Both young men glanced around the Starbucks. The bag was exchanged for the money.
Without a word William rose. Chen said, "Tomorrow. Eight. Here."
"I'll try."
Chen laughed. "'Piss on him.'" He turned back to his coffee.
Outside, William started quickly down the sidewalk away from Starbucks.
The figure stepped out of the alley, moving quickly toward him.
William stopped, startled. Sam Chang walked up to his son.
The boy started walking again, fast, head down.
"Well?" Chang asked, falling into place beside the boy.
"I got it, Baba."
"Give it to me," his father said.
He passed his father the bag, which disappeared into the man's pocket. "You didn't tell him your name?"
"No."
"You didn't mention the Ghost or the Dragon?"
"I'm not stupid," William snapped. "He doesn't have any idea who we are."
They walked in silence for a few minutes.
"Did he charge you all the money?"
William hesitated and began to say something. Then he dug into his pocket and handed his father back the remaining hundred dollars of the cash his father had given him for the gun.
As they approached the house Chang said to his son, "I'm going to put it in the front closet. We'll use it only if the Ghost tries to get inside. Never take it with you anywhere. Understand?"
"We should each get one and carry it."
"Do you understand?" Chang repeated firmly.
"Yes."
Chang touched his son's arm. "Thank you, son. It was a brave thing to do."
You do have balls . . . .
"Yeye would be proud of you," his father added.
William nearly said, Yeye would still be alive if it weren't for you. But he remained silent. They arrived at their front door. Chang and William looked around. No one had followed them from the coffee shop. They pushed quickly inside.
As Chang hid the gun on the top shelf of the closet--where only he and William could reach it--the boy dropped onto the couch next to his brother and the baby girl. He picked up a magazine and thumbed through it.
But he paid little attention to the articles. He was thinking about what Chen had asked him. Should he meet with the other members of the triad tomorrow night?
He didn't think he would. But he wasn't sure. It was never a bad idea, he'd learned, to keep your options open.
Chapter Forty-two
John Sung had changed clothes. He was wearing a turtleneck sweater--which seemed odd in the heat, though it made him look pretty stylish--and new workout pants. He was flushed and he seemed distracted, out of breath.
"Are you all right?" Amelia Sachs asked.
"Yoga," he explained. "I was doing my exercises. Tea?"
"I can't stay long." Eddie Deng had gone back to the Fifth Precinct but Alan Coe was waiting for her downstairs in the crime scene bus.
He held up a bag. "Here's what I wanted to give you. The fertility herbs I told you about last night."
She took the bag absently. "Thank you, John."
"What's wrong?" he asked, scanning her troubled face. He motioned her inside and they sat on the couch.
"That police officer from China, the man who helped us? He was found dead about an hour ago."
Sung closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. "Was it an accident? Or did the Ghost get to him?"
"The Ghost."
"Oh, no, I'm sorry."
"I am too." She said this brusquely, dismissing the emotion in the best spirit of Lincoln Rhyme. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a plastic bag of the plant material she'd found at the scene. "We found this where he was murdered."
"Where?" he asked.
"In Chinatown. Not far away. We think it's some herbs or spices that the Ghost bought. Rhyme was hoping if we can figure out what it is we might find the store where he bought it. Maybe one of the clerks might know where the Ghost lives."
He nodded. "Let me see it." Sung opened the bag then shook some out onto the counter. He bent down, inhaled the aroma and examined the substance. She thought Lincoln Rhyme would use a gas chromatograph and mass spectrometer to do exactly the same thing, separating a mixture into its component parts and identifying them.
Finally he said, "I smell astragalus, ginger, poria, maybe some ginseng and alisma." He shook his head. "I know you'd like me to tell you it's sold in only one or two stores. But I'm afraid you can buy it at any herbalist, drugstore or grocery in China. I would suppose it's the same here."
Discouraged, she thought of something else. "What do they do?" Maybe the Ghost was suffering from some sickness or injury and they could trace him through other doctors as they'd done with Wu Qichen's wife.
