by Ning Cai
“Oh shucks. Look at that green light, it’s blinking so fast,” Edgar says. “Anytime now!”
Muscles straining, the two men grunt as they hoist the metal pipe on their shoulders before carefully positioning it in the space above CK’s vulnerable neck.
“Careful now, Charlie, we wouldn’t want you to FALL!” Edgar suddenly shoves the tall stepladder, tipping his protégé off the very top. Charlie hits the ground hard, and I hear a sickening crack from his right arm the same time he screams. Amberlyn makes a dash for Edgar, but both Ashraf and Uncle Glen yell for the police sergeant to quickly remove CK from the guillotine stocks, as their grip on the heavy metal pipe is slipping. She struggles just as the bright green light strobes to the rhythm of a techno beat. Edgar stomps on Charlie’s broken hand, and pounces for the remote control on the floor, but I kick it out of his reach.
It slides across the floor, striking the metallic base of a large cylinder: Houdini’s water-torture cell, I remember, from the poster at the magic shop. It was also featured in the twins’ show, recorded on that old VHS tape. Squinting hard, I see a dark shadowy figure and quickly realise that there is someone trapped inside. With his eyes wide open and hair hovering above his head, the man floats in suspended animation inside the grand cylindrical vat. There are no bubbles. No movement.
It is Lenny Lye. And the missing pastor is quite dead.
I’m abruptly kicked in the sternum by one of CK’s Super Mario shoes, and it almost knocks the wind out of me. Edgar attempts to land another kick directly at my head, but I roll out of the way in the nick of time.
“Quickly, Amberlyn!” Uncle Glen cries. “Save him!”
Both his and Ashraf’s faces are beet red, the backs of their shirts soaked with perspiration and their muscles straining. Amberlyn finally manages to extract my unconscious best friend out from the stocks and drag him away, just as the rapidly flashing green light switches red, and the heavy blade slams down, embedding itself into the thick pipe carried by the two inspectors. They drop their heavy load, and collapse in a pool of sweat.
“Max! Uncle Eddie! Don’t let him get away!” Charlie’s face is still deathly pale but he seems to be slowly coming out of shock. He grimaces in agony, pointing with his left hand before moving it back to clutch at his injured right arm. “Go!”
Edgar Lam is running—running—past the water-torture cell and up the narrow wooden staircase nearby, towards the outdoor fire escape that leads directly out of the warehouse. Surveying my surroundings, I make a quick decision. I move back a few steps for a good running start, then dash for the brick wall in front of me, gaining momentum before kicking up with my leading foot at hip level, the balls of my feet making impact as I propel upwards, driving the force of my weight directly into the dusty red bricks to climb up the wall. My right hand wraps around the old wooden beam by the wall, and I swing myself up, landing on the railings of the stairs right behind my moving target.
I have only one chance to do this right.
Closing my eyes, I recall Charlie’s lesson:
The trick is not just throwing the card with your wrist and fingers. Use your entire arm and send that power through your elbow, out your fingertips, at release. The last thing you need to remember is to keep your focus on your target, and trust me, you won’t miss.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, take aim, and with a yell I watch it fly.
Just as Edgar turns around at my yell, the phone strikes him right in the face, breaking his glasses. The man cries out as his knees wobble at the unexpected blow. I watch my treasured iPhone 4, the one with all our happy memories and family pictures and the songs Mom loved to hear, make a spectacular dive, shattering into a hundred thousand pieces of broken glass and plastic below us.
Removing his now useless spectacle frames, Edgar shakes his head and seems to recover from the shock. He aims a vicious kick at me again, but instinct and muscle memory take over. I execute an under bar, swinging fluidly under the rickety railings of the wooden stairs, my body coming back up hard against him. My boots strike the artificial leg closest to me, where a crack has already formed on the shin. He wobbles again as the prosthetic limb comes apart.
Reaching for a frayed piece of rope hanging from the thick wooden beam overhead, Edgar jumps in an attempt to swing himself towards the open window ledge, but a drone suddenly slices through the air and hits him right in the face, cutting angry red lines with its spinning blades. He squeezes his eyes shut as he screams in shock and pain, and his outstretched fingers miss the rope. He falls through the air, slamming his head hard against the open top of the water-torture cell below, before falling with a loud splash inside the tall cylinder of liquid, the lid slamming shut after him. Thick red swirls of blood coil out of his nasty head wound.
