The Killing Hands (26 page)

O
n my BlackBerry, I open up the list of the three hundred and fifty-six male Chinese nationals who entered the US between November 6 and December 6 and left within a week of Saito's murder. Rodriguez sent through a list of names with their entry and exit dates in Excel, the biometric data for each person, plus JPEG images of the photos taken at their entry point—in most cases an airport.

I study the Excel list, despite Petrov's instructions to the contrary. I e-mailed it through to the team as soon as it came in yesterday, but I'm so bored in hospital…I'll go out of my mind if I don't do something. I've read all four
dim mak
books and I need something else constructive to do. The immigration info fits the bill. I know I'm still operating below par because of the pain medication, but I can't just lie here twiddling my thumbs. Today's Thursday, and I've got another two full days of hospital hell. I have to do something. But the names are merging into one big blur. I hope the others are having better luck than I am. I shake my head. What am I doing? I have another method at my disposal. I try with the names first…. I've never tried to get anything in terms of a vision or dream from someone's name alone, but I know it can be done. In fact, if you believe the rumors, the CIA used remote viewers during the Cold War—people
who could give them information on a building or location just by knowing the longitude and latitude. And the US wasn't the only country that experimented in this area. While the parapsychology tests have been inconclusive, I know that some people can tune into a person from their name alone. Others need a photo, while some need to touch something personal to the subject. There's certainly no harm in me trying my usual relaxation techniques while staring at a name. I lean back in the hospital bed and consciously slow my breathing, concentrating on each breath. Then, I open my eyes and look at the first name, Chi Ho, and close my eyes. Nothing, so I move on to the next name. After the tenth name, I close the Excel document and bring up the pics. I'm about to try again to induce a vision when Mum walks in.

“Morning, sweetie.”

I casually place my BlackBerry on the bedside table. “Hi, Mum.” She follows my hand.

“Darling! You're supposed to be resting.”

“I am, Mum.”

Dad enters. “What's up?”

Mum turns around. “She was working…again.”

Dad looks at us, one then the other, torn between whose side to take. His eyes settle on me. “Sophie, you're not doing yourself any favors.”

I grimace. Damn. “Come on, Dad. I'm bored stupid in here.”

“What about your books? TV?” Mum crosses her arms.

I shrug.

“It's for your own good, Sophie. The more you rest now, the faster you'll be back on your feet…and at work.”

Ouch, that's below the belt. “Nice try, Mum.”

She plonks into the armchair. “Fine. I give up. Work.”

Silence.

“So you'll bring in my laptop then?” I've been asking for it since Tuesday—the small BlackBerry screen hasn't been helping matters. Maybe that's why I haven't been able to induce a vision.

Mum stands up. “Talk to your daughter, Bob.” And she leaves.

Uh-oh.

Dad gives me a look. “Do you have any idea how worried your mum's been? How hard it is to see you like this?” He takes a breath. “To know what could have happened to you that night?”

“Umm…”

“Sophie, think. Please. If you'd seen her in Melbourne, on that airplane, you wouldn't be doing this.”

I'm not used to hearing such harshness in my dad. He's usually the laid-back one. And my ally.

“But, Dad, I thought you guys understood now. You said you know why I do this. Why it's so important to me.”

He sits on the edge of my bed and his tone softens. “We do, Sophie. We understand. But our natural instinct is still to protect you. And your mum is talking sense—you will get better faster if you rest.”

I sigh. “I don't know, Dad.”

“We don't expect you to abandon the case. But just put your health first.” He places his hand on top of mine. “You've only got two more days in here, and then you're back in your apartment, with your laptop.”

“And what'll Mum say when I open it up?”

Dad's silent. “Let's make a deal. You rest today and tomorrow. Then, when you're released, I'll do my best to keep your mum off your back.”

I smile. “Deal.”

He holds up his hand. “Hold on, you haven't heard the whole deal.”

I raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.

“During the week we're in your apartment, before we head back to Oz, you still have to pace yourself.”

“Like?”

“Two hours a day.”

“Three,” I say, holding out my hand to shake on it.

Dad looks unsure. “Two and a half…but that includes phone calls.” He takes my hand.

I grimace. “Okay. But I need one hour today, after you're gone, and then I'm done until Saturday.”

Now his face screws up, but he shakes my hand, nonetheless.

 

An hour later, Mum and Dad have left me to “rest”—which I will do, but first the long-awaited ViCAP searches. The first one I look for is the heart concussion. I'm not expecting ViCAP's online system to return many hits. If our hit man used
dim mak
without any of the Ten Killing Hands, it's possible the death would be passed off as accidental, and certainly not criminal. I type in heart concussion as the cause of death and leave all the other fields blank. I get one hit, from 1999 in Washington, D.C. The victim was a politician and the case was investigated as suspicious, but the unusual cause of death complicated things. The forensic pathologist noted small, circular areas of trauma in the chest region but couldn't match it to a weapon and so the case went cold.

In the absence of a printer, I save all the details to my BlackBerry's internal memory and move on to the next search. I know there's no point looking for generic organ failure, but the strikes that target the spleen could give me matches, so I enter in ruptured spleen as the cause of death. This time I get twenty matches, but all of them bar two look like regular muggings or beatings. The two that I flag as potentially related to our killer took place in Seattle in 2003 and New Orleans in 2005.

