by Joanne Pence
She raised her eyebrows, looking at him with astonishment. “True,” she admitted, then asked, “Do you know Michael Rempart?”
“Should I?”
“Why should I believe any of your answers?” Her tone was harsh.
He looked her in the eye, his jaw clenched. “It doesn’t matter if you do or not.”
To his complete horror, her face twisted with emotion. She turned away.
“Um …” he said stupidly.
“They’re saying my father killed himself, but I know he didn’t. I’ve got to find out what was going on, but I’m starting from ground zero. All I’ve got is that a fellow sailor died the day before, and another the day after, and a forty-year-old photo that shows the three of them together. Their deaths are more than tragic, but they are not a coincidence. That’s why I’m here. You know something, and I’m asking you to please tell me what it is.”
Her plea somehow ended his resolve to keep Michael’s secret. He had to help her. Now.
“I was sent a copy of a photo and asked to find out who the men in it were,” he said softly.
She shut her eyes a moment and nodded. “May I see it?”
“Of course.” He went into his bedroom to make a print out, but when he turned around, she was right behind him. He nearly jumped out of his skin and then gave a quick glance at his underwear and dirty clothes on the floor and his unmade bed.
“Quite a set up,” she said, looking at three computer monitors and a mid-size network server in the corner. “You could run a small country with this much power.”
“I do.” He was glad she faced his computer and not his messy bedroom. “I call it Freedonia.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “A Marx Brothers fan, huh? Are you Rufus T. Firefly?”
She knows Freedonia! “When I’m not Captain Spaulding,” he said with a grin. Her mouth curved into a smile as well. He was half in love. “How do you know the Marx Brothers?”
Her smile vanished. “My father liked them. Sometimes, when I was young, I’d sit down and watch, too.”
Jianjun noticed the odd construction of her words—that she’d “sit and watch,” but not that they watched the shows together. “Since you’re here,” he sat before the computer and typed in a command, “you may as well see the enhanced version of the photo.”
She stood behind him, then leaned forward as she peered at his monitor. “It’s similar to the photo that I have, but with some differences.” She strained closer to see. “That name … you can read the name on the duffle bag.”
He couldn’t take her so near to him. Her clean, rose-scented perfume, her full breasts lightly brushing his shoulder—he was no saint. He stood up and, feigning the gentleman, gave her his chair, then pulled up another beside her.
“Something may have happened out there in the desert.” Jianjun spoke softly, worried that his words would upset her again. “Something that, perhaps, someone now needs to keep quiet.”
“You think one of these men is behind the deaths?” she asked. Her gaze was penetrating, as if she were trying to decide if he might be lying, or might know a lot more than he was saying.
“Yes, I do. Or, perhaps, the photographer. We don’t know who took the photo.” He thought a moment, then frowned. “On the other hand, what could have happened forty years ago that’s worth killing over?”
“I’ve given this a lot of thought, and considering the horrendous ways the murders were committed,” she said, “whoever was involved had to be rich enough to hire some very clever killers, and rich enough to keep them quiet. I suspect some kind of scandal happened that, if it became known, would hurt the career of one of these men. They’ve all become huge in their respective fields.”
“The one who would worry the most about that, I imagine, is the senator,” Jianjun added.
“Practically speaking, yes, but where ego and self-worth are involved, everyone can be equally dangerous,” Kira said. “High school kids who can’t even spell the word will kill each other because they feel they’ve been ‘disrespected.’ But I can’t help but wonder how a priest came to have this photo.”
Jianjun nodded, then caught himself. “Priest?”
“I’ve spoken to Michael Rempart.” Kira again eyed him closely. “He told me a lot.”
Jianjun quietly absorbed this, although his mind was shouting, damn, damn, damn. He hadn’t heard from Michael since he arrived in the U.S., and now he learned Michael and Doctor Holt had met. Was she playing him for a fool, trying to get him to say things she already knew or suspected? As if he didn’t already feel foolish enough because of the way he was acting around her.
