The Lake Ching Murders - A Mystery of Fire and Ice

by David Rotenberg

  It took little persuasion to get the islanders to accept Interior Minister Wu’s offered banquet. Shortly, the archeologist was dressed in his best clothes, his thinsulate vest beneath his coat, and on his way to the island.

  The light was dying as he crossed the lake. Through the murk and far to one side, he saw a cormorant’s head pop out of the water and crane around. “As if searching for him,” he thought.

  It was bitterly cold. He looked past the cormorant and scanned the horizon for the fisherman who always seemed to be there. Always seemed to know when he was coming. But he couldn’t see him or the lanterns of the boat, although he knew some fisherman had to be near. A cormorant was a valuable asset and never allowed too far from the boat. Of course, should the bird decide to fly away, its newfound independence would soon give way to starvation. The metal circlet on its neck made it impossible for the animal to swallow fish — its only natural food. Once the circlet was in place, the bird could only receive sustenance from a narrow lengthy dropper, and that could only be manipulated by a man’s hand. “We’re all on a leash of some sort,” he said aloud. His boatman ignored him. Just another city person who talked to himself.

  The banquet was set in the large communal hall halfway up the central terraced hill. The building was a storage place for the upper level crops at the three harvest times. In the winter it was seldom used.

  Tables had been made from planking set on crude wooden cubes. Lanterns were lit and hung from poles. Dung burned in the metal braziers. The place, like so much of the island, literally smelled like shit. But the archeologist didn’t mind. Chu Shi had just come into the room with her husband, Jiajia. She wore a woven shawl to keep out the chill of the night. Her eyes were focused on the floor.

  Something was different with her. What?

  The room was filling quickly. The whole island seemed to be here. Just the farmers not the fishermen, he corrected himself. Food was piled high and savoury on the central table. The braziers and lanterns added to the smoke from the islanders’ harsh cigarettes which featured such fanciful names as snake charmers, bullet proofs and smacks.

  He rose. All eyes turned to him. He delivered Madame Interior Minister Wu’s congratulations to the islanders on their business acumen then opened a bottle of her gift, the ceremonial wine. He filled glass after glass as they were presented to him. When the last bottle was almost emptied, he looked up. Even the young had glasses in their hands. They awaited him. He raised his glass and was about to speak when he saw Chu Shi. She seemed very close to him although she was far across the large crowded room. The smoke in the room made him dizzy. He lifted his glass a little higher and shouted, “To the future.”

  The room filled with cheering. Glasses were emptied and exclamations filled the air. He took the opportunity to tip his glass over onto the hard mud floor. He was no drinker. The wine seeped into the ground like a brown slug seeking the dark.

  It felt as if the evening zoomed by. He didn’t get to speak to Chu Shi. Before he knew it, he found himself back on a boat, frozen stiff, heading toward Ching.

  He spent that night, that seemingly endless night, wrestling with his loneliness.

  Two days later he was by the shoal, leading the beginning of the excavation of the south end of the mound when he looked up to see the old fisherman sitting in his boat not twenty yards away. His birds were on the gunwales, not in the water. He wasn’t fishing. The archeologist took the paddle from the floor of his own boat and made his way out to the fisherman.

  “What?”

  “There’s sickness.”

  “Where?”

  “The farmers. Many are sick. Deep sickness.”

  “Influenza? What?”

  “She may die.” There was no need to name Chu Shi. To Dr. Roung’s surprise, the old man’s sadness seemed to be aimed at himself. As if he was to blame somehow. Without another word, the fisherman grabbed his oar and headed toward the island.

  Dr. Roung sat dead still, his boat bobbing gently, the creepy-crawly of fear dancing on his spine.

  Three days later, on December 1, the archeologist was shocked into waking by a hand pressing down hard on his chest. Four men were in his room. Islanders. Before he could speak, Iman stepped forward. “Chu Shi is dead.”

  Dr. Roung didn’t know what to do.