Next is heart attack and ventricular fibrillation. I'm not expecting many results for these two either—not in ViCAP, which records violent and serial crimes—but it's worth a shot. I get three matches for heart attack as cause of death, but they're all drug-related cases in which the victim took too much cocaine or speed. All were classified as accidental deaths, but were entered into ViCAP because they were also investigated as potentially forced drug consumption. In the end, the police couldn't prove anything criminal, and whether they were murder or not, they're certainly not related to kung fu strikes.

For ventricular fibrillation as the cause of death I get five matches. Of the first four, two were induced during drowning, one occurred from extremely low levels of potassium and one from a hit and run. While all had something suspicious or criminal about them, it's only the fifth case of ventricular fibrillation that I believe is related to
dim mak
, to our killer. In this case, no specific cause for the ventricular fibrillation could be found by the forensic pathologist, but the victim was a very wealthy businessman whose new wife inherited five million dollars. The police flagged it as suspicious, but could never get anything on her or anyone else. While they had to let the case go, one of the detectives was concerned enough to lodge it in ViCAP. There could be many other cases just like this one, where the victim died of ventricular fibrillation with an unknown cause and so they were written off as accidental deaths. But I can't look up every cardiac death in the US.

Before getting some rest, I draft a quick e-mail to the team and send through my ViCAP search results. I'm not sure that the new murders I've potentially linked to our killer will do us any good in terms of the investigation, but it still had to be done. Besides, maybe the wealthy widow will somehow lead us to the hit man.

 

Dad holds my elbow and forearm as we walk down the corridor to my apartment door. I think it's overkill, but Mum insisted. On the outside of my apartment door Mum and Dad have put up a reindeer knocker. Christmas is in three days' time—and I couldn't feel less festive. It's come so quickly this year, and being in hospital and out of my regular routine has left me feeling decidedly un-Christmassy.

“The reindeer's cute,” I say. “You just put him up?”

“It was one of the first things your mum bought.” Dad keeps us moving forward.

“Oh, Bob…” Mum turns to me. “Your father's so excited about having a Christmas here in the States. He bought the reindeer, not me.”

Dad shrugs. “Guilty as charged.” He nods at two yellow
envelopes stuck under my apartment door. “Looks like you've had a delivery.”

“I hope that's not work, Sophie Jane Anderson.”

A disapproving glare
and
the use of my full name…looks like Dad didn't tell Mum about our deal. He must have decided to take each day as it comes. Brave man.

“Just a few things, Mum. Not much.”

She shakes her head, and then picks up the envelopes. “Not even in the door from hospital and she's already working.” Inside, Mum places the keys on the hall dresser.

“I haven't even opened the envelopes.”

“No, but you will.”

“Come on, Jan. She is on the mend. Maybe an hour or two each day would keep Soph sane. She's never been one to sit around.”

Mum smiles. “No, she was always busy, our girl. Had to get into everything. You kept me busy as a toddler, that's for sure.”

I've heard the story before, but for some reason today it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“John was easy…you were work.” She says it fondly, but mentioning my brother's name is always awkward in our family and we're all silent for a few moments.

Eventually Mum gives a tired, sad sigh. “I'd understand if this was a child-abduction case, or one of those nasty serial-killer cases you work on. Something time critical. But this is…” She shrugs and waves the envelopes in the air.

I walk down the little hallway and into the main living space. “Wow, this place looks beautiful.” In the corner of the living room is a Christmas tree, decorated in purple and silver, with several presents underneath. My apartment windows have been stenciled with white Santas, reindeers and holly, and in the center of my dining-room table are two new red candle holders, with long green candles. “Thanks, Dad. It's perfect.” I give him a hug. “It's good to be home.”

“Your mum did help a little.” He smiles but then shakes his head. “I'm just sad it won't be a white Christmas. Darn
West Coast.” Dad grew up in Boston and has always been very pro-East Coast and anti-West Coast. He couldn't understand why I'd transfer from the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia, to the West Coast—and L.A. of all places.

“Mum and I will be happier without the snow.”

He shrugs. “You haven't had a real Christmas until you've had a white one.” Dad's accent has broadened from being back in the States for the week. It doesn't take long.

“I haven't forgotten about these, darling.” Mum places the envelopes on the dining-room table. “I really don't think you're up to working. And from the little you've told us about this case, it doesn't sound like it's time critical.”

“It's still murder, Mum. And a woman is missing.” It's a little lie, a white lie. Mee is still officially missing, even though we know where she is through Agent Young.

She gives a stoic nod. “You're right, darling. I'm sorry.”

I bite my lip, feeling guilty about my white lie already.

“We can spare Soph for a couple of hours.” Again Dad steps in.

“I guess.” Mum fingers the corner of one of the envelopes. “So do you know what's in these?”

“Yup. One's everything we've got on the victim, including information that's been forwarded to us from Japan and Singapore. The other one's a list of Chinese nationals who entered the country four weeks prior to the murder, with photos.” It'll be nice to look at the information in hard copy instead of on my tiny BlackBerry screen. Maybe then things will make more sense.

“Looks like a lot of work, Sophie.”

“Just reading, Mum.”

“Mmm…” She takes my overnight bag into my room.

“Mum, you guys should stay in my room—I can use the sofa bed.”

She pops her head out. “No. You're convalescing, Sophie. You need a proper bed.”

“Mum, I'm fine. Really. Besides, the sofa bed is comfy.”