The Lake Ching Murders - A Mystery of Fire and Ice (8 page)

Chen’s mouth flopped open.

“While you’re at it, tell them that I need some chalk and a wide-topped desk, a model of that boat and, oh yeah, where’s the can in this place?”

Far to the east and north, the events in the deserted factory in Ching were being monitored closely. “Why would they resurrect the murderer Zhong Fong?” Her assistant’s question hung in the air as Madame Wu looked out her office window. She put her hands up to the cool glass and pressed. She had old peasant hands. Like her mother’s. But not scalded and blistered like her mother’s from picking the cocoons of silkworms out of vats of boiling water. She remembered the agony on her mother’s face as winter approached. She remembered the humbling poverty.

Then the Japanese and the resistance. And change.

She tapped the glass of her office window. “So many changes,” she thought.

Her assistant repeated his question. “Why would they resurrect Zhong Fong, Madame Minister?”

She didn’t answer although she knew the answer to his question. She was thinking about the principles of leverage. She had been trained as a civil engineer, after all. If I could stand on a platform far enough away from the Earth, I could move the planet by simply pressing down on a stick. Leverage and distance did that. The principle was sound. Positioning, not strength, determined victory.

“Could he be made to work for us, Madame Minister?”

She felt herself on the platform. All she need do is press — and with luck the entire world would change. The whole history of China would be redirected. Back. Back to where this all began. Back to a time before money was everything. “We will soon regain Hong Kong. Our window on the world is secure. Now all we need do is shut the door,” she thought.

Madame Wu turned to her assistant and said, “Yes, he could be made to work for us.” But what she thought was: “He had better be made to work for us or all my years of planning and all the risks I’ve taken will be for nothing.”

Madame Wu smiled.

“Madame Minister?” asked her assistant.

“Nothing — nothing that you’d understand.” She turned from him and looked out the window. It was beginning to rain on Tiananmen Square.

“They’re not going to be pleased about this,” Captain Chen said, then turned on his heel and left. Fong looked up at the slanted bank of filthy windows in the ceiling of the place, then stepped into the fading squares of light on the floor.

He just nodded. “No shit,” he said to the air.

His two years west of the Wall had taught him the value of simple pleasures — like watching day’s end. He removed his padded jacket, then his shirt. The milky rays of dusk felt cool on his skin. He sat and enjoyed the movement of the sun’s dying light on him, around him.

When it was finally dark, he took a deep breath and flipped the wall switch on. The light from the naked bulbs had no warmth or movement to it. Fong turned to the wall of photos. So much death. So many passings at once. And such brutality. He focused on the pictures of the Chinese men with the scraped-off faces. Obliterated faces. Why do this? Fong got up and went to the pictures. He ran his fingers across the first photograph. He had seen violence in his time but nothing like this.

Fong glanced at the photos of the Japanese men with the lengths of intestine down their fronts, and nothing in their pants.

Erased faces — removed genitals.

He glanced at the Triad markings, but his eyes quickly moved to the Americans whose heads had been switched. This message Fong recognized. Many Chinese couldn’t tell one Caucasian from the next. Switch the heads — what’s the difference.

But so much death. Hardly discreet. Un-Triad-like.

The ancient word
chi
welled up inside him like something long buried coming up in the spring rains.

Chi
was a word that evoked both awe and fear. Chinese mania, the foreigners called it. There had been famous outbreaks before. Reports of those infamous eruptions of
chi
were whispered about at the dark end of alleys in Shanghai’s Old City when a white person made the mistake of thinking it a cute San Francisco Chinatown.

Fong took one more look at the pictures then turned off the light. He walked in the gloom. Only the steady blinking of the red light on his ankle cuff broke the darkness.

He lay on his back and tucked his rolled shirt beneath his neck. He pulled the Mao jacket up to his chin and listened to the silence of the place for a moment; then sleep took him.

Fong never felt the plastic mask slide over his mouth and nose. The clang of a cymbal woke him. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of the deserted factory, he thought he heard an arhu’s mournful notes added to the cymbal’s insistence. He struggled to a sitting position, disoriented, unable to tell if this was a dream or actually happening.

The mongoose lulled in a drugged sleep.