  “We are not foolish people, Excellency. We know about you and her.”

  “Then why didn’t . . .”

  “We stop it?” Iman completed the archeologist’s question. For a moment he was lost in thought. Then he shrugged. “The others are getting better, but she died from the sickness.”

  Dr. Roung’s head filled with questions as he felt himself falling down a great pit of blackness. Then Iman closed off the light at the top of the pit. “She died carrying your child.” He didn’t see Jiajia’s blow coming. It caught him full on the face. Only Iman’s presence saved his life.

  He was not allowed on the island for the burial. No one from outside was allowed on the island anymore. Rumours on shore spread that the islanders blamed the sickness on the foreigners with whom they had done business. That giving blood had caused the sickness. That all business deals were off.

  Blood was sacred to the islanders in many ways.

  Fires burned constantly on the uppermost parts of the island. Rumours became fact when two of the islanders’ foreign business partners arrived and were chased away at gunpoint.

  Twenty-four hours later, special assault units of federal soldiers were helicoptered onto the island. Stories. An exhumation. The foreigners insisted. The islanders resisted. The army backed the foreigners. Several islanders were shot. The islanders came out in force and fought a pitched battle with the federal forces. Then another helicopter, this one a small, modern, single-passenger model without markings, landed on the far side of the island. Away from the fighting. Iman and his best fighters stood silently waiting for the rotors to stop their lethal circling. When they did, the door slid open and Madame Minister Wu stepped out.

  She looked at him, identified herself and canted her head slightly to one side.

  He matched her gesture — this would be a meeting of equals.

  Quickly, a small fire was built on the sandy beach and the two sat facing each other across the flames.

  Jiajia stepped forward.

  “Was it this young man’s wife who died of this foul contagion?”

  “It was, Madame Minister.”

  “My condolences, young man. Now let me have words in private with Iman.”

  Jiajia started to protest then stopped as he saw the flecks of rage the flames of the fire brought to life in Madame Wu’s eyes. He turned and left the ring of light.

  Madame Wu picked up a stick and poked at the fire. Iman watched her closely. Finally, she raised her eyes and said, “He is reckless in his grief.” Iman nodded but said nothing. Madame Wu smiled. “But such men can be of use in times such as we are living through. Don’t you agree, Iman?” Again he nodded. “Good,” she said. “Now let us plan a response to these indignities the foreigners have heaped upon you and your people.”

  “We are already seeing to that,” Iman said in a cold flat voice.

  “By fighting with federal assault troops? Folly, old man. Folly.” Before Iman could respond she added, “There is a better way of dealing with this . . . situation.” She caught his eye. “Let them dig up the dead girl.” Iman leapt to his feet. She shouted, “Sit down.” He did. “One must get one’s revenge when the enemy is not ready for it.” She slipped a small, beautifully bound copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War from her pocket and held it out to Iman. “Have someone read you the chapter on spies.” She checked to see if Iman was offended. He wasn’t. She went on, “Pay special attention to the part about lulling the enemy into a false sense of security — friendship even.”

  Iman took the book.

  “I’m sure you will agree with me that letting the foreigners dig up the dead girl is the best way to proceed.”

  Mada
me Wu rose and walked out of the fire’s circle of light. She didn’t want him to see the hatred on her face.

  As she allowed herself to be helped into the helicopter it occurred to her that having come all this way, maybe she should see her son, Chen. Then she dismissed the thought as bourgeois and sentimental. They’d been apart all these years. Why bother seeing him face to face now? She barked an order and the pilot engaged the engine. The rotors began to howl. She put her head back against the plush seat and closed her eyes. The islanders would do as she suggested. They were people of the land, just as she was.

  * * *

  Jiajia put down the minister’s copy of The Art of War. He had just finished the brief chapter on spies. For a moment he looked at the cover of the book — so fancy, so decorated — so unlike war. He shook his head and strode out of his mud hut — at one time their home, his and Chu Shi’s. He reconsidered Sun Tzu’s advice as he walked quickly up the steep path to the graveyard. It seemed to him that Sun Tzu’s instruction on the waging of war was flawed. It assumed a dispassion, a cold logic. He crested the final rise and stepped into the graveyard. He stood over Chu Shi’s grave for a long time then he hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat it right at her heart.

