Hour of the Rat

by Lisa Brackmann

No Dog in sight.

  “Hi,” I say after untangling my earbuds. “How’s … Is everything okay?”

  Because suddenly I know that things aren’t okay at all.

  “Doug’s in the hospital,” she bursts out. “He had—they aren’t sure—a seizure, maybe a stroke. He just …”

  “Oh, shit. How is he? I mean, is he …?”

  And I don’t know how to finish the question. Because no matter what, he isn’t okay.

  “They’re running tests.” She swipes the back of her hand across her eyes. “I don’t know, I’m sure he’s fine, it’s just …”

  She can’t finish.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say.

  She looks up at me.

  “Is there any word about … about Jason? Because Doug’s just so … he’s so emotional about it. That was what—I mean, he was going off about it, before he …”

  She has to stop again.

  Fucking great.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I’m working on it. I can’t promise anything, but I have a few leads.”

  It’s like the strain in her face suddenly dissolves, like someone had been pulling a rubber band as far as it could stretch and then let go. “Thanks,” she says. “Thanks. Even if you don’t … At least I can tell him you’re doing something. It really helps.”

  AFTER WE DISCONNECT, I order the tequila shot. And I think, fuck, Dog. Why did you mess around with me when you had someone like Natalie at home, who cares so much about you?

  I didn’t know.

  If I’d known, I never would have done it.

  At least I hope not.

  SO YEAH, I DECIDE to go to Guizhou. To Guiyang, to check out the last of the seed companies on Jason’s list.

  It’s not like I think I’ll find Jason. It’s not like I think I’ll find out anything at all. It’s just that I can tell Dog and Natalie I tried. That I did everything I could do. Followed the last lead through to its conclusion.

  I mean, what else am I going to do? Go back to Beijing and meet with Sidney Cao and Vicky Huang about art I can’t sell? Or hang out with my mom and her new boyfriend, Anal Andy?

  And Creepy John. He should be back in Beijing by now. With my dog.

  Don’t think about that now.

  A soft sleeper to Guizhou costs less than thirty-five bucks from here. I can afford it.

  I hit REPLY to my mom’s email. Hi, I type. Glad things are going well. I have something else to do but should be home in a couple days. Make sure you check the date on your visa. It expires soon, right? If so, you can go to Hong Kong or Korea to renew it. Ask Andy to help with the travel. See you soon.

  THERE ARE PLENTY OF trains from Kunming that go to Guiyang, and I find a seat on one that leaves at 12:30 P.M. the next day and gets me there around 10 P.M.

  I find a cab. From the car window, Guiyang’s just another second-or third-tier Chinese city: lots of strange grey and tan high-rises faced with fogged mirror glass, shorter white-tile-fronted buildings with blackened grout, apartment blocks with sagging, rusting balconies. Overhead in places there’s these crazy dull metal tubes that look like giant hamster trails—elevated roads, I guess. And even in one of China’s poorest provinces, a luxury mall advertising Gucci, with promises of Armani to come.

  My hotel is in the same building as a seedy mall that smells like grease, the entrance to it around the corner, across from sagging grey and brown apartment blocks. There’s no hotel lobby here, just a security guard sitting behind a desk, then a couple of elevators in a hall with warped linoleum floors scarred by cigarette burns.

  The hotel takes up the twenty-fifth to the thirtieth floors. It’s not bad. Some Japanese chain. A lot of brass plating and red-flocked wallpaper. Everything feels undersized: A tiny lobby. Narrow halls.

  “Zhege lüguan, you meiyou yige jiuba?” I ask the desk clerk. Does this hotel have a bar? Because after ten hours on the train, my leg is just killing me, even with a Percocet.

  “They have one on the fifth floor,” she tells me. Her Chinese is hard to understand; the accent, or dialect or whatever it is, is pretty thick.

  “Xie xie.” I start to head to the elevator, and then I think about the mission. I extract the piece of paper from my wallet, the one with Jason’s seed companies.

  “Do you recognize this place?” I point to Bright Future Seed Company. The last name on the list.

