The First Excellence: Fa-Ling's Map
Page 5
Fa-ling closed her eyes and bit her lip. Then without warning Randy’s image disappeared from her mind. She tried to recall his laughing eyes, but another, more familiar face rose to take its place, a pair of black eyes glinting with malice over teeth as crooked and foul as a jack-o’-lantern’s.
Hello, Xiao, she thought. Thanks loads for dropping in. Fighting back a wave of frustration, she sighed, straightened herself and her music, and then reached once again for her clarinet. She played until she no longer felt the discontent in her soul.
Exhausted at last, Fa-líng dismantled her instrument, cleaning each piece before setting it into its place. She was surprised to notice the faint music and chanting continued next door. It sounded like the same melody she’d heard hours earlier. The man’s voice was still chanting along to the music.
The noise coming through the wall wasn’t loud, but it had been a long day. The repetitive sound set Fa-ling’s nerves on edge. She knew it would keep her awake and she needed the escape only dreams could offer. She longed for physical release, but couldn’t face another imaginary encounter with Xiao. Instead she fixed her IPod’s earphones in place and climbed into bed. With Green Day rocking softly in her head, she was dreaming in no time.
TEN
Tang carried only one small case into the hotel. In his thirty-five years, he had never been a guest in a place like the Golden Lion. The bell-boy gave him a scornful look when he tried to turn on the lights, at last condescending to show him how to slide the passkey into the slot to turn on the room’s electricity.
Tang didn’t really care about the lights or the air-conditioning. He would have been equally happy to sit in the heat and gathering darkness. It was a marvel, though, how the thing worked, and he tried it a few times, sliding the plastic card in and out of the slot and watching the lights turn on and off.
When he tired of that he removed his shoes, taking care to hang up his good shirt and pants before entering the room in his underwear. His cotton whites had seen better days, but his socks were new. He’d bought them especially for the trip, carefully doling out his Yuan on a few small necessities and hoarding a secret pleasure over each expenditure.
Tang had packed little. On his sister’s instructions he carried almost no money, just enough to cover the night’s stay. Dinner in the elegant hotel restaurant was out of the question.
There were things at stake that were far more important than food. Besides, Tang knew how to minimize the pain of hunger.
He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Knowing government agents had the ability to track cell phone usage, he had not used his phone in months, but he turned it on before arriving at the hotel. His sister might need to reach him. He checked the battery strength and noticed he had missed an incoming call. Although he did not have voice-mail, Tang knew the call was from his sister. He dialled her number from memory, confirmed his arrival in a few hurried words and put the phone back inside his bag.
He then unpacked three things and laid them carefully on the wood veneer of the coffee table: a fat yellow pillar candle that was already half used up; a battery operated tape player with a cassette inside; and a small brass bell.
Tang went back to the closet where his pants were hanging and found the half-used book of matches in his pocket. One corner of the matchbook cover had already been folded back and torn off. He tore the other corner from the book and used the tiny cardboard wedge to pry a bit of food from between his teeth.
After dropping the makeshift cardboard toothpick into the trashcan, Tang removed his passkey from the slot to turn off the lamps, used a match to light the yellow candle and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the battery operated tape deck.
When the music started to play, he closed his eyes and began his chant, occasionally shaking the little bell to announce his spirit to the cosmos. In no time, he was absorbed in meditation, his chi lost in the joy of limitless freedom.
He continued for several hours, so deep within himself he did not hear the door to his room open — did not hear the earthbound intruder enter until it was too late.
**
It was past ten o’clock by the time the adoptive parents finished filling out the forms required by the Chinese government. Initially they had made good time, completing the documents within thirty minutes. When they were finished, though, Cynthia realised she had neglected to advise them properly. As it turned out, all forms completed for use by the government needed to be filled in black ink rather than in blue.
On top of that, Cynthia had not thought to bring extra forms or extra black pens. Only one couple, Ting-lo and Adrian, had foreseen this administrative requirement, so after they completed their forms they had to wait while the other four couples took turns using Adrian’s pen to painstakingly trace over each word in black ink.
It was unclear why black ink was necessary, but Cynthia assured them it was the required method. Finally the last couple, Paula and Guy Kader, returned the black pen to Adrian. Grumbling, the group turned in their forms and everyone left the room.
“That was fun,” Guy joked when he and Paula were back in their room.
“Spare me,” Paula said. Her words were sarcastic, but Guy was relieved to see she was smiling for the first time since they’d left Toronto.
“Tomorrow’s likely to be another long day. We should try to get some sleep.”
“You go ahead,” she said. “I slept on the plane. I’m going to answer a few emails.” She pulled her ultra-thin laptop from her carry-on bag.
“Do you have to do that tonight?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t keep you awake. The bathroom is huge. I’ll drag a chair in there and set the computer up on the counter-top.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Guy couldn’t help wondering whether her offer to work in the bathroom had more to do with her desire for privacy than for any consideration towards him. “The lights won’t bother me.”
