by Paul Malmont
“You okay?” Dent asked at one point.
Gibson nodded. But he knew what the staggers meant. Exposure to that shit.
They entered the Hip Sing Association building. The men inside were formally dressed in suits or traditional Chinese silk robes. Dent recognized a man as one of those who had attended his induction and he rushed to him. The man’s English was poor but Dent pantomimed and stressed the names he wanted to communicate. Was Mr. Yee here? No. Had a woman come by to find him? Yes. Where had she gone? The man smiled but could only shrug, helpless.
Suddenly something was tugging at Dent’s pants and he heard a voice squeaking, “Mr. Doc! Mr. Doc!”
He looked down and there was little Ham. Monk came running up to join them.
“Hey, boys! Where’s your father?”
“He’s shopping,” said Monk. “Mrs. Doc was here,” he added as a matter of fact.
“She was. Was she with your father?”
Ham shook his head. “No. But she was looking for him. We told her that he was coming back. Then she told us not to go anywhere and she left.”
“Where did she go?”
The two boys took a sullen, silent stance. They had done something wrong.
“You didn’t stay here, did you?”
Ham nodded as the confession was pried out of him.
“Did you follow her?”
The little boy nodded again.
“Where did she go?”
Ham looked to his older brother. “She went to the old theater,” Ham said, guiltily, at last. “She tried to go inside. But some big men came out instead and took her.”
“Damn.”
“You know where she went?” Gibson wanted to know.
Lester turned to Gibson. “Her and her goddamned treasure. And I’m the one who’s supposed to give up adventures?” He turned to the dumplings. “Boys, this time I’m very serious. I want you to stay here. Tell your father where I went. I promise you, you won’t get in trouble.” He looked at Walter. “Coming?”
“Hell yes!”
They left the worried boys behind and forged back into the confusing mass before Gibson was fully able to catch his breath. They pushed their way to Doyers Street, which, being off the parade route, was not in as much turmoil. Lester burst into a sprint and arrived at the front door of the theater. He threw his weight against the heavy boards but they wouldn’t budge. He turned to call for help from Gibson.
Gibson was standing, helplessly, at the head of the alley. He seemed forlorn. “There’s another way in,” he said, flatly. Lester joined him and they looked down the long, dark alley. A red lantern hung over a door at the end of the pathway.
The opium den was dark and appeared abandoned as they entered. “This is the place?” Lester asked Gibson.
He nodded. “Yeah. This is the place.”
There was a soft rattle from the darkness; it was the gentle sound of beaded curtains being moved. Dent’s eyes fell upon three men who stood in the shadows. Dent was positive they hadn’t been there the moment before. It was if he had simply blinked, and in the instant in which his eyes were closed, they had appeared out of thin air. Each held a long sliver of curled steel. One of the men hissed at him through clenched teeth. Dent recognized him. It was the man he had knocked to the street during the last trip to Chinatown. The glare in his eyes showed that he was ready to settle the score. He hissed at Dent again.
Dent suddenly found himself wishing he had brought the gun from the Albatross. Even empty it might have menaced his attacker. For all his close scrapes he had never been much of a fistfighter and he knew his chances against this knife-wielding fiend were low. His eyes swept around for something, anything, which could be used as a weapon. But the flimsy opium pipes lying near the abandoned daises were the only possible objects at hand. The man made a threatening gesture at him. Then he grinned maliciously and raised his knife.
Walter Gibson suddenly stepped forward, in front of Dent, and held out his hands, palms toward the men. A brilliant burst of fire seemed to explode in the air just before his fingertips. The lethal attacker staggered back, blinded. The other two men drew back. Gibson thrust his hands forward again and another fireball exploded in the room, closer to them. Sparks showered upon the man who had threatened to attack Dent, and curls of flame appeared on his shirt. He dropped his knife and began pounding at them with the palms of his hands even as they spread.
“Go!” Gibson shouted at Dent. With a nod of his head he indicated the staircase to Dent’s left. Dent raced up. He heard another whoosh and felt the heat of another one of Gibson’s miraculous fire bursts. He heard a man screaming. He hoped it wasn’t Walter. Then he was at the top of the staircase and entering the back of the theater.