His jaw tightened.
“Please, Mr. Li,” she said, “if Michael Rempart is your source, tell me. If not, who is it? If someone else is looking into these men, I’ve got to know.”
He drew in his breath, then said simply, “Call me Jianjun.”
She looked surprised, then carefully pronounced, “Jee-ahn-june.”
He smiled. Her pronunciation was all wrong, but for a Westerner, pretty good. “Michael Rempart is my friend and my employer. He didn’t tell me he spoke with you or I would have said something sooner. I’m sorry.”
She nodded. “I tried to reach him last night, until late, but I couldn’t. I went into the office to look through the FBI’s data bank for the men in the photo and discovered that I wasn’t the only person out there searching for all seven of them. I tracked AceDragon, then took the first plane to Vancouver this morning. And here I am.”
“Michael didn’t return your calls last night?” Jianjun reached for his cell phone and punched in a number on speed dial. “He didn’t get back to me either. I started trying to reach him as soon as the news broke of Scott Jones’ death.”
“He seems able to take care of himself,” Kira observed.
Jianjun scoffed. “You don’t know him like I do.”
No answer on Michael’s phone. Jianjun called again, with the same result. He then phoned the Ritz-Carlton to direct the call to his room, but again, Michael didn’t answer. No one could tell if he had come in last night or not.
“He’s probably out on the town,” Kira mused. “Living up to those gossip column stories about the dashing archeologist suddenly showing up at all the Hollywood parties and—”
“That was before,” Jianjun said gravely.
“Before what?”
“Other things started to happen. Well, they always happened, but he used to ignore them, tell himself he wasn’t really seeing or feeling things that were kind of, well, supernatural.”
She eyed him suspiciously, but he went on.
“The world we see is just one of the worlds Michael sees,” Jianjun explained. “He won’t talk much about it and I can’t explain it. But when he told me about getting a red pearl and a photo from a strange old priest, I got worried.”
Jianjun called housekeeping, gave them Michael’s room number and asked if the room had been made up. The supervisor said it had a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, so they had not gone inside. He thanked her and hung up.
“I think I need to go to Los Angeles,” he said.
“To find Michael Rempart?”
“That’s right.”
Her eyes were steely. “I’m coming with you.”
From his closet, he pulled out the carry-on suitcase he kept packed at all times since working for Michael, put on a jacket, and then stuck his head into his wife’s room to tell her he was leaving for California with the beautiful American. He strutted out the door under a diatribe of Mandarin fury.
Chapter 25
Anyang, China 1142 B.C.
The more of the “essence” of a human male that the Thousand Year Vixen, who now called herself Daji absorbed, the stronger she became. Her sexual talents quickly enslaved King Zhou Xin, who could focus on nothing but his newest wife and the pleasure she gave him. As she had been ordered to do by Goddess Nüwa, she soon drained the king of all strength and common sense.
&
nbsp; Daji’s fellow demons, the Nine-Headed Pheasant and the Jade Pipa, also took over the bodies of beautiful women or men, depending on the proclivities of their prey, and soon joined in the debauchery with the most powerful and influential of the king’s men.
But Daji was not satisfied with carnal pleasures, and, with the king basically out of the way, she soon began running the government. Like all specters, she was an amoral being. Not immoral, but simply without any sense of right or wrong. She would do whatever brought her fun and excitement, and due to her demonic nature, found that watching death and suffering was great fun indeed. The more suffering she caused, the more excitement she felt.
Soon she, the pheasant, and the jade pipa completely forgot the Goddess Nüwa’s orders not to hurt anyone but the king, and became so filled with their own power that they imposed a horrific reign of terror, torturing people in ways previously unheard of before putting them to death.