  Jiajia kicked at the grave’s night soil–clotted earth then began to tear at the dirt with his fingers. As he did, he planned. Not as The Art of War had suggested. But then again, Sun Tzu was waging a military campaign. Not seeking revenge.

  Jiajia flung aside clods of the thick dirt until he unearthed the edge of the crimson burial shroud. He leaned back his head and howled Chu Shi’s name.

  Revenge was not dispassionate. It was not cold and logical. It was human — and hot.

  The next day Iman ordered the islanders to put down their weapons. A dead girl. A pregnant dead girl was dug up and transported to the mainland where her body was hacked to pieces in a secret foreign ritual.

  So went the story.

  Dr. Roung knew better. He didn’t know what had changed the islanders’ minds to allow it, but he knew that Chu Shi must have been exhumed so that an autopsy could be done. Probably in Xian. He assumed that the foreigners insistence on the exhumation and autopsy had something to do with their business deal. But again he didn’t know what. And he said nothing. Did nothing. Just sat in the darkness of his Ching room wondering over and over again why the ceremonial wine had been shipped from Beijing. That night he awoke in a cold sweat, his mind crawling with fear. Fear that he knew the answer to the question. It was just past 6 a.m. He went out into the freezing darkness.

  That was just before the frigid dawn of December 22. Seventeen foreigners had less than a week to live.

  Half an hour after Fong’s return from the island funeral, the hollow sound of his banging on Dr. Roung’s workshop door echoed through Ching’s soft spring night. Fong’s shouts went unanswered. Finally an old woman came around the corner of the building.

  “Gone, flat-head.”

  “What?”

  “He’s gone.” The old woman cocked her head to the side and stared at Fong’s mouth. “Where’d you get your teeth?”

  “Where did Dr. Roung go?”

  “To Xian. Where else?”

  Where else indeed. The island and Xian. Always the island and Xian. And finally the link between the two — four stones stacked neatly in a tower behind a dead girl’s headstone — to mark time.

  Fong turned on his heel and headed back to the Jeep. Over his shoulder he heard the old woman shout, “You really ought to complain. Those teeth look awful.”

  When he got into the car, Chen asked him, “Did she say something about teeth?”

  “No,” Fong said harder than he should have. Then he spat out, “Have you found out if there was an exhumation order executed on the island?”

  “Yes, there was.” Chen referred to his notes. “It was done December 21. How did you know . . .?”

  “Seven days before the murders on the boat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was there an autopsy performed?”

  “Yes, the same day.”

  “Where? Don’t answer that — Xian? Right?” Chen nodded. Fong cursed under his breath. “I want the autopsy report sent to Grandpa.”

  “They won’t send it.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve already asked for it. They said it’s confidential.”

  Fong knew the word confidential in China’s bureaucratese meant “volatile.” “Will they let him see it if we go to them?”

  “Yes, they’re okay with that.”

  “Fine.”

  “How did you know there’d been an . . .?”

  Fong thought back to the grave on the island. The soil was still unpacked. The fecal material resisting decomposition, as it always did when disturbed . . . He shrugged. Why not tell Chen? Because admitting a knowledge of night soil would allow access to his past. And he wasn’t prepared to discuss his personal history with anyone.

  Chen reached in his pocket and pulled out a fax. “This arrived for you while you were on the island.”

  Fong spread it out against the dash:

  HEY HO SHORT STUFF. BIG COOKINGS HERE IN XIAN. WHAT GUESS FOUND I? NO GUESS? TWO BAD. DNA PATENT FOUND I. DNA PATENT GIVEN TO DEAD AMERICAN LAWYER, DECEMBER 25TH - THINK NOT CLOSE TO PARTY TIME? - DO I? I DO. DO. DO. DO YOU?