“Really,” she said, “I’ll be ok in the bathroom.”
The mattress was comfortable, but Guy couldn’t sleep. He imagined he could hear Paula’s fingers pounding the keyboard. She was up to her old tricks, he was sure of it, despite her protests to the contrary.
Lately there was something different in the air between them. At first he put it down to nerves. As they got closer to the adoption date, they both felt the strain. There were so many forms to fill out, so many steps to follow to the letter. One mistake could throw a wrench into their plans of parenthood.
Paula’s mood swings were understandable — to a degree ― but something else was going on. Guy sensed the emergence of a familiar pattern. Paula withdrew. When he tried to talk to her about it, she compensated by being overly considerate.
She complained that her days at home were long and boring. When he suggested she find another kind of job, her mood spiralled. Trading was her life. No mere ‘job’ could equal the thrill of playing with other people’s money.
The adoption was supposed to give Paula a sense of purpose. When they first initiated the process it had seemed like a great idea. They were both swept away with the notion of becoming parents and taking responsibility for a whole other life. Their joint enthusiasm carried them easily through the intensity of the home study. They were approved without reservation.
Now, though, after two years of red tape and bureaucracy, Paula’s excitement seemed to have fizzled. More often than not, when he called her during the day she wouldn’t bother to pick up the phone. In the evening, she seemed distracted and aloof, occasionally trying to cover up her mood by being abnormally sweet, only to drift even further away from him in no time.
Then there was her behaviour at the airport restaurant. The other wives were brimming with excitement as they anticipated becoming mothers. By contrast, Paula’s attitude exuded only boredom. She barely spoke to the group over lunch. In Vancouver she swallowed a handful of pills and slept through the entire flight.
Guy had studied the other couples on the plane wi
th envy. They read, watched movies, spoke to each other in hushed excitement, quietly sharing with each other the joy of a life-altering journey. Meanwhile he stared out the window for hour after endless hour, alone with his growing doubts.
What could he do? When Paula got like this Guy became a helpless observer, waiting for the inevitable train wreck. Despite his growing sense of desperation, he still loved her.
In the end, it was his love for his wife that would determine his actions. He would have to hope once the baby was in their lives, Paula would come to understand what was really important.
At around midnight he got up to use the toilet. Paula jumped when he opened the bathroom door, quickly minimising the window on her computer screen. Her action told him he was right – she was up to no good.
It was funny, but knowing the worst gave Guy a strange sense of comfort. At least he no longer had to wonder. He climbed into bed and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.
**
Paula stared at the numbers on the screen, hoping to discover a miraculous mistake that would make everything all right. She rubbed her eyes. The intense concentration was giving her a headache, which was exacerbated by withdrawal symptoms as the tranquillisers eased their way out of her body.
Through the hotel bathroom wall, she could hear a faint sound coming from the next room, but it didn’t disturb her. It was some kind of Chinese melody, not loud enough for her to recognise.
She minimised the computer screen. A strong cup of coffee would knock the headache out of her before it got any worse. Not wanting to wake Guy, she opened the door a little and slipped through, using the sliver of light that escaped the bathroom to help her find the hot water dispenser and make the coffee.
She carried the cup back into the bathroom and eased the door shut. Setting the mug on the counter beside her laptop, she sat in front of the monitor. She was about to re-open her spreadsheet when a sudden noise from the next room made her jump out of her chair, upsetting the hot coffee onto the counter and her lap.
Paula cursed and grabbed some toilet paper from the roll, quickly mopping up the liquid before it could reach her computer. At first she thought the noise was Guy – maybe he was having a bad dream. She was about to go and check on him when a burst of male voices erupted from the adjacent room. It sounded as though they were speaking in Chinese. OK, she thought, at least it’s not Guy. She sat back down.
The voices got louder. Paula considered calling the front desk, asking security to come and settle things down. Before she could react, the shouting gave way to a horrified wail accompanied by the unmistakable sound of something crashing through glass.
Then everything went quiet.
ELEVEN
While Fa-ling slept in room 606, Tang continued his fevered chanting in the next suite. Neither of them heard the footsteps in the hallway.
The intruder looked down upon Tang, who still sat cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table. Fifteen seconds sailed by without his presence being acknowledged. It would be easy for him to kill Tang. He could simply reach out his hand it would take so little to rid the country of one more zealot.
However, the old man’s instructions had been clear: catch the next flight to Nanning and bring the dissident back to Shanghai for questioning. Junior Agent Ho Lon-Yi had no desire to anger his uncle. After all, he had been chosen over more experienced colleagues for this tricky business. Obviously, people in high places had noticed his abilities.
Yi opened the can of kerosene. The movement caught Tang’s attention.
“What are you doing?” Tang shouted.
Yi continued to splash the accelerant onto Tang.
“Where is your wife?” he demanded.
