The Child's Past Life

by Cai Jun

  “Thank you so much!”

  The single mom tucked away the 3,000 yuan. After exchanging phone numbers, the younger woman added, “If you hear of anything about him, let me know. This might save his life.”

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  The out-of-towner left with her son. She turned around often to look back. Er Hu was being scolded by the security chief. How dare he let someone like this inside the neighborhood gates.

  The waning sun shone on the black-skirted woman standing by herself. She looked like a frozen flame. The oleander trees by the road were about to bloom.

  Her name was Ouyang Xiaozhi.

  CHAPTER 32

  Christmas 2006.

  Huang Hai brought Si Wang home. He’d bought a lot of prepared foods, as well as two bottles of rice wine for himself and a large bottle of Sprite for the boy.

  Icy rain fell.

  Si Wang’s face had matured some. His eyebrows were bushier now. In a few years he’d be a teenager.

  The policeman intentionally took the boy to a bathhouse, and saw what he expected, a knife wound–like birthmark. He frowned but didn’t say anything.

  Si Wang had been visiting Huang Hai’s apartment often. He was allowed to explore every part of the place except for one small room, which was always locked.

  Huang Hai drank by himself and chain-smoked until the boy’s coughing made him stop.

  “Huang Zhiliang died two years ago.” He touched the boy’s nose with a shaky finger. “It’s like a dream.”

  “Who’s Huang Zhiliang?”

  Huang Hai took out a framed photo from a drawer. It showed him and a young boy in the People’s Park. Lots of balloons lined the park garden for June First Children’s Day. The boy looked a bit like Si Wang.

  “He was my son, only a year older than you. Four years ago, he was diagnosed with leukemia. I took him to hospitals across the country for a bone marrow transplant, but there were no matching donors. Huang Zhiliang stayed in the hospital for a year. Chemo made him lose all his hair. He died in my arms. He was ten.”

  “You must miss him a lot.”

  “I cried all the time that year—until I met you, kid.”

  The middle-aged man held the boy, stroking him like his own son was still alive.

  “What about his mom?”

  “We divorced a long time ago. She ran off with a rich guy and moved to Australia. She’s not been back since our son died.”

  “It’s not your fault.” The boy touched the man’s wrinkled face. “You can call me Huang Zhiliang from now on.”

  “He’s dead, and he won’t be back, kid,” Huang Hai said quietly.

  “Death is a dream, and so is being alive.”

  “Here you go again, talking like a grown-up.” He downed a whole cup of wine.

  Si Wang pulled on his arm. “Enough! You’re drunk!”

  “Don’t try to stop me!”

  The boy helped the man to the sofa as Huang Hai mumbled, “Huang Zhiliang, don’t go. Huang Zhiliang!”

  He became nauseated and started vomiting. Why couldn’t he hold his liquor tonight? While cleaning up, he noticed the door to the always-locked room was open. He looked for the key, realizing the boy had taken it. Huang Hai rushed into the musty room. The boy stood like a statue staring at the wall, which was covered in yellowed papers and photos—so dense they looked like memorials at a funeral: barren wilderness, fallen walls, smokestacks, a run-down factory, rusted machinery, stairs to the underground, a metal hatch with a round handle.

  The Demon Girl Zone, according to Nanming High mythology.

  Si Wang didn’t realize it, but his lips were bitten through and he had blood trickling down his chin.

  The photos were from the June 1995 crime scene, with big portable lights illuminating the black background, all the dirty water, and gross reflections.

  Si Wang saw Shen Ming: twenty-five years old, bushy hair, wearing the shirt his fiancée got him stained to black. The red-dotted mourning sash was hard to recognize through the large patches of blood. His face was still submerged in a puddle.

  In the next photo, the body was flipped over. A deathly pale face exposed under the lights.

  Si Wang turned away, but it was too late. He began to cry.

  Huang Hai covered the boy’s eyes.

  Shen Ming was unrecognizable. He’d been killed and had lay there soaking in water for three days. Three days of gradual decay.

