“Out of his love for my mother he stayed on at our house. Any time he wrote for the next year, he mentioned you in his letters. Your cruelty. Your incompetence. And every letter concluded with the same line: ‘Siri Paiboun the fake Lao surgeon has done this to us. He has destroyed our family. He must atone. This is my final wish.’ I couldn’t stand it anymore. The payments into my account stopped. I didn’t have any money to return to Thailand or to continue my studies. I took a menial job and saved as fast as I could. In 1976 I received a letter from the village headman telling me Henry was dead. I had loved him even more than I loved my mother. Suddenly, I had nobody.”

Siri coughed again and forced out the words, “Henry was a . . . a compulsive liar.”

“Of course, Fake Doctor. What else could you say to protect your reputation? But me? I had been told I had to discontinue my studies. I had passed every course. I specialized in pharmacology. I was offered a post at a research laboratory. But by then I had a bigger ambition: to avenge the deaths of Henry and my mother. I befriended the Lao community in Sydney. It wasn’t too hard to convince them I was one of them. They were quick to adapt to life in Australia. We spoke English together. Then, in ’75 when the floodgates of refugees opened, I was already a respected member of the Lao welcoming committee. And through them I heard of your whereabouts, Fake Doctor. I learned where you worked and where you lived and who you loved.

“I learned about Dr. Porn in Vientiane who had a nephew studying in Sydney. His father had died and the boy was alone. I contacted him and became his friend—in a way. I hadn’t yet formed my plan to—”

“You should just stop and listen to the stupidity you’re talking,” growled Siri. “None of it makes sense. I was in Hanoi. Why would a US pilot go to Hanoi for medical treatment in the middle of a war? And there is no echinococcosis in Thailand. He just selected the name from a medical dictionary. You—”

Siri fell into a coughing fit. The boy reached behind him and found his can of lighter fluid. He removed the cap and sprinkled the remainder of the liquid, not on Siri, but on Daeng. Her finger percussion became frenzied.

“Nearly done,” said Dom. “A little bit more and we can all go on our respective ways. It turned out that Dr. Porn’s nephew wasn’t a great communicator. He rarely wrote home. Never sent photos. Even less often after his sad demise.”

“You killed him too?” Siri asked.