"It's more of an over-the-counter tonic than a medicine. It improves resistance, tonifies your qi. Many people use it to heighten the sexual experience. Supposedly it helps men stay erect longer. It's not meant to treat a specific illness."
So much for that theory, Sachs thought glumly.
"You could check the stores closest to where the policeman was killed," Sung suggested. "But I suppose you've thought of that."
She nodded. "That's what we'll have to do. Maybe we'll get a break." She started to stand and winced as pain shot through her shoulder--a muscle she'd pulled on the Fuzhou Dragon.
"Taking your medicine?" he asked, chiding her.
"Yeah, I am. But you know how disgusting it tastes?"
"You can drink beer for pleasure. Here, sit down again."
She hesitated and lowered herself painfully to the couch. He moved close behind her. She could sense his proximity from the way the ambient noise in the room grew mute. Then she felt his hands on her shoulder as they began squeezing--softly at first then harder, more probing.
His face was near the back of her head, his breath caressing her neck. The hands moved up and down her skin, pressing hard but just short of the point of pain. It was relaxing, yes, but she felt momentarily disconcerted when the palms and fingers nearly encircled her throat.
"Relax," he whispered in that calm voice of his.
She tried to.
His hands slid to her shoulders then down her back. They moved forward along her ribs but stopped before he touched her breasts and returned again to her spine and neck.
Wondering if there really was something he could do for her--to improve the chance of her and Rhyme's having children.
Dryness in the kidneys . . .
She closed her eyes and lost herself in the powerful massage.
She felt him shift closer to her, getting better leverage, it seemed. He was only inches away. His hands moved up her spine to her neck once more, encircling them. His breathing was coming quickly--from the effort, she supposed.
"Why don't you take off that gun belt of yours?" he whispered.
"Bad karma?" she asked.
"No." He laughed. "It's interfering with your circulation."
She reached for the buckle and started to undo it. She felt his hand close around the thick nylon strap to help her remove it.
But then a harsh sound interrupted them--her cell phone ringing. She eased away from him and pulled the unit off her belt. "Hello? This is--"
"Sachs, get ready to roll."
"What do you have, Rhyme?"
There was no answer for a moment as she heard someone else in his room speaking to the criminalist.
A moment later he came back on the line. "The captain of the ship, Sen, is conscious. Eddie Deng's on the other line, interviewing him . . . . Hold on." Voices, shouts. Rhyme's commanding: "Well, we don't have time. Now, now, now! . . . Listen, Sachs, the captain spent some time in the hold of the Dragon. He overheard Chang talking with his father. Looks like some relative or friend arranged for an apartment and job for the family in Brooklyn."
"Brooklyn? What about Queens?"
"Sam Chang's the clever one, remember? I'm sure he said Queens to lead everybody off. I nar
rowed down the area where I think they are--Red Hook or Owls Head."
"How do you know?"
"How else, Sachs? The trace on the old man's shoes, biosolids. Remember? There're two waste treatment facilities in Brooklyn. I'm leaning toward Owls Head. It's more residential and's closer to Sunset Park, the Chinese community there. Eddie Deng's having his people from the Fifth Precinct call printing companies and sign painters in Owls Head. Lon's putting ESU on alert. And the INS's getting together a team too. I want you over there. I'll let you know as soon as I have an address."
She glanced up at Sung. "John, Lincoln's found the Changs' neighborhood. I'm going over there now."
"Where are they?"
"In Brooklyn."
"Oh very good," he said. "They're safe?"
"So far."
"May I come? I can help translate. Chang and I speak the same dialect."
"Sure." Sachs said into the phone, "John Sung's coming with me and Coe. He's going to translate. We're on our way, Rhyme. Call me when you have an address."
They hung up and Sung stepped into the bedroom. A moment later he came out, wearing a bulky windbreaker.
"It's not cold out," Sachs said.
"Always keep warm--important for the qi and blood," he said.