Then a single light cut through the darkness. A spotlight. Into the light stepped Fu Tsong in full Peking Opera makeup and costume — ready for her role in
Journey to the West.
A drum sounded and she pulled a four-foot-long feather from her headdress down into her mouth and struck a pose.

“I’m asleep,” Fong shouted then leapt to his feet. The light snapped out. Silence. Then the drum sounded just once. Another light snapped on. This time it was right in front of him. Fu Tsong stepped into the light. She was so close that Fong could smell the greasepaint. She raised her elegant arms and the costume’s long sleeves furled down to her shoulders. Her hand reached out and touched his throat — and he knew. He closed his eyes — and accepted.

Her hands. No, its hands. Cold. Male. Then the hypodermic pierced his neck.

Fong’s eyes fluttered open. He maintained consciousness long enough to look into the eyes behind the greasepaint. They were unblinking. Hard.

“The hallucinogen should wear off soon.” It was a voice Fong didn’t recognize. He felt a cold hand on his face. Then strong fingers pried open his eyelids. A shard of pain shot through his skull as a bright penlight snapped his irises shut.

He spat in the direction of the light.

A curse. A kick to his head. A shouting match. “Break his teeth. He has too much pride.” The sound of far-off cracking. Hard chips on his tongue.

“Typhoid and toothless sounds good. Shoot him up again.”

A pinprick breaking the continuity of his skin. Then delirium. Gentle delirium.

Fong laughed in his sleep. Then he felt a strong hand on his throat and saw those hard eyes again. He found himself falling. As if down a well. As if backward. At night.

“His fever’s breaking.” A soft voice.

“That’s quick.” A hard male voice.

“He might have been infected before.”

“Is that likely?”

“No, but it’s possible I guess. Damn!”

“I want him under longer!” The politico.

Fong gasped for air. There was something covering his mouth. He wanted to scream, but found himself awash in a place between wake and sleep where everything slid and changed and lashed out.

Snippets of voices.

“Well, what did he say?” The politico. “What was his plan?” The politico again.

“Well, he asked me to do a stack of things for him.” Chen’s voice.

Then a laugh. Not Chen’s. It could have been the thug’s laugh but Fong wasn’t sure.

“Open his mouth.”

A gasp. “What happened here?

“He fell.” The politico. General laughter.

“Very funny. This could take days to fix.”

“It can’t.” The politico.

“Well, there’s a faster way.”

“Do it.” The politico.

“Hold him still. This’ll hurt.”

A whirring sound. Something prying open his mouth. Then something hot. Molten on his teeth. Spikes of pain. Then on his upper teeth. More spikes.

Then his nose was covered and he floated — tasting oblivion.

He was in a bed. He could feel the crisp coolness of hospital sheets. He sensed it was morning. Which morning he couldn’t guess. He allowed the light to filter through his eyelashes and he slowly turned his head from side to side. The window was to his right.

He opened his eyes.

Sunlight streamed through a large glass pane. A slender silhouette interrupted the square of light.

“Hey ho, short stuff,” the silhouette said in English. “You more looking than usual rotten.” Sort of English.

Lily.

The hawking sound of an old throat being cleared announced the presence of the coroner from Shanghai’s Hua Shan hospital. Fong couldn’t see him, but he could hear him move the phlegm up and down his turkey neck.

A squat, blunt silhouette entered the light. Captain Chen.

Fong tried to say, “What brings you brigands to this part of the Middle Kingdom?” but it came out as, “W’ings u’ds’to s’art o’d Mi’l K‘dom?”

Lily turned toward the window. The light caught her features. Fong saw a look of horror there.

“They must have hurt me badly. But they didn’t annihilate me like the killers did to those people on the boat. No. They need me. They even brought my team together,” he thought.

He reached up and Chen helped him gain a sitting position. “Time to get back to work, sir?”

The sound of a stick match breaking fire and the whiff of sulphur drew his attention. “Looks fine to me. Not ready for my autopsy table yet,” the coroner spat out the phlegm. “Soon though.”

Fong smiled at the old man. “Why aren’t you dead?” he articulated carefully.

“Bad luck, I guess.”

Fong nodded and slowly swung his legs out of the bed. Neither of his Shanghanese colleagues missed the blinking of the ankle bracelet.

