    The cocktail hour was dying. Soon the waiters would bring their dinner. The evening could end.
    A tiny desperation crept in. Tomorrow was almost here, and her future was in tatters. She’d banked everything on the Times. From this piece others would flow, then book deals, and film options. But the world was no longer her oyster.
    Kleat was making a quick escape, back to his twelve-cent beers and five-dollar wives. He’d already booked a flight out of Phnom Penh, two hours to the south, for tomorrow afternoon.
    Duncan had decided his restoration work in the north could wait until the rainy season passed. He was going to the big city. Though he must have resupplied in Phnom Penh countless times over the years, he acted like Marco Polo about to enter the marvels of Xanadu. He couldn’t wait to investigate its streets and markets and temples.
    In short, one of them was going, one was staying, and Molly was torn. Nothing waited for her at home, no obligations, no cat, no boyfriend, and no deadline. It had been too early to plant her herb garden on her little deck before leaving, and it would be too late by the time she returned. There was a friend’s wedding in July, a half marathon for breast cancer in August, her yoga classes at the Y, and an astronomy class up at the university. And bills to pay and work to scare up.
    But she was here. Asia no longer intimidated her. After a month in the field, she was toughened and road ready, and Duncan had caught her eye. He was an islander, of sorts, solitary and curious and uncomplicated.
    She was going to ask him to guide her through Angkor Wat. Not tonight, but once Kleat left, she meant to propose a short adventure before the storm. It was a whim, one that hadn’t occurred to her before an hour ago. She suspected it might lead to other things between them, other cities, maybe another life, a bend in the road.
    She wasn’t quite sure how to handle their age gap. Kent State was ancient history, though Duncan didn’t seem old enough for it by a decade. She had tried to imagine him thirty years ago. He would have had a little more meat on him, and fewer creases around the eyes. But he would have had the same sweet calm. A keeper. Thirty years ago.
    She’d never tried a winter-summer relationship, never even thought about it. On the other hand, he wasn’t exactly winter and she wasn’t exactly summer. She told herself it shouldn’t matter. If things didn’t work out, the typhoon was all the excuse she’d need to flee.
    The glass trembled again.

8.
    The restaurant grew quiet.
    Kleat looked at his watch. “Six sharp,” he said. “Send in the clowns.”
    Molly turned as the entrance lit with the color of tangerines. Three old monks filed in, led by a child. Bits of the sunset seemed caught in their saffron robes.
    She had heard of them. They were blind. The owner let them in each evening.
    All around, tourists hushed reverently, even the Germans at the