Then Sung looked at her and took her by the shoulders, Sachs responding with a smile of curiosity. With sincerity in his voice he said, "You have done a very good thing, finding those people, Yindao."
She paused and looked at him with a faint frown of curiosity. "Yindao?"
He said, "It's my pet name for you in Chinese. 'Yindao.' It means 'close friend.'"
Sachs was very moved by this. She squeezed his hand. Then stepped back. "Let's go find the Changs."
*
On the street in front of his safehouse the man of many names--Ang Kwan, Gui, the Ghost, John Sung--reached his hand out and shook that of Alan Coe, who was, it seemed, an INS agent.
This gave him some concern, for Coe, he believed, had been part of a group of Chinese and American law enforcers pursuing him overseas. The task force had gotten close to him, troublingly close, but the Ghost's bangshou had done some investigating himself and learned that a young woman who'd worked in a company that the Ghost did business with had been giving the INS and the police information about his snakehead operations. The bangshou had kidnapped the woman, tortured her to find out what she'd told the INS and then buried her body on a construction site.
But apparently Coe had no idea what the Ghost looked like. The snakehead recalled that he'd been wearing the ski mask when they'd tried to kill the Wus on Canal Street; no one would have gotten a look at his face.
Yindao explained what Rhyme had learned and the three of them got into the police station wagon--Coe climbing into the back before the Ghost could take that strategically better seat, as if the agent didn't trust an illegal alien to be sitting behind him. They pulled away from the curb.
From what Yindao was telling Coe, the Ghost understood that there would be other cops and INS agents present at the Changs' apartment. But he'd already made plans to get a few minutes alone with the Changs. When Yindao had come to his apartment a few moments ago, Yusuf and another Uighur had been there. The Turks had slipped into the bedroom before the Ghost had opened the outer door and, later, when he'd gone to get his gun and windbreaker he'd told them to follow Yindao's police car. In Brooklyn the Turks and the Ghost together would kill the Changs.
Glancing back, he noticed that Yusuf's Windstar was close behind them, several cars away.
And what about Yindao? He might have to wait until tomorrow for their intimate liaison.
Naixin, he reflected.
All in good time.
Images of fucking her now filled his thoughts: he quickly lost himself in his continuing fantasies about Yindao, which had grown ever more powerful since he'd first seen her on the beach--swimming out to save him. Last night he'd given her only a chaste acupressure treatment, accompanied by some mumbo jumbo about it helping fertility. Their next get-together would be very different. He would take her to a place where he could play out all the fantasies that had been reeling through his thoughts.
Yindao, pinned beneath him, writhing, whimpering.
In pain.
Screaming.
He was now powerfully aroused and used the excuse of turning around to speak to Coe to hide the evidence of his desire. He began a conversation about the INS's guidelines for political asylum. The agent was blunt and rude and clearly disdainful, even of the man he thought the Ghost to be: a poor widower doctor, a dissident who loved freedom, seeking a better home for his family, harmless and willing to work hard.
Keep the piglets out of the country at all costs, the agent was saying. The message beneath his words was that they weren't fit to be Americans. The politics and morality of illegal immigration meant nothing to the Ghost but he wondered if Coe knew that there were proportionally fewer Chinese-Americans on welfare than any other nationality, including native-born whites. Did he know that the level of education was higher, the incidence of bankruptcy and tax evasion far lower?
It would give him pleasure to kill this man and he was sorry that he couldn't take the time to make it a long death.
The Ghost glanced at Yindao's legs and felt the churning low in his belly again. He recalled their sitting together in the restaurant yesterday, sharing his honest assessment of himself.
Break the cauldrons and sink the boats . . .
Why had he opened up to her in this way? It was foolish. She might have caught on as to who he was, or at least grown suspicious. He'd never been that frank with anyone in describing his philosophy of life.
Why?
The answer had to be more than his desire to possess her physically. He'd felt passion for hundreds of women but had kept most of his inner feelings to himself before, during and after the act. No, there was something else about Yindao. He supposed that it was this: he recognized something of his own soul within her. There were so few people who understood him . . . whom he could talk with.