Spots caused by the bursts of flame danced before his eyes. It took him a few moments to clear his vision and scan the stage, which was barren except for fallen bolts of aged stage cloth and the spiderweb tangles of theatrical rope which swooped up and down through the rigging. His eyes fell on one of the bundles and he realized in a moment of pure horror that it wasn’t a pile of velvet. It was his wife.
She was motionless. He fell to her side. Her arms were raised over her head and a rope bound them together at the wrists. The taut rope ascended into the rafters.
“Norma?”
Her chest rose and fell but he couldn’t rouse her. He patted her cheeks but there was no reaction. He felt panic rise up in him. He slipped a hand under her head and felt something warm and wet. He pulled his hand away and stared dumbly at the blood. He felt again; the lump at the base of her skull felt as large as an egg to him. Somebody had clobbered her good.
He smelled smoke and looked back; it was billowing out from the wings. He struggled with the knot but the rope was thick and the knot was fiendish. He looked around for something to cut it, but the stage was devoid of anything that could be used. He tried tugging at it, but it was fastened securely up above. He tried again with the knot; he couldn’t even begin to figure out where the end was. Her wrists were chafed and scraped and her fingertips were pale blue. He pulled on the rope as hard as he could.
“You’re just making it tighter.”
Gibson was at Dent’s side. He was breathing heavily but his eyes blazed with excitement. He squatted beside her and his fingers flew over the knots like the wings of a dove. Dent sat back on his haunches and felt her wrist; her pulse was weak and fluttery. Smoke was filling the theater.
“I think I set the place on fire,” Gibson muttered.
“I don’t think anyone’ll care.”
Suddenly the ropes fell in loose coils from her wrists and Gibson sat back with a triumphant gleam on his face. “The Complete Guide to Knots and How to Tie Them by Walter B. Gibson. It’s still in print. You should pick up a copy.”
“I will.” Dent scooped Norma up. Her body was amazingly light and frighteningly limp. “Her treasure’s gone,” he said.
“You’re right,” Gibson sounded surprised. “There was a statue here yesterday.”
Dent turned to the wings and the staircase, but smoke poured out of the staircase as though it were a chimney. He heard a metallic clank on the stairs and the warrior with the busted jaw stepped out of the smoke. He had ripped off his jacket and shirt. Dent and Gibson could see the fresh burns on his torso. He let an object fall to the floor. Lester recognized the metal tip of the whip chain as it hit the boards with a heavy thud.
“Any more magic tricks up your sleeves?” Dent said.
“What do you want, a grand finale?” Gibson asked.
“Got one?”
“I might.”
The man unfurled the long coils of chain, slowly dragging their length through his hands. He sneered at Dent and Gibson, a desperate, enraged expression.
Dent heard a loud crash from the middle of the auditorium. A section of wood floor exploded back in a cloud of dust. The building’s collapsing, he thought. An instant later a familiar face and shoulders appeared in the new hole in th
e floor, emerging from the dust cloud the trapdoor had stirred up like a genie rising from a bottle.
“Yee!” Dent shouted.
“This way!” Yee replied urgently. “Chinatown tunnels!”
Dent turned back to Gibson, who had bravely stepped between him and the chain-wielding man. Gibson nodded at him.
Dent said, “I’ll meet you at the Hip Sing building.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I’ve never missed a deadline in my life.”
Dent took the small flight of side steps down to the house floor. He gently lowered Norma down to the arms of Mr. Yee, who vanished with her into the dark tunnel. The dry boards of the stage burst into flames and any path back to Gibson was cut off. Dent jumped into the passageway.
Lester made his way through the darkness following the bobbing flame he could see ahead of him in the distance. The air was fetid and the smell of smoke followed him. His feet splashed through dank, cold water that smelled of street refuse. He had to keep his head low; he found this out after running heavily into a low rafter. Above him he heard the thudding sound of the celebration as he traveled along. Periodically he would hear an encouraging shout from Mr. Yee, which kept him from choosing the wrong way at any number of intersections which cropped up along the way.