Fong ran his tongue over his teeth — they felt odd. He signalled to Chen to lean in. The ugly young man did. Fong spoke slowly, enunciating clearly, “Tell Lily I’m starting a new fashion.” He lifted up his cuffed leg.

Chen relayed the message. Lily stepped forward. The light picked up her sharp facial features — lit her beautiful, pained eyes. She pointed at the ankle bracelet. “Do those come in green?”

Fong tried to laugh. But it hurt. “Help me stand.”

Chen helped him to his feet. “How long have I been out?”

“Two and a half weeks,” said the coroner flipping through the chart he’d taken from the foot of the bed. “A fast recovery, I’d say.”

“From what?”

“Typhoid, it says here. You’ve been on heavy sedatives for the past three days.”

“Waiting for you two to arrive,” Fong thought, but didn’t speak. Just nodded. That hurt too. What hurt most was Lily’s refusal to look at him. She kept glancing out the window as if there was something to see.

“Ready, sir?” asked Chen as he held up Fong’s Mao jacket.

For a moment Fong panicked, but then he heard the reassuring rustle of the Shakespeare texts he’d sewn into the lining. He tried to take a step but nausea overwhelmed him. He fell to the floor and quickly released the contents of his stomach.

Chen helped him to his feet.

“The nausea should pass soon, Fong. It’s from the sedatives,” said the coroner.

He nodded. They headed out.

Lily’s eyes never met his.

The building in which the meeting was taking place was new but the ideas were as old as the organization itself. The youngest of the men in the room claimed direct ancestry with one of the five original monks who were supposed to have begun the Triad societies back in the days of the first Manchu incursions. No one questioned his claim since this young man was now at the pinnacle of his power. It was a new time indeed that one so young could climb so high. All the way to Shan Chu.

The eldest man in the room had been a small boy when the group took the bold step of separating from the coastal head office. That move and the subsequent deal with Mao’s men had secured the group’s present power. And its present power was substantial, as evidenced by the brisk sales of franchises throughout the Xian region.

“This Detective Zhong?” the young leader ordered a response.

A heavy-set man rose, bowed, then laid out Zhong Fong’s history in full. Quick rise through the ranks to head of Special Investigations in Shanghai, his fall from grace, his years in Ti Lan Chou prison, his internal exile then his recent resurrection.

The young leader, the Shan Chu, turned away from the others at the table and stared out the window. He didn’t fear the present circumstances — the matter of the deaths on that boat — the mess. But he knew that at times of turmoil gain can be realized. He was trying to figure out what benefit could be wrought from the murders of seventeen foreigners. What new foothold of commerce could be purchased from this interesting situation.

“Did we supply the girls?” he asked.

“Naturally, from Xian,” came back the simple reply.

“And their transportation to the ship?”

“We pulled in a favour from a bus driver. But he broke down along the way. The girls never got to the boat.”

That surprised him. “None of the girls got to the boat?”

“Not unless they got there on their own.”

“Is that possible?”

“I guess. Whores can be quite resourceful.” The man laughed. The young leader didn’t, so the rest of the room decided that the jest was in bad taste.

After allowing the man to sit for a moment of embarrassment, the young Shan Chu said, “Get me the calling cards of the girls — of all the girls.” He turned to the rest of the table and smiled. “It is a rare opportunity for a Triad to help the police in their investigations, don’t you think, gentlemen? We must grasp such opportunities to be good citizens of the New China.” He laughed and the rest of the table followed suit. Evidently this gibe was not in bad taste.

Fong set tasks for Lily and the coroner that brought them into town. He returned with Chen to the warehouse.

Chen had secured an oval meeting table, chairs and Japanese-style futons for them. He’d also found the large, flat-topped desk and chalk that Fong had requested.

Fong nodded.

“The transparencies will be ready shortly, sir.”

Fong nodded again, still unsure what a transparency was. “What about the model of the boat?”

It’s been ready for some time. We just have to pick it up.”

Chen drove him to an old-style workshop just outside the city limits. From the twin front doors it might well have been a stable at one time. When Fong knocked at the door, the sound echoed.

After a few moments the door was opened by a tall, elegant, aesthetic-looking man who was about ten years older than Fong. The man wore army-issue wirerimmed glasses. His eyes were oddly pale; his fingers long. His nails were buffed, yet his palms were deeply calloused. His handshake was firm.