  Fong shivered.

  They were nearing the edge.

  He brushed some liquid from his chin. It was deep red. Somehow he’d cut himself and was bleeding. He looked at the red smear on the back of his hand. Blood without. Blood within. This all has to do with blood.

  “Fax Lily. Tell her we’ve got to know exactly what the DNA patent was for.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And get Grandpa ready.”

  “For what?”

  “Our trip to Xian. He needs an outing.”

  The alarm sounded loudly at the nurse’s station. She’d been in Inspector Wang’s room only moments before. Maybe he’d accidently rolled over on the button.

  Maybe he was finally dying.

  The thickness was lining his mouth and had gotten up into his nasal passages. It was now extending down into his lungs, covering every inch — every tiny sack that could bring him air.

  He struggled and thrashed as best he could. He grabbed the button and pressed with all his might. Then he stopped. Stopped fighting. Stopped fighting what he thought was the end. Images floated up at him. Sharpedged crime scene lights threw everything into high relief. The pop of a sulphur match and the delicious flavour of cigarette smoke. Then a face close to his. Zhong Fong. He’d never had a son. Never married. Lived his whole life as an unbeliever. But here on the very brink of his time, just before he leapt from this earthly plane, he sent out a blessing. A final gift to Zhong Fong. Not as tactile as the telegram he’d arranged to get through despite all regulations against outside contact with the traitor. But more important. Or at least that’s what the specialist thought — as his last act upon the Earth.

  The white-clad nurse leaned in close to the old man’s mouth. He was trying to speak. His lips forming soundless words. She read his lips as she had so many times before. But what she read made no sense. “Bless you.” His lips formed a name she’d never heard before. “Make me proud. You are my pride. Deduce that it was me . . .”

  The nurse recalled this man asking for communications experts a few months back. Just after he’d returned from Xian. Then documents from Shanghai. All quite a fuss. For what? She knew he’d been to Xian because he’d brought her back a small kneeling figure of an archer. He’d flirted in his wordless way. But despite all the time she’d nursed him, she didn’t know much about him. In fact, she had no idea who this man was. Only that he was important enough to have a private room in a politburo hospital. That he had three serious gunshot wounds when he first arrived. Two in his back and one that had pierced his voice box. And the doctors were administering a treatment to him she’d never seen before.

  But all that
didn’t matter now because he was quickly growing cold. If she’d known any Shakespeare, she might have quoted Measure for Measure: “This sensible warm motion” was quickly becoming “a kneaded clod.”

  But she didn’t know any Shakespeare. Why should she?

  Then again, those lines wouldn’t fit a man — not dead — but put into a kind of suspended animation. Something new. Another way to cheat time. And all, of course, done without the knowledge of either Inspector Wang Jun or his doting nurse.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  INTERVIEWS IN XIAN

  Well before the Jeep reached Xian, Fong sensed the approach of the desert. A dry stillness seemed to suck at the air. Something from before time. Then the first structures of the ancient Qin capital, China’s very first, materialized on the horizon. Shortly after, the wind picked up and fine grains of desert sand began to pelt their vehicle — grains of sand all the way from the mythologized Silk Road — the first conduit between East and West. Xian in its day had been the Middle Kingdom’s port of entry. Camels crossing the torturous Silk Road brought the West to China 2,500 years ago.

  Soon the Jeep entered the crumbling outer ring of the Old City. This was not the tourist Xian; this was the Chinese Xian. The Muslim quarter with its souk tents and dusted colours came first. It was bigger than Fong had expected. A small Tibetan sector abutted the Muslim quarter. The people there seemed sullen and angry. As the Jeep made its way toward the centre of the old place, it passed through many different communities. The faces in this city were composites. Clues. Hints of Mongol, Manchu, Turk, Afghan, Tibetan in the faces, but all Chinese now. Oh yes, they were all Chinese now. The great ocean China salts every river.