Any nobleman or woman who garnered her attention in a bad way or a way that caused her a twinge of jealousy soon found themselves arrested, declared guilty, and then impaled, dropped into pits of snakes, boiled, hacked to pieces, and on and on, as Daji dreamed up numerous new, vicious, repulsive ways to inflict pain before death. Her most horrible invention was called a “paolou” in which a metal pillar, about six feet tall and one foot wide, was heated red hot. The victim’s naked body would be tied to it, suffering indescribable pain as he or she slowly cooked to death.
“It is time for the people to call me Queen,” Daji announced one morning to the king’s counselors.
They glanced at each other, horrified.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “Command them!”
None of the ministers wished to speak, but finally, one brave soul did. “But Lady, only the first wife is given the title Queen. She is the mother of the people, as the king is their father. The people love Queen Jiang, and her family is powerful.”
Daji’s glare caused them all to quake in terror. “I have it on good authority,” she announced, “that the Queen plans treason. She is working to have her followers kill Zhou Xin and give the throne to her father, the Duke of the East. She must be imprisoned, and if she does not confess this treason, you will tear out her eyes.”
When the counselors presented King Zhou Xin with Daji’s horrible lies against the Queen who had remained loyal to him despite his bizarre affliction with his latest concubine, he chose to support Daji, and ordered Queen Jiang’s imprisonment.
Queen Jiang, being innocent, refused to confess to any involvement in planning the king’s overthrow. She was cruelly tortured, including having both her eyes removed, and was then locked away in a dungeon.
Daji assumed the title of queen. As queen, she imposed ever more harsh and terrible tortures on the people, devising particularly horrible punishments for those counselors who had supported Queen Jiang. She built grandstands for herself and her supporters to watch the torments and death of all who dared oppose her. And when she could find no opposition, she would make something up for the pleasure of watching an innocent person die.
The action against Queen Jiang caused the Duke of the East to go to the stronger, more powerful Grand Duke of the West and ask for help in ridding the land of the pestilence known as the king and queen of the Shang dynasty.
The Grand Duke of the West agreed, and drew up secret plans to lead an army not only to rescue Queen Jiang from prison, but also to overthrow King Zhou Xin.
Daji learned of his plans, however, and before he could amass an army, she sent thousands of warriors to the West to capture both the Grand Duke and his eldest son. When the son was brought to her, she gave an order. “Kill him and mince his body into tiny pieces.”
Later, she ordered the Grand Duke to stand before her. “You have committed treason,” she said. “For that, the punishment is death. But the death of one so powerful will tear apart this realm. My soldiers have remained at your castle, and await my word to kill everyone within—including your wives, young sons and daughters. But if you agree to reject your past treasonous thoughts, we will let you go. As a sign of our kindness, we offer you a meat pie.” She gave him a smile that chilled him to the bone and then clapped her hands. Her servants brought out a pie made with the Grand Duke’s son’s flesh.
The duke went ashen, and would have fallen to his knees except that Daji’s soldiers held him up.
“Eat it!” she ordered, “and the rest of your family will be spared.”
The Grand Duke understood what she had done. He could not bear the thought of losing more of his family. He ate as she had ordered.
Chapter 26
Los Angeles, California
From Starbucks, Irina led Michael to a bistro located near his hotel. “Our meeting deserves to be toasted with something better than coffee,” she said with a smile. After a couple of drinks, they walked back to Michael’s hotel.
Michael was stunned at how quiet and empty the streets had become. That he lost track of the hour had to be the effect of Scotch on the rocks after little sleep and even less food since he’d left Italy.
When the elevator doors open, he took Irina’s hand and got on. They were alone. “Since you’re tired,” Irina said archly, jokingly, “I’ll ride up to your room with you. I wouldn’t want you to fall asleep, and then ride up and down, over and over, until someone decides you’re casing the place and has you arrested.”
He chuckled. “We couldn’t have that, could we?” He drew her closer and kissed her. The scent of her perfume was intoxicating, the feel of her body against his, irresistible.
