by Jack Dey
He tapped gently on the door, hoping to wake the old lady without bringing attention from anywhere else.
"Grandma," he whispered, trying to forget the memories still raging at him.
"Grandma," he whispered again.
The door opened slowly and with a final scout of the outside surrounds, he quickly disappeared inside. He was safe, for now.
The old woman stood staring at the solid figure of a man she hadn't seen in years. She could make out his features, even in the hut’s dim glow and guessed he didn't want her to turn the light on.
"An-Dung, I was there when your father named you. Your name means peaceful hero. Do you live up to your name?"
Grandma’s speech deflated his expectation and lashed him with waves of grief and guilt. Even in the presence of his trusted family, he still had to measure his words.
"Life is treacherous, Grandma. We do what we have to. You are not pleased to see me?" An-Dung whispered, the disappointment veiled behind a mask of bravado.
"Why do you come now and in the middle of the night, like a criminal?" she attacked again.
"It is for your benefit, as well as mine, that I am not recognised here. I bring you a gift, Grandma."
He handed the bag to the old woman and she carefully opened it, to reveal its contents. She pulled out a large wad of 500,000 Dong notes.
"Do I hold the blood of many people, An-Dung? I cannot take such a gift," she retorted, stuffing the money back in the bag. "Again, I ask you, why you choose to visit an old lady in this way and after so many years?"
"If you are not happy to see me, then I will discuss my business," An-Dung forcefully tried to steer grandma’s tirade away from his character.
"Business?" the old lady echoed.
"Mot Lang Quen has been plundering our, our... factories. I have worked my way up to leader and I am bringing a final warning. I have been able, in the past, to cut off attempts at a reprisal and delay Mot Lang Quen's demise. I will not be able to ensure his safety, and yours, for much longer, unless the attacks stop!"
"You speak so strongly against the man we owe our very lives to, An-Dung. Do you not remember the hope your parents had for you and your sister, a hope they sacrificed their lives for? Now look at you, the leader of a group of criminals," the old lady whispered sarcastically.
"And what of my sister? Has she done anything but marry into poverty? Is this the hope of my parents?" An-Dung hissed bitterly. "At least I command a lifestyle full of the trappings of the rich."
"At what cost, An-Dung?" the old lady reproached.
An-Dung softened. "How is my sister? I haven't seen her for many years now."
"She has married a farmer and yes, she married into poverty like ninety percent of our people. But she is happy and sleeps well at night," Grandma added, jibing at An-Dung.
"I must go. I will leave the money for you. Take Mot Lang Quen and get him out of the country."
"And where, do you propose, an old woman and a man with no memory go?" she replied bitterly.
"Grandma, this is not a game! The people I have in my... business, will come after him and the result will not be pretty. You must get him out of here!"
"So, I use the money that killed your cousin to make a life for myself. If I do that, I might as well have plunged a knife into Van myself."
"Van?!" An-Dung looked surprised. "What happened to Van?!"
"He was hooked on the products of your... factories and was found floating face down in the Mekong, about a month ago," she responded tearfully. "See, your greed and lust for the things of the rich have a price tag, far greater than you will ever know."
The shocked look on An-Dung's face spoke volumes.
He had expected the meeting with Grandma would be different and not like this. Van was his friend and he was doing well last time he saw him.
"I..I have to go, Grandma. Please, I beg you to think of what I have said. The next time Mot Lang Quen carries out a raid, they will come for him. Everyone in the Mekong Delta knows of his bravery and what he did for our people. He is like a folk hero. But that will not stop these people. They will hand him over to the V.C., after they have tortured him."
Before Grandma could respond, the door opened and An-Dung was gone, melting into the night. The old lady stared at the money, still sitting on the table. A vile feeling rose up in her stomach and she swatted the bag onto the floor, then collapsed to the floorboards and began to weep, while an old proverb drifted into her mind.
Those who live by the sword, die by the sword.
Grandma wept long, broken hearted sobs for An-Dung.
*~*~*~*
An-Dung paddled hard against the current. The wind had picked up as well, making his journey back a slow, tiring pull. Grandma's words kept haunting him and the pain in his stomach returned with a vengeance.
"So, I use the money that killed your cousin, to make a life for myself. If I do that, I might as well have plunged a knife into Van myself."
He began to weep for Van and for himself.
What kind of a man had he become?
*~*~*~*
Chapter 22
The ceiling tilted and began to spin, while Sam closed her eyes and grasped the edges of her mattress, trying to counter the spiralling juggernaut as she lay in her bed. She breathed a sigh of relief as the room finally settled back to normal, but leaving her head pounding violently. She opened her eyes again and struggled to focus, while the sunlight made her squint, at the same time exasperating her pounding head.
The police had just finished examining her car and a tilt tray truck had delivered it back into her parking bay under the apartment block. The driver had knocked on the apartment door to deliver her keys, awakening her from a disturbed sleep. Now, she couldn't find sleep again and a bilious turmoil threatened her with every breath.