  She studies the paper. “No, don’t recognize. The address, this place is on west side of city. Perhaps past long-distance bus station.” She smiles. “Maybe not a famous Guiyang business.”

  THE BAR IS DARK, with wood-slat benches, Formica tables, a couple of aquariums. I sit underneath the spray-painted mural of a screaming bald guy, drink a Snow Beer, and try to ignore the Mandarin pop and cigarette smoke. There’s a skinny young bartender with long hair that flops over one eye, wearing a stretched-out white V-neck, a table of college-age kids, I think—a few years younger than me anyway—drinking beers and colas and eating snacks that, if they’re anything like what’s on my table, taste like jicama dipped in chili oil.

  Works for me.

  I’m pretty sure I’m the only white girl for miles. At least I’m the only one I’ve seen in this bar and this building. So what do I do?

  I order my second beer and think about it.

  Just go there, I guess. Take a look. See what happens.

  If it seems too sketchy, I’m not going to make the mistake I made in Guiyu. I’ll just stay in the cab.

  I DON’T MAKE IT into a cab until just before 2:00 P.M. the next day. I slept in this morning. I was tired, and also I ended up hanging out a little with those guys at the other table, and two beers turned into four. They were nice, and I need to do that, make an effort to hang out with people. That’s what the army shrink told me, back in the day: “It’s easy to get overwhelmed by too much external stimulation. But try not to isolate.”

  He’d be proud of me. I think about the last couple of weeks, and whatever it is I’ve been doing, it hasn’t been isolating.

  The cabdriver looks at the address and considers. “Long way. Maybe forty-five minutes.”

  “Mei wenti,” I say. No problem. I have the room reserved for another night; it’s cheap enough. I figure this last mission, to Bright Future Seed Company, isn’t going to take too long. I’ll check it out and cross it off my list of stuff I need to do. I’ll have a nice dinner someplace and see if I can get on a train to Beijing tomorrow. Maybe even a plane, if it’s not too expensive. Because even though I don’t know what I’m going to do about all the crap on my plate waiting for me in BJ, a part of me kind of wants to get back there and … I don’t know, maybe deal with it.

  Not Creepy John, I tell myself. No way. That whole thing is just too weird. Even if some parts of it make me really horny.

  He works for the DSD. You can’t trust him. Plus, he’s a freak.

  Think about something else. Like the dog.

  I wonder how she’s doing.

  Probably my mom and Andy are taking her for walks. I can picture the two of them doing that. Walking the dog. Holding hands.

  They’ve got to be screwing each other by now. I mean, they’ve already dented navels.

  The cabdriver wasn’t kidding—this is a long drive. Just getting across Guiyu took longer than I would have thought. Traffic in the city sucks. This is a poor province—who knew there’d be so many cars here?

  Now we’re on a highway heading west. Mountains rise on either side. The road is pretty good, the traffic not bad, but then there’s nothing much out here. At first half-built housing developments—high-rises swathed in green nets and bamboo scaffolds. Broad, empty streets. Then not even the half-built communities, just billboards advertising the modern, luxurious lifestyles to come: GOLDEN FORTUNE ESTATES, RISEN PHOENIX WATERFRONT MANSIONS.

  We take a turn off the main highway, onto a frontage road, pass a factory of some kind—maybe cement?—then a string of small businesses, low storefronts framed in white tile. A restaura
nt. A car-repair place. A new-looking Sinopec gas station.

  Then, finally, a long building with a tin roof. No sign. No windows in front. A couple of cars parked on one side.

  “I think this is it,” the cabdriver says.

  A nondescript warehouse in an isolated area. Fucking awesome. It’s like the cover of those paperbacks my mom used to read, with the chick in a nightgown running through the castle carrying a candle, and I’m the stupid chick dripping the candle wax.

  “You sure?”

  “We can ask.”

  I really don’t want to go knock on that door and ask.

  Across from where the cars are parked, there’s a small building, your basic white tile and cement. Two businesses, it looks like. On the left is cigarettes and booze, one of those state-owned stores that are everywhere. The other, I can see a glass-topped freezer and a soft-drink cooler, so I’m guessing snacks and sundries.