Running down the old stairs, I watch as Ashraf and Amberlyn try their best to break the thick reinforced plexiglass as the drowning man painfully struggles for air. Ashraf slams a wooden stool into the glass but it simply bounces right off without a scratch. Edgar’s fingers finally stop their desperate clawing on the other side of the glass as his eyes unfocus.
The Spectre has joined his twin inside their watery grave.
Uncle Glen is still with CK on the floor, cradling his son in his lap. “Chun Kiat, wake up. Please, I can’t lose you too.”
I find smelling salts in the open first aid box next to a leather-bound diary with the late pastor’s name on it. Pointing out my find to Ashraf and Amberlyn, I rush over and pass Uncle Glen the pungent ampoule, which he breaks open under CK’s nose. Nothing seems to happen, but then suddenly, his eyelashes flutter and CK finally starts to stir, coughing weakly as he opens his eyes. “Max?”
“We got him, CK. We got the Spectre.” I take my best friend’s clammy hand in mine and give it a warm squeeze, as Uncle Glen weeps in relief and rocks him. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Carefully, I tug at a corner of the clear packing tape stuck on CK’s cheek. Moving slowly so it doesn’t hurt him, I extract the torn playing-card corner. Turning over the red winged angels, I see that it’s the classic wild card. The Joker.
“Look, over there,” Charlie whispers, putting down the drone’s remote control and pointing to the face of the card in Edgar’s now-translucent shirt pocket. The poker card is missing a corner. Walking over to the dead man, I bring up the torn corner of the card and hold it to the thick glass that separates us.
It is a perfect match.
FIFTEEN
WITH A WARM blanket thrown over my shoulders, I watch as the efficient paramedics carry both CK and Charlie into the ambulance parked outside the warehouse. Dr Aisha and her team are busy loading the waterlogged bodies of the twins into another vehicle. Blue-and-white police tape marks out the crime scene. I stare at the broken iPhone in my hands. Everything feels so surreal.
Superintendent Shanti Govindasamy, the pint-sized but very much feared middle-aged woman in a smart blue uniform, is having a word with a despondent Uncle Glen. I catch snatches of what she says: how the police inspector broke more than a dozen rules, and how she has no choice but to let him go even though they stopped the serial murderer. Her fierce rebukes and harsh voice soften when she tells him that she is truly sorry to see him go, but Uncle Glen assures her that he completely understands.
“Thanks for everything, Madam. It has been an honour serving with you all these years,” Uncle Glen says sincerely as he hands over his CID badge and pistol. He gives me a small wink, and Ashraf and Amberlyn a positive nod before accompanying the boys in the ambulance bound for Singapore General Hospital.
“Sergeant Amberlyn Ng,” the superintendent says.
“Yes, Madam.” Amberlyn stands stiffly at attention.
“You’re promoted. Ashraf, meet your new partner.”
“Yes, Madam,” Ashraf says with a grin. “Congratulations, Inspector Ng.”
“Thank you, Madam!” Amberlyn gasps, her eyes shining as she looks as Ashraf.
“Hmm, Ash and Am
ber.” Superintendent Govindasamy chuckles to herself as she ambles away to a waiting car. “I think I like the sound of that.”
*
“Sure you’ll be okay, Schooling?” Ashraf asks me again for the umpteenth time. “Do you need me to call your aunt and cousin to come over? Might be good to have family around.”
“I’m not a child. I’ll be fine,” I tell him, giving the police inspector my best reassuring smile before getting out of his SUV. He finally drives away only after he sees me walking through my front door.
I yawn loudly and shut the door behind me. The clock in my living room reads 6.42am, and it feels like I haven’t slept properly in like forever. Serious hunger pangs suddenly hit me. Plodding into the kitchen, I take out a bag of the chicken wings Uncle Glen stocked in my freezer, and start to microwave my breakfast. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I feel a wave of exhaustion wash all over me now that the adrenaline rush is over. I close my eyes.