Her fingers rested on a cloth bandage covering a gaping wound on her neck, while six stitches held the wound closed. She had no recollection of sustaining the injury, while her stomach felt distressed, as if it had taken a great blow from a large fist. Sam shuddered at the thought of her car and still didn't feel well enough to face the mess of belongings waiting for her inside it. She turned over, moaning gently at the exertion, pulling the sheet out from under the mattress, while a tangle of bed clothes and blankets indicated the restlessness of her attempted sleep.
Her mind drifted back to the scene of–what did the police call it?–the attack! Frustration and a developing migraine plagued her as she attempted to recall the facts, but she still remembered nothing, except waking up on an ambulance gurney and being transferred to a hospital. A policewoman had accompanied her and then driven her home; that much she did remember. She knew there would be more questions from the police, but doubted she had anything more to reveal.
*~*~*~*
Dulcet tentatively knocked on Blair's door, fully aware his superior was entrenched in writing his interim report and that he would risk the full force of the redhead's ire.
"Yes! What is it, Dulcet?"
"I am just about to finish for the day, sir."
"Half your luck," Blair responded sarcastically, punching the computer keyboard with antagonised fingers.
Ignoring his superiors remarks, he asked, "What's your opinion on this morning's happenings, sir?"
Blair sighed and pushed his chair out from his desk to face Dulcet.
"That's Moose's worry, Dulcet, not ours."
Dulcet got that maddening look on his face, that usually ended with Blair yelling at him and ordering him to let go of whatever crazy new idea he was pursuing. Blair relented and quietly blew out his breath, weighing his thoughts in the process.
"It was a clear case of a ‘sicko’ setting up a ruse, trying to get the police off his tail."
"But the Magician's usual victims aren't ever found and they disappear without a trace. No evidence is ever uncovered," Dulcet digressed.
"Like I said, Dulcet, he is trying to change the game. Maybe he is getti
ng tired of outsmarting Moose's team."
Dulcet carefully considered Blair’s argument, watching for a sign of an approaching eruption.
"B..but the footprints lead clearly away from the vehicle and they were in a hurry. And did you see that wound on the woman's neck?!" Dulcet carefully measured. He could see Blair's volcano was about to erupt.
"Look, Dulcet, if you are about to tell me that we are being invaded by extraterrestrials…"
"No, sir, I am not. I don't think it is as simple as that. All I am saying is, it doesn't add up."
"Well, Dulcet, we have other things to concentrate on. Whatever is happening, I need your mind fully here. Do-I-make-myself-clear?"
Dulcet knew it was pointless pushing the envelope any further. Blair had dug in his heels and it was time to leave things alone.
"Yes, sir."
*~*~*~*
Dulcet's laptop screen glowed in the dark room, sending amplified and flickering colour cascading against the white walls, as his finger tapped the mouse and the image changed on his screen. He sat on the top bunk of his barracks accommodation, one leg dangled lazily over the edge of his bed, with his full attention focused on the little computer screen.
The standard barracks room was sterile and clean and as per regulations, everything had a place and everything was in its place... violently. At present, he had the room to himself, but roommates came and went. Usually as a new training course got underway, he would have an itinerant, wannabe commando of rank bunking with him. But as the training courses for this year had finished, the possibility of a roommate was slim, giving him the freedom to pursue his interests without hindrance.
He typed Magician into a web browser, pushed enter and then waited. All sorts of items came up to do with rabbits in hats and weirdos with canes. He concentrated his search to get rid of the garbage, then a whole list of articles to do with Blair’s 'sicko' finally appeared.
By the time Dulcet was ready to log off, it was early morning. He had listed a personality profile; character traits; and shortcomings that ran as a common denominator through all the articles on the Magician, but he had no idea what he was going to do with the information.
While the computer began its shutdown procedure, he pushed his thick lensed, black framed glasses up with his forefinger and thumb, rubbed his tired eyes and then jumped down off the top bunk, switching on his desk lamp and preparing for bed. Exhausted after a challenging day, Dulcet was finally ready for sleep. He switched off the desk lamp and climbed into his bunk, feeling his way around in the darkness. He slipped in between the sheets and lay awake as many thoughts passed through his mind, finding it difficult to shake the impression forming. If indeed, Blair was right and the Magician was hoping to change his image, there were still too many unanswered questions for Dulcet to swallow that theory yet.
Why would a successful fiend want to risk capture by changing the game plan?
But the implications of his other thoughts made even less sense. Then, a new thought popped into his head. Maybe someone was trying to copycat the Magician and in some weird way, cash in on the Magician's fame.
Attempting sleep was proving pointless, while Dulcet tossed and turned, his mind refusing to shut down with all the unanswered questions. He needed to get another look at the car and try to talk to the victim again. Maybe there was a key that everyone had overlooked. Blair’s explosive and angry face suddenly flashed across his mind’s eye and Dulcet flinched. The way around Blair was to investigate on his own time and that way, Blair couldn't stop him. But he sure could make life uncomfortable, if he found out.