  Si Wang pushed away the man’s hands and stared at a photograph of the mortal wound: a red line less than two centimeters long. It was enough to split the heart in two.

  There were no photographs of the weapon.

  After the body was removed, the police continued to inspect the crime scene. The water was pumped away, and all evidence was gathered. There were no graves or bones as rumored, just some weird letters and symbols on the wall.

  Huang Hai still remembered the knife that killed Yan Li. Made by a military factory, fifteen centimeters long, it used special-grade steel and had a blood reservoir. It looked like a weapon the special forces used. It was sharp, maintained its hardness, and resisted corrosion really well. It was hard to find on the market. At the time, only certain government agencies had access to it.

  One of the room’s walls showed countless red lines connecting people in the case. The bright-red writing looked like blood.

  Shen Ming’s name was at the center.

  Surrounding it were eight lines, each pointing to a name accompanied by a photograph of the individual: Liu Man, Yan Li, He Nian, Lu Zhongyue, Gu Qiusha, Gu Changlong, Zhang Mingsong, and Ouyang Xiaozhi.

  Liu Man, Yan Li, He Nian, Gu Qiusha, and Gu Changlong’s names were crossed out, indicating their deaths.

  Only three people remained.

  Lu Zhongyue was in hiding. That wasn’t an easy life, and it wouldn’t last forever.

  Pointing at the wall, Si Wang asked, “Who are Zhang Mingsong and Ouyang Xiaozhi?”

  “Zhang Mingsong taught math at Nanming High.” Huang Hai was reminded that he had not followed up on those two in a while. “Ouyang Xiaozhi was the girl who said Shen Ming might be at the Demon Girl Zone.”

  “Did they all have something to do with him?”

  “I drew up this chart a month after he died. The most suspicious person was Lu Zhongyue. He married his dead best friend’s fiancée. He worked at Nanming Steel Factory, and was on the graveyard shift that night. It was less than 200 meters from his office to the crime scene. His dad worked for the district government. But he claimed to be asleep during his night shift, and there was no evidence connecting him to Shen Ming’s death. I’ve watched him all these years. When He Nian’s body was found two years ago, I talked to him. Who knew he’d actually become a killer. He’s now wanted all over the country.”

  “Do you put all your files here, and don’t let anyone in, because this is your secret zone and your shame as a cop?”

  “Stop the crazy talk.” He rushed Si Wang out of the room and poured a cold cup of water over his head. “I let you in on too many secrets tonight. If your mom knew about this, she’d never let you come here again.”

  “Do you feel better now?”

  “I’m OK, I just think you can be frightening, sometimes. You’re not like a kid at all.”

  “Everyone says that.”

  “Why do you care about something that happened in 1995? You weren’t even born then.”

  “For you.”

  The answer surprised Huang Hai. He looked at the flickering Christmas tree outside the window. “You’re a freaky kid.”

  The doorbell rang. Who would visit on Christmas Eve? Huang Hai locked the small room, and Si Wang opened the door as if he was the host.

  A man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair stood hunched in the door way. His face was wrinkled, thin, and
tired. He frowned and looked at the door number again. “Kid, is this Officer Huang Hai’s home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry to bother you. Is your dad home?”

  “He is.”

  Huang Hai pushed the boy behind him and brusquely said, “Mr. Shen, I told you not to look for me at home.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Huang. Your line was busy, so I just came over. It’s too important.”

  “What is it?”

  “Last night, he bought a book—The Da Vinci Code. I’ve read it so many times. It’s about religion, history, art, and murder. It also has Knights Templars and the Priory of Sion monastery.”

  “What?”

  “Priory of Sion!” The man actually said the English words fluently.

  “Mr. Shen, you’re too old to say foreign gibberish to me.”

  Si Wang looked at Huang Hai with a strange expression and then pulled on his shirt. “Let him in.”

  He rubbed the boy’s head. “Go wait in the kitchen. This is grown-up stuff.”

  Si Wang sighed and did as he was told, knowing he could eavesdrop through the door.