In time he saw a ladder at the end of the tunnel, rushing toward him as he ran. The hatch above it was open and light poured down in a distinct shaft. He scrambled up the steps and found himself suddenly surrounded by helpful hands and concerned Chinese faces. He felt little bodies embracing him.
“Thanks, boys,” he said to the dumplings, giving Ham a reassuring hug. He was in the basement of the Hip Sing Association building.
Norma lay on the floor, still comatose, as he disentangled himself from the two boys. “She’s been hit in the head,” he said to Mr. Yee. “She needs a doctor.”
“Follow me,” his friend said.
Lester gently hoisted her up again and followed Mr. Yee up the flights of stairs to the joss house. The room was full of men, Dent noted at once. They stood at the windows watching the parade pass below them. The room was elegantly and elaborately decorated for the celebration, with red and gold banners and money gathered by the good people of Chinatown and prepared in chests to be delivered to the Chinese consulate. Mock Duck sat in a carved wooden chair and another distinguished man sat in a chair next to him. This man was being subserviently tended to by the man Mock Duck had been having dinner with the night Lester and Norma had come to the restaurant from the theater.
Mr. Yee quietly pulled a man from the crowd at the window. The man came to Dent and examined Norma’s head. He clucked his tongue in worry and then he indicated that Dent should carry her body to a room hidden behind a sliding screen.
They laid her out on a small table and gently rolled her on her side. The man examined her more closely. He took a silk cloth and folded it a number of times and then placed it against her head. It instantly began turning red with blood. He placed Dent’s hand on the cloth and indicated the severe amount of pressure he wanted him to apply. Then he turned and picked up a collection of small needles which lay on a red pillow. As he transferred the collection to the table he spoke to Mr. Yee.
Mr. Yee placed a comforting hand on Dent’s arm. “He wants you to know there is much blood flowing to this injury which may be swelling the brain. He is going to try to decrease the swelling and slow the blood. He wants to know if you understand about Chinese medicine and acupuncture.”
“A little. I’ve read about it. But I’ve never seen it.”
“He says we must get started right away. The needles will not hurt her. He is a very good healer. He is the very best in America. Can you trust his skill?”
Lester thought for a moment of trying to carry Norma through Chinatown to find a hospital. There would be blocks and blocks filled with people. No ambulance could possibly get through in time. “You are my Hip Sing brother,” Lester Dent said at last. “I can trust this man’s skill if you say I should.”
Mr. Yee gave a single nod to the healer. Then he pulled Lester aside so the man could work. The dumplings circulated around their knees, nervously. Dent rubbed Ham’s hair.
“Yee?” he asked. “Who’s that man by your uncle. The VIP?”
“Him? He is an important diplomat. He is the consul general. His name is Mi-Ying.”
Episode Forty-Five
THE WHIRLING chain of death was mesmerizing.
The warrior spun it around with such force that it fanned away the smoke attempting to engulf him. Yet Gibson was amazed at how conservative his motions were; there was no waste of energy as he methodically built up the speed of the tip and plotted its trajectory toward Gibson’s heart. This was going to be a kill that he wanted to savor.
The floorboards beneath Gibson’s feet groaned as he took several wary steps back; the supports beneath them were being devoured by the growing conflagration in the den below. The man with the chain calmly adjusted his position. Gibson knew he was being toyed with. He could feel the temperature rising in the room. Glowing embers drifted up between the cracks and gaps of the planks. The whole world was going up in flames. The stage floor threatened to crack open beneath him; hell awaited below.
He shook his hands to unhinge the magical apparatus he had spent the train ride from Providence working on. From his left hand fell the squeezable pouch of flash powder, now empty. Attached to his other wrist was a modified mousetrap; the mechanism was turned on its side and reattached to a metal cuff; flint and rock were fastened to the striking mechanism. It took only a quick flick from the left hand to reset it while the audience’s vision was still bedazzled and distracted by the previous explosion. Now the contraption seemed stuck to him. Maybe his sweat had glued it to his skin. He wondered what Blackstone would say about how his magic had been put to use. He would probably say something like “Rest in peace, Walter Gibson.”