  The driver has the same thought I do. He pulls the car up to the store.

  “Ni deng wo, hao buhao?” I ask. Can you wait for me? Because I so do not want to get left out here by myself.

  He nods. “Wo kending keyi deng ni.” He can wait. Which makes sense, since I haven’t paid him yet.

  It’s raining, not hard, but it’s cold out, too, colder than Kunming anyway. Feels like mid-forties. I turn up the collar of my jacket, glad that I’m wearing my knit hat.

  I decide to go into the snack store. I could use some water. There’s a middle-aged woman behind the counter, small, stout. Ordinary, except her hair’s done up in this fancy bun, these swooping, shining waves, some kind of silver comb holding it together.

  Must be an ethnic-minority thing.

  I grab a bottle of water from the cooler and put it on the counter. “Ni hao. Duo shao qian?”

  “San kuai.”

  I give her a five-yuan note, get two coins back. “Please, can I ask, that building over there … Do you know, is that Bright Future Seed Company?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Bright Future Seed Company.”

  I don’t know what to ask next. Or if I should ask anything at all.

  “So … I can buy seeds there?”

  She frowns. “Bu qingchu.” Not clear. “I don’t think you can buy seeds. Not too many people work there. Maybe is just a storehouse?”

  “Okay. Xie xie.”

  Now what?

  I exit the store, and I think about what to do.

  A part of me really wants to be all action-movie heroine. Just go kick down the doors over there and see what’s up.

  Except I suck at kicking down doors. And I’m pretty sure that it’s a really bad idea to try.

  A truck trundles by on the frontage road, stirring up dust and spewing diesel.

  I’ll take a couple pictures with my iPhone, I decide. Document it. Tell Natalie everything that’s happened and everything I’ve found.

  There are other people I could ask to help. Harrison. Maybe even Creepy John. But I’m not going to do that until I tell Natalie exactly what the risks of asking them might be.

  I’m thinking about all this, staring at the road. I see a motorcycle cart, a three-wheeler with a wooden bed. The engine sounds like a series of exploding fireworks. It’s not going very fast. Those things rarely can.

  There are iron crates on it. Crates full of dogs. Crammed in there like livestock. Barking. Whimpering. I can hear them, their cries fading as the cart disappears down the road.

  They eat a lot of dog meat in Guizhou, I heard.

  “Ni hao!”

  I just about jump out of my skin.

  I turn, and standing there is this girl. Well, woman. Young woman. She’s wearing a white blouse and a blue smock, like a work uniform.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I, uh …”

  She’s smiling at me. She’s cute, looks like an ad for a product, like she’s about to dissolve into giggles. Glossy black pigtails with pink-and-white plastic ponytail holders shaped like …

  “I’m looking for Bright Future Seed Company,” I manage.

  “Oh,” she says, sounding delighted. “Yes. You’ve found it.”

  Hello Kitty. That’s what the ponytail holders are shaped like.

  She reaches out her hand, like she wants to shake.

  Her other hand comes out of her smock pocket, and she’s gripping something, something pink.

  And then this wave of pain knocks me off my feet. Like those guys in Guiyu with their iron bars are somehow beating on every part of me all at once, and everything spasms. I can’t control myself, I feel like something slams into me—a car, maybe, that’s all I can think of.

  And I’m on the ground, looking up at the girl with the Hello Kitty ponytail holders.

  I hear shouts—the cabdriver, I think, then the girl: “We have a doctor! I’ll call the doctor!”

  And I try to object, say, “No, no, don’t leave me here! Don’t—” and it slams into me again, this pain, and a part of me watches the rest of me curl up and writhe and convulse, and that part thinks, must be a taser or something like that.

  But that part of me can’t do a fucking thing about it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I CAN’T MOVE.

  Then my muscles start coming back to life. I try to sit up—because I should sit up, right?—and Hello Kitty, the pink thing she’s holding, she moves her finger, and I’m struck by lightning again, out of control, losing my shit. Screaming. But there’s still this part of me that’s detached, flying above it all, trying to think it through.