“Max?” It’s Luce.
“Mmm?”
“I think there’s something wrong with Albatross. He’s been way too quiet,” Luce says. “And there might be someone in the house. The bay window was left open.”
I open my eyes. Luce is right. My dog always greets me at the door. Did Gigi come back?
“We need to be careful,” she says. “I don’t like this. Something doesn’t feel right.”
“Go upstairs and check on Albatross,” I tell Luce. “I’m going to get one of Dad’s golf clubs from the storeroom and look around. I’ll be with you in a sec.”
Leaving the kitchen, I listen for noises, but there are none. It is too quiet. I slowly twist the squeaky doorknob to enter the storeroom next to the living room, and carefully pull open the rickety door thinking to get Dad’s heavy golf putter to arm myself. The microwave in the kitchen chimes at just about the same time I notice there is someone standing in the shadows, waiting for me in the dark.
“Boo!” Martinus Lye shouts and seizes me by the throat before I can grab a club from the bag. His gloved fingers squeeze hard and I struggle to breathe. I try fighting back, but Martinus has anticipated my struggle and chokes me harder with both hands. Despite his inherited scoliosis, his arms are strong, and it is impossible for me to break his hold.
Forcing me to walk backwards, he only stops when he has me against the sofa. I try to punch him but I miss, and something falls out of his pocket: an Aston Martin sapphirecrystal key fob. Shoving me down, Martinus forces me to sit and motions for me not to scream. I nod and he releases his grip and steps back.
“It was you,” I whisper hoarsely, massaging my neck. “In that silver Aston Martin.”
Martinus smiles but it does not reach his eyes. “That’s right. I tailed your friend that day, telling Dad of his whereabouts as I travelled along, so he could quickly go pick your friend up. I guess you can call it teamwork, or father-son bonding.”
“But I don’t understand. You have everything. Why are you doing this?” The answer suddenly dawns on me and I gasp; it’s been staring me in the face the whole time. His eyelids. “You’re Edgar’s son. Your eyelids are exactly the same: one double and one single.”
Martinus picks off invisible fluff from his elegant white shirt.
“Did your mother ever know? You can tell me,” I say, trying to delay him, hoping for a miracle while desperately forming an escape plan. “I promise I won’t tell anyone that you were here.”
“Okay.” He nods pleasantly. “After all, dead people tell no tales.”
I gulp as Martinus extracts a dagger from the back of his belt. He points the sharp end of the blade at me, running it lightly down my throat.
“My life has been a lie. Just like my poor uncle’s. Uncle Lenny was forced to be the leader of a homophobic church, when he was in the closet all his life. Mum never found out who helped in the process of fathering me. Bless her pious little heart. But the woman drove her husband mad. She drove all of us mad. When my uncle hanged himself in Dad’s warehouse, he left his diary behind. We read through his private entries and Dad decided that those people had to die.”
I frowned. “You helped kill them?”
“No, I can’t take away Dad’s credit.” Martinus smiles coyly at me. “I only helped with the misdirection. I located that awful magic assistant who took secret pictures of Uncle Lenny in drag; she wanted to expose him if he didn’t help feed her drug habit. It made him give up his showbiz career because he was so afraid Jo-lin would reveal his secret to the world. It broke Dad’s heart, of course, when his brother left the show and finally agreed to start the church with Mum.”
“But Yazid Shah was a wonderful brother,” I say, inching farther away from his blade. “Did you know he was trying to make ends meet for his family? He was putting his siblings through school. What did he do that was so terrible Edgar Lam had him killed?”
“The man was a damn dog.” Martinus rudely spits on the floor. “A dirty dog who kept hounding my uncle for money. Yazid was trying to blackmail him with DNA evidence from a tryst they’d had. The stress really got to Uncle Lenny, because even though most people assume he’s got money, Mum’s really the one controlling the family and church purse strings. So I posed as my uncle and contacted that money-grabbing Malay mutt to pass him some money, and he agreed to meet. He deserved it. His soul is tainted by greed and he will burn in hell for his sins.”