“Welcome, Detective Zhong.” His voice was light, breathy. His clothing appeared to be standard issue but made of extremely fine fabrics. He took off his clunky metal-rimmed glasses and cleaned them with an expensive linen handkerchief. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Fong glanced up into the man’s face. He found no trace there of anything but a carefully kept mask. The man stepped aside. Fong entered the surprisingly generous space. Before he took two steps, the man quickly crossed behind him and closed the door, leaving Captain Chen outside in the cold. Fong turned. As explanation, the man said, “At a recreation, the recreationist is king. Besides, talent has its privileges — even in our China.” His eyes twinkled.

Fong nodded slowly, unsure that he wanted to agree with anything someone who called himself a recreationist said.

The man walked past Fong to one of the two large tables that occupied the centre of the space. On the first table a partially completed terra-cotta figure of an archer lay on its side. Scattered around it were hundreds of terra-cotta shards, few larger than an inch across. On the other large table sat an object some four feet by three feet covered in a grey canvas shroud. Pinned on boards on three sides of the object were duplicates of the crime scene photos.

The man walked past Fong, knelt and plucked a stone from a pile on the floor. He allowed the rock to roll in his palm for a moment, then placed it on top of a slender column of free-standing stones. It was like a stalagmite growing from the hard earthen floor. There were two other columns of stones nearer the wall, each a miracle of balance; each rock fitted perfectly to the one above and below. Before Fong could ask, the man spoke. “The stones are a way of marking time, Detective Zhong. Time. One stone for each . . .” His voice trailed off before he completed the thought. He got to his feet, pulling down his jacket over a shiny black vest bearing an English tag — “100% Thinsulate” — thinsu-what? Fong had been on the other side of the Wall for a long time.

Fong’s eyes returned to the terra-cotta figure on the table.

“Have you seen the terra-cotta warriors at Xian?” the man asked as a thin smile creased his lips.

“The Qin Dynasty soldiers?” Fong blurted out, stunned to think that the thing on the table was one of the famous statues.

“Yes,” the man widened his grey eyes, “the very ones.”

“No. I’ve never been to this part of the Middle Kingdom before.”

“That’s a shame.” The man turned from Fong and, without further explanation, walked to the canvas-covered object on the other table.

Fong didn’t follow him and snapped, “Why?”

“Why what, Detective Zhong?” the man replied.

“Why is it a shame?” he asked feeling silly — no — totally off-balance with this man. Shit, he didn’t even know the man’s name.

The man’s smile was surprisingly sad this time. He was about to say something then stopped himself. When he spoke, his smile was gleeful again. “Because I have been in charge of that excavation from its onset in 1976 just after the silly old farmer stumbled into the first tomb. The heavy roof beams had fallen. Perhaps they had been burned by the rebels or perhaps the wrath of the gods brought them down.” He paused. Fong waited. “At any rate, the beams had crashed down on the figures shattering them to bits. I often think that leading the reconstruction of those thousands of clay warriors in the first pit was my greatest accomplishment. I think of it as a recreation of what was.”

“That strikes me as a reasonable thought,” Fong said, carefully keeping any trace of awe out of his voice.

The man’s pale eyes twinkled again.

Fong didn’t quite know what to make of that.

“Have you ever seen a recreation, Detective Zhong?”

“I’ve been to Grandview Gardens . . .” Fong was stopped by the man’s high-pitched giggle. He laughed like an old woman. It hurt. “I guess you’ve never been to . . .”

“To the slut fest by the sea? Oh, I’ve been. It just goes to prove the depth of humour inherent in the Chinese character, wouldn’t you agree, Detective Zhong?”

“I guess,” Fong said slowly. Although he agreed with the man’s assessment both of the place and the Chinese character, he felt that he’d been bludgeoned into the accord.

“Don’t guess, Detective Zhong. There’s nothing to guess about. Grandview Gardens is a mockery of life. What I do makes time stand still. I enhance life.” He indicated the canvas-shrouded structure on the table. He put his hand on the canvas. “The real is not always more terrifying than the artificial. Your wife was an actress, wasn’t she?” Fong nodded slowly, uncomfortable that this man knew anything of his past. “Surely the husband of the great Fu Tsong knows that artifice in the hands of a true artist enriches the experience of life. It doesn’t imitate it.”