“Stop! Please don’t do this.” Tang struggled to his feet and tried vainly to rub the kerosene off his naked body. He started to run, but the intruder blocked him, and he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.
“Be calm,” Yi said. “All I want is some answers. Tell me, Wu Tang, what are you doing in such a fine establishment? You must be meeting somebody very special. Are you meeting your wife?”
“My wife,” Tang stammered, “is in prison. She was taken months ago. I haven’t seen her since.”
“Don’t play with me!” Yi shouted, slapping Tang with his left hand. “We are looking for Gui-Jing. We know you helped her to escape.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Tang’s voice rose with fear.
“Sure you do.” Transferring the gun to his left hand, Yi reached for the yellow candle with his right. He stepped toward Tang, waving the flame dangerously close to his kerosene-soaked arms.
Tang panicked, trying once more to run past Yi and out of the room.
“Stop! You idiot!” Yi shouted, blocking Tang’s escape. The candle’s wick made contact with Tang’s underwear, and before either man could react, Tang was transformed into a tower of flames.
Shocked, Yi jumped backward. Time stood still as he watched Tang gyrate and wail. The sudden heat caressed his face, and he checked his clothes to be sure they were not burning.
Not knowing what else to do, Yi lifted a chair from under the dressing table and used it to smash the picture window. The rush of night air must have confused Tang, because one poke with the chair convinced him to hurl himself through the broken window to the ground six floors below.
Yi stood for an instant, absorbed in the unreality of what had transpired. This was not supposed to happen. He had obtained no information whatsoever, and in the process he had created an embarrassing mess.
His clothes were clean, but his hands up to the wrists were black from handling the burning man for that brief second. Not wanting to set the blackened chair legs onto the carpet, he carried it into the bathroom with him. Once there, he washed his hands thoroughly before wiping down all surfaces. He used tissue to scrub the black char stains from the chair legs, as well as from its wooden frame. He tossed the tissue into the toilet and flushed it away. Thankfully he had not touched the chair’s upholstery, so it was clean.
He hurried back to the main room and replaced the chair under the dressing table. Then, as he had been trained to do, he re-traced his steps, rapidly wiping any surface he might have touched. He scanned the still-darkened room once more for evidence. He couldn’t remember whether he had touched the book of matches on the coffee table, so he grabbed it and tucked it into his pocket.
On the floor near his feet was the yellow candle. Yi used his sleeve to pick it up. It was too bulky to slip into his pocket with the matches. Not sure about the best course of action, he wiped it clean and placed it on its side on the bedspread before hurrying out of the room.
Yi knew his efforts at cleaning up had been rushed and sloppy. The old man, his uncle, would be really pissed this time. No doubt Director Ho would arrange for an expert to sweep the room. For now, though, Yi would have to get as far as he could from room 607 of the Golden Lion Hotel.
TWELVE
Detective Wang Yong-qi regarded his shoes. One glance at his surroundings made him regret he hadn’t polished them recently.
The ambience of the Golden Lion Hotel had no such command over his partner. Cheng suppressed a snort, seeing as there was no appropriate place to spit. Unable to resist the urge, he hunched his massive shoulders forward, coughed loudly and discharged into his hand.
Cheng was exactly what he appeared to be: a rough rural peasant with a brain. A bear of a man, he was the muscle of the pair, but possessed a quick mind that often surprised others with its intuitive scope. He and Wang made a formidable team, each compensating for the other’s deficiencies. When Wang got himself all tied up in trying to over-think a simple problem, Cheng would cut through the crap.
Wang’s expertise covered the mental gymnastics of psychology. He reigned supreme in the dark corridors of the criminal mind. If a mystery involved intrigue and called on a deeper, more subtle understanding of human motivation, Wang was the man for the job.
It would not surprise Wang to learn they held the highest record in all of Southern China, but there were no reliable statistics to support that belief.
The concierge hurried toward the men carrying a box of tissue, which he waved in front of Cheng. Cheng took one and wiped the phlegm from his hand before shoving the tissue into his pocket. He scanned the lobby unselfconsciously, committing the scene to memory through bloodshot eyes. Two weeks on the night shift had done nothing to enhance Cheng’s normally seedy appearance.
Wang groaned inwardly, embarrassed, but nonetheless taking a perverse pleasure in the concierge’s obvious distaste for his partner.
“Which room?” he asked.
“Come with me.” The dapper little hotel man shook a set of magnetic cards and led the way to the elevator. Mercifully the hotel’s bar had closed some time ago so only staff occupied the communal areas. A man and his wife had been wandering around the lobby when the ambulance arrived. The manager had herded them back to their rooms, offering a lame story about an elderly guest having suffered a heart attack.
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor. The concierge, who, according to his tag, bore the unlikely name of ‘Henry’, bustled down the hall with Wang and Cheng in tow. Henry stopped in front of room 607 and slid a master pass through the slot. He opened the door and was about to enter when Detective Cheng touched him gently on the shoulder. He understood and stepped back into the hallway.