When the elevator doors opened on his floor, he stumbled slightly. “Whoa, I don’t know why I feel so woozy,” he said sheepishly. “I can usually hold my liquor.”
“It’s jet lag. It won’t last.” She took his key card and opened his hotel door, then gave him a quick kiss on the lips.
He pulled her into his room and let the door swing shut. The next kiss wasn’t so quick.
He opened his eyes.
He recognized his hotel room, but noticed sunlight peeked along the edges of the drapery. Something was wrong. He lay naked on the bed, on the sheets.
“You’re awake,” Irina said. She sat up then turned so she was facing him, her hip nestled against his. She wore nothing and looked beautiful. Her hands rubbed over his chest. He wanted to touch her, hold her, but he lay as if drugged, helpless, unable to move. He felt spent, while she looked more desirable, more vibrant than ever, and her eyes more green. Green … her eyes had never been green.
An overwhelming sense of something terribly, horribly wrong swept over him. She wasn’t speaking, but he heard her voice in his head, demanding an answer. Why did she ask about the red pearl? He hadn’t told her about it, had he?
They had made love but …
They had grown up together, from the best of friends as children, to lovers as adults. The closeness they had shared was so strong he sometimes felt they were one person. But now, he felt none of that. It was as if he had made love to a stranger.
Why should he expect anything different? Fifteen years had passed, so of course she would seem different now. She was young then, twenty-one. Inexperienced. And now she was a divorcee in her thirties. Naturally she wouldn’t seem the same.
“Michael?”
He was about to speak when she placed her finger against his lips.
“No. Don’t say it. Don’t think about anything but the pearl,” she whispered. “Think of the pearl and where you hid it.”
Don’t do it! And yet, she was so compelling the thought of revealing all his secrets, of completely unburdening himself, was all but irresistible.
She smiled. Snake-like, she coiled herself around him, her head to his chest, her hands everywhere. “Tell me Michael.” Her voice purred. “I know you have the pearl. Where is it? Picture it in your mind, picture hiding it. You want to tell me where you’ve hidden it, don’t you? It will be so much pleasanter for you if you just tell me.”<
br />
She’s right, he thought, as her slow seduction continued. Tell her.
But even as he thought that, another, more rational side of him, knew it would be wrong.
And knew that she was not Irina.
“Of course I’m Irina.” She propped herself up, her hands on the mattress by his shoulders, then leaned forward to kiss him again. “I want to see Florence with you. Once we’re there, you would give me the pearl, wouldn’t you? Promise. I’m told it’s a beautiful pearl. You would give it to me to show how much you love me.”
He felt as if he was being torn in two—his body crying out to tell her, to take and enjoy all she offered, while his mind shouted that something was wrong, that she was wrong.
He tried to shove her away, to sit up, but he had no strength.
“You can’t ignore me.” Irina sat up and placed her palm flat against his chest. “Not after the way you treated me. You owe me!”
“What—”
“You thought I left you for no reason. I had plenty of reasons.”
Was she bringing up the way they had parted years ago? He shook his head, not wanting to remember the way she had walked out.
“When we were young, when we were lovers”—her mouth wrinkled into a sneer—“I thought the sun rose and set on you, but then I found out the truth.”
“What are you saying?” he asked. No, don’t ask her! He remembered Magda’s warning, “Demons lie.”
“I found out that you’re no good—that you just used me.”
He said nothing.
“You’re cruel. Thoughtless. What woman would want to stay with you?” Her features twisted into a rictus of disgust. “Who could love someone as pathetic and worthless as you? No one. You’re scum. A fucking prick.”
He felt unable to breathe. “You’re not her.”
“You’ll do what I want because you’re nothing.” Her voice became low, guttural, and echoed deep inside him. “Of course I left you. What woman wouldn’t? Who could ever love or care about you? Your own mother killed herself because she was sickened by the thought of you.”