Clearing my throat, I eye Dad’s open golf bag in the storeroom, wondering if I could make a dash for it. “And Kiran Soin? He was counselling teens who were being bullied because they’re trying to live their life as honestly as they can. Surely the pastor understood how hard it must be, struggling as a minority?”
Martinus scoffs. “How incredibly naïve you are. What are you going to suggest next? Us converting the entire mega church into one that embraces the queer community? And lose the millions of dollars we get in tithe every year?”
I bite my tongue, deciding not to point out the irony of how Martinus is even more materialistic than the late Yazid, who was pushed by life’s circumstances.
“That gay man you spoke of was a menace who was trying to make trouble for us as a business entity, hurting our church brand and constantly trying to drag my uncle’s good name through the mud. Dad decided he had to go. And after I contacted him on Grindr and set up a date at his place, that’s when we found out Kiran was working on an exposé with that annoying Nancy Drew wannabe.”
My heart skips a beat. “Raeya Kaur?”
“Yes, that desperate blogger who tried to gain celebrity by publishing gossip,” Martinus sneers. “I contacted her for a meeting and that’s when Dad finished her off. Mum had to go too. She was the reason for Uncle Lenny’s pain to start with, according to Dad. I’m not sad to see her gone, actually. There’s finally peace now. You can hear the angels sing.”
“And CK? Why did you guys single him out?”
The charming psychopath sighs. “Ah yes, the wild card. That was really more for Dad than Uncle Lenny. You see, he lost his legs because of your friend’s mother.”
I frown. “I don’t understand. She’s been dead—”
“Exactly. That terrible car accident!” Martinus nods energetically. “Of course, Dad blames her for what happened to him, no matter that she was pregnant. When he lost both his legs, he had to say goodbye to his entire career as a professional entertainer. Showbiz was officially over for him. Just like that. Like a butterfly with clipped wings. Dad had to live a sorry life, until technology came along. But enough talking. Right now, it’s all about you.”
We lock gazes as he removes a familiar red playing card from his shirt pocket. With his sharp knife, he makes a jagged cut on one corner of the pasteboard. Holding the blade between his teeth, Martinus pulls off the red triangle and flashes the Joker at me. It feels like déjà vu. “There’s always two jokers in a deck of cards.”
“I won’t tell anyone if you leave now, Martinus. You don’t have to do this,” I whimper as he holds the throwing knife
in his hand and squeezes an eye shut, getting ready to take aim. “Please!”
He stops and straightens his expensive-looking shirt.
“Oh, but I have to. I lost my father this evening because of you, Maxine Schooling. One of the back-up singers at church phoned me earlier to say that, according to her boyfriend who works for the police, CID would never have caught up to Dad were it not for you and your perfect photographic memory. You need to pay for that. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. By the way, don’t worry about your dog. I quite fancy animals; they’re often kinder than human beings. He’s just drugged. Give him a few hours and he will be fine. You on the other hand, not so much.”
Martinus flings the blade and the throwing knife strikes the sofa next to me, missing my right ear by just an inch. He slaps his knee and laughs, pulling out another blade from his belt. “Don’t move, little girl, I don’t want to maim you by accident. Only on purpose.”
I leap up and lunge for the storeroom, running towards my father’s golf clubs. I hear a loud noise by my left ear, and see a quivering throwing knife newly stuck in the wood of the storeroom door. I duck, drawing out the golf putter as something crashes behind me.
Taking a wild swing at the man, I manage to hit him hard in the knee, sending him to the floor in pain. But not before Martinus hurls a throwing knife into my thigh. I yelp and crash to the floor, watching my jeans start to stain with blood. The next thing I know, he’s on top of me, pressing Dad’s golf club down on me, trying to choke me with the steel. I push back, losing the battle as it inches closer towards my throat. Trying to ignore the pain in my right thigh, I kick him off and he loses his balance. I take the chance to strike him across the face and his sharp nose starts bleeding.
Laughing, he dodges out of the way as I throw the putter at him like a javelin. Taking a firm grip on the handle of the throwing knife sticking out of my thigh, Martinus twists the blade and I scream, seeing white spots in my vision.