He coughed, and the metal spike whizzed past his moving head, tearing through a muslin flat depicting a mountain of rice paddy terraces. The blackest smoke seeped up from below and as the killer yanked back on his chain, pulling the spike free, the room grew dark, the only light coming up in thin shafts from below. Terrific, Gibson thought, now I can’t even see him.
If I can’t see him, he can’t see me.
He slipped through the gap the whip chain had just created in the mountains and ducked. The spike punched through the muslin again, above his head, tearing another hole. Gibson heard the man cough; the smoke was growing thicker. He leaped over a row of seats and ran for cover behind the gates of an Imperial palace, a rotting wood frame of forced perspective. He heard the spike bite at the wood of the seats he had just rolled over. The killer had truly lost sight of him. He produced a scarf and held it to his mouth and nose, filtering out as much of the smoke as he could. Floorboards creaked wearily: the man was hunting for him, moving in his direction. Smoke continued to seep up into the room.
Beyond the gates where he now hid, a tattered silk scrim hung loosely from bamboo poles. Dyed upon it were the faded shapes of a court of powerful Chinese gods. The delicate fabric would have seemed nearly invisible when lit from behind. But when lights were focused on it from the front of the stage, it would have become as opaque as a wall and the images of the gods would have magically appeared, startling the audience caught under their watchful, judging gaze. In the dim orange glow of flames and sparks licking up through the stage boards, the gods flickered in and out of existence. Behind the scrim lay the brick wall and beyond it lay the dark shapes of other set pieces. On the other side of those relics was the back of the house where the doors to the street would be.
As quietly as he could while still moving, Gibson slid from behind the palace gate to the scrim, his back against the wall. He moved by inches, his hand still holding the cloth to his face, until he was behind the first deity, a thunder-faced ogre. He tried to relax his heaving chest as Houdini had once shown him. The sensation of being expo
sed was terrifying to his instincts; he forced himself to suppress the fear. It was one thing to know intellectually that he was concealed; it was another thing to believe it without actually being on the other side to see the proof.
He could see the killer clearly. The man stood only several yards away, fanning away the smoke that clouded his vision. He had coiled his whip chain up around his arm and the spike extended like a fang from his fist. He turned to and fro, wildly searching for a sign of his prey, snarling in near-animal frustration, surrendering to his instincts when Gibson would not.
A shower of sparks burst up through the stage. As the killer spun to look, Gibson slid farther down the wall, taking his place behind a goddess who stood holding the oceans in one hand and a ship in the other. He stifled a cough and the killer, unsure of his ears, swung his head in Gibson’s direction. The man’s eyes fell upon the scrim as a section of the upstage planks surrendered to the flames devouring it from below in a great crash, flames bursting through in an excited rush to fill its vacuum. The killer, staring right at Gibson, became a silhouette against the flaring light. Gibson held perfectly still, not even breathing lest he stir the silk and destroy the illusion. He looked through the eyes of the goddess, abandoning his visual focus, letting his sight grow soft, seeing it all at once so nothing could surprise him. He felt his flesh become the brick of the wall at his back, flowing out and finding purchase in the infinite crevasses like moss on a rock. He willed his mind to give no indication of its presence and as the light from the burning stage fell upon the scrim, he became invisible, the shadow of the gods.
His killer took several steps closer and cast a skeptical eye on the mural he must be seeing quite clearly on his side. Gibson was so close he could see the man’s shaking hands, the tears pouring from his ragered eyes, the black smoke smudges drawn across his face. The man spat on one of the gods. Evidently some grudges run deeper than others, Gibson thought. As the man moved to the goddess, Gibson could see through her eyes how the man admired in her form the perfection of his race. Gibson forced himself to be cold, to have no emotion about the man, the god, or their communication. With a rending squeal, the stage collapsed completely, and Gibson could feel the tremendous heat from below roil up with volcanic fury. For sure, it filled the stage with enough light to guarantee the illusion the scrim provided. His killer leaned forward to look into the goddess’s eyes. Gibson’s eyes were an inch away. Slowly his killer leaned in and tenderly kissed the painted mouth of the goddess. His lips were as close to Gibson’s as a whisper. As he finally stepped away to take in the spectacle of the destruction of the stage, the inferno from below was raising the final curtain on Death.