Fong nodded. With this he was willing to agree, without being pushed.

“Fine,” the man said then pulled the canvas aside.

There sitting on the table was a beautifully constructed wood reproduction of the boat. Fong looked at the man.

“You are impressed, Detective Zhong?”

Fong nodded, “I am . . . I don’t know your name.”

“Forgive my impoliteness. Dr. Roung,” he said, “I am an archeologist by training, hence my title: Doctor.”

Fong put a hand on the model. “The recreation is even more impressive when you open it up, Detective.” He reached forward and removed an upper section of the wall to reveal the death room of the two Americans.

Fong peered in. “Where are the photographs of this room?” The man pointed to the board on one side. Fong quickly spotted the ones of the dead Americans. He allowed his eyes to travel from the photo to the model. Even the looks on the dead men’s faces matched. He leaned down and looked up into the tiny mirror. The Triad warning was there. Fong looked to his right.

The man was smiling.

Fong removed the opposite wall section to reveal the bar room with the swinging man. Dr. Roung offered the pictures, but Fong ignored him. He lifted out the room itself to reveal the video room beneath. Even the cut lines on the beams were present. He replaced the upper room.

“There are no nails or screws,” Fong said.

“There is no need when everything fits one piece into the next.”

Fong ran his fingers along the edges. Smooth, perfect. Then he lifted off the room with the Americans to reveal the room with the runway. It too was perfect down to the curtains and mudstains on the runway. The five miniature Japanese men sat in their brutal death positions, cameras and glasses in place. Fong assumed that should he open their pants that reality would have been reproduced as well. His eyes scanned the room. So much detail. So much accuracy. So terrifying. He looked at the man. His eyes twinkled. “I hope you find it adequate for your purposes, Detective.”

“It’s more than adequate.”

“It’s a piece of art,” Dr. Roung said.

Fong nodded.

The older man smiled, clearly pleased.

Fong crossed to the door and called for Chen. They carried the model back to the Jeep and then Fong returned to the workshop. The archeologist was at the table with the terra-cotta warrior. He turned. “Something else, Detective?”

“No, nothing.” Then he added for no particular reason, “For now.”

The man’s smile vanished.

Fong was surprised yet again.

Back at the factory Fong stood staring at the model. He once more marvelled at its construction, its precision, its ability to freeze a moment in time.

His thoughts were interrupted by the return of the coroner who announced to the world, “The food in this place stinks.”

Lily followed him into the space. “The forensic facilities aren’t much better than the food.”

Fong covered the model with the canvas and moved toward the table. “Now that we‘ve established those two important facts, perhaps we’re ready to have our first meeting.”

“What did he make of the model?”

The politico weighed his words carefully, “I wasn’t inside, sir, but I’m sure he was impressed, although he kept his mouth shut when he left.”

The head of internal security for the People’s Republic of China allowed himself ten seconds of silence then said, “Good,” and snapped off the speaker phone on his desk.

Each investigator had become familiar with the photographs and the physical evidence. Each had prepared a first report. Now they gathered around the oval table.

Fong caught Lily staring at him. He wasn’t surprised. He’d taken a good look at himself. The skin of his face was worn and greying and the veins on his chin and left cheek had shattered into thousands of spiky red lines. His smile was a little crooked. Then there were his new teeth. Well, two teeth actually. The politico’s dentist hadn’t bothered to build up individual teeth, but rather had just put an enamel layer over both his upper and lower sets so that it looked like he had only two very wide teeth. “Government toothes very p’actic’l, short stuff, but hide you us,” Lily had commented.

He’d filed down the enamel layers so that he could talk more like himself. He’d even considered trying to etch in individual tooth lines, but had given up when he poked a hole in the bottom set.

He’d just have to get used to being “but hide you us.” He’d also have to try and figure out what “but hide you us” meant. Lily’s English came from so many different media sources that the exact meaning of the phrase could be hard to determine. He could have just asked her, of course, but he was worried about her response. He wasn’t prepared to be old in her eyes.

Fong called their meeting to order. He stood at the head of the table. Lily and Chen had large jelly jars filled with steaming tea in front of them. The coroner sat to one side, dyspeptic and farting loudly.