  “Sit,” Huang Hai said before making tea for the uninvited guest.

  “I followed him,” the excited man said. “On the subway he was reading The Da Vinci Code and making notes, drawing crosses and other weird marks. He was mumbling something, maybe their organization’s secret code.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “Don’t worry, I was careful. I wore a surgical mask like I was sick, and a hat. He couldn’t see my face.”

  Huang Hai scratched his head and lit a cigarette. “Damn it. I was afraid that he’d call 1-1-0 again or complain to our bureau chief. The chief’s daughter is taking her college exams next year, and he’s been tutoring her.”

  “That’s too dangerous. Tell your chief that he can’t be allowed near kids. I think he’s part of the Priory of Sion or the Rosicrucians, or at least with the Fraternal Order.” The man drank some tea before continuing. “You’re a cop. I’m a prosecutor. We both know that people with something to hide never get away with it for long. I can guarantee that he’s not just a math teacher.”

  “Well, he’s an elite teacher in the city—of course he’s more than just a teacher.”

  The prosecutor seemed more and more excited by the minute. “There’s evil in his eyes! I know everyone thinks he’s a good guy, a model citizen, but you have to trust my instincts. When Shen Ming was killed and you guys couldn’t solve the case, I went to the library a lot to read about forensic and criminal investigation. I ran into him at the library and told him who I was, and my relationship to Shen Ming. I asked him about the books he was checking out and he hid them from me. I asked about what happened at the school after Shen Ming’s death. He told me the principal was fired and the teachers and students were under a lot of pressure. Then he just ran off. He was obviously hiding something. I used my connections to look up his library records. He checked out theology books about symbols, detective novels—like And Then There Were None and Murder in Mesopotamia—and even forensic books.”

  “Mr. Shen, stop for a second.”

  “Don’t interrupt me. When he killed my son, he was already over thirty years old. So now he’s forty-something. But he’s not married. A guy like that has no trouble finding a wife. He must be a pervert.”

  “That’s pure speculation.”

  “Also, I dug deeper into the pervert’s background. Know what I found? His grandfather worked with foreign missionaries, like Opus Dei in The Da Vinci Code. In 1949, his grandfather was executed as a foreign spy. He said a bunch of things before he died—supposedly a curse in Latin—condemning everyone at the rally. Mr. Huang, do you get it? His grandfather was in a cult. It makes sense that his grandson would be, too. Twenty years ago, his father committed suicide in a really strange way. He locked himself in a stone hut and burned himself to death. I think it was some kind of self-sacrifice.”

  “Mr. Shen, you’re an experienced prosecutor. Listen to yourself. You know you need evidence. I appreciate your efforts, but for the past ten years I’ve been hearing these clues and leads, over and over again. I’ve investigated them, too. They lead nowhere. They’re nonsense. You keep calling me and going to my office, and now you’re stalking me at home.”

  “Last night’s discovery was very important. It proves he was connected to the secret society in The Da Vinci Code.”

  “I think you should go home and rest. Stop doing these dangerous things. He must know you’re following him. He’s already called the police so many times. I don’t want to have to arrest you.”

  “There’s one more clue. The last one. Listen to me. He may be an elite teacher, but he never joined the Communist Party. Or the Democratic Party. He’s a suspicious character.”

  “Now you’re making stuff up. Is this the Cultural Revolution? Good thing I’m only a detective and have never taken bribes or mistresses. You’d have something on me, too. Ten years ago, you thought he was suspicious. I listened to you and I looked into it. He had a good alibi. On June 19, 1995, he was at an academic conference, staying at a hotel on an island. At least forty people verified this. It was raining hard that night, and the island’s only boat couldn’t leave. He shared a room with the Education Bureau chief. He couldn’t have done it.”

  “I’ve read a lot of detective novels over the years. Even the seemingly perfect alibi can be faked. I can’t believe that you let him fool you.”