  When they tase you to say hello, you have to figure it’s not going to end well.

  I’m lying on my back in this little room. Some other guys came from somewhere—the warehouse, it must have been—and carried me here. And there’s these wires, I can see them, like spiderwebbing, rising from my arm and my stomach.

  If I try to move, if I try to talk, if I try to do anything, she pushes the button again.

  So I don’t move. I don’t talk. I just lie there. And wait.

  I don’t have to wait too long before two new guys enter the room. They’re a step up from the first two, who look like your basic rent-a-thugs. These guys are dressed better. One Chinese, one Western.

  I don’t recognize the Western guy, but I know the type. Forty-something. Gym muscles under the nice coat, belly going soft. Hair cut down to stubble, to minimize the bald spot.

  Hello Kitty hands him the Taser. Funny, I think. It looks like a video-game controller. Like a bright pink Wii.

  He kneels down next to me.

  “Ellie McEnroe. I’ve heard about you.”

  American. “Nice things, I hope.” My voice is raw. It hurts to talk.

  His thumb hovers over the trigger. I cringe.

  He grins. “Good girl. We understand each other.”

  The Chinese guy jerks his head at the rent-a-thugs. “Bring two chairs,” he snaps. One of them hustles off.

  American guy rocks back on his heels. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. You’re going to answer me. We’re clear on that?”

  I nod.

  “Where’s Jason Turner?”

  Oh, fuck. I’m screwed. I tell him the truth: “I don’t know.”

  His thumb twitches. I’m shaking now, so hard it’s like he’s already pushed the button. He laughs.

  “One more chance,” he says. “Where’s Jason?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t know.”

  By the time I can move again, the thug’s come back with the chairs. The American and the Chinese guy sit in them, the American’s chair pulled up to me, practically touching me, the Chinese guy’s farther back.

  The American nudges me with his foot. “Hey,” he says. “You with us? Want to try again?”

  “I …”

  The Chinese guy looks bored. He lights a cigarette. He’s got a sharp haircut, wears a snappy black jacket. Probably Armani or Gucci or whatever the fuck.

  Part of me just wants
to shut down. Curl up in a ball and they can do whatever the fuck it is they’re going to do. Because even if I wanted to, I can’t answer him.

  “I …” I clear my throat. Try, I tell myself. Say something. “I’m friends with his brother. We served together. In Iraq.”

  I wait for the shock. It doesn’t happen. Instead the guy is watching me. Listening.

  He’s ex-military, I’m willing to bet. That’s the only thing I’ve got to play. So I play it.

  “Jason’s brother … he got blown up pretty good. TBI. Lost an arm, too. He’s pretty messed up.”

  The American nods. He knows this already.

  “We’re buddies,” I say. “You know how it is. He heard Jason was in China. Asked me if I could find him. I said I’d try.”

  “Okay,” he finally says. “So how’d you know to come here? And to Dali?”

  “Jason’s girlfriend. I … I met her. In Shantou. He left her a list. She gave it to me.”

  “And how’d you find her?”

  Fuck. I can’t think straight. I don’t know what’s safe to say. What isn’t.

  He pushes the trigger.

  “Yangshuo,” I gasp, when I can talk. “Dog had a postcard. From Jason. So I went there. That’s where they met. I just … I just asked around.”

  He leans back in his chair. Crosses his arms over his chest. Sighs. Tilts his head toward the Chinese guy. “I think it’s pretty clear where the leak came from,” he says. Then he turns back to me.

  “We don’t let little terrorist fucks like your pal Jason interfere with our business. It’s not acceptable.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “And we don’t take kindly to people stealing our intellectual property and trying to make a profit off it.”

  “I, uh … okay.”

  “So if you want to make things right, you better tell me, right now, anything else you know. Where you got your information, who your sources are, and anything you know about where Jason Turner is.”

  I’m so fucked up right now I can’t even think. I have these flashes. About Langhai and his videos. About Han Rong, who I’m pretty sure is not to be trusted, and his fellow weasel Russell. I wouldn’t mind ratting those two out to these guys. They’ve got to be from Eos, right? And maybe Hongxing.