But Yindao was this sort of woman, he believed.
As Coe was rambling on ad nauseam about the necessity of quotas and the burden on the social welfare rolls due to illegal immigration, even citing facts and figures, the snakehead was thinking about how sad it was that he couldn't take this woman back with him to show her the beauties of Xiamen, walk with her around Nanputou Temple--a huge Buddhist monastery--and then take her for peanut soup or noodles near the waterfront.
But there was no doubt that he wouldn't hesitate to do what he'd planned--take her to a deserted warehouse or factory and spend an hour or so fulfilling his relentless fantasy. And kill her afterward, of course. As Yindao herself had told him, she too would break the cauldrons and sink the boats; after she learned he was the Ghost she would not rest until she had killed or arrested him. She had to die.
The Ghost glanced back at Coe with a smile, as if acknowledging whatever the man was talking about. The snakehead focused past the agent. Yusuf and the other Uighur were staying right with the police car. Yindao had not noticed the van.
The Ghost turned back. His eyes swept over her. He then muttered a few words.
"What was that?" Yindao asked him.
"A prayer," the Ghost said. "I am hoping that Guan Yin will help us find the Changs' home."
"Who's that?"
"She's the goddess of mercy," was the answer, though it came not from the Ghost but from helpful Agent Alan Coe in the backseat.
Chapter Forty-three
Ten minutes later Lon Sellitto's phone rang.
Rhyme and Cooper stared at it rapt in anticipation.
The detective took the call. Listened. Then his eyes closed and he broke into a smile.
"They found the Changs' address!" he shouted and hung up. "That was one of the patrolmen down at the Fifth. He found a guy in Owls Head who owns two quick-print shops. Name's Joseph Tan. Our guy gave him the line about the family'd be dead in a
couple hours if we didn't find out where they were. Tan broke down and admitted he'd gotten Chang and his kid a job and set 'em up in an apartment."
"He have an address?"
"Yep. Two blocks from the sewage treatment plant. God love crap, what can I say?"
Rhyme thought of Sonny Li's equally irreverent plea to the god of cops.
Guan Di, please let us find the Changs and catch the fuck Ghost.
He wheeled into position in front of the whiteboards. He gazed at the chart, the pictures of evidence.
Sellitto said, "I'll call Bo and the INS and get everybody going."
But the criminalist said, "Hold on a minute."
"What's the matter?"
"An itch," Rhyme said slowly. "I have an itch." His initial exhilaration at locating the Changs faded.
Rhyme's head moved slowly from side to side as he took in Thom's careful jottings and photographs and other bits of evidence from this case--each adding to the whole grim story, like hieroglyphs in ancient Egyptian tombs.
He closed his eyes and let this information speed through his mind as fast as Amelia Sachs in her Camaro.
Here's the answer, Rhyme thought, opening his eyes once again and staring at the entries.
The only problem is that we don't know the question.
Thom appeared in the doorway. "Time for some ROMs," the aide said.
Range of motion exercises were important for quads. They kept the muscles from atrophying, they improved the circulation, they had a beneficial psychological effect too--which Rhyme publicly disavowed. Still, his sessions were partially based on the premise that there would come a day when he himself would use his muscles again.
And so while he groused and complained and gave Thom hell when the aide expertly performed the ROMs then measured the results, he secretly looked forward to the daily exercises. Today, however, Rhyme cast a strong glance at the aide and the young man got the message. He retreated to the hallway.
"What're you thinking?" Sellitto asked.
Rhyme didn't answer.
Engaged in its own range of motion exercises, his mind, unlike his lifeless limbs, was limited by nothing. Infinite height, infinite depth, past and future. The criminalist now mentally followed the trails of evidence that they had collected while working the GHOSTKILL case, some of them as wide as the East River, some as narrow and frail as thread, some helpful, some as seemingly useless as the broken nerves that ran from Lincoln Rhyme's brain south into his still body. But even these he didn't neglect.
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