  “The night Liu Man was killed, he was tutoring two senior boys until 2:00 a.m. He couldn’t have killed Liu Man, either. He never married, but there are always women after him. He’s from a good family and is a Tsinghua graduate. He’s picky, so he stayed single. It’s pretty common.”

  Shen Yuanchao’s voice shook. “I’ve followed him for ten years. No one in the world knows him better than I do. Mr. Huang, I don’t blame you. I know you’ve looked for the killer all these years, too. I’m grateful. But I’m Shen Ming’s dad. I can feel that his soul never reincarnated. He’s still around me. This morning, he was in my dream. I saw him standing next to a river. He still looked twenty-five, and he had a thick bowl of soup. He wanted me to avenge him. He told me that I’m right about the killer.”

  A dream? Huang Hai couldn’t believe it. “Please leave, Mr. Shen. Take a good rest. I guarantee I will catch the killer. Unless I die first.”

  The policeman opened his door and made Shen Yuanchao leave. Waiting for the elevator, the prosecutor turned around and shouted, “Remember to search his house. You know where he lives. There’s a yard. If you dig around, you’ll find a lot of bones.”

  Huang Hai made sure the prosecutor got on the elevator before closing his door. Si Wang had come out of the kitchen.

  “Were you eavesdropping?” Pissed off with everything about the night, he shoved the kid aside.

  Si Wang looked at him with an innocent expression, like he was terrified. “Who is he?”

  “Si Wang, we were just playing games.” He bit back a curse and said lightly, “He’s . . . an old friend.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Christmas Eve.

  Shen Min was in bed. Many stars hung in her bedroom; it was like sleeping under a starry sky snuggled up in a thick comforter. One of the headboard lamps was on so she could read the Christmas cards from her classmates.

  One boy wrote: “Shen Min, I like you. Can we be friends?” The fifth-grader giggled and tossed the card under the bed.

  Cold rain hit the window. Anxiously, she looked at the clock. Why wasn’t her dad home yet? Was he still interrogating prisoners?

  Finally, she heard his key in the lock. He looked more like a tired grandfather than a father. When he came into her room, she felt the cold mist that followed in behind him. As soon as he saw Shen Min, he went from serious to happy. Stroking her hair, he said, “Little Min, go to bed. You don’t wa
nt to be late for school.”

  “Dad, where did you go?”

  “I went to see an old friend.” Her father turned off the light. “Good night.”

  Shen Min had to take two buses to get to Number One Elementary School on Longevity Road. She was in Section 3 of the fifth grade, and her classroom was in a secluded yard, in a blue-and-white building.

  She had almond-shaped eyes, luminous skin, and dark, glossy hair—and she wore a thick white cotton skirt.

  After school, she liked to play badminton with some other girls in the neighborhood until it got dark. She hit their shuttlecock into a thicket the kids couldn’t climb into. As they worried about what to do, a boy emerged from the bushes.

  He was around Shen Min’s age, and though they were in different classes, they often saw each other at school. The boy’s face was memorable because his eyes always seemed sad. At school it was rumored that he was a genius. But nothing he did made him stand out, and the teachers ignored him. He had no friends and was always by himself. Shen Min couldn’t remember his name. She needed to find the shuttlecock.

  The boy wiped off some leaves and dirt and then showed the girls the shuttlecock before placing it in Shen Min’s soft, cool palm.

  “Thanks! Are in you Section 2? What’s your name?”

  “I’m Si Wang, Si as in ‘general,’ Wang as in ‘lookout.’ You?”

  “Shen Min. Shen as in ‘applying,’ Min as in ‘agile.’ ”

  “Shen Min?” he asked, shocked.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Our last names are pretty rare, right? I bet no one else in the class has your last name.”

  She naively nodded. “Do you also live here?”

  “No, I was just passing through.”

  “We can play together.”

  When Si Wang picked up the badminton racket, they both discovered a cut on his hand. He’d gotten it rooting around in the bushes.

  “Oh no, you’ve hurt yourself. That’s my fault.”

  “It’s OK.” Si Wang used his other hand to press on the cut and stop the bleeding.