*~*~*~*
Sam stiffly picked her way down the stairwell, one step at a time into the underground car park. The police had been here again with more questions, but she still drew a blank on any answers. She was determined to clean up the mess in her car and get back to some form of normalcy in her life. One thing she had been warned about was talking to the press, while the police were doing their best to insulate her from any nosey reporters. As she walked towards her car, a man's voice from behind her stopped her in her tracks.
"Mrs Young!"
She turned around, ready to recite the spiel the police had given her, when she stopped in mid sentence. A soldier in uniform was walking swiftly toward her.
"Yes?" she replied, with a look of enquiry, staring into his thick, dark framed glasses.
"My name is Edwin Dulcet," he said, extending his hand.
Dulcet thought that being honest with her was his best way of capturing her confidence. Sam took the small hand offered her and shook it.
As a soldier, he certainly wouldn't threaten any foe by his sheer size, she thought.
Probably, his pleasant demeanour and small inoffensive stature allowed Sam to feel in control of the situation, as Dulcet explained his connection to her case and asked if he could take another look at her car. Sam began to feel comfortable with Dulcet very quickly, as he examined the burn mark in the roof and chatted easily to her. He could see the bandage hiding the wound on her neck and the stiffness of her movements.
"Can I help you unpack your car and carry your items for you?"
Feeling extremely tired, the offer of help was too good for Sam to turn down.
"Thank you, that would be very kind, Mr Dulcet."
If she had been thinking more rationally, she probably would not have accepted the help of a total stranger on his word alone, but she was feeling more and more queasy, the longer she stayed standing.
Sam opened the door to her apartment and allowed Dulcet in, to unload a large armful of her stuff. She flopped down on the lounge as Dulcet disappeared for another load. When Dulcet returned, Sam was asleep on the lounge. He placed the load quietly on the floor next to her and looked around her apartment. It was a tidy mess. Dulcet glanced at Sam again, lost in an exhausted sleep and vulnerable in her present state. He wondered what to do. He didn't want to pry or violate her trust and he didn't want to wake her, either. She held the key to the questions he had, not her apartment.
*~*~*~*
A sudden knock on her door startled her from her sleep. Sam gazed around her apartment, confused, trying to shake the brain fog and sleep from her mind. Her keys were on a nearby table and the door was closed, while her belongings from the car were in neat piles around her. She rose to her feet unsteadily, using the lounge to guide her steps and staggered over to answer the door. She paused, to gain enough strength to reply to the caller and out of instinct, looked up at the kitchen clock: it was 9.30 pm.
"Who is it?" she called out through the door, her voice shaking.
"Delivery. Wong's Chinese."
She peered through the peep hole and saw a man in a chef's outfit holding a white, plastic bag. Cautiously, she opened the door.
"Mrs Young?"
"Yes?"
"A Mr Dulcet says, with his compliments."
She took the bag and he handed her a business card with a message on it.
"Thank you," she said tiredly and closed the door. Turning the card over, she realised the message was from Dulcet.
Didn't want to wake you. Hope you like Chinese? Give me a call when you are free to talk. Edwin Dulcet.
His phone number was written below the message.
The smells coming from the bag of Chinese food made her stomach growl. It had been nearly forty eight hours since her last meal and after her nap on the lounge, her head felt close to normal again and she was ready to eat. She hungrily devoured the food, feeling greatly revitalised, then glanced up at the clock again, wondering whether she should wait till morning to thank him for his kindness. Good sense prevailed and she rang him.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 23
The small group of people gazed intently up at the raised platform at the front of the tiny church building. Dan Harop stood comfortably at the makeshift lectern, espousing the virtues of a loving and kind God. He gazed across the familiar faces intently listening to his message, taking in
the solid meat of Christianity.
These people had walked in some of the most difficult places a group of people could walk, dogmatically holding onto their God. Dan and Linda had prayed them through their ordeals, guiding, encouraging and holding them up as their worlds crumbled around them. The respect for his little church family was immense and as each one came through their ordeal, they were stronger in their faith and able to be used by their God to reach other hurting people. Never had he seen a group of Christians able to selflessly give of themselves when the need arose.
Dan suddenly stopped in mid sentence, his gaze fixed determinedly on the church entry. The small group turned as one, to face the entry and to see why Dan had stopped. A ripple went through the gathering and immediately people began to stand and move toward the door. The wounded figure of a woman and a defeated looking man with bent forward shoulders shuffled into the gathering, the faraway look of intense, emotional shell shock etched deeply on their weary faces. Before they had made it through the door and into the sanctuary, they had been hugged and encouraged by at least forty sets of arms, all gently welcoming them with genuine concern.
The desperate individual walked slowly, but purposefully, forward to where Dan was standing. Dan bent down to speak to the figure and then pointed to the podium and walked backwards, allowing him full access. He climbed stiffly onto the platform while Dan called the gathering to order, waiting for people to take their seats. The distraught woman had taken a seat close by and in the company of many of the church family. The hollow eyes staring out at the group took a while to focus and then after a short pause to gather his thoughts, a shaking voice, in the company of a quivering